Month: January 2013

20,000

Ice climbing season is officially in full swing. Exactly one month ago today Michael, Ryan and I trekked into Huntington Ravine for an early season mission. It was a rough day for me, but revelatory also. The three of us launched up SKYWALKER, the ascent that became the catalyst for this blog. I started Shades of Granite that night, and today, one month later, it is poised to crest 20,000 views. The initial post that connected with a range of readers, Reasons to Climb, was basically a journal entry. I posted it to Facebook so Ryan, Michael, Peter, Scott and Paul would see it, never intending for it to spread. By the next day it had more than 1,000 views. Since then I’ve written several more posts that seem to have connected. There appears to be a hunger for a raw, honest discussion of fear, emotion and personal struggle. The fact is the climbing is just a metaphor, an easy topic for the conversation to revolve around.

I didn’t imagine a month ago the blog would strike the chord it has. Multiple people, most of whom I do not have a long history with, have called, emailed and texted to tell me something I wrote expressed something they have been unable to put into words. Partners and friends I haven’t spoken to in years have also contacted me. They say they are reading. They say they understand. And then they thank me. Such responses are humbling. I’ve had stories in the Boston Globe, on public radio and in many other magazines and newspapers, but never has my writing found such resonance. I feel like a translator — my fears and frustrations are the same as the fears and frustrations of others, and it is my charge to transform those feelings into words.

Shades of Granite is ostensibly about climbing, but in writing it I have faced a fear that has nothing to do with gravity — one about cracking open my emotions, leaving myself vulnerable to critique and judgement. In this way I have jumped off a cliff, but instead of falling I am finding I can fly. Instead of ridicule I’ve found a community offering compassion and connection, yearning to express it even. It’s been exhilarating, another adventure, one at least as rewarding as my climbing.

So in honor of Shades of Granite surviving its first month, and in celebration of 20,000 views, here is a short video Dustin Marshall shot of Scott and I climbing the second and third pitches of Diagonal on Saturday.

Now go find your fear and face it. Launch into it.

Falling

Falling is inevitable. It’s part of life, part of being surrounded by the unknown. For a while now I’ve been falling, in climbing, but particularly in life, a medium far less stable than even ice.

Am I falling today? I’m not sure. It’s hard to differentiate between crashing and soaring when you can’t tell which direction is up. Truth be told, every day feels like 50 percent tailspin and 50 percent off-axis tumbling. Perhaps life has been like this forever and I just never noticed. I’m not sure, but I think that’s why climbing has been so therapeutic lately — for a few hours I get a clear indication of which direction is down.

It is possible, however, to overdo the vertical therapy. Yesterday I climbed Diagonal, a route that pushed me both mentally and physically. Probably a dozen times on pitch two I launched out on slopey holds above marginal gear, and yet somehow I stayed afloat. When I got home last night I basked in the warm caress of contentment. The challenge matched what I had to give. I couldn’t have asked for a better day.

Today I tried to recreate that feeling, to find that moment of bliss again, but instead of soaring I crashed. Only the grace (and belay skills) of a good friend kept me from adding the word burn to that sentence.

The route was The Lowe Down, a mixed line I’ve climbed before. I’d already run up Doubting Thomas, and though tired I figured The Lowe Down was worth a shot. It’s bolted through the hard parts, I figured, so what’s the harm?

I was climbing sloppy from the beginning, my feet skating, my tools popping, but I was too worked to realize it. Or maybe just I let my need for that content feeling supersede my apprehension. Either way, it didn’t start pretty. I got to a stance and slammed in a screw, and then at another stance a short distance away I put in another. I kept trying to shake out, but my hands weren’t coming back. “Come on,” I kept saying to myself, “you’ve got this.”

But I didn’t. I moved up a bit more to clip a rusty pin with a screamer and found a decent hook. I shifted sideways and pulled my feet up, drapping a tool over over an icicle, leaving it to hang. I leaned back on the tool in the crack to try to find a bit of rest.

I’m not sure if I heard the scraping as the pick exploded out of the crack, but I remember watching it happen. I also remember the RRRRRRRRRRRIP as the screamer activated. I yelled “TAKE!” reflexively as I sailed backwards. “Please hold, pin, please hold,” I thought as I fell.

It did hold. I came to a stop three feet above the ground, cradled by the rope as it ran dutifully through Paul’s belay device. I let out a laugh and swung my remaining ice tool into a shelf. “The pin’s good,” I said with a smile.

