Goodbye

Four days is a long time. A lot can happen.

Four days ago Sgt. Brian Abrams was alive. Four days ago he hadn’t lost control of his motorcycle, he hadn’t crashed into a stone wall, he hadn’t hit his head on a rock. Four days ago he hadn’t needed an airlift to Maine Medical Center, where surgery did nothing to revive him. Four days ago his family didn’t have to decide whether to remove the machines that were keeping Brian alive. Four days ago Brian could breathe on his own. Four days ago Brian wasn’t dead.

Today he is dead. Brian died last night at approximately 4:50 p.m., surrounded by friends and family. I was at IME when I heard the news. I was also surrounded by friends. It did little to soften the blow, however. When I got home I wrote an email to a friend, not really with the intention of hearing back, but more as a journal entry shot into space. I wanted it to land somewhere green, somewhere vibrant and alive, where death doesn’t exist and sorrow, suffering and pain are just echoes. I reread that email today and realized it was more a note to myself than to anyone else. I though maybe it belonged here.

Hi. I need a few minutes to unwind. A friend, a local Fish and Game officer who I had regular contact with through the paper, got in a motorcycle crash over the weekend. He hit his head (he wasn’t wearing a helmet), and suffered a serious brain injury. He was airlifted to Maine Med, but he never woke up. His family turned off life support this evening. He had two daughters, seven and 10, and he was quite possibly the nicest man I ever met. I spent today reporting on the story, calling state officials trying to convince them to release a statement about my friend, then calling around to friends in the climbing/rescue community who had worked with him to get them to share their stories about Brian. I cried a dozen times at my desk today, thinking about the pain his family was going through and what it was going to be like for those two little girls. I skipped singing class and stopped at IME after work. The owner, Rick, was a close friend of Brian’s. While I was there Celia, Rick’s wife, got the call that they had pulled the plug. There were two other rescue team members there. We all cried.

It’s just been a long day. I want more than anything to just melt into the covers and cry. And, well, I can’t. So I’m groping for a little bit of connection.

In my heart I know Brian’s suffering is over, or at least moved beyond any form I recognize. His moment, his life, has passed. This pain in my heart is about me, about my fear, my uncertainty, my own feelings of loss. But there those feelings sit. I’m doing my best to be gentle with them, to not be mad at myself for getting so upset. I want to celebrate him and his life, but the sense of loss is like a wet cloth draped over my nose and mouth — it makes it hard to breathe. And I know my feelings of loss are illusory compared to those of his children and family.

I can’t stop thinking about a short story I heard several weeks ago about three kinds of death. First your body dies — that is one kind of death. Then the last person who ever knew you dies — that is another kind of death. Then there is the last time your name is ever spoken — that is a third kind of death. I don’t know why today made me think of that, but it’s been in my head all daIt’s all a dream. The impermanence, the meaning of plans and expectations, the interpretations of good and bad, right and wrong, it’s all just a crazy mess of electromagnetic pulses across gray matter that starves in minutes without oxygen. There is no up, no down, but our minds yearn for clarity and so they assign such markers. It’s madness, and in the end we all die anyway. The clarity we seek is just a game, an illusion, smoke.

I’ve stopped making sense. I guess today didn’t make sense, which makes sense because the world doesn’t make sense, no matter how hard we try to make sense of it. The only thing we have is the ability to connect, and even connection is impermanent, transient, fleeting. In this moment, tonight, I’m searching for connection, for someone to tell me I won’t die alone, that I am not alone in the vastness of the space. Because how do I know I’m not? Maybe everyone else is just part of a movie — players with a set script that rolls ever on with no notice of my contribution. Maybe I’m the only one without a copy, the only one with these thoughts, these fears. Maybe I am truly alone.

Either way I will die alone, even if it is among friends. That is a trip we can’t partner up for, which is terrifying. A few months ago I discovered a phrase, “I may die today,” that carried me through dark days. It served as a reminder not to be afraid, because life is not within our control. Carefully tiptoeing doesn’t change the fact that I STILL may die today. So live BOLDLY, without the weight of fear. Only I’m not sure how to do that, so I just act the way I think someone who knows how to do it would act. Maybe that way I can get there.

Life is a mess. Not mine, but life in general. It gets places through messing up, through killing off hearts and souls without rhyme or reason. I laugh at the way I used to look at it, trying to understand it all, judge it all, take it all in and make statements of fact like I had any idea. I don’t even know if I’m alive, or if I’m just caught in a dream in the moments before death. Who even knows? It’s all just a play, and the script is burning as it’s written.

