CONDOR & THE WINGS OF ANOTHER DAY

A.M:

Before a climb, especially before a Redpoint attempt, I get curiously nervous. Today is no different.

I awake w/ a knot in my stomach the size & weight of a wedding ring. It sits unflinchingly in my gut like something dead. I don’t feel like eating. Nothing sounds palletable enuf for the energy it is going to require to prepare something this early in the mourning. It is 4 am. Sloggishly, I throw my feet over the edge of the bed & onto the floor. I turn slightly & stare at Haggle still fast sleeping in reverence & perfection. Her demeanor is what I wish upon myself, but I know that is as much as an impossibility as meeting my deadline for Project 31: it just won’t happen. I give a little sigh, arise, grab my robe, & wobblingly march to the porch for a cigarette.

The air is cool. Much cooler then it has been. It is comfortably cold. My eyes are heavy & pull down…open…down. My head bobbing about as if on a broken spindle. I begin to remember a particular night in rehab, sitting out by the pool, much later then I was allowed to be out of my room, sitting in shadows, unseen; It was comfortably cold that night as well, much like this mourning, when a familiar voice breaks my train of reverie. 

Ferguson Canyon, Condor 5.12a

“Condor? I’ve climbed that. Fun route, but I wouldn’t really call it a .12” I know the voice, but can’t put a name to it. This voice had said this earlier in the week while I was at the gym. Well, I had said, smirking a little at what I truly wanted to say, it is a .12 in the guide, so I’ll take it.

I speculate as to why this statement was bothering me so much. Was it as simple as the annoyance of un-wanted beta spewing? Could I chalk it up that perhaps, somewhere w/in me, I agreed & didn’t want to yield to that disheartening possible fact? Or was it something else?

W/ my cigarette smoldering between index & middle, an awareness flashes before me, not so un-like all the sententious cognitions of the past whilst writing poetry, painting, high on lines & lines of Cocaine & rivers of Booze w/ one difference: this was a shot-blast of clairty. An awakening of the senses.

This statement wasn’t bothering me for any of the reasons I initially thought (patience should be practiced by listening to anyone’s beta, what if it wasn’t a .12, or even, a soft .12? So what. Who cares?), it has its barbs in me because I am afraid of failure. This, it occurrs, is also the cause of my nervousness. Not because the route(s) is too hard for me, but because I’ve yet to learn to master the reality & art of failure. I don’t want to fail…soberly.

I snub out my cigarette, stand up & give a good yawning stretch.

The lump in my stomach has dwindled to a pebble. I figure that the only way to learn & grow, is to accept failure for what it is, & what it is, is everyday. It is as much of ourselves as success. It is, in fact, the machine that lays the groundwork for our future successes & who we will be at any given Present.

If addiction is a disease, so is the innability to accept failure proudly…


P.M: 

The Great Salt Lake, view from Ferguson Canyon

The sky is ignited into a glowing stretch of magenta devilry: Fingers aflame by the descent of the sun. Dusk is upon us. The brilliance of the colours create a hushed pastoral; we are driving home from Ferguson canyon in a comfortable silence. Haggle, tired from a hard day at work, exhausted by hunger, languidly stares out the window. As for myself, well, something else is bothering me, & as I navigate the vehicle onto 2-15, I struggle w/ what that something actually is.

The excitement of the day, the build up of the possibility of another Redpoint success for Project 31 (Condor, 5.12a) quickly gave way to a tickle of a worry as we pulled into the parking area for Ferguson Canyon hours earlier. All the parking stalls were full. Haggle looked at me as we managed to park & jokingly asked, ‘it’s a Wensday afternoon, right? Jesus!’

Mark was there already, waiting for our arrival. ‘We might not be able to get on the climbs we came here to do,’ he said. Staying optimistic, I responded by saying I have never seen anyone on the routes we came to do, & that I thought we would be just fine. I was wrong.

