The Rat

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. Even more confusing was its plump state; perhaps it is a commuter rat and we were intruding on its desolate, but safe suburbia. Though I was the first to the ledge, Jordan was the first human it came into contact with. Maybe the first in a while. Maybe the first ever. Before Jordan's arrival it was it and I on the ledge. I had slumped into pack rat suburbia with cramped hands that acted on routine. Thus, as I fixed one rope and set the other up for a belay, I drifted.

   A blue sky briskly moving through the colour wheel to its nightly black refuge.
   The constant chill of the mountains. The one that symbolizes everything that is beautiful about discomfort; the conductor to a symphony of wilderness basking in its stand-alone stage time without the sun.

   It doesn't feel like that though. Cold doesn't feel like a brilliant conductor serenading you. Maybe it should, but it doesn't. It feels like a dull discomfort. More like a price of admission than the main event. That being said, it is undeniably a part of the magic of the mountains, and it too should be romanticized.

   I drifted deeper into dreamlike exhaustion. The glacier looked more like a frequently drifting ocean, occasionally gently crashing into the neighbouring spires. My eyes were brought back to focus by the rhythmic clicking of an ascender on a rope. Jordan noticed the rat soon after his arrival. The warmth of his friendship felt good. On the pitch up to the ledge, I stood up on a block so big that I couldn't even fathom it ever moving. It didn't even cross my mind. Then, after carelessly traversing on it searching for the right path, it pivoted. My ignorance evolved to sinking realization, and I scurried. At the most, it moved an insecure man's six inches. It was like a giant stretching in the light of early morning, and then deciding to sleep in. The path I had chosen was wrong however, and soon I was down climbing back to the block with a heavy understanding of the situation that I found myself in: Between pack rat suburbia and I sat, with an unknown level of security, the block. I sobbed at the bleak situation I found myself deeply committed in. Even down climbing further would involve yarding on the block. I'd already backed off of one pitch. Jordan and Jaron had been bold princes for the last two days. I thought of Jordan deep in an off width amidst a bugaboo blizzard. With his last piece of protection seemingly in a different time zone, he pressed on. The blizzard continued, as did we. Jaron didn't look at the shit piece of gear that he knew he had stand on, but he did stand on it. He didn't shy away from insecurity. It was my turn to bear the load. I sobbed a little more. I tried to be ginger. The moment I feared so much was over before I knew it. I ended up in a finger lock. The block stayed put.

   I didn't want to sit alone with my spiralling mind now that it had snapped back to reality, and was glad Jordan and soon Jaron were there with rational voices. Our hands continued their independent action. Sleeping arrangements were arranged. Food was cooked. Water was drank nearly dry. Whiskey was drank completely dry. I didn't dislodge the block. I didn't kill myself. I didn't kill my friends.

   I wonder if the pack rat ever had any close calls during its life in the mountains. There were stories in those beady eyes. There had to be. It lived a life that we had planned for. A life that we could only maintain for a few days. I wonder if those close calls sit with the rat; if they morph into demons that it'll have to face. I didn't fall asleep to these wonders. I fell asleep paranoid about the pack rat crawling on my face to the melody of Jordan reading Slaughterhouse Five.

   "Guys, do you want to just finish the rest of the water?" Jaron was the voice of all of our dry mouths and sponged minds; betrayed by the sweet nectar of Alberta Premium. We all congregated from sleep to the Nalgene watering hole and wandered back to rest through the grasses of talk of shooting stars zooming above us.

   The pack rat was the next alarm clock. I awoke to my feet being gnawed at through my sleeping bag. I swore and kicked and it scurried. My ruckus woke my friends.

  I wonder if it planned to wake us up; if it knew of the majesty we were missing out on. The three of us sat still in the serenity. Millions of different worlds looked upon our ledge. Shooting stars were paintbrush strokes. Another brush was bristled vibrantly with the green of the Aurora Borealis. Standing watch was a harvest moon, a single dot from a brush well soaked with orange. Its faint light glistened the spires, and the rat, running back to a crack for safety. It seemed unbothered by the scene.

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. The why is still confusing.

   I don't know how the block didn't kill us all, and I don't know why it didn't. If I'm this confused I can't imagine the perplexity it feels. After all, it is a rock. Perhaps it is best not to ponder.

   The how in adventuring is often a puzzle, but the pieces are all there.
   The why can be written in big, bold, letters right in front of your face, and it can be almost impossible to find.

   As I gazed, completely affected into the natural night sky; as I shared pack rat suburbia beside three beautiful souls, I began to see big, bold, letters.
 
 
 

An ode to the community, and a trip to China.

“He seems to be here quite a bit. I think it would be worth it.”

We’d later become good friends, though I liked “Luke from the Chinook desk” already; he was supporting my father’s decision of buying me a year long membership to the gym. Two and a half years have whizzed by since that fateful transaction. Luke may be prophetic, or perhaps just a good employee but indeed, it was certainly worth it. The blur since that fateful day has been one of finding a perpetually growing tribe and experiencing life with them through our art: Climbing (though my “art” is often rather reminiscent of a flightless and dying bird). Two and a half of years of climbing, and two and a half years largely comprised of immense joy. The people that make up the Calgary Climbing Centre experience have not only shown me climbing as a vehicle to many more important things, but have helped, and continue to help me on my path.

The folks that took me outside, told me to squeeze my core, and caught idiotic gear ripping falls are the reason that I write this in a train station in Lijiang, China, fresh off a month of climbing magnificent sandstone in the eastern foothills of the Himalaya. THE HIMALAYA!!!!!!!! I still cannot believe it is a dream manifested.

An underwhelming mountain whose sheer existence has been far too romanticized to ever be a let down. Photo: Kyle Martino.

Kyle Martino and I’s adventure in China is the culmination of the effect of friendship. The space under the wings of good people is chalked with teaching moments, inspiration to be better, and the tools to spread wings of your own. This is what I have found, almost entirely thanks to the CCC community. Bear with me, for this tangent style of writing is the only way I know how to express both the idea that it takes a village, and the ideas that the village has bestowed upon me.

