The Greatest Summer There Ever Was (And the Longest Post I'll Ever Make)

It's been a while since I last posted, so let's get this ball rolling.

A SLO Start

Summer started out slow. Lots of gym sessions, not a lot of sending. My stoke levels were bordering on zilch, so it was great to have a couple of friends come out to the central coast from back home. I tried to introduce them to the sport as best I could (as it turns out, telling people about climbing is one of the only sure-fire ways I can get stoked on climbing myself).

Cassie on the opening of a 5.5 out at Cabrillo Rocks

After dropping them off at the airport, my motivation was up and roaring at full bore. I wrapped up my projects out at Bishop's Peak, and did the best I could to get my friends up their problems as well. (Congrats again on Mushy, David and Ian!) After finally slapping my way through Slot (V6) on the Hummingbird boulder, I noticed that there are just enough holds to connect a pumpy V3-ish traverse into the start of Slot. As far as I know, it hasn't been done yet, and is definitely my local, long-term project for now. Several other sessions out at Bishop's resulted in many an appreciable send. Good times.

Paul crimping his way through the opening moves of Peanuts (V4) for the send. Nicely done!

To the Tetons!

Even in SLO, you can go pretty stir-crazy after a while. So when my parents told me they had designs on a week-long trip to the Tetons, I was chomping at the bit to get out there. I've done quite a bit of alpine hiking and mountaineering, but the Tetons are legendary for their quality routes and ridiculous amounts of exposure. While I didn't have the gear necessary to do any technical routes, I'm comfortable going through sustained 4th class. And so, on the second to last morning of our trip, my dad woke me up at five in the morning to do a 12-mile day hike of Buck mountain, one of the lesser Tetons.

Buck Mountain (11,923 ft. - third class) in the midday sun

My dad and I were on the trailhead by 6:15. Little did I know that the trail branched off to the right after three quarters of a mile, just before crossing a third small footbridge. (All fine and dandy, our routefinding skills were [we hoped] more than adequate for something like this.) Less welcoming was the revelation that after another half mile or so, the trail completely vanished, leaving us marooned in a huge field of wildflowers and moose dung. Maybe it was because we were using a trip report from the early 2000s. Whatever the case, we still had five miles of cross country hiking and 5,000 feet of elevation gain to nab the summit. (It turns out that we had exited the side trail too early. For future reference, stay on the side trail for as long as possible. It'll take you up the Stewart draw, always on trail, and further to the right than the path we ended up taking. You live and you learn, right?)

By the time the sun peeked around the ridge at 7:30 or so, we were a solid mile and a half in, and maybe 1,500 feet higher than the valley floor (which sits at 6,000 feet or so). By this point we had teamed up with two other locals, who hadn't ever climbed Buck, but seemed to know their shit. Together we had navigated the field and were working up a series of glacial cirques (five in all) in our quest to break out above the treeline. There weren't very many geographical features to mark our way. Most of the time we would make sure that Static Peak (which sits just to the southeast of Buck) was to our left.

 Up to 8,500 feet or so before the sun really started to heat things up

By ten in the morning, some serious clouds were building up. We had gotten to the top of the last cirque (around 9,500 feet), and the summit was finally (just barely) in sight. We decided to gun for the summit and hope that the weather would stay south long enough for us to get our goal. After scrambling up the ridge (and through nests of frighteningly persistent fire ants) that would finally get us above most of the trees, the Tetons proper came into view. Let me tell you, it was one of the more amazing things I've ever seen.

The Tetons coming into view around 10,000 feet

After spending the better part of an hour navigating some large boulder and scree fields, we came upon Timberline lake, a small pond fed by glacial runoff. The sheer faces of Static and Albright peaks to the south and west cut an imposing figure to us, and Buck Mountain was easily more impressive than both of them. From here, we still had another 1,500 feet of sustained third class (to this point it had been mostly first class, with some second class thrown in for good measure) to get us to the summit. Using Timberline lake as a staging ground, we decided to scramble up a chute on the right side of the face and then traverse back left, and go up. What we didn't bargain for was the sheer exposure.

Working towards the third class chute that would deposit us on the main face.

The chute deposited us on the main face, and immediately the exposure was more noticeable.

Although the climbing was almost always kept to third class, the exposure was mind-blowing. It was a 5,000+ foot drop back down to the valley below. We're at about 11,000 feet here.