Hiking into Ferguson Canyon

The hike in was as pleasant as always. It is enough of an approach to get your heart rate up, but pretty enuf to make you forget about it. As we drew closer & closer to The Watchtowers, it audibly became apparent we would be sharing the area w/ quite a few climbers. As we arrived, the apparent of the situation solidified itself. Climbers littered the area. Most of whom were much too rowdy in the noise pollution arena then any one of us enjoyed. Also becoming apparent was the lack of prowess most of these climbers possessed. A feeling of imminent disaster washed over me. Almost as a precursor or psychic sign, we had to step over & then under a rope belonging to the first group we came upon, like entering a gate into a hellish, mistake ridden realm. There was a guy, scraggled beard & all, guitar in his lap, eying us suspiciously as we past, making sure we didn’t step on their life line, as if it were our fault their gear had exploded all over the middle of the trail. From then on it only got more & more foreboding & more & more noisy. A group above us, hooting & hollering, constantly let fly rocks down the steep trail, at one point one bouncing & hopping down only to slam into a dog resting near her masters. She learned quickly & painfully & sought out shelter underneath some brush. The group climbing next to us, obviously new to the game, dropped one of their climbers a good 15-20 ft while lowering, their saving grace was the grigri auto locking when the belayer didn’t know what to do & let go of the device. It would have been much worse had she been using an ATC. Far too often had Mark, Haggle, & I been present at certain crags (most oft times being anywhere low in Big Cottonwood) where climbers w/ little know how practiced their craft of nearly dropping someone, tieing their knots wrongly, figuring out the belays for the first time. Like the time we all were up for a quick climb at The Challenge Buttress climbing next to a man & woman, the woman belaying, the man leading. Finishing the climb, the man yelled, “Ok, you got me?” “I don’t know,” responded the woman. Mark & I looked over at her. Around her feet coiled a tangled mess of rope. My sight went from the coil on up to her belay device. The man hadn’t been on belay the entire climb! ‘Jesus,’ Mark said, ‘Lewi, help her out! Now!’ I ran over to the woman, Yelled up to her partner, do not lean back! You are NOT on belay! I unhooked her belay device, re-threaded the rope & clipped it back onto her harness, where I belayed off her from behind, teaching her how as we lowered the man down. Something he should have done before taking her to the crag. The man’s hubris was appalling to us. He thanked us as if nothing out of the norm had happened, packed up their rope, & sauntered off. Such people are destined for Darwin’s demise. Today had that same feel of foreboding imminence.

Lewis 3/4 of the way up Grommet 5.11-

Right off we could see that the two routes (Uncensored Society, 5.10a & Condor, 5.12a – they share anchors) that we had come to do were taken. There were draws on the first route, & the group was ‘climbing’ Condor, altho it was evident they couldn’t do but one, maybe two moves at a time. They spent time swinging back & forth, laughing, obviously oblivious to anyone but themselves. I knew this would make Mark angry, sensitive he is to such callous insensitivity. What is this route? I asked quickly, attempting to distract his acrimonious glower, pointing to a line right in front of us, already unpacking the rope. Let’s do it. It was the first route we came upon. I didn’t want to waste day light scouting for other routes. 

Lewis leading Grommet 5.11-

Grommet, 5.11- & Total Ramon, 5.11c, were the lines we ended up doing. It wasn’t ideal by far, so high were my hopes for leading Condor, but I tried, over & over, to tell myself, it is what it is. Take advantage of it!. Grommet, a cool line, w/ a great crux was a fun lead. I ended up taking a few times due to my natural fears I have a hard time controlling. I ended up redpointing it, which made me feel a little better. Mark, at the anchors of Grommet, traversed right to reach the Anchors of Total Ramon so we could TR it. No amount of prodding could instill desire in me enuf to lead the R (should be X) rated route. Haggle, who climbed it twice, TR’ed it beautifully. Mark stated it perfectly: ‘while we monkeyed up it, Haggle climbed it.’ & it was true. She climbed w/ the flow of herself. It made me proud to watch her elegant movements, & her deciphering of the crux - bouldery moves which proved too difficult for Mark or me to piece together correctly. While she watered over & thru the crux, I struggled. Finally, while gripping crimps & thinking desperately, I asked for a little slack in the rope, steadied myself & launched into a dyno. Sticking it, I effectively bypassed the section she so easily & beautifully climbed. 

Haggle flowing up Total Ramon 5.11c

In a sense, I think as we pull into our driveway, the night was a failure. In another, it was the complete opposite. I have a decision to make. Let a failure completely out of my control bring me down, or rise to it, & take it for what it is & learn from it? & what did I learn, I ask myself? 