A simple scroll through the CCC blog reveals an inspiring fact: Climbing adventures, and adventures of any sort, are incredibly accessible. Time and money can be massive constraints of course, but guidance and support are available in spades within the community. A passive thought recollects memory after memory of a helping hand. If the thought were explored it would dominate this already spiralling piece. Though I fear sounding holier-than-thou, it is imperative we all understand that our dreams do not have to remain dreams. If that gumby with the pink shirt and weird hair that you hear power screaming on the Rocky moonboard WAY TOO OFTEN can do it, then you probably can too. This blog itself reveals that our adventure is not the exception in the community, BUT THE RULE! Many wonderful people are going for it, and it is an honour to share stories with them and try to emulate their climbing prowess. Of course, I cannot forget the privilege I posses of being able to choose to scrape by and devote my life to the joy of climbing, but it must be said that dreams do not have to be dreams. If you can and you want too, then for what it is worth, I think you should. Anyways, we went to China, and it was a fantastic adventure.

Kyle Martino, awestruck. The Dinner Wall, Liming, China.

Through tired eyes, the sandstone walls turreted around the village of Liming were grand to a hallucinogenic level. They rocked to the blue sky and dripped with streaks of black, yellow, and white. The adventurous travel made appreciation of the scene easy. We had arrived by the seat of our pants, but arrived nonetheless! After leaving Vancouver in the rearview, the unknown became the normal. At one point we were lost in the metropolitan sprawl of Kunming, and saved by a guardian angel named Jo. Another time, I spoke to a cabbie’s friend on Facetime to try and translate directions. When a woman in Lijiang shouted “Liming” at us and ushered us into her SUV, we knew it was our last card to play and hopped in with trust in humanity. We arrived in Liming due to the unconditional kindness of people.

Transit Collage. Photos: Kyle Martino and myself.

Though zombied from the travel, we couldn’t resist the urge to climb rock. With a few tired pitches, we warmed our feet and hands to the beating they would take for the next month. The magical rhythm of the climbing life began to roll. Alongside a wonderful international crew we explored the area. On our first full day, Kyle onsighted a rig reminiscent of a world cup boulder: “Eagle Eyed Super Hawk”! It was a treat to watch him run across a slab and catch the jug with wildly swinging legs and viced hands. Kyle grew up in the CCC team system, and the gym style suited him well. Chris Meginbir, an old coach of Kyle’s, once told me a story of a very young Kyle completely frozen in fear part way up the Stronghold wall. Years later, the petrified became rather dynamic. After catching the dyno jug, Kyle fought for a hand heel match that had nothing to do with hip flexibility, and everything to do with sheer determination; five minutes must have passed as Kyle WILLED and COMMANDED his heel to place. “Fudge” was the closest the model of a man got to expletives during the process. Unique tenacity! Later in the trip, the once scared kid in the gym pumped off a steep layback and caught a cool twenty feet of air.

First day finger guns!!!! Photo: Kyle Martino

We flew often. It was his Kyle’s first experience with splitter cracks, and learning through objective failure became a central theme. It was inspiring to watch Kyle go from nursing a bruised ego to changing his mindset to a learning focus. Going from sport to splitter shouldn’t be easy on your idea of success, and frankly, it isn’t. It is a damn hard thing to confront, and I’m proud of Kyle for riding out the choppy wave. Besides, despite what Kyle will say, the man rocked up and crushed.

His mental strength inspired me to try to find some of my own, as I am no expert in the subject. After a few days of exploring, I got on a line I’d dreamed about in Canada: Air China. It motivated many hangboarding sessions at Rocky, and now it was right in front of me. As I gawked, I realized the expectation of inspiration is futile, and that it must come organically. Regardless, as soon as I pulled on I knew I wanted to learn the dance of this rock.

While the trip rolled on, I devoted half of my days to Air China, and the other half to exploring with strangers that were quickly becoming great friends. Fun adventure was found everywhere from hidden valleys to proud, striking features. Everyday was a crag party. Laughter was constant, as was hip hop, metal, and contagious effort. It was a vibe conducive to taking climbing seriously, and taking ourselves incredibly far from seriously. I did the likely first naked ascent of the crag classic “Faraway Corner”, laughing the whole way. Kyle, notorious for his puns found his stride on the other side of the world. Though often received with a shaking head it was nice to know he was thriving. Those who hadn’t heard his thousands of puns adored it. It is a small example that shines light on the idea that when we leave our homes, we often find that through the risk of loneliness we expose ourselves to more human connection. The newly sewn threads only makes the preexisting stronger. Watching your friends grow, and growing alongside them is a beautifully large facet of climbing. Every night, our crew of psyched serendipity would share stories over meals. Fist bumps were ALWAYS exploded! ALWAYS! The rhythm of presence was bumping, and we were dancing. Coffee. Beautiful approach. Climbing hard (for us). Nourishing with amazing MSG packed food. Card games. Sharing stoke. El vida es magnífico!

Chumming over weird music videos. Photo: Pavel Toropov

Of course, our dancing feet did get tired. Rest days were more and more frequent as the month rolled on. The village was vibrant, and the days of relaxing were appreciated. The market came to town every tenth day and this occasion always called for rest. Market day cannot be justified with my words which is perhaps bad news for the quality of this blog! It is a clash of worlds. At one table you could buy a phone case, and at the next a live pig. To be apart of this explosion of culture and diverse representations of the human experience is something that I am grateful for experiencing. I probably would not have experienced this if it wasn’t for climbing.

Spot the foreigners. Market day in Liming!

Liming dance party!