How do you know when it’s time to back off, when the fight you’re in isn’t the one you’re supposed to be in? How do you know when to stop, when to turn around, when to strike off in a new direction? When is it time to find a different route? In climbing I can usually tell. I’d like to think today was an anomaly. Unlike Mean Streak, where I fell because a hold broke, today I fell because of sloppy technique, fatigue, and because I didn’t bring what I needed to bring to the climb. In retrospect it’s clear why I fell, but in the moment I pushed upwards, blindly ignoring the obvious.

Am I doing the same thing in life, where even down is an unrecognizable direction? Am I heading blindly, sloppily towards an inevitable fall? Am I supposed to fight? Am I supposed to walk away? How will I know? Do I know already? Am I ignoring the answer sitting in front of me? I truly don’t know which direction is down. Which way would a fall take me? Which way does “pushing upward” lead? How many other directions are there? What does direction even mean?

I’m tumbling, and any movement risks the scraping of picks, the ripping of threads.

In life, however, there are no pins. There also is no ground. Soaring is a matter of perspective, falling a state of mind. Right now I am soaring one minute, falling the next. I am tumbling through agony and ecstasy. For now, I can keep tumbling without making a move. The falling is outpacing the soaring, and I can feel it slowly draining me, but for now I can hold on. I can keep tumbling and ignore the urge to yell, “TAKE!” For how long? I don’t know. The thought of yelling “TAKE,” the very opposite of the contentment I was searching for, pushed into my head today, but I was able to ignore the thought, to push it out. I was able to breathe and find my feet.

You can’t soar by striving to soar. You soar by paying attention, by practicing mindfulness and LAUNCHING when the timing is right. Yesterday I found that balance, and it blessed me. Today I tried to force it, but instead I learned a lesson: gravity is a rule that doesn’t bend.

But in climbing, like in life, a fall isn’t the end, it’s another chance to test yourself. It’s another chance to decide whether your direction is up or down, whether you fight or walk away. Today I opted for up. I climbed back to the pin and made a few moves, reaching the next piece, a bolt. Another few swings got me to a second bolt. From there I began working the crux. I fell again, but this time I didn’t yell, I didn’t think, “Please hold.” I didn’t think at all. I was committed, in the moment, going to the top no matter what. I yarded back up to the bolt, looked around, and fired the ice to the trees. I was worked and wasted, but I wasn’t beat. So long as I could hold my tools, I’ll never be beat.

How does that translate to life? The fact is, I’m not beat. I can still hold my tools. And I intend to keep holding them, to keep throwing myself at whatever comes, to continue climbing despite the consequences. I will find a way to soar. I’m falling too, but just like today, Paul (and Katie, and Brian, and many others) is there to catch me too. I will smile, shift my perspective, practice mindfulness and LAUNCH. I will risk the fall. There is no other way to climb. Or to live.

[Author’s Note: Special thanks to photographer Brian Threlkeld for his photos. He came out for today’s session and pulled out his camera just before I launched into flight. Thanks to him I can enjoy this lesson in perpetuity.]

Diagonal

Diagonal — the column in the middle of the photo.

Well shit. Today I climbed Diagonal, a route I have been lusting after for years, a line that has intimidated me since I learned its name. Damn it feels good. Not every SOG post can be profound. Tonight I’m just psyched, or perhaps content is a better word.