At a resting point after some serious scrambling. Just a few hundred feet below the summit!

Almost there! Altitude sickness started to set in for me at this point, but some water and a pop-tart kept it at bay.

 Success! 11,923 feet. We summited around noon (those clouds were freaking us out so we got the hell down soon after). There was a sheer 2,000 foot drop behind and to the left of us. Again, the exposure was unnerving.

A mini-pano, for your downloading pleasure.

Sadly, that's where the pictures stop. It was one in the afternoon when we heard the first thunderclap. We were still at 11,000 feet, and had no plans to get caught in a Wyoming thunderstorm above the treeline. We booked it back down through the gully, stopping only briefly at the creek running off of Timberline lake to refill our water. Fortunately, Mother Nature showed us a small sliver of mercy and waited until we were back in the glacial cirques to unleash her fury upon us. We only had jeans and t-shirts with us, so when the temperature plummeted from 75 to 45 degrees in nothing flat, it hit us hard. Hail came crashing down, and along with the wind-driven rain stinging our skin, we were soon numb to the core (it would be hours before I regained my fine motor control). Combine that with the lightning strikes hitting the ground just a ridge or two over and you have yourself one hell of a fine recipe for running down a mountain. Practically sliding down the cirques and sprinting through the wildflower field, we made it back to the trail in half of the time it took us to get up. Back in the car, heaters cranked all the way up, my Dad and I were able to collapse and talk about how good a beer back at the hotel would be.

Total stats: 12 miles traveled (10 of it cross-country), 12,000 feet of vertical elevation change, one hail and lightning storm, and one memorable day. I can't wait to get back.

Life's Curveballs

Life calmed down back on the Central Coast. At least, until someone else from the past came out to visit. I can't really go into any details, but it should suffice to say that it's never a good idea to turn a blind eye to what you think is inconceivable.

Never take anything for granted.

Onto Yosemite

Woe is me! My first time in the Valley with the sole intention of climbing, and I end up with barely two does to do anything but sample some of the area's classic boulders. It was still a phenomenal peak, but it was downright tantalizing being so close to so many big walls, and so much history.

Patrick, Eric, Paul, Emily, Robert, Anissa, and I stayed in Camp 4 for a weekend right smack dab in the middle of the dog days of summer. The weather was blessedly temperate though, and the wind actually managed to keep most of the smoke from the Rim Fire out of the valley proper.

Let me just say that the bouldering in Yosemite valley is some of the best I've ever done. It's also some of the most sandbagged. From the slick ultra-classics of the Camp 4 field to the neo-classics of Candyland, everything felt hard. Our first night in camp, we probably spent the better part of an hour getting a jump-start V0 on the Columbia boulder, and I didn't send anything harder than V3 the entire weekend. Valley bouldering demands a needlepoint balance of precision and power.

Of course, the first thing we all had to try when we got to camp was the uber-classic Midnight Lightning. Of course, there was no send, but I managed to get decently far after a few good burns. The movement's unlike anything I've ever felt before.

After rubbing ourselves raw on Midnight, we headed over to Candyland, one of the newly developed (and still relatively obscure) fields in the Valley. Be warned: the guidebook does a less than exemplary job explaining how to get there. We all spent way more time covered in cuts, webs, and mosquitos than we would have liked just finding the damn place. But once we found it, oh, what a place it was.

A huge (I'm talking Grandpa Peabody scale here) boulder sits as the centerpiece to the area. I didn't see any chalk on it, but I'd wager that there's at least a few routes waiting to be cleaned on it, either bolted or not. To the west sits The Diamond, a beautiful line on an aesthetic boulder. I was close on this one - it was just one big throw to a jug that was separating me from the send.

Throwing for the jug on The Diamond. So good!

Then we came upon what may very well be the greatest boulder problem I've ever climbed. Once Upon A Time is a classic stem problem. Extremely friction dependent, and just tall enough to make your mouth dry, it's worthy of both respect and admiration. I'd be willing to make the four-hour drive back to the valley just for this problem.

 Artsy. Existential. Raw. Or something.