Our trip was coming to its conclusion, and I was having so much fun on Air China that it was time to prioritize it. During this time, Kyle left his mark on Liming, climbing a first ascent at a developing sport climbing crag (an example of the geological diversity of the area) called El Dorado. It was Kyle’s first first ascent! “Fools Gold” is a bouldery gem nestled in the hills of Yunnan, bolted by a Minnesotan named Kip, and climbed by an Albertan named Kyle. Badass! Inspiring! Meanwhile, I found myself constantly going through the waves of making, and then acting on the conscious decision that love is a more powerful motivator than fear. I love Air China. I am scared of Air China. Top roping was never done without nervous excitement for what would surely follow. When it was clear that excuses were running thin, our friend Eliot broke the seal and pulled the rope. The trail was blazed. We whipped. We whooped. I constantly reminded myself I wanted the full experience that the toprope couldn’t offer. There comes a time where if one wants to genuinely experience, one must be willing to take flight. The magnificence of Air China comes from its minimalistic beauty; more opportunity for gear and it wouldn’t demand your soul and mind work together, less and it would be dangerous. The rock allows a sequence of improbable, low percentage moves, uniquely above bomber but spaced gear. It dances a rare and thin line. Air China is a unicorn: it must be believed in to be seen.

Firefighter Kyle on some beautiful lines at El Dorado. Photo 1 : MIke Dobie, Photo 2: Drew Marshall

Each move is beautiful, and should be treated as so. Each lead attempt is, as Voytek Kurtyka says, “a classical opposition of self preservation”. The route is so physically on the edge of my present personal possibility that in order to even get above my gear, I must want to do the moves with all my being. The commitment the moves demand pounce on a shred of doubt, and reward a mind at peace with all outcomes. For me, it is the opportunity for growth, beauty of the rock and movement, the necessity for one to climb with their soul that draws me to Air China. One of the greatest lessons I’ve been taught, and would consider vital to longevity in climbing is a Knut Rokne proverb something under these lines:

“Climbing is 99% failure, and 1% success. If you do not learn to enjoy failure, 99% of the time you’ll be unhappy.”

In the eleventh hour, lacking the skin and gumption to try again, I called for the stick clip. Kyle passed up the loyal stick clip I named Kenneth while aid soloing the pitch and going crazy in the sun. I pulled him up, then thought better. I pulled on to free the moves. A right foot smear. A wild bump from crimp to crimp. A moment of weightlessness. Back on the rope. I stick clipped with peace. I had failed. I had learned. I had fun.

Air China. Psyche manifested. The bolt in the first photo had to be stick clipped on lead. A beautiful, and ongoing process! Photos: Drew Marshall

    Kyle and I found raw adventure in China. Thanks to a loving push from our community, we stepped into the unknown. Out of our comfort zones, a place where real life flourishes with flowers from fertile soil rich with risk, failure, learning, friendship and motivation from the purest source: Love. A slice of real life is served graciously by the rock and readily available to anyone. Liming is one of the many places you can find it.

Kyle and I would like to express our deep gratitude to everyone that helped get us to China. Specifically Simon, Walson, and the CCC team. Broadly, every person that makes up our villages, and every person that leads by example with grace and love.

Thank you, Carl

   

"One of the great contradictions of climbing writing is that the bigger and deeper the experience the more difficult they tend to be to write about." -Marc-Andre Leclerc

   It is interesting that a phrase used to introduce a profound soloing experience resonates deeply with my attempt to do justice to experiences that revolved around friendship. Initially, I didn't even try to write about February 28, 2018. 

   Nine months, and Carl, have passed. 

   I feel an internal obligation to write about the moments that I shared with my friend on that day and many others, but is it possible to do an experience, let alone a person justice with any words? It would be very difficult, for it would contradict the extreme presence the mountains offer; the presence that is the welding flame of the bonds that are forged in the mountains. No words can replace living moments, and it isn't their purpose to attempt to do so. Rather, the duty of words and those who write them is to inspire living moments. The essence of this writing is the same as the essence of life: We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl seen here sporting a full pack, and a full heart! 

  I was fortunate enough to experience life with Carl on a number of occasions, one of them being our attempt at climbing "Door of Perception" (DOP) on February 28 of this year. Being a moderate alpine climb, it felt like a great stepping stone for our budding partnership. New to Canmore and yearning for friendship, I had nervously introduced myself to Carl at the local gym after seeing him sharpening his ice tools, and asking "Do you ice climb?" I could see a sarcastic response at the tip of his tongue, and then understanding in his eyes before he simply let out a "yes". It was my first taste of his incredibly outrageous, vile, and against all odds elegant sense of humour. We made plans to climb almost immediately. A wonderful night climb under the dimly lit, pastel painting resembling Three Sisters quickly ensued, and we made plans to climb again almost immediately. 

   DOP was next on the ticklist. MF Doom got us psyched to charge to the base through the frigid air of a clear and dark Canadian Rockies morning. These mornings are a double edged sword. The clear sky gives the cold a feeling of resonation, but those keen enough to get out are rewarded with an uplifting rising sun wearing a cape that sports brilliant hues of pink and orange. Waking up early and doing some walking didn't feel like a worthy cost to pay for such a show, but there we were. 

   We simul solo'd the lower ice of the route. Carl was a man of efficiency; he moved fast in the mountains and though I cannot speak for my dead friend, I believe that it was during these moments of movement in the mountains that he felt an artistic level of peace. I can speak for myself, and I saw it on many occasions. Carl moved with weightless prowess in the winter. Even in dicey moments, you could tell he wanted to be there. There was a precision so strong its only source could be passion. I began to understand it more on the first ice steps of DOP: Carl swung a tool and opened up an ice dam, soaking himself with literal ice water. Hot and unbothered, he didn't even say anything to me until we were both on flat ground. We carried on to the rock pitches. It was bound to be a wild day from the beginning as I mislead us up the wrong corner system. Ten months later, it still stands as one of the scariest pitches of my life. It took well over an hour for me to negotiate the pitch, specifically a traverse out of the corner and off a safety blob of ice. I got to a ledge and a bolted anchor above a different groove and brought Carl up, but not before letting out a few primal, fear-fuelled screams on the last few moves. When Carl arrived at the belay, I immediately received a jab intended on lightening the mood: "Good lead, but what was with all the screaming?" Carl asked, tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well I was gripped out of my mind. I laughed and exclaimed just how scared I was with big gestures and a rambling story that had to be interrupted so he could make up time for us on the next pitch. He'd later apologize and call himself a dick for the jab over a beer on the porch of The Drake Inn, but it wasn't needed. Being able to laugh at yourself is invaluable, and if you didn't know how, Carl could certainly lend a hand in showing you the way. 