My partner Scott and I met in the Cathedral parking lot at 9 a.m. We figured there wasn’t likely going to be a line for a route like Diagonal, so we made it a leisurely morning. I brought the full kit, he brought a few extra screws, and we tromped our way into the base. Scott led the first section to the base of Toe Crack, but he stopped there, relinquishing the sharp end after the climbing turned to slab. I led a short pitch to the top of the block that access the Mordor Wall, and then I launched out onto the face.
Diagonal earned its name because it follows a right-trending dike through the blank slab. The dike is full of square features, but it’s basically devoid of cracks. In summer the climbing is exposed 5.4, but in winter when it’s snow-covered and the leader is wearing boots and crampons it feels more like M6. It is runout, insecure, exposed and terrifying. And it’s fantastic. I don’t want to venture a guess as to how long it took me to lead, but it was uphill rowing the whole way. Many of the holds are rounded. Getting your crampons to stick takes dedication. Plus the snow made finding the little gear there is extra-difficult.
But the hooks, however small, kept showing up. The little edges and pockets for my frontpoints kept appearing. I kept getting just enough gear not to turn around, and I kept moving higher.
Except, of course, for a couple places where there wasn’t enough gear. There I just had to punch it and watch the expanse below me grow. “Breathe,” I thought as I moved, remembering a blog post I’d read the night before. “Breathe, and find your feet.” Somehow when the gear stopped showing up the feet arrived. At one point I just went, forgetting about gear, laying back against the left side of the dike, pushing upward for a ledge in the distance without a thought of the fall. Those are the greatest moments.
The pitch ends right next to the column, and I couldn’t stop staring at it as I belayed Scott up. Compared to the terrain I’d just moved through the ice looked mellow, easy even. The sun baked the left side of the column all morning, and although we were now in the shade I was sure the ice would still be pliable.
Scott made it up to the anchor, caught his breath, took a swig of water and then put me on belay. I set out sideways across rotten ice bound for the steep, excited to be moving again. I clipped a quarter-inch bolt at the start of the real climbing and started up.
I have not been on much ice thus far this season, particularly vertical ice, so it took a bit to center myself once I sunk my picks. The ice, however, was just as I suspected — forgiving. I moved upwards a swing at a time, placing more screws than necessary but enough to stay comfortable. At the break I grabbed a no-hands rest, sunk another screw or two and launched for the apex. Every swing sunk with minimal effort, and I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. This too was what I was here for.
Above the vertical ice the flow sinks into the chimney, which makes for awkward but fun climbing. After a while the ice runs out, and the climbing turns into wrestling with small plants. That’s the sort of groveling I’m good at, so I went wild. I slung a little tree and kept pushing upward. I could taste the top. I was both elated and sad it was ending.
I got to the trees and put Scott on. It didn’t take him long to scurry up in my tracks. He reached the summit and flopped down onto the ground exhausted. I knew how he felt — we’d just finished one hell of a climb.
Not every day out is awesome. Sometimes (like on Mean Streak) everything does not go as planned. Today I didn’t have a plan, I just had an objective, and it kept coming at me until I stood atop it. Maybe that was the plan, but it certainly wasn’t mine. And it certainly made me smile.
Back at the car I had a victory dance waiting — a pair of Ale-8-One’s my wife brought back from Kentucky after her last Red River Gorge trip. We got to the car at 3:45 p.m., the light of the sun was starting to warm. I dropped my pack and pulled out the bottles. “Good send,” I said as I handed one to Scott.
“You too,” he said.
Fin.

What is a Climber?

What is a Climber?

What is a climber? Am I a climber? Are you?

There is a thread on NEIce.com right now asking how many climbers people think there are. In that question there is an inherent assumption about what it means to be a climber, and in the first few responses the discussion takes a hard left turn into who is really a climber. The back and forth got me thinking.

Am I a climber? I moved to North Conway a decade ago with no job, no clue how I was going to survive. I had led a handful of 5.9 rock climbs, but none of the classics on Cathedral. Grade 4 ice was within grasp, but I didn’t have a clue how to survive steep ice or mixed climb. I didn’t know how to aid climb, haul, bivy, belay off the anchor, belay a leader with a Grigri, sport climb, handjam, place a pin or do half the things I now take for granted.

But somehow I fell into a job at IME, the heart of all things climbing in the Mount Washington Valley, and began my introduction to climbing as a lifestyle choice. Since then I’ve climbed across the U.S., in Central America, South America and Europe. I’ve put up new rock climbs, new ice lines, new mixed routes, climbed alpine peaks, guided clients, soloed thousands of feet of ice in a day, onsighted 5.12 sport routes, climbed multipitch Yosemite 5.11s, fallen all over 5.13 projects, suffered my way up grade 6 ice and tied into a rope with some of the best people on this planet. So am I a climber?

A few months ago I would have said yes. I would have pegged my identity to my sport. I would have said, “I am a climber,” and my chest would have puffed out when I said it. Now I realize no, I am not a climber. I am a man. And by embracing that simple definition I climb harder.

What came with defining myself as a climber? Expectation, and through expectation I set myself up for failure. If I define myself as a 5.11 trad leader, does that mean I can lead every 5.11 trad route? What happens if I fall off a 5.10? If I call myself a grade 5 ice leader, what happens on the day I back off a grade 4? Easy — I feel disappointed. I feel like a failure. I feel like I can’t live up to my own expectations, like I am a fraud. By defining myself I set myself up for failure if I ever don’t meet that self-imposed definition.

