Suffocating at Elevation

Going from 500 feet to 5000 feet is brutal on one's respiratory system. I felt like I could run a marathon from all of the harsh bushwhacking I did in Kentucky, but now that I find myself located at ten time the sea level as the Red River Gorge, I can't breathe. Hiking up to the Flatirons my first day here wasn't too bad, but climbing a long 5.4 pitch had me winded at about 100 feet off the deck.

Did I mention that I'm in Boulder, Colorado now? Probably not. But anyways, here I am in another public library, wondering when I'll start getting paychecks from the job that I don't have yet. Yeah, I need one.

About the Flatirons: When I arrived in Boulder late Sunday evening I met up with Eric Chastang. He insisted that we go free-solo an 800 ft route named Freeway (5.4). No ropes, no gear, just me and the void. I was a little apprehensive to say "yes." It sounded like a great way to pitch off a cliff to my death, but hey, at least if I died it'd be an interesting way to go. I'd be lying if the thought didn't keep me up at night for an hour or two.  The next day we went out and climbed it. At about 100 feet up I said to myself: "if I fall, I'll probably die. So, since it's safer to climb up, than down-climb, onward!" Did I mention I had to jump off a "diving board" from one cliff to another to get to the top? It was pretty bad-ass.

Freeway is located on the second fin from the right: the Second Flatiron, the least steep cliff

This is a commonly free-soloed route. Eric, in trying to convince me to do it, told me that he went from his car, up the cliff, and back to his car in 39 minutes. Sounds like he ran up the thing, huh? I need a few more days of acclimation to even think of doing trying to beat that time. I could barely catch my breath on the approach!

Anyways . . . mom, if you're reading this, you'll probably have a few more grey hairs to dye. Sorry.

If Only Atlas Had a Shop Crane

My brother has shared this band with me, and this song/video is easily embedded in my head.Watch it, then play it on repeat while you read this blog.

There is no skin on my hands; I have two holes on the finger tips of my left hand; two sprained ankles, which I tweak almost on a daily basis; two possible pulley injuries in each ring finger; tendon issues in my left forearm and both elbows. This is what a month of bouldering does. By now I'm ready to rope up again. I've done a few v5s again this season, but failed in my attempt to go beyond that. I've been in a climbing plateau for a year now. Let get out of it, shall we?

With a sting of nice weather bound for Kentucky, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to head that way soon. It has been a warm winter in the Southeast, and a poor season for bouldering. Too bad, but I'm still psyched on it, just not the fact that I deck so much and inevitably fuck up my ankle in the process.

Anyways. It's strange hearing people discuss climbing ethics, and better yet, talk about the supposed ethics that they themselves uphold. Because it seems that no one has a firm grasp on what should be considered ethical. All I've been able to conclude is that ethics in climbing are less about the climbing and more about the land that it takes to get to the climbing and the impact on the rock. Shit, there's already an ethic that pretty much blankets everything from chopping down trees below routes, placing bolts in the wall, and what-have-you: "Leave not trace."

Curious.

Forklifts for Sissyphus

It's raining again in North Carolina. The Bald is one of those places, however, that dries off in a matter of hours. The rock around here doesn't seep like they do back in Kentucky. Regardless, I'm indoors at the library, feeding my creative needs through this ill-kept blog.

The strange thing about this library is that people like to sit right next to me, instead of one computer space down. If this were a men's restroom, they'd be breaking all sorts of unspoken rules. Use the next urinal over, creeper.

In any case, as my general mediocre opinion of the climbing subsides and I'm once again psyched about the Gneiss climbing here, I have to take a rest day. Every day the problems here seem to throw a new twist into the general nature of bouldering that I once held in my mind. Delicate, and sometimes thuggish, problems are keen on punting me onto my ass. And it's unfortunate that sometimes the landings have arranged themselves in such a way that my tailbone lands squarely on a knife-blade edge of a bolder, and I limp away like I just had an inexperienced med-student roughly check my colon for cancer. Regardless, I'm really starting to enjoy the flat sloping blocks that sometimes appear on problems, but still have a respectable loathing for the horse-pens style slopers that grind the skin of your hands to mere dust.

Tomorrow I may be heading up to the Grandmother Boulders and Blowing Rock. But then it's scheduled to rain for two days. Sweet. Maybe an indoor gym session?

I've just finished reading Catch-22, and I'm beginning to think that may the phrase shouldn't be used by politicians, news pundits, or other public figures you can find by flipping on the television. I'm not sure why I think this, and if I were still in college, I would love to pawn off a paper on the matter as a senior thesis. But, alas, my days in the ivory tower are gone, confiscated by the immigration police known as real life experience and adventure.

Whatever the fuck that means.

1.21 Giggawatts

For a second time I've fucked up a foot while bouldering in Rumbling Bald, NC. I think of how it happened often, but it's really of no concern. It may have been my spotters fault, but it may have happened regardless. Maybe had he not thrown a crash pad beneath me as I fell (thus catching my foot, twisting it, and causing me to land awkwardly) I would have landed poorly and fucked it up worse. No ones fault, just an accident.

Rumbling Bald

Either way I'm out of commission for a bit. I can't turn my foot pinky-toe-down. But I can move it in other directions. I'll try climbing again in a few days, but if it doesn't go well I'll have to figure out what to do. In other news, I did find an old how-to rockclimb book authored by  Royal Robbins. In the final section of the book Robbins discusses ethics. Yes, climbing ethics! Fascinating, huh? Along with that book, I also found John Long' and  Jim Bridwell's autobiographies. Rad.

If there are peaks and valleys in one's climbing career, mine feels like it has been in a valley for a very long time, and I'm not sure how to get out of it aside from living under a hang/campus board 24/7. Maybe I should try that. I've been subject to dwindling motivation through the humid summer, one strange hand injury, a very badly sprained foot, and now another sprain. Every injury separated by a meek month of climbing. Not enough time to progress, just enough to realize I've plateaued a long time ago.