   He did make up the time that I took. It was absurd to watch him move above the horrendous gear the pitch offered. He pulled a bulge virtually unprotected, and no fear-fuelled screams to boot! This is one of those moments that I know can never fully be justified with my words. Carl was simply painting and his art was too personal to be truly captured. I joined him at the next belay- which was a solid boulder between his two legs, a smile, a wink, and the assurance that he would've caught me had I fallen. Good enough for me. I led another pitch up the face and after another marginal belay we became more and more accepting of the fact that we were well off route, and the probability of a mellow retreat was becoming more and more minimal. Topping out was our best option. The corner system ended and Carl led an easy but unprotected traverse off the centre of the face to some scrambling terrain. This didn't last long, and I belayed Carl off a sapling as he scratched his tools over a bulge, then yelled down that the slab above was easy and that I could take him off belay. Reckless? Intelligent. Selfless. Carl knew the sapling wouldn't hold both of our weight, and there was no other gear to be found. He cruised, and then we cruised up a crack system we discovered on the slab. No more type two fun, no more pants being shat (how much more could they handle?), just high quality rock in the 5.8 range. Easy terrain earned, is a lot sweeter than easy terrain given. One of my ice axes fell off my harness at some point, and Carl led one more steep pitch onto the summit block just as the beautiful sunrise's kin greeted us with her own flavour. We descended off the back side in the dark, got lost, found the road, and stumbled back to Carl's year round home and beloved Sprinter Van. It was almost midnight, and the next day was my eighteenth birthday. Carl bought some lovely cheap champagne for the occasion. We sipped it under the stars, incredibly content with our effort and excited to feed the insatiable hunger again. That morning, the dark air felt frigid and the friendly company unsure. That evening, the dark air felt frigid, but the company familiar.

   I knew Carl for less than a year, though relationships built in the mountains are well watered and grow fast. One of the more watering experiences of our friendship was the thirty hours we spent in a Bugaboo blizzard. I watched the Sprinter bounce around through a gentle rain toward the Hound's Tooth, and as we hiked, the rain turned to snow. We were confined to small shelters as the blizzard settled in and took the place of our Bugaboo dreams. The tent sagged with snow during our sole night at Applebee and we concurred that despite the circumstances, this was, indeed, THE LIFE! Carl, the man of efficiency, didn't have much to be efficient about. We sat in a cave for most of a day and spoke about our options, the wonderful women in each our lives, and everything else under the sun that we could not see. To his credit, he did find something to act on efficiently: We would have to bail, and it was decided that we would eat, smoke, and drink as much as we could before then; to save our knees, of course. It was a glorious day of being with a friend in a grand place, not to mention the gluttonous consumption of our heaviest delicacy: M&M's dipped in butter.

Bugaboo cave dwelling

  Though I hope to drink Jameson in a mountain storm again, I know that I'll never again pass that bottle to Carl. That being said, I can raise it to my dear friend. 

   To Carl Hawkins, one of the goofiest bastards to ever grace the Canadian Rockies with their presence. The ghost pooper that all ghost poopers aspire to. A person so committed to this lifestyle that he would winter in Canmore in an unheated van! The guy that went up to the crag with an injured finger just to bring snacks and belay. To Carl Hawkins, my brother of ten months, and my inspiration forever.

 We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl Hawkins in the mountains. 

   

     

An Absent Lesson on Presence

An Absent Lesson on Presence

Maybe it was the intense, mind expanding experience fresh in my mind contrasted to the present bar talk that blurred things; the vodka cran in front of me was too full to be the culprit. Trying to dust off the difficulty to focus and absorb, I took in the hodgepodge of wing night around me. My brother looked happy watching football with his friends. It felt good to be in his now rare company, as our lives had geographically diverged and I no longer asked him to drag me along wherever he went. But I couldn’t shake a numbness. “This isn’t depression. I know my depression,” I thought. The extraordinary presence I had felt for the last five days was nowhere to be found; perhaps it was still in the hills, wondering where the soul that it knew intimately had went. Why am I feeling like this? It couldn't be me. I wasn't alienating myself. I just wasn't where I belonged.

I had just come down, both literally and figuratively from my first experience with a big Canadian Rockies rig. Two super stokers- Jacky Soong and Kyle Martino, and I asked the Northeast Buttress of Howse Peak to dance. She obliged. We kept up with the steps! Our hips were moving despite the dance floor crumbling beneath our feet! Our belief, and strong desire to live out our dreams propelled us where skill alone wouldn't cut it: Runouts. Flying microwaves of limestone. Janky anchors. We were quite committed and had settled into a communal understanding of what was expected of each us. The leads were shared with excitement. There was only positivity and action when the rope was passed, and the winds helped to whisk along the smell of fear. My mind thanked my friends Louis and Chris (if you’re reading this, you guys rock!) for pushing me in the Squamish co-op when my body tension paid off and I was able to hold an awkward position after a hold exploded in my hand. High stakes Jenga at its finest!!!!!

This guy fights fires! 

This guy designs buildings! 