This past May I climbed El Cap via The Nose. It was a 30th birthday present to myself. “I am a climber,” I thought, “so I should have climbed El Cap.” I had a fantastic partner and a wonderful trip, but I suffered through the climbing. The weight in my stomach only increased as we moved upwards. With every pitch my desire to be back on the ground grew. I wanted to have climbed El Cap, not to be climbing El Cap. I was climbing El Cap because I felt it was something a climber should do, not because it was the thing in that moment I wanted to be doing. My decade of climbing experience and dedication (plus an amazing partner) allowed me to reach the summit, but it was not me at my best. Why did I suffer my way through a sea of granite? Because in my mind, “a climber should have climbed El Cap.”

What happens when a climber gets injured, loses fitness or gets old? They stop climbing. They start making excuses for why they can’t do what they expect they should be able to do, what they have told their friends they can do. They stop having fun, and they stop climbing.

I have my reasons for climbing, and the truth is they aren’t about grades. They aren’t about summits, they are about the experience. They are about movement, friendship, connection and personal challenge. They are about personal growth. If I get injured it doesn’t matter, I can still find all those things in climbing. If I lose fitness it doesn’t matter, I can still find all those things in climbing. And when I get old I’ll still be able to find all those same things in climbing if I choose to.

Last year I injured tendons in both hands. I couldn’t climb at my normal level, so my projects fell by the wayside. Did I quit climbing? No. I picked up my nuts and hexes and tried to lead everything I could on only passive protection. I never climbed harder than 5.9, but I was still moving, still climbing with my best friends, still connecting and embracing the personal challenge climbing offers.

These reasons are not grade dependent, not experience dependent. A brand new leader can embrace movement too. A client getting guided can face personal challenge, which leads to personal growth. Any two partners can see the rope as a connection that does more than just arrest falls.

This is what climbing offers — a chance at growth, a chance to step outside the ordinary and embrace life. But when I considered myself a climber I stopped seeing this. I started to see climbing as something plain, regular, routine, just part of life. But it isn’t. Every step into new territory, every move above a bolt is a fantastic journey into the unknown. Nothing about it is ordinary. We are humans, men and women. We were built for flat ground. Every journey into the vertical is a space mission. Every new exploration is a window into our own souls. What holds us back? Can we face that fear? Can we meet that challenge? Can we do the impossible?

I do not call myself a climber because defining myself as such would set up boundaries, build walls. I am a man, that is all. Climbing is something I do, something I love, and yesterday I went climbing, but it does not define me. And by releasing myself from the definitions, from the expectations, I learn to float. Free of expectation I continue upward in spite of gravity, in spite of fear. Released from myself, from my own self-erected barriers, embracing the emptiness within, I float to the chains of The Mercy, to the chains of Baghdad. Releasing myself from myself got me up Standard without a rope. Shedding expectations, shedding definitions, lets us see what we can really do. I might go mixed climbing, or alpine climbing, or bouldering, or sport climbing, or aid climbing, but I will fight letting any or all of those activities define me.

And, if I can help it, nothing else will define me either. I might choose to ski, surf, write, paint, sing or love, but none of those things will change the fact that I am simply a man, a man in search of fear, in search of a shift in perspective, in search of a window into myself. Anything that will push me is welcome, so long as it gets me outside my comfort zone, outside the known. I will search everywhere I can for ways to launch. I will look without boundaries, both within myself and in the world, in search of whatever I can learn. Embrace the unknown. Grow. Launch above that screw, that bolt, that piece of gear, but realize it is only one way to reach outer space. There are others. Go find them.

SKYWALKER in Climberism

The new route Ryan, Michael and I put up in Huntington in early December is featured in the new issue of Climberism. Michael did the writeup.

I got out for another nice session alone at Frankenstein this morning. The wind was calm, the temperature was in the single digits, and the sun came up as I neared the top of Standard Route. A better start to a day (and a year) doesn’t exist. I made it to work just after 9 a.m. Perfect.
I’m working on a post about what it means “to be a climber,” based on a thread on NEIce.com, but that won’t be up until at least tonight. For now, if you want to read about climbing, check out Climberism.