Moments of connection are fleeting. Maybe they’re not even real. But when a friend dies you realize you never told them how inspired you were by their kindness, their gentle grace. I remember this same feeling when I learned my high school friend Bill Ballard was dead. At 18 he was the best man I’ve ever known, and I never told him. I’ll never live up to the ideal of telling everyone all the time how much they mean. If I did the words would lose their value, their meaning, their truth. But in this moment, in losing Brian, I realize how much love is out there, how much love is in my life, and how much love is in my heart. So much it fills me up, drowns me, knocks me off guard, confuses and leaves me breathless. I hope that never changes. I’m pretty sure it never will. Life’s beauty overwhelms me.

I haven’t got much else to say. In fact, I’m not really sure I said anything at all, or that what I said made any sense. I was/am just looking for a lantern in the fog, another marker along the way that promises warmth, light, life. They seem spread far apart some days, but I have to trust they are there, even on the nights I can’t see them. I try not to make sense of their blinking patterns and instead just let them be what they are. They float like fireflies in the night — too magical to hold in your hand for more than the briefest moment.

It’s just after midnight, and I have to work in the morning. I’m going to bed. Thanks for giving me a place to just unload. You are not expected to respond.

It was a lot to digest, but I thought it fit here. And you are already missed, Brian. Thank you for the smiles, the quiet honesty of your presence, and all the lessons. They are unfolding still.

Thin Places

At any point clarity and presence are but an arm’s length away. Our eyes may be closed to them, but they whisper from dark places, from anywhere where the weight of the unknown overwhelms the veil of a stable life. They sit just beyond the view, beckoning us to remember life is fleeting, not to waste a moment.

Clarity and presence, however, stay separate from us. They scream a few feet away, but that’s where they stay, almost out of earshot.

Except…

Except in certain sacred spaces where the veil turns translucent. In those places the border between clarity and life, between presence and the moment, stretches thin, from feet to inches to millimeters, until every hint, every whisper those words carry rings loud in your ear. In those places presence reigns, and clarity just is. They are no longer abstract concepts — they stare back, clear as a spring day after the rain, unwilling to look away.

Cathedral is one of my thin places. In winter, its Cave is my sanctuary, a space where truth is inescapable. It is a place where I can feel the pulse of Heaven, where in the mornings a lightness shines in that washes away fear and erases regret. In summer high on Recompense I can smell perfection on the breeze. If we got to pick where we died, I’d choose there.

Shagg Crag is another of my thin places. Even on the coldest days the rock remembers me and brings a warmth to my touch, a tenderness I can’t fathom. It welcomes me like an old friend, never worried how long I’m staying, always smiling when I visit.

I stopped there today for a while. When I got to the cliff I rested my hands on rough holds. I felt myself, my heart, pushing back from the other side. “Trust me,” it said. “You have everything you need.” The veil was like wet rice paper — so tender I could almost walk through it. I closed my eyes and let its moisture rinse over me. I let out a breath, and with it came my fear, my self-consciousness, my ego. I was naked and empty standing before the rock. I opened my eyes, still breathing slow and deep, and began to climb. I fell upwards, letting the lightness carry me. In thin places there is no falling, only floating. Only flying.

The List

Two months ago, while I was climbing in the RRG, I took a detour to visit a longtime friend who I hadn’t seen in years. The weather was crap, and it was a chance to check in on someone I’d lost touch with recently. She was going through several major transitions in her life, and at moments like those it is an incredible relief to just sit in the company of someone you know and trust.

We spent several days just hanging out and talking. Nothing transformational, so to speak, but the sort of conscientious conversation two people who have known each other through multiple life phases call “catching up.”

Today that friend sent me a something. “Doing some digital housekeeping,” she said, “I found this list I made after you left:”

Control
Death
Compassion, love, forgiveness
Present past future
Live in the vertical
Over thinking
Balance
Faith
Center
Follow heart
Path – sailboat
Perception
Right versus wrong

My own words staring back at me. Sometimes the most beautiful reminders come in subtle ways, through lots of experience and soul searching. Other times, however, they just pop into the inbox, marked “Unread.” What a beautiful way to begin today.