The force of the try hards high pointed at the tail end of an exciting traverse off the comfort of the buttress and into the jaws of the peak’s north face. Kyle brought me over to the wild no man’s land of the north face. The night before, sounds of rockfall lulled us to sleep below the glacier. Now, there was no filter. Not the words of another accounting the crumbling power of the notorious range, not the glacier. When it wasn’t booming, it was looming. On the surface, she shouted about killing us, and how foolish we were for asking her to dance. Listening with my ego, I kept hearing these taunts. After much deliberation of the next move and quality of the belay, action was needed. I don’t want to be over dramatic. If the belay was good enough to hold both our body weights I’m sure it would’ve held a fall. I’ll admit shamelessly I was quite scared to move off it. Though it really should, and in time it will- being one thousand feet up a crudely stacked mosaic of small limestone blocks just doesn’t offer the same objective perspective as a comfortable couch. I tiptoed my orange boots on a series of large blocks, and peered around the corner to an onslaught of water gushing down a wide crack system. I returned from my reconnaissance and told Kyle that I thought we should turn around, that it wasn’t our time to climb this route. Kyle agreed though neither of us wanted to officially pull the plug. He got the double belay as he went over to deliberate with Jacky, verbalization of our consensus was soon shouted to me from the buttress. We committed to descending. After another thoroughly quivering traverse, I saw my smiling friends again. We spoke of how there was nothing more we could do; we truly, truly gave it our all and it wasn’t our time. Our time will come, of that I have no doubt. With no entitlement to the summit, it would’ve been foolish to intertwine our desire of standing on it with our definition of success. In these moments I understood a quote regarding one of Voytek Kurtyka’s philosophies of climbing: “He likened the collecting of summits to a profane materialism, where the climber needs to possess the mountains, rather than accept- and be accepted by- their mysteries.”¹

She howled as we slowly left the dance floor, and in this long process I realized her shouts were far from malicious. They were still scary, the way that raw and powerful beauty is. But no longer did I find myself afraid because the mountain was out of my control. Besides, how does one attempt to control a massive piece of rock, and why would one want too? After all, it is the untamable aspect of the mountains that inspire me to find, and harness that same quality within myself. The eastern part of the peak roared with falling rock and snow. Safe, we greeted our insignificance with Borat quotes and raised thumbs.

Jacky Soong photo.

We took turns throwing ropes into the darkness, hoping for a ledge or a tree. The east face glacier we avoided- both out of thoughts of speed and overhead hazard concern, was a bright, silent, white above us. We squeezed moss water into our mouths. Kyle caboosed a rappel off a single piton. Jacky’s pack stumbled off a ledge and into the night. “Off rappel!” became our alarm clocks for anchor naps. Laughter penetrated a once thought impenetrable darkness when Kyle shouted with glee that he found one of Jacky’s crampons in a tree, and then his whole pack on a ledge- or the valley floor, we couldn’t tell. The Rockies held their cloak tightly, and we only knew we were off the mountain when our boots almost stepped into the alpine lake estuary of the glacier’s creek. It was 3am, 23 hours after we had motored toward the glacier with Kyle’s phone blasting Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. A celebratory tea brew was quickly followed by sleep, and then unspoken suffering between Kyle and I as both our bivi bags failed to keep us dry when a Rockies storm rolled in. I couldn’t help but smile as I shivered through the rest of the aging night. I felt alive. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

***

My still soaked bivi bag hangs off my brother’s porch, and I dryly wrestle sleep inside on a couch. The lone vodka cran finds comfort in my dehydrated mind and body.

“This isn’t depression. You know your depression. You’ve just had the adventure of your life. Your brother just did your laundry! How can you be depressed? You just aren’t where you’re supposed to be.”²

Something under those lines went through my head again and again. My sleep was fitful. Once I woke in anticipation for an alpine start alarm. Another time I woke and was confused not to see a painting from my partner that hangs on the roof of my minivan. I felt guilty, and lost. Guilty because I felt like this in the hospitality of my brother. Guilty because I didn’t feel like I was honouring my time spent in the mountains. Mostly though I felt lost. Lost in this quite straightforward position.

Fifteen hours earlier, Jacky and I were alone on the Fay Glacier. Moraine Lake and its $105.00/hour canoe rentals were no more than a kilometre or two away. The Neil Colgan Hut was no more than four hundred metres the opposite way. Our last interaction with another living thing was when a kind guide staying at the hut sent us off into the storm with an encouraging tap of his ice axe and a “you boys got this.” Yeah! We do! I was spitting at the ground ahead of me in order to get a sense of definition of the terrain. I asked Jacky to make sure I was walking in a relatively straight line as I lead us into the unknown. It was a wild exercise of hope. We revelled in our fears being faced, and the absolute physical representation of adventure that was each step forward.

“It’s just you and me out here buddy!!!!” Jacky exclaimed. I couldn’t see it very well, but I could feel his stoke through the rope, and I know he could feel mine. It was the only electricity in this snow storm.

Once, we both partially broke through into the quiet and ancient world below us; its remoteness magnified by the glacial blue of its gates being the only contrast to the rest of our immediate whiteout environment. Hope made the snow bridges stronger, and eventually the clouds broke to reveal their work. The storm left the Valley of the Ten Peaks dusted with snow, more concentrated at the peaks and drifting off into lower elevations. It was a single stroke of a paintbrush, where the brush lost its fuel but not its might as it graced the canvas. We stood in silence, and then whooped to the world. It was beautiful.

The clouds that cleared

In that basement, and the ten hour drive to Squamish that followed, I remained lost. I wasn’t able to figure out the ingredient that made one lost and potentially dire situation incredibly full of joy, and how in the absence of said ingredient, a similar situation left me mentally stagnant with my tail between my legs. All I could compute was that I was unable to feel present, and therefore wasn’t in the right situation. As repeated, both in my mind and in this piece: You just aren’t where you’re supposed to be.