Lewis sticking a dyno on Total Ramon 5.11c

That by being open to all possibilities, to any & all out comes, you are sure never to miss the importance of every second, every minute. Each moment can become an eternal moment in our finite lives never to be forgotten. Condor, or any of my other projects, will be there tomorrow, & the next & the next. Watching Haggle or Mark climb a specific route in a specific time, however, will not be, unless I choose the eternal nature of the present in the present.

Maple Sings

Haggle & Lewis - Camp 5, Maple Canyon

Exhaustion steals thru my body like a criminal blatantly criss-crossing store to store in broad day light. As the small fire grows, the light of the day diminishes. This is the exact definition of dusk, I think to myself. Maple Canyon has a distinct echo. It plays tricks on you; each echo seems to be right next to wherever you are. The lengthening shadows of the night makes this trickery more tangible, more authentic. I light a cigarette & listen to the other campers & climbers settling in for the night. Either preparing dinner, readying themselves for a small party, or simply chatting, laughing. 

Right Fork - Maple Canyon

The one constant, regardless of the different on-goings of all the different individuals sharing this canyon tonight, we are glad for one thing: we are out, allocating time in Maple. Tonight is our fourth night, Haggle’s & mine. The lassitude of my body has made me sharp. My senses are tense & listening. Haggle walks about the camp in what seems a happy stupor: a zombie gorged on the flesh of exercise, nature, & climbing to one’s limit & beyond. We had traveled down here for a specific reason: to complete 24 pitches for Haggle’s 24^th birthday, in a day. It is Monday, June 11^th, 2012. Only about ½ hour ago we staggered back into camp, after 10 hours of straight climbing, w/ that specific reason now a realization. We did it. Haggle leading & onsighting all but 6 of the 24 routes. We are tired. Extremely content at accomplishing such a hard (for us) task. Niether of us hithertofore had ever done such a thing. Now we had. Yet that wasn’t the only summit point of gratification of the trip. Sitting around the fire, too tired for much conversation, it is hard not to ruminate, ponder. There is something about being fatigued that I believe brings out the philosopher in us all, & being a ponderer by nature anyway, it becomes doubly so for me. In my chair, I begin to doze off, yet I am so far away from anything resembling sleep…

FRIDAY 6/8/12

Maple Canyon, seen from the top of The Great Chasm, 5.7

We transitioned from the asphalt to the dirt road that winds up & thru the canyon. Two months of planning & waiting; we had arrived. Haggle reached over, patted my leg & then shot her hand over to the radio knob, turning it off & rolling down the window. ‘We’re home,’ she said w/ a giggle. Indeed, I was thinking the same thing. Pulling into a canyon, any canyon, has a sense of home, excitement. But Pulling into Maple, for whatever reason, for me, has always had a redoubled sense of ‘coming’ home. I have no reason for this feeling. Certainly I have spent far more time in others, but Maple Canyon… well, it’s home.

We quickly found our campsite, parked & exited the vehicle. The weather was warm, tepid really. Perfection seemed to be rearing its head at us in an exalted salutation. As we finished unpacking, our campsite fitting our ‘this is our home MO’ as of late, satisfyingly, we racked & packed our packs, intent on getting a few climbs in before the sun went down. Niether of us had climbed in the Pipeline. We warmed up on Poop Chute, an easy 5.10d & then, leaving the draws on the anchors, scooted left to Waterworks, an even easier 5.11a before our stomachs began to rumble & protest. Walking back to camp in the coming dusk, wondering who (for we had made plans w/ friends to meet up w/ us & share our site) would be the first to show up…

Lewis - Rappelling the 3rd pitch of The Great Chasm

…The stare & glare of the fire has me in a trance. Holds me fixed, if not fixated, on the last few hours & beyond; the entire trip seems to play before & in me in a crisp & clear footage. The sound track of the documentary audibly accosts me in snippets & arcs: Mark yelling up to me while reaching the end of the rope during rappel, while I stand there during our multi pitch, summit climb (first ever successful attempt together), 60 meters up tied into anchors, how the rope isn’t long enough, & he’s not sure what to do. Me, waiting for Haggle to finish the fourth to last rap of the day on The Red Dog Wall, saying we need to change plans & crags, lest we be eaten alive by the awakening mosquitoes. Lyle constantly prophesying how drunk &/or tipsy he is. All this is alive cleanly & clearly, pounding between my tired ears. A smile creeps on my face, one of which I am barely aware of. ‘What are you smiling at, Stinky?’ Haggle asks me. I sigh, flick my cigarette into the fire & say, nothing. Everything. What a great trip…