Barefoot Warrior

Throwing yourself at something completely, recklessly, with no thought of success and overflowing compassion and love is not limited to climbing. A friend of mine is a yoga instructor here in North Conway. She directed the same emotions, that same release of control, that I’ve poured into climbing into her yoga. I sat down and talked with her about it briefly this week. This was the result:

I love the idea of the Failure Project, but I also love the idea of the Passion Project — capturing the passions people launch into with no thought of hitting the ground. Surfing, art, music, yoga, running, cycling, dancing, skiing, auto racing, skydiving, sailing, cooking — they can all be launchpoints. Anything can all teach us what it means to be alive, so long as we have the ears to hear the lessons they offer. Thank you, Nichole, for sharing some of the lessons with me.

Trees

The last several weeks have been a busy blur, but I found something today too fitting for SOG to pass up. Others have said far better what I’m striving to say about life, climbing and adventure. This post is one of those.

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

– Hermann Hesse

Now that the ice has melted I’ve continued to climb without a rope. Nothing hard, but hard enough that I have to center myself, that I have to have faith where previously I had none. I’ve continued to search for trust within myself, to acknowledge I can never uncover my own true nature without reckless, total trust in its existance. “My strength is trust,” Hesse said. “I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.”

Amen.

Suck, With Passion

I’ve spent a lot of time outdoors hiking, climbing, skiing and mountaineering. I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail at 18, worked as a pro patroller on tele skis in my early 20s, spent months living out of my vehicle, guided clients on snow and ice and climbed rock on three continents. But I still suck at stuff, and I love it.

I suck at surfing. My first experience was in college when an economics professor who knew I skied asked if I wanted to learn. I was in a summer class he was teaching, and we would meet a few hours early and go to Scarborough Beach. He had an extra wetsuit and nine-foot surfboard he let me borrow. On the first day I couldn’t even sit on the board without tipping over. I spent the whole session trying to figure out how to balance so I could watch for waves coming in. I didn’t catch a thing. Surfing was so much different than skiing, so much different than climbing. It was completely new — I had no relatable experience to draw from — and I was not good. I’d taken up other things recently, road biking, for example, which I’d picked up two years before, but on my first day cycling I didn’t fall off my bike. Surfing was a wake up, but instead of getting discouraged by my failure I reveled in the feeling. Being so unfamiliar, so awkward, gave me the chance to forget myself, to forget my ego and self-image, and just concentrate on finding balance. It was freeing, a chance to be a child again. I loved it.

I still surf. I can stand up and even occasionally ride a wave today. I’m barely proficient, but I’m no longer falling off my board while sitting. There are other things, however, I still suck at royally.

I can’t dance. I’m the classic white kid, with no rhythm. I’m not sure how many people actually can dance, but I’m not one of them. I’ll occasionally get out on the dance floor (like this past September at my brother’s wedding), but not often. It’s something I’m bad at and embarrassed about, so I don’t do it.

It makes me sad and at the same time laugh when I think how often that happens: how often do we say “I’m bad at that so I don’t do it,” and therefore shut ourselves off from ever learning the thing we think we’re bad at. Embarrassment is a fear without risk, and yet it so often holds us captive. THAT should be embarrassing.

This winter I took a jazz dance class specifically because I wanted to grapple with my discomfort with the fact that I can’t dance. I sashayed around a Portland dance studio in yoga pants and bare feet, doing my best to move in time with the music and failing miserably. I was bad, really bad. I was awkward, uncoordinated and looked silly. There was nothing dancer-esque about me. I discovered (as I already knew) that I look 100 times more graceful ascending overhanging rock than gliding across a wooden floor.

But who cares? Just like in climbing, no one starts out ready for the stage. I cringe at the idea I might have backed off climbing because I was too embarrassed to ask someone how to place gear. It took me a decade of practice to move through vertical terrain with the ease and confidence I do today, and that decade is full of fantastic stories and memories. My failures were my opportunities for growth, my ignorance was my opportunity, and it still is. Embarrassment should play no part in it.

I intend to go back to dance class. Wednesday nights, 7 p.m. Thursday night is hip-hop. I want to try that too. Movement is movement, and learning is learning. Don’t ever be too good, or too embarrassed, to try something new.

In that vein, I’m trying to learn to play Rubin and Cherise on the guitar, another passion I’ve poured less time into than climbing. Unfortunately I’m embarrassed by my lack of proficiency, which in this paradigm means I should put it out to the world and dispel the tension within myself. There is no risk in embarrassment. There is only the risk of not trying. So…

Here is what I’m shooting for:

And here’s where I’m at:

And let’s not get into my singing, that’s way too embarrassing…

I’m doing my best to be willing to suck. To do otherwise would be to endorse holding myself back. So instead I’m doing my best to be willing to do that which I don’t know how to do. It isn’t easy, but unlike soloing rock or ice there is no risk. What would failure mean? Nothing. There are no consequences. The only risk is to my ego. Failure is a chance to try again.