Of course, this theory crashed and burned exactly where I “should’ve” been. I had just been apart of something beautiful: My friend Mike blended finesse and effort into a magnificent onsight(!!!!) of the beautiful My Little Pony- a beautiful roof crack split like a structural weakness in a castle atop the Cheakamus Valley. Badass people do badass things. It was my go, and I felt a high from the energy Mike emitted. I tried to use it to shake the fog that was seeming to settle in for the long run as I started up, and sort of did for a few moves. But the culmination of my aimlessness was upon me. It jumped on my back, too heavy to bear. I completely froze on the route. No part of me wanted to be where I was. It was if a force was trying to suffocate any feeling I’d ever had. Climbing was no longer a refuge from this occasional feeling. I didn’t want to climb; a scary thought for someone who has devoted their life to climbing rocks. I didn’t want to do anything; a scary thought for a human being. This lack of presence led to a gnarly fall adjusting a cam, which miraculously held. In those moments hanging on the rope, feeling heavier than I’d ever felt, looking down at my friend who so genuinely wanted me to succeed, I began to put the pieces together. I began to listen to what the world was trying to teach me. I’ve been schooled many times by the mountains. This time, it was their absence that lectured, and made me more untamed from myself. With my hypothesis on location being the problem now thwarted, there was one place left to look that my ego had kept from eyes: within.

I couldn’t blame my lack of presence on the external present. No amount of joy can be absorbed by a closed mind and a choked soul. It begins with something that no outside force can control: Effort, when effort is not easy. Effort when your mind tries to shout over your soul that you cannot, and should not. I tried to harness this, and understand the mandatory urgency to do so. If I did not then, then when? I pulled back on, and tried to pry off the squeezing hands my mind had wrapped around my soul. I screamed, and screamed, and wanted to hold on. Synthesized effort soon evolved into organic effort. I eventually could no longer hold the pull up and fell to a lifting fog and a happy friend. I asked Mike to lower me, hugged him, congratulated him, and thanked him again and again for pushing me in the right direction when I couldn’t see it myself.

Mike took my thanks humbly, simply shrugging, “I knew if you didn’t go for it you’d kick yourself.”

Depression is a passing cloud. A passing cloud. We must find it within ourselves to believe in the wind that will push the cloud, and understand that no external force can produce it. No place. No people. It can be cultivated without, but must originate within. When it can only be synthesized, then synthesize it. It is the wind. It is the key ingredient. It is the best of things.

Perpetual stoke! Thanks to Jacky Soong for the awesome friendship and photos :)

It is hope.

The grass is as green as you want it to be.

1 From Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers

2 Depression is different for everyone. Everyone I have spoken with about the subject has felt it in their own way. Personally, it has nothing to do with sadness, and more with a episodic inability to feel. The feeling- or lack thereof, is out of my control, but the response to the feeling isn’t. For me, depression is not a choice. Happiness is.

Remembering The Stoke- Forgetting Everything Else

   I had recently wiped my ass with pieces of granite and alpine shrubbery (I forgot toilet paper). Our water was rather dirty (not related to my poop) (forgot cooking pot), and we were running out of it quite quickly. The goats that had cornered us into our bivi spot before they finally ran away from our rock throwing had returned. There would be no climbing today, and judging by the morning’s hike, tonight would be cold. A can of raw chickpeas with a crude gash of an opening ( I forgot a can opener) served as both dinner, and as our cleanest water source. Despite all this, the mood was light. Louis had found it in himself to laugh at my rookie mistakes and unpreparedness. The method may have been flawed, but the madness was perfect, and I couldn’t help but revel in our simple situation: hunkered down in a sea of peaks, seemingly millions of miles away from societal trivialities. There was a spoken collective excitement for the sun to set, and rise again so we could go onward. Nervous humour was the selected coping mechanism for the potentially uncomfortable night we both knew was inevitable.

I may have forgot a lot of things, but Louis didn't forget the red wine! 

     We were treated to a beautiful sunset, though its beauty was that of a cruel mistress, for we knew it would be short-lived and replaced by a cold, dark night. The Enchantment Range lived up to its name in those last moments of light. Pink sky blended with streaked alpine granite, the colours were vibrant, and then slowly gave way to the darkness and silence of night in the mountains. The stars were bright enough to give the imagination material to build off of, and soon my mind was entranced by the now inconceivable wilderness surrounding me. I have realized that the mountains assume a more ominous power when the sun leaves. Their presence can be felt more because it is seen less. The silhouettes of granite giants leave much for the imagination to fill. The dreamer in all of us becomes enthralled and the ego in all of us becomes intimidated. Peaceful silence is delicate, and often interrupted by a battle cry of rockfall. Nighttime in the mountains forces one to be at peace not with feeling small, but with being small. One has to be willing to accept the mountains as a dance partner, rather than a competitor, as there is nothing to win. Even if there was, no amount of chest puffing could defeat a massive piece of rock. Victory is in the dance itself, not the applause that may or may not come afterward. The moon and the mountains are great professors of liberation.

   The sound of goats shifting on scree eventually lulled me to sleep. I slept peacefully through the whole night, only waking to scare off the goats as they dared to go closer and closer to our bivi. Our night was pleasant. It wasn’t an epic that builds character, but instead a rather lovely place to have a rather lovely sleep. 

   Don’t let it go to your heads though boys, The Enchantments will conclude there first spanking of your asses with a retreat off one of her faces after only a pitch of climbing (forgot crucial size of cam)!

   Louis and I stashed some gear at the base of Colchuck Balanced Rock, convicting ourselves to return. My inexperience showed with my forgetfulness. I promised Louis and myself that rather than dwell I would learn and do better.

   We hung around town and bouldered for a day with our great friend Chris. After getting rained out of Powell River plans, fired out of Washington Pass plans, and temporarily spanked out of Enchantments plans, it felt good to finally get some volume in. Louis and Chris sent like madmen, and I tried my best. Running around boulders with your friends is an incredibly simple source of joy. My stoke was kindled and I was ready to head back into the mountains. 