Bouldering is interesting enough and it's definitely forcing some thinking on my climbing style. Especially when I can muscle through a handful of V5s, but then get shot down on V2s left and right because I cannot finesse my way through the delicate moves.

Sport climbing is losing its flavor. I can't help but feel as though I'm in competition mode when I go to the crags to clip bolts. Or maybe its just because I'm around other people in general, not the actual sport. Maybe I should just do some trad climbing for a bit . . . but I need to climb with other people for that as well.

So, here I am, sitting in the Lake Lure Public Library, contemplating my next move. More bouldering, for sure, but what then? I need a job eventually, right? And though that I love the Red, I'm determined to never spend another summer there. 

Life.

One Year Later

It turns out that today, exactly one year ago, Chris Deck and I left his home in Buffalo, NY at 6am to make the Early Bird Special at Amy's Place diner. Promptly after finishing breakfast, we began out nine-hour trek to Slade, KY to climb in the Red River Gorge.

The following day I flailed up Losen Up (10b) at Global Village, pitched off from the anchor-clipping hold and took my first whip, probably totaling a mere ten feet. Chris did likewise shortly after. After some thought, I made a gumby decision and left one Omega Pacific quick-draw on the chains, and a bail-biner on the bolt below. I've never gotten them back, and I have never heard of anyone taking them (though I know they are both gone).

Filled with doubt about everything I planned on doing - dirt-bagging, road tripping - I hit a wall. I never felt that pang of fear before. The sensations of falling seem to overflow into all my thoughts of the pavement before me. Do I really want to keep traveling into other states, across the country? Holy fuck, what am I thinking. After some deliberation I decided to keep going at it.

A few days later I met Eric Chastang and Old Man Rob. They put me on Air Ride Equipte (11a), and I whipped a little - but mostly took on the rope, afraid to push myself. That's the same day I also met Ben Page and Dana Whistler. The following day I was at shady grove. That day I met Sarah Rhomberg, Melissa, Margret, Phil Purney, Sarah Purcell, Warren Hulsey. Talk about the right crew to know. They taught me everything I needed to know. That day at Shady Grove was when I became comfortable with falling. Now it barely phases me. I've progressed to sending a few 12a's, and it feels fantastic to push my limits.

I've come a long way in the last year. I'd like to think that since then I've left most of my gumby-ways in a ditch somewhere in the Gorge. I still have those moments where hours later I want to palm my face. But I've got some cool friends who'll laugh at it with me.

I met Al last year as well. Despite our (mostly mine) foolishness, we're still climbing together, and crushing. Thanks to Al, there are certain songs I can no longer listen to because they've been so over played in my car. Somewhere along the line I met 'Bama Joe and a whole slue of other locals - and people just passing through.

I spent my first season bouldering outdoors this past winter, and prior to then, I despised bouldering. Now I love it, all thanks to Bishop and Vegas. And I'll probably spend another season pebble wrestling.

My trad rack as doubled in size. I've taken a whip on my own gear and it felt like that first one I took a year ago.  I've never felt like I had to project a 5.9 hand-crack, but here I am, unable to send Africa at Tower Rock. Maybe next week.

Fact is kids, I'm an addict. And If I could do it all again, I'd just do it twice as slow to appreciate it twice as much a year later.

Impresive

Jacinda Hunter on Fantasy Island from Mike Call on Vimeo.

Hometown Crags

I tell people that Syracuse is a climbing dead-zone. The closest climbing is in a gym about and 1.5 hours west in Rochester. Outdoors? 3 hours to the Gunks, or 3.5 hours to the 'Daks. Is it any wonder why I don't want to be here?

While floating around Kentucky, I flipped through Eric Chastang's copy of Rock 'n Road. Surprisingly, there was a star right over Syracuse on the map of NY.

The question, "what could that be?" didn't pass through my mind at all. In fact, the only thing was "Oh no, that's going to be the quarry. I know it." I flipped to appropriate page.

Sure enough, that's exactly what it was. And I still have no idea what Tim Toula was thinking when he wrote Rock 'n Road. Maybe he also found that Syracuse, a small city in the heart of NY, was a climbing dead-zone. Maybe he too, noticed how it didn't even have a gym. And the climbers were desperate for anything.

Sadly, he also probably thought there was some gem-of-a-crag that the locals were keeping secret. Maybe a hidden Motherload, or Jailhouse (I sometimes like to think that this is still possible, but I know it's not likely).

Then Tim most likely went to work, hunted down the two folks mentioned in his book, Pete and Dave Wiezalis, found out about the quarry, got direction, beta. Everything. Maybe it even took Tim over a week to find that information, and when he found out that it was essentially choss, he just couldn't bare to let weeks of hard research go to waste and included it in the book.

Yup. It's in there. It give you directions to the ol' haunted quarry. And I still can't believe anyone would say to themselves, "lets climb this."

THIS is the "crag" at the quarry.

Maybe Pete and Dave were visionaries, thinking to themselves, "hey, remember the quarry where the munitions depot exploded? You know how a ton of people died and it was supposed to be haunted? Lets go climbing at night. Haunted climbing! It would be SICK."

Sounds like a good time to get scared by climbing, and by ghosts.

Did I fail to mention that? The quarry is haunted. It's a hang out for ghost hunters. Or just teenagers looking to party. The ground is littered with broken glass, the walls covered in racist graffiti, and smells like piss.

Maybe someday, if I'm ever back in Syracuse for the summer, and I need something to do, I'll find a partner and rack up and . . . no. Actually. I wont. I'll just do some pull-ups instead.