Never stop trying. Never be afraid of being embarrassed. Embarrassment is just another hindrance to life, that precious moment you lose the instant you spend it and never get a second shot at.

A Moment Forever

Yesterday I cut out of work for an extended lunch to meet my friend Majka for a two hour session at Humphrey’s Ledge. We got four pitches in, and it was so nice I got sunburned. When we finished I went back to work, but when 5 p.m. came I found myself driving back across the Saco River, this time aimed for Cathedral. I coud see from the parking lot much of the cliff was wet, but not everything. I changed back into my climbing clothes, pulled on flip-flops (perfect for Cathedral approaches), and scurried to the base of Funhouse, the classic 5.7. Dry.

As I’ve said before, I do not have much experience soloing. Before this winter I’d never climbed anything harder than Pinnacle Gully without a rope. On rock my only solo was Pinnacle Buttress, which I have always felt has enough ledges to mitigate the risk. Yesterday, however, I chose once again to lean into the discomfort of being ropeless. I wanted to clear my mind and move upward deliberately, something clouded by a harness, belay and gear. I got to the base of Funhouse, tied my rock shoes, opened my chalk bag and sat. I closed my eyes, rested my hands on my knees and breathed deep. With every exhale I pushed the thoughts from my mind, clearing myself, searching for the moment I was living, that moment, the one that lasts for eternity and yet we are so seldom aware of. As I sat my heart rate slowed, by breath became calm. I opened my eyes, stood and began climbing.

I didn’t move fast. I was methodical, taking my time, letting the movement flow naturally, letting the moment carry me. More than once when I felt my mind speeding up, my thoughts racing, I stopped, closed my eyes and went back inside, searching for myself, my trust, my strength and my conviction. I was going up. Everything was OK. This was life — LIFE. Death wouldn’t disappear if I chose to stay on the ground, chose to ignore risk. If that was the path I chose death would still find me, it would just find me withered, spent. That is not for me. I choose to meet it ALIVE. I kept going up.

I was alone when I reached the top, an experience I’ve never had on Cathedral. I smiled, turned around so I was facing the valley below and sat down. I softened my eyes and took a breath. The moment was there, sitting next to me, caressing me. I was ALIVE, and I knew it. It wasn’t alive in a “I just braved death” sort of way, but in an “O Capitan, My Capitan” sort of way, in a moment of presence sort of way. I stared out, breathing even and deep, the heat of my exertion washing over me. Alive, and free. Alive and free.

The Fear That Isn’t Mine

A life well lived includes risk. It includes lessons and failures, dangers and setbacks. It is those moments, I believe, where people can rise, launch, and shine. Such a life includes fear, but fear is just another emotion, passing over us like cloud shadows on the earth. Fear is often tied to our decisions, something we accept and embrace or reject and walk away from. But not always.

About six years ago my best friend since I was five, the man who introduced me to climbing, went to Iraq. I don’t remember how or when I learned Bryan was being deployed, but the news spawned a weight in my stomach, my heart and my soul reeking of blackness and tar. I had no control, and I knew it. There were people there intent on hunting him, on doing whatever they could to kill him, and I could do nothing to protect him. I loved him, but there was nothing I could do to keep him safe. Life was about to come at Bryan full speed, and I was powerless to help. My only choice was to trust he was ready to meet the unknown, no matter what that meant. I sent him a package with everything I could think of that he might need, but otherwise I was left waiting. I sat was a feeling I’m not sure my brian will let me ever fully remember, but one I also won’t ever forget.

I am reminded of that feeling, however, every spring and every fall — every time it’s climbing season in the big mountains. Bryan completed his tour and now lives in Texas with his wife and children. Today expeditions, not deployments, revive that weight. When my best friends leave for Alaska, Patagonia, Pakistan and Nepal, the blackness, the fear, returns. The love and the loss of control I felt when my best friend put himself squarely in harm’s way comes rushing back, renewed, fresh and alive. It’s something I’m not sure I truly acknowledge until its over, until the moment has past, but until everyone is out of the mountains I’m not sure air ever reaches the depths of my lungs.