The man, the myth, the Chris, enjoying the AMAZING climb Sleeping Lady

    It would be different this time. No bivying, no forgetting things, no obscure routes. Our objective was the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock in a car-to-car push. After a double inspection of our packs, I went to bed eager and calm. There was a strange lack of nerves, only excitement. I yearned for my alarm to go off. 4 am came rather early, and I jumped out of bed. Oatmeal was slammed, and in a half asleep state our hike began. 

   We moved with a silent purpose; two friends embarking on an adventure, having a keen understanding of the undertaking chosen and feeling no need to discuss it further. I was in the zone, and I could tell Louis was in the zone. With light packs and fresh legs the approach was brisk, and soon the trees thinned as we powered ourselves above the lake and toward the face. A slightly less than brief slog led us to our stashed gear, and we rested in a beautiful meadow below the talus of the face. I sprawled out on a boulder, enchanted (I write an amateur blog, I hope you expected that pun to come out at least once) by my surroundings and the face that I had signed up to climb. I felt slightly nervous looking at the striking West Face, but felt no displacement. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The West Face stands proud. I sit excited.

   The face called out to us, and its dark corners showed the obvious line through the jaws of the west face. Excitement built on the final leg of our approach, and it carried into the short moderate first pitch. I moved through the easy first pitch with As soon as I brought Louis up to the belay he began to move up the splitter crack above us. The crack petered out, and Louis was out of my view. Our communication simplified into the odd holler, and the movement of the rope. The physical unification of two souls adrift in a sea of granite. 

   On one end of the rope is the climber, stepping into the unknown and accepting the blanket of consequences that comes with the territory: The deep focus of a flow state, the grit of pouring yourself into a physical act- increasing the farther the act is from the perpetually expanding but never all encompassing comfort zone. Not to be forgotten is the strange euphoria of pulling it off, and the strange euphoria of trying hard and not pulling it off. 

   All of this of course relies on the hope that the beautiful peaks that quite randomly allow you safe passage continue to do so.

   On the other end is the belayer, who watches his partner- and usually close friend, slowly slip from vision and with them the security of companionship. Their absence allows a rampant mind to run, if it is let off its leash. There isn’t much to say about the experience, because there isn’t much about the experience itself. If communication is completely cut off due to a number of sources (Highway 99 in the case of the Stawamus Chief), the emotional experience can be a hope so deeply nurtured it flowers into an absolute belief. The physical experience is holding a rope.

   The experience typically isn’t as intense as I am making it sound. The risk is something that as climbers we try to both manage and- though I cannot speak for all climbers, try to celebrate. Try. Most of the time it isn’t gripping the holds for dear life while your friend is somewhere below doing the same to the rope for the same cause. In Louis and I’s case on the lower pitches of the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock, it really wasn’t. Honestly, most of the time climbing is internally quite meditative and externally as simple as humming a tune to yourself as you climb; Swatting a wasp as you think about dinner, belay, and marvel at the mountains at the same time. Louis cruised the second pitch, running out a tricky slab sequence above a small alien cam like the badass he is. 

                                                                                                          

    I had a brief moment on the third pitch. I was perhaps eight or nine metres from the belay, standing atop a detached pillar I had scrambled up, and now faced the task of stepping across back onto the mountain itself, and following a corner to a large ledge above me. The step was intimidating, the corner was mostly cloaked by a bulge in the rock, and the gear wasn’t straightforward. I deliberated with Louis, and with myself. My gear was okay, and in retrospect I’m sure it would’ve held; Louis said it was fine when he seconded the pitch, and his judgement would’ve been much less melodramatic. That being said, the Nat on that pillar sure didn’t believe in it as much as the Nat that is safely sitting in a Squamish cafe. On my island of safety, I kept thinking about a few mantras:

    Once you commit, there can be no hesitation. 

A quote inspired by the essay “The Third Party”, by John Lauchlan. (A wild story about the first ascent of Slipstream, an 1000 metre ice climb in the Canadian Rockies. The essay centres around the third member of the climbing party: The voice in Lauchlan’s basically telling him he is going to die.) 

Either commit to doing it, or not doing it. Own the decision you make.

   Strong. Calm. Confident.

   Liam Haigh’s mantra was recited in my head again and again. I knew it was time, and I torqued my right fingers into a good lock, and willed my foot high onto a good edge. I stood up, and tried my best to take the challenges I faced in stride. After a few more slabby moves, I cleaned the crack with the nut tool I forgot to give to Louis- a happy mistake, and found gear. I wanted to set sail, and I cut myself from the harbour. The waves were beautifully stirring.

   Louis stomach began to stir as well. We were eager to get off the ledge I had belayed him up to, especially after he took an emergency poop on it. There was an oxymoronic grace to his climbing despite his sickness. He would do a few moves, take a deep breath, nearly shit his pants, and continue with style. Louis didn’t even mutter a word of complaint; laughter would typically be the next noise after a mid pitch fart. The badass with the bad ass took us to an intermediate anchor, and then almost fought his way to an onsight of the 5.11 enduro corner that marks the start of the steep headwall. It was a hell of a lead, the gumption of which I cannot do justice with my words. To be feeling sick, and look up at a 5.11 layback endurance corner in the alpine with conviction, and climb it with conviction is fucking rad. After a few falls, I arrived at the anchor totally wiped from effort. 

   The burning in my forearms was soothed both by constant shaking and a realization of the position we found ourselves in. Louis’ lead brought us to the base of an awesome roof. Above our heads rested millions of tons of granite. Below our feet was the deep pastel blue of Colchuck Lake. We had stepped onto a stage with a magnificent setting, and a rightfully empty audience.

An enchanting view from the base of the route :) 

   It was time to act, though any attempt at deceiving the mountain would be feeble. There is nothing to deceive but ourselves. Passage would be most successful via honest effort, succumbing to the insignificance of our position on this mountain, and in this world. I focused on ridding myself of expectations and feelings of entitlement as I looked at the next pitch: A magnificent crack where roof and face meet, complimented by just enough edges for the feet; beautiful imperfections of the smooth alpine granite. Perhaps that is one of the many things we can learn from the mountains, that it is our perceived imperfections that make us accessible. Stoicism and “strength”, leave no room for both the good and the bad. All of us have cracks (I see the innuendo, I am cringing, bear with me), that have the possibility to be filled with once again, both love and hate. This is where hope is crucial. I hope to find love and joy in each moment. I hope to climb this pitch. 