 Patrick looking strong on Once Upon A Time (V3)

Portents of what's to come

We did all of this on our first day. Back at camp, we had the promise of sleeping on crash pads and smacking a bag of wine that Paul had so generously donated. Little did we know how bringing bag wine could make you into a Camp 4 celebrity. At one point, we had random people almost literally flying through our campsite, stopping just long enough to take a hit off of the bag before disappearing into the night. Our raucous cheers and jeers persisted long into the night. (At one point, I think we tried to climb Midnight Lightning in the dark, but the whole night is a bit hazy.)

Never one to miss a glimpse of nature's beauty, Patrick woke us all up at the crack of dawn to catch the sunset coming up over Half Dome. Grumbles and sighs turned into stunned silence as we saw one of the most beautiful sunrises any of us had ever seen. It was extremely humbling, if nothing else. Dizzyingly high walls, crisp air just enough to enliven your lungs...and a thing of beauty that caressed your face with its warmth. Yes, sunrise in the Valley is something I think everyone should see more than once.

The rest of our second day in the Valley was spent frolicking through many a boulder field. Paul finished up Once Upon A Time. (Yeah, yeah, I'll get you your damn burrito.) We bid adieu to Eric, Robert, and Anissa, and went and spent some time hopelessly projecting Dominated. Some climbers use the term "Lifetime Project." I'm pretty sure that's what that climb will be for me. It's beautiful, technical, and downright impossible. I can't wait to get back! It was a damn good August.

 BONUS VIDEO: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8MgCgEPL6c

The Joyous Duality of Thought, and the Realization of an Absent Loneliness

As an angst-ridden high school senior, I despaired. Woe is me, I thought, to never have an original creation. After all, isn't it likely that whatever I thought, had been thought before? And of course, there was a vicious cycle of self-perpetuation in this. Seeing all of the other pissed-off and all-knowing teenagers around me did little more than reinforce what I had already realized: I wasn't special.

Ah, how the cynic's mind is clouded.

There is a certain joyous duality to thought, I realize that now. Although my thoughts may not be original, they are self-discovered, unmotivated, for the most part, by any singular outside source. And I may take solace in the fact that there are others like me. There is a thin line (if there's a line at all) between being unique, and being lonely. The virtue of uniqueness that so many aspire to can quickly turn despotic, toxic in its tendency to render one completely and relentlessly isolated. After a while, with no one "worthy" of comparison, you may end up lost, or worse, unidentifiable. That's where depression rears its ugly head.

Depression itself is a fascinating beast. It's not so much sadness, like many people think, as much as it a high-pressure numbness. There's this disconnect from the world. That leads some people to say that depression lends itself to a complete apathy, an unconscious lobotomy of sorts. I suppose that is the case part of the time, especially for those pissed-off and all-knowing teenagers. But sometimes, it's an ambivalence, where the fear of rebuilding surpasses the relative knowledge of isolation. It's not a reflection of weakness, to be afraid of rebuilding. After all, a single person is the sum of so much complexity that to try and take it all in is akin to trying to process the whole of the Hubble's Deep Space Field.

Rebuilding, then, becomes the name of the game, and I hate to denigrate such a monumental process to summation by a single word, but it provides a springboard from which to begin. For me, that rebuilding began with climbing. For others, it could be a myriad of things. A change in thinking schemata, a new hobby, a new friend. Anything that you can assign meaning to in turn assigns some meaning to you. And so, the slow process of rebuilding begins with a painful, tearful reintegration to the world around you. Eventually, the realization may dawn. That although your individual thoughts and actions aren't unique, the order and way in which you present them are. You share commonalities with the other 7 billion minds on this planet, but in each and every one of them, a unique story, an epic, is unfolding. This realization is the retraction of loneliness, and in it exists a kind of joyous duality in thought and being.

Bishop - March2013

Tehachapi at moonrise

My family and I went to Bishop for four days over Spring Break, 2013. (YOLO) I'll try to keep this from sounding too "trip report-y," but suffice to say, much good climbing was to be had. We drove south through Tehachapi, and rolled into Bishop under a beautiful skyscape around eleven at night. We were up six hours later to observe the raw beauty of the Buttermilks. Buttermilk Country itself is steeped in lore and history. Hundreds of years ago, the Paiutes and Shoshones called this land sacred, and upon seeing it, both by moonlight and the new sun of the morning, it's easy to see why. There's a certain fragile nobility to it, a nobility that allows no admission of weakness, but upon closer inspection, a frighteningly delicate balance is found. The beauty of this country was vast enough that even four days later, when we pulled out of Bishop, I hadn't even come close to comprehending the scope of it. Words simply won't do it justice.