As I said yesterday, Michael, Bayard and Elliot are out. They were in Alaska to climb Mount Deborah, but now they aren’t. Since they got back I’ve texted with Elliot and talked to both Michael and Bayard. I told them how happy I am they returned safe, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get across in words how it feels to have them home. I love them. They are astronauts, best friends. I want them safe always. I want them in my life always. But I don’t get that, no matter what I do. Nothing and no one is static. Life overtakes us all, even those willing to step into its depths and scream into the blackness. Bryan, Bayard, Michael and Elliot will all scream until they are horse, until all they have left are whispers. I would never ask them to do otherwise. My fear, my feelings of loss of control, is not worth them stepping back from the brink, not worth backing down from Iraq, Alaska, Patagonia. That drive, that passion, which at times may border on recklessness, is what makes them spectacular, what makes them astronauts. Death is a side effect to life, unfortunate but unavoidable, a possibility in all things. Sitting at home isn’t safe, and even if it were I wouldn’t wish it upon these people. They stepped into life intent to live it at full speed, and it is that passion that endears them to me. That reckless beauty is what makes them exceptional. I, in turn, have to release them to love them. I must give up control, take pleasure in the risk of loss their friendship allows. I don’t get to keep them anyway. They aren’t mine to lose.

In a community like mine there is always someone “in country.” It’s a risk of surrounding yourself with passionate people, particularly with a passion that has real consequences. The weight never fully goes away — when Bayard is home, Freddie is gone. Or Peter. Or Silas. Or Kevin. Or Jimmy. And, if I think about it, I guess I wouldn’t want the weight to disappear. That would mean a life without risk, a life without passion, a life without life. That is no way to live.

But it sure is nice to have a few spaceshuttles back on the ground, a few more astronauts back on Earth. Breathe the fresh air, my friends. I will join you, but I won’t breathe too deep — a few others are still in orbit. I look forward to hearing they’ve come home too.

The Failure Project

I woke this morning gripped by an idea. It seared its way into my mind and wouldn’t let go. It had me enough at 6 a.m. that I had to get up, put clothes on, go outside and say it into the camera. Maybe that was enough to push it forward, to catapult it into action. I’m not sure. But here it is:

I’ve fallen a lot in climbing. In life too. SOG is a place to be honest about those experiences. I can only reflect on my own life, the conversation within my own head, but there are so many more perspectives out there. Does everyone struggles with “the tyranny of success,” the spectre of failure? They must, I imagine, because even amidst our uniqueness we are all the same. I want to hear what others think. Time to pull out the camera and microphone.

M.W. prior to a “successful” trip.

On a separate but related note, yesterday three friends—Bayard, Michael and Elliot—returned home from Alaska. They were there for three weeks to attempt an unclimbed face on Mount Deborah. Temperatures hovered around 40 below zero, however, so they never made it on their objective. When I heard they were home, though, I didn’t care about “success” versus “failure,” I was just happy they were safe. For the entire time they were in Alaska their vissages hid in the back of my mind. I’m not sure I ever acknowledged it, but when I saw on Facebook that they were home a weight dropped from my shoulders and my heart. For a brief moment I was able to relax—one of the teams I care about had left the shooting gallery. Success? Failure? All I cared was they were alive.

Welcome home guys.

Last Days

I can’t imagine I’ll be getting out for anymore days on ice after today, but considering how good todays was I don’t really care. At about 9:30 a.m. this morning I decided to go see if Cloudwalker was in up in Huntington Ravine. I figured it was worth a solo attempt since it doesn’t really take screws anyway. I didn’t get up to Pinkham Notch until 11 a.m. or so, so I trucked up the trail as fast as I could. I got to the base of Cloudwalker around noon, nowhere near in time to climb it. There were remnants up high, but it looked like rain decimated it several days ago. So I shifted to Plan B — solo Pinnacle and Damnation. I was right at Pinnacle, so I hopped on that first, then I trucked over to Diagonal, downclimbed that, and went up Damnation. I had planned to head out via Lion’s Head, but the wind was bad enough I opted to climb down Central rather than cross the Alpine Garden. I hustled down the trail and got back to my car at Pinkham just before 4 p.m. It was a beautiful day, nice enough for my face to get sunburned. I saw only a handful of people in the ravine — one party on Pinnacle, one on Damnation, and then two skiers heading up Central. I know lots of people are thinking rock climbing (as am I), but when days like this arrive they aren’t for passing up.

I shot some video of the day, which I pulled together here:

Also, I got a pretty good shot of one pair of the four guys climbing Damnation. It was great to run into you guys! Hopefully we’ll catch up again.

Other than that, I think this officially marks the last hurrah of ice for me. I got in a few thousand feet today. It’s going to have to last me through next fall, at which point I’ll be gunning for the Black Dike as soon as it’s cold for three nights in a row. Until then.

ErikEisele.com

Author: erikeisele