   The burning evolved into a cramp quite early into the short pitch. After stumbling out of the gate, and not trusting sensei Louis’ judgement on a blind cam placement (like a fool!), my brain began to shut off. I remember reminding myself of the conversation I had with Louis in Leavenworth days prior, asking for this pitch after seeing it on our sans-toilet-paper-goat-imprisonment-chick-pea-gritfest. I was here, I had the opportunity for an experience that I wanted. With each move, I felt myself becoming more and more homogenized with my environment. My senses became intensely blurred, interacting with one another like a watercolour painting. Louis’ rooting blended beautifully with the ever growing intensity of the wind as I neared the end of the roof. These sounds heightened my understanding of my exposure. I would look down to place my foot on the next granite edge, and see the talus of the face’s crumbly past seemingly directly below my heel. There was none of the typical trepidation when I looked down however. Instead, the exposure felt more like an old friend. An old friend that in some way or another, had been present for the joyful, terrifying, and pivotal moments of my life, and was back to catalyze another. In this short roof traverse, all ceased to exist but an incredibly concentrated magnification of the presence. My old friend had wrapped its metaphorical blanket around me by physically doing the exact opposite: Briefly stripping me of conscious thought about everything in a setting where as mentioned before, there could be no deception. No place to hide, and no desire to be hidden. I stepped out from under the roof, and onto a ledge. The moment was gone. 

   As it should be. 

   I whooped to the Enchantment air, and began the process of setting up the belay for Louis. Louis second the pitch with his typical grace. We shared a jaw dropped look at how magnificent the pitch was. Collective content. Louis grabbed the rack and embarked on the second last pitch.

   My writing of Louis’ climbing is repetitive as I cannot offer internal dialogue. Most of the time, even if Louis is shitting his pants on the inside he remains cool as a cucumber. His climbing is decisive and confident. When Louis chooses to do something, he just does it. It is fucking rad to watch, and I am always inspired seconding his leads. Louis cruised until the crux of this pitch, and the route itself. After a an earnest go with tired limbs and a low sun, he efficiently aided the crux of the pitch, and soon I was climbing again. I did the same, my tired arms were no match for this boulder problem. I stood below the last pitch. The sun was high enough, we were going to summit in the light! 

   Bamboozled.

   An hour and forty minutes later I laid on my stomach in a horizontal v-slot ledge, trying to ignore my full body cramps, and redeem my pride-ridden and experience lacking lead by at least building an anchor and fixing the rope for Louis to jug in a decent time. The sun was teasing me with its last light, its raw beauty adding to the raw beauty of the experience I found myself in. In the last one hundred minutes, I fell, and then attempted to aid the pitch thinking that it would be quicker. This idea conveniently ignores the fact that I have next to zero experience aid climbing. Louis tried his best to help me, but I was unwilling to listen, selfishly wanting to “figure it out for myself”. The alpine is no place for pride or principles, especially when you are working as a unit. Partnership is sacred. I had to learn that the hard way, and Louis maintained patience as best as he could. Louis explained to me at the anchor that communication is essential, we must lose ourselves in the partnership and focus both on what we are doing as individuals and how that is going to impact the team. I apologized, apologized, apologized, and then apologized again. How lucky I am to have a wise, patient, and loving friend. A lesson learnt in a foolish and dangerous way, but a lesson learnt nonetheless. The raw exposure of my inexperience and good intentioned but terribly communicated traits didn’t take away from the beauty of the situation, and it is important to note that. The beauty of the alpine is in the experiences. Adventure isn’t always just the pleasant moments you see on Instagram, and if it was then perhaps we wouldn’t be so drawn to it. Exposure and adventure are defined by being naked among uncertainty. This goes both ways, sometimes you pull it off, sometimes you build character. The lows in themselves are highs, as it is the moments where you’re in the middle of an intense ass kicking that you learn two important things: 1. that you can survive an ass kicking (a privileged one albeit). 2. How to avoid an ass kicking down the road.  You win some, you learn some.

   There wasn’t much time for reflection and Louis was keen to move- though I have no idea why. He was acting as if his partner had just totally ignored his helpful advice, and thus had to sit at a belay for over an hour. Crazy!!!! He grabbed the rack and powered us to another ledge where we began simuling and climbing on running belays in waning light. We were like two rats trying to find their way out of a maze, weaving and bobbing around loose flakes and boulders piled on top of one another, searching desperately for safe passage off the dark face. After only one close call, in which I broke a hold off and hit Louis in the hand- causing another million apologies, we found our way through a slot and our tired feet touched the promised land of scree at last! 

   It was now pitch black. We stopped for a moment to put on our headlamps, and hugged a great hug of genuine friendship. Our descent was beautifully uneventful. The peaceful silence of the mountains settled deeper into our tired, content minds the further we descended. By the time we were getting “close” to the car, I began to hallucinate vividly. Rocks became lawn chairs, trees bore human made signs of all variety. It reminded me of a story from Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers in which Voytek Kurtyka describes the altitude induced hallucinations he succumbed to on Gasherbrum IV “as a gift”. Louis and I discussed the awesome rare reality we were living, in which we had exhausted ourselves to the point of losing slight control of our minds. It was a unique experience that would soon be over, and once again cannot be wished away. It was 3 a.m by the time we stumbled back to the minivans we eagerly left twenty two hours prior, keen for the adventure that lay ahead. Now, we both nursed celebratory menthols (I love you America!), happy and content with the adventure that took place; eager and keen for the adventures that lay ahead- and sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

   La montañas son mi casa.