SATURDAY 6/9/12

We awoke fresh. Brimming w/ excitement w/ caged-like energy, we quickly brewed coffee & waited for the others to wake up (The night previous, friends Lyle, Tami, &  strong climbers, Matt Garvin & Katie showed up – we were still waiting for my brother, Mark, & good friend, Pia to show).We slung our packs over our shoulders & made off, intending to warm up on the Engagement Alcove…

Lewis updating the 'pitch book'

As Haggle tiredly prepares dinner (too fatigued to prepare anything fancy tonight – a hearty steak & potatoes) I am writing, updating the ‘pitch book’. Memory serves me well & as I list which climbs we completed (giving no care to Onsights or Redpoints – altho I make a note of which ones, & who, redpoints & onsights what – the list is simply for Haggle & me, to record how many pitches completed in any style in the 2012 season). This trip has turned out to be a productive one. 38 routes in all. Saturday was filled w/ a relaxed nature. 

Pia - providing the comedy & music

No goals, no expectations, nothing but the fluid style of having fun, connecting w/ the canyon, friends, & ourselves.  We worked mostly the Pipeline, all 11’s & up. Fourth route of the day was Honey Bucket, 5.12a. After Matt Garvin led it beautifully (I graciously thank him for hanging the draws), his wife, Katie, gave it a strong go, using her own beta to complete the fun, intensive line; it was my turn to attempt a lead. W/ no thought of Project 31 in mind, as far off into my mind’s horizon as it had been in a long time, I tied in, saying, let’s see if I can struggle up this thing. Matt turned to me & said w/ a crooked smile, ‘you’ll flash it, man.’ I laughed. Never before have I been able to flash a .12. The climbing was fluid; move after short move (Katie’s beta seemed to make more sense to me. I tried w/out thinking, to mimic her style), higher & higher, & before I knew it, I was clipping the anchors. It didn’t really occur to me that I had just Flashed a 5.12 until Haggle lowered me to the deck, & was thus, one climb closer to accomplishing my 31 goal. No euphoric feeling flooded my existence, as it did when I Redpointed The Blight. I contribute this to the fact that my entire being was already steeped like strong tea in euphoria. Being w/ Haggle on her birthday, being in Maple, & doing what a whole lot of us forget all too often: climbing to climb. Too often do we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the End, usually blanketed in trite ethical rules, (which in my mind usually has nothing to do w/ the actual meaning & word, ‘Ethical’), forgetting & pushing aside the Means.

Mark - 2nd belay station, The Great Chasm

As I put down my book & throw one of our last remaining logs onto the fire, I realize that myself, & all those that I climb w/, share something: Altho goals are important – they create drive, strengthen Wills – they are not The Purpose. We are not ‘Summiteers’, but rather, ‘Mountaineers’ (Flashing Honey Bucket, to be sure, was great, but pales in comparison to what Mark, my brother, said to me after an ordeal we had on Sunday during the descent of a 5.8 multi-pitch route. ‘Thanks for keeping me safe’.). The Experience itself shines in our lives as a great, & soulful beacon. & I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Haggle is slipping into the tent for a good night’s rest. She has earned it. She deserves it. I stand up & scrape at the fire w/ a small shovel. I am excited to lay down next to her; joining her in the Elysian fields of dreams. As I cover the last of the smoldering ashes, I catch myself thinking of tomorrow. The packing up, the returning to ‘normal’ life, but I arrest my introspective ruminations of the inevitable. For what good is NOW if you worry only about tomorrow? & it hits me: I can only practice & live in the Zenetopia if I am connected to it every single moment. Address it for what it is, now, not later, & keep myself liberated from the chains that are linked together by ‘human intellectuality’. I let it go & walk slowly to the tent. Taking in all the smells, all the noises, that seem to be much sharper then they were just an hour ago.

Temporarily licked by an Eternal Tongue

The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali, 1931

I am buried beneath a heavy avalanche of numbers: I am 30 years old w/ a project of 31 (now 30) 5.12 redpoint climbs before I turn 31 on September 6th, 2012. That deadline is on a one-way fast track, barreling toward its infinite finality. It will be here in 112 total days. Which divides into 16 weeks & 16 weekends; I have just 2,688 hours left, which breaks down into 161,280 minutes or 9,676,800 seconds. In short, I have 31% of my season left to realize the short-ordered dead-line I have set for myself.

There are three possible indisputable facts that I must now consider seriously: 1) I have underestimated the difficulty & doability (for me) of this project. 2) I have grossly overestimated my abilities. 3) The deadline has now reached a critical mass of limited possibility. As of now, all three of these, I feel, must be honestly looked at, mulled over & considered. But it is the 3rd one which interests me most on this rainy depressing mourning.

I have 16 weekend days left (Saturdays & Sundays). In order for me to see the Project completed by said deadline I would have to do no less then get a 5.12 redpoint every 322,560 seconds, or one every 5,376 minutes. I would need to get an RP every 89.6 hours. Not considering personal commitments, work, sickness, rest days, not thinking of all those little things that life slips into your pockets that make you grind your teeth just a little, I would need to get a RP every 3.7 days. Considering the trouble I have been having, despite getting the rope up every climb I attempt, the fact remains that I am screwing up on all of my redpoint attempts, w/ the exception of one, which took 12 attempts in all. I believe it would be fool-hearty, disingenuous to say meeting this deadline is still a very real possibility. & now, underneath the weight of infallible numbers, consideration of a reality not much cared for, has become my reality & my consideration. Isn't this, this torturous condition, part of the project? Hasn't it been from its inception? Isn't the idea of failure made real part of the path? The voice locks into my mind, biting down. It isn't my voice, yet...it is. There is something familiar to it. It's tone. It's vernacular. But I still feel myself fighting against it. The idea of failure made real...the path...

In my short 30 years on this earth (12 of which exist in a hazy Dream of memory bathed in rivers of golden honeyed addiction – all but lost) I have learned much. One of which being we are not entirely in control of everything (altho I am a firm believer of those things we do not control still falls squarely upon the shoulders of the individual's responsibility: 'I could have trained more. Eaten better. I could have been more focused, determined, I could have given more of myself'...but for what price?) & that it is a futile practice to lament & scourge oneself over the fact that not everything is w/in the manipulation of our dexterous fingers. It is good to have this knowledge, to know it, but to accept it is something else entirely. I ask myself, what are you willing or able to accept? To which I have no utterance of an answer...

...After a rare, mid-day nap, awaking to the drum & thrum of thunder & the pour of rain – melancholy hanging in the air like strategically placed décor, the same questions hover above my person, a thick curtain of concentration & indecisiveness: Do I admit defeat & scrap the deadline? Or do I continue on my current path, knowing all the while that such as the deadline is, is an impossible at-this-point goal? As my options snake into my being, I sigh. Silence quilts around me chokingly; it is the only answer that comes.

Getting over the Hill & see... there will come a time...

Lewis, working the routes in American Fork

Jesus christ. I am staring at the computer screen in disbelief…almost. Something, somewhere deep down, is telling me that I had expected something was wrong. ‘When do you ever send a route in 2 attempts?’ It is asking. I am grumbling. I check & re-check the picture that is on the screen. As I get up, I suddenly don’t feel like climbing today. Rather, sleep sounds like a much better option. I walk out of the writing room & into the adjacent one. I can hear Haggle getting out of bed. The familiar sounds of clinking glasses & cupboards opening & shutting seem theatrically & comically loud. She is getting coffee. I grab my American Fork Guide & return to my desk, sitting back down in front of the computer. That picture is staring at me. I sense it smiling. Laughing. I flip the guide to the appropriate page. Check it against the displayed photograph w/ lines drawn in to show the particular routes. Check & re-check again. Between the two of them, there isn’t an agreement. This upsets me. This pisses me off. It’s your fault, I tell myself. I decide not to get too up-in-arms over anything until I check w/ Haggle… I grab the guide, marking the page that I have so quickly come to hate, & walk upstairs to tell her what I think I have found…

Isolation Wall topo, 1. Siberia 5.12c/d,
2. Isolation 5.12b/c, 3. Wilderness 5.12a/b, 4. Unknown
Photo by John Ross

...I am sitting here now - almost two days after I found out that the route I red-pointed on 4/22/12, thinking it was Wilderness, 5.12a/b, was, in-fact, not Wilderness at all, but an 'Unknown' route that isn't in the AF guide; altho the route was fun, I would say it is nothing more then .11b, possibly .11c – trying to figure out how to write about this massively disappointing (for me) revelation of this moronic mistake, & what to do w/ it. & how to feel about being set back. My ticks during this Project certainly aren't suppose to grow. They are suppose to diminish. I never prepared myself for the former even tho it is starting to feel as if I haven't readied myself for the latter. So where to go, & how to get there? Sunday, Haggle & I, after learning of this slip up, decided to go back to Isolation Wall, to make sure w/ our own eyes, & if the mistake proved to be a reality, well, then, we would give the real Wilderness a go, get the red-point, & never look back. No big deal. The problem turned out to be this: Sure, I got the rope up, but couldn't figure out smoothly, the crux. Couldn't, trying to push the lingering confidence up & over the rim of myself, get the route on red-point. The confidence had started to evaporate. Condensing in sorrowful droplets on the walls of my glass psyche....


 ...W/ the window down the wind blasts thru as we drive back into the SLC via I-15. Another return from another unsuccessful day from American Fork. Another cigarette. More thoughts. More substantial silence. Haggle stares dreamily ahead. I wonder what she is thinking. W/ each weekend that comes & goes, increasingly my guilt is becoming tangible. I wonder if she can feel this. Sense this. I feel guilty for all the failed attempts of my routes. I take a heavy drag on my cigarette, hold it...& release. I know I shouldn't feel guilty. Or bad, but I do. Perhaps I bit off more then I can chew. Maybe it was fool hearty of me to put into place such an out of reach goal when obviously my strength is not enuf. More constantly I am finding myself embarrassed. I sigh. Turn up the music that hitherto fore was feathering itself about the vehicle & flick my cigarette arcingly out the window...


...I realize that there are times when the poetics of a sentence just won't do. Just won't work. I realize there are times when all you can do is get over the hill & see what is to be seen...whatever that may be. I realize that the mind is much bigger then the body. I realize the gutter of this life is filled w/ self-imposed garbage strewn by frightened hands. I realize the negative heart. I realize the turmoil of a habitual life breaking open into a starry atmosphere repudiating the past. & I realize that all this rests squarely & comfortably & solely upon my shoulders. I realize that success is but a single path of a thousand failures waiting for two feet to take to travel...

A Maple Saturday & a Brief Sunday Relief

Haggle, napping on the drive

Haggle is asleep in the back. Cat-like, she draws in her legs up to her belly, curling, somehow comfortably on the small bench-seat in the back of Mark's Eurovan. The vehicle rattles its way forward at 70mph – at times, violently. So much so, I shift side to side, not in an attempt to palliate my stiffening legs, but to thwart the journey my heart is now taking into my throat. Despite the jovially & constant conversation between Mark & I, I can tell he is tired. He has had a long day; he has climbed much harder then he is used to, much more then he is used to, we all have, & it shows. We are tired. Content. Glad to be going home, but I can't shake the desire to tell Mark to, turn around. Let's go back, camp for the night. Get some more pitches done in the mourning. But I hold my tongue, wanting also, the creature comfort of domesticated positive stimulus & riches: I want my bed. For the moment, Mark is stymied in his conversation & he stares on, the Driver's dead-stare curse; Haggle is fast sleeping in dreams. I look back at her & in her hypnoid, she is smiling. I laconically spy the passing scenery from the passenger's side. It moves slowly, like my thoughts. We haven't yet reached that point in a drive home where the picture of life materializes back into existence, where things once again become real, & the Dream fades slowly into memory. We are all still luridly locked w/in the somber jaws of euphoria that an exhausting day creates. A perfect day, a perfect canyon, remains jetting thru our blood like an addictive poison...

Maple Canyon

As we entered the Canyon, I stared out the window – Mark was saying something but it sounded as if a crooning voice echoing off cotton walls – looking at the cobbled-craggy-beauty. It never surprises me whenever I go to Maple how transfixed I get. I gazed & gazed. Something marvelous exists here, Something transcendental, & each time is as if the first time. This feels like home. Coming home. The last time I was here, it was the first climbing ‘trip’ I went on right out of rehab. Before that, nearly 12 years prior. I could feel myself smiling. It was a true facial gesture, the kind one can't help but hold back, one that states emphatically, ‘I’ve arrived!’ Parking the Eurovan, Haggle out of her slumber, Mark exited the vehicle, as did I, opening the sliding passenger door for her. The air smelled of camp fire, bacon, Climbers, crisp mourning weather w/ a promise of on coming warmth: a mixing boiling pot of ethereal madness that you quickly grow to love the more you get out. It becomes some what of a spiritual addiction. I stood next to the van simply taking it all in, but not on a conscious level, more of a primal one. One that exists somewhere deep w/in the crevasse of existence; a mystery. A puzzle. Something I’ve yet to figure out wholly, but something I am wholly apprised of, & welcoming of its sporadic arrival. It was chilly, for we had gotten an early start. 

Haggle & Lewis, brewing coffee

Desiring coffee, I pulled the Coleman stove out & set it up on the first table behind the restrooms adjacent to the main parking area. Haggle comforted herself on the table, dog & people watching, some climbers, others obviously not (both people & k9's). As the percolator did what it does, the good energy of the day made itself known. We stood around the table, drinking coffee, chatting about how earth shatteringly good it would be if we only had strips of bacon, snapped silly photos, & joked. A greater start to a day I cannot remember. & it would only get better. This I knew as I sat sipping my cup-of-Joe, watching the smiles on Mark & haggle’s facade grow & grow, as the temps warmed & warmed…

...Sitting here now, in my basement writing this, pondering back to Saturday, skipping to Sunday, meddling into Monday, Haggle upstairs asleep, exhausted from three days of climbing, I am hard pressed to describe perfectly that which I need to describe. I can feel it. I know it. I understand it. But the writer's gift fails me on this Tuesday night. Perhaps in-the-moment emotions fog that which I replay over & over in my mind, like watching a movie in a bright & direct sun-light: it's there, you can hear it, & even watch it to a degree, but the full effect is much lost...for now. 

Lewis & Haggle, getting ready for another climb

I consider Saturday as one of the greatest days I will remember. How quietly concerned I was to climb well; I made a decision to let go of the concern, to fall freely into myself & let whatever may come, come. 

Lewis - making the clip on Minister, 5.11b

We enjoyed multiple moderates – almost all of which I on-sighted. Something I've never done so much of in my entire climbing life. Haggle climbed more astonishingly then I have ever seen, & I believe she surprised herself – opening, for her & by her, a great expansive future. It seemed to revitalize something w/in her. What a great gift it was to bear witness to that. Mark, always a go-getter, & happy to just be out, climbed wonderfully as well. Not desirous to lead really, Mark top-roped every route we did. It was fantastic to watch him push push push (sometimes that is all we can do to stay sane in this world: to remember to push push push our own individual limits). He had an unexpected great time, & those are always the unsurpassed moments of our momentaneous lives. It is a day that will live eternally. Thru me & by me. & even if I can never make this day fully visual, or never be able to construct the picture of words that reel thru my mind onto the page, it is there. & always will be, for me...& anyone who asks.

Author's Note (a quick update): Embrace the unexpected. It will lead you to fathoms & depths unknown & will inform you of the potency of yourself to yourself. On Sunday, April 22, I red-pointed my 2nd route for Project 31: Wilderness, 5.12a/b, Isolation Wall, American Fork, Utah.

Haggle - leading World Class Tuna 5.10a

Mark, belaying Haggle on World Class Tuna

Lewis, leading World Class Tuna 5.10a

Mark, top-roping (Viva la top-rope!) Tuna Direct 5.9

Haggle, leading Tuna Direct 5.9

Haggle, leading Tuna Direct

Lewis, getting ready to do some belaying

Haggle, crash-padding it

Lewis, rapping up the day on Minister 5.11b

Return From Hell

American Fork, Hell Cave

When Haggle & I first started climbing together a rule was established: that route was terrible, she or I would say. To which the other retorts, “what did you like about the route?” We started forcing ourselves to find something, anything we could muster, beautiful, fun, different, exciting, anything positive about an otherwise subpar (or terrible & negative) line. A great example of this can be found on Bad Faith, 5.9, in AF, Utah, A Bill Boyle FA, w/ terrible (w/ the exception of 1 or 2) moves. Bolts that follow no flow of rock or line, & anchors horrendously placed, leaving one clipping w/ frightened reaching & heavy breathing. After a long while setting up a rappel & cleaning the horrid route, I descended back down to Haggle, cursing & complaining about everything under the hidden sun. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘what did you like about the route?’ I thought hard & earnestly about her question, having difficulty in coming up w/ something. It could have been a lot better, I said, but I guess, between the 3rd & 4th bolt, there is 2 consecutive moves that were brilliant. I lost myself while making them. I stopped & took stalk in what I had just said, & realized that it was true. I had fully lost myself in a couple of moves, & that they were enuf to make me forget about the dirt-worth of the rest of the climb. I’m happy we did this one, just for those two moves, I told her w/ a smile. I was being honest. The idea was (& is) to find peace & contentment wherever you find yourself. To be happy w/ where you are, not where you want to be. To accept that which is – the present & the unfixable. It has been a ‘rule’ that has been floating about my existence ever since; one that has taught me great things & more importantly, one that continues to teach me great things…

Half Acre 5.12a

…Monday, April 16, Mark & I step out of his Eurovan. Fucking great weather, I exclaim excitedly. ‘Yeah. It’s fabulous.’ The sun is out, burning wildly, & despite the early hour of the day, it feels warmer then it probably is, & can only get warmer. It is a day I have been waiting for. Seemingly perfect weather promises help on another attempt on a .12 for Project 31. I shoulder my pack, & wait for Mark. Despite having had a slow prior week – slothful training, & even a more indolent diet, I am feeling strong, confident. Today is going to be the day I finally get to have a crack at Half Acre. It’s been a long time coming, each former ‘attempt’ has ended in no attempt at all, due to the wetness of the route. Today is going to unfold exactly how I want it. I can feel it…

…The problem that arises from the constant desire to be somewhere else, to be doing something other then what you are doing presently, to attempt to fulfill a present hole by perpetually striving for whatever the future may hold, is a rapaciousness that becomes a habitual bite – jaws that won't unlock until you're shaken out of your mortal skin. It teaches a running complacency, & the wanted destination gets farther & farther until finally you forget in what direction you were even headed initially & it becomes a mirage of a pin-point somewhere out on the curving horizon; you begin to wander endlessly to & fro, thirsty for that oasis, passing by all the little streams trickling easily under foot... Rehab is such a desert. A dry, almost lifeless desert – devoid of anything you could ever want, if you choose it to be such a place. Which most do. Including myself, until that day where realization quite accidentally cratered the soil of my earth...

I am already pointing out the wet holds – streaks of water here & there – on Half Acre as Mark catches up to me, shedding his pack, letting it off gently as if it were a child. Dammit, I say. 'That last storm must have precipitated a lot here the other day.' Mark points out. He walks up to the route, eyeing it closely. 'The spots that are wet, are they crucial holds?” He asks me. I don't know, I've never been on it, but probably. I say this while pantomiming clipping imaginary draws, dictating each hold from which I would clip. Dammit! As soon as I say this, I feel the frustration slick off me, something feathering the discomfited dust from off my being. 

Half Acre, seeping water

I take off my sunglasses & ask: well, what are our other doable options? We talk about the other routes on my list. Liquid Oxygen is mentioned (going to be in the shade until about what? 2 or 3? The rock will still be plenty cold, &, if this is wet, it too will be wet, just like last time.), Struggling Man (no, not again, not so soon. Not today.), Jitterbug boy (for some reason, I have a bad feeling about that one.). You know, I say, maybe I feel like knock knock knocking on Hell's door. I am smiling. 'Gateway, again?' I know I can get it, man, I tell him. Let's walk up & hang the draws...if you're fine w/ that. 'Yeah, of course,' Mark says, already digging into his pack for his harness. I am already deep into mine, pulling out the rack of clips & such. I know I can get it...today. Feeling good about it. 'Good deal,' he agrees, 'let's get it done.' We start scrambling our way up to the top of the crag to set a rappel, both of us feeling good about our decision. Both of us smiling in the shinning sun & taking the change of plans in stride...

California, in January, is oft times wet, cold, & miserable. The rain doesn’t PLUNK down in dewy drops, but rather razors itself down upon you in stinging torrents. It was like this both when I was there in my late teens for Marine Corps boot camp, & most of the time I was in Rehab. Albert C. & I were standing underneath an awning next to our room, smoking one of the innumerable cigarettes of the day. It was late. We stood there, watching the downpour in a thick air of gloominess. ‘This fucking sucks, man,’ Albert C. said. I knew he wasn’t talking about the weather. I knew also, where this was going. ‘How long have we been here now? 31/2 months? 4? Fucking 5? Hell I don’