Obligatory Mt. Tom and Buttermilk Road shot

Day 1: Our first order of business was to hit some of the easier classics of the area. After warming up on the Green Wall boulder, we headed over to the Hunk. It was my first climb that could even be thrown in the running for "highball" status, and for me, it was a doozy. I had a pretty acute mental struggle fifteen feet off the deck when I realized two things: 1) I had no idea what the **** I was doing, and 2) I only had one small, soft pad. Topping it out was the sweetest tasting thing I'd had in a long while.

I won't go into details about the 20 minute fail-fest in which I couldn't find my way down.

After a lunch consisting of exactly one (1) orange and a few swigs of tepid water, we were off to try High Plains Drifter and The Birthing Experience. I'll tell you right now, the Birthing Experience's reputation for being unflashable is well-deserved. After completing it, I had markedly more respect for my newborn self. High Plains Drifter was, hands down, the most aesthetically appealing problem I'd ever tried. (keyword: tried) After failing to commit to the fabled Drifter move, I put the problem on a shelf. Hopefully the send will come this July, when a few friends and I are heading out there to chase shadows for a week or so.

Eyeing the Drifter move. More than a little sleep has been lost on this personal failure.

After heading back to The Trees Motel (cozy rooms, couldn't really say much for the room service though) to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep, day two ended up being fascinating in a different way. We drove out of town, past the Happies (where, ironically, a couple of hammered broulderers tried to pick a fight with a beleaguered hiker) to a petroglyph site. What was fascinating was seeing the creative parallels between the Paiute-Shoshone tribes and the process of sending a boulder problem. What was heartbreaking was seeing the desecration left by tourists and other people. It's always disturbed me to see the primal urge of people to leave their mark on their surroundings. For some people, an Earthly homeostasis doesn't exist. I don't pity those people, but it saddens me to think that they aren't experiencing, at present, a sort of intra/extra-cooperation between body, mind, and environment. To me, it's important to realize that the machinations of the mind are dependent upon the environment, and if we corrupt that environment, we also corrupt those machinations. Some call it hippie-cyclical-holistic bullshit. I call it another way to try and live compassionately: another way to grow, and to exist.

The rest of the trip was filled with good times and better weather. I managed to fire off the Iron Man traverse on my third go, and connected the opening four moves of Checkerboard. During the drive back, a pretty vicious storm built over the Sierra Crest, and made for a phenomenal sight that probably would have made Muir tremble in anticipation of nature's awesome capabilities. It'll truly be a pleasure to get back to that special place again.

Starting out light

Hey there everyone. Welcome! I started this blog as a way to share...things. Videos, thoughts, concerns, laughs. It's all about sharing, isn't it? Anyhow, I figured I'd break the ice by shamelessly plugging a couple of videos that showcase some of the more beautiful boulder problems around California's central coast. Just a quick disclaimer: I'm a huge supporter of the idea of a boulder problem being exactly that: a problem. And as a problem, it involves no small amount of creativity, time, and critical thinking. It's a process. That means that I won't always post videos of friends or myself "crushing that heinous v11 sit-start-to-a-shitty-thumdercling-micro-crimper." Sometimes it'll just be an update on a project. (Also, please forgive the poor video editing skills, they'll get better with time, I promise)

My goals for this blog are pretty meager at the moment. It'll hopefully be a safe haven for friendly banter and expression, as well as the occasional rumination on the heavier parts of life, and how climbing feeds into those parts. It's one of the more strange things I've noticed about bouldering: my life has become cyclical, and vastly interconnected. Climbing, at its most basic, fundamental level, affects every other part of my life. The beauty inherent in a particularly striking line can induce in me a feeling of such euphoria that I'd be hard pressed to say it's not some sort of spiritual experience. Likewise, the effects of a bad day on campus feed into my climbing, and I find myself punching the rock, rather than feeling it. But always, there's that feeling of interconnectedness. Climbing has become a base for me, a lookout point from which I can judge almost every other experience I encounter. It's said lightly by many people, but climbing really has become life, and life has become climbing.

"Beauty is Truth,--Truth Beauty,--that is all
      Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know"

-John Keats

Here's a short clip of one of the most physically appealing lines I've ever climbed.  Thank Buddha it's almost literally in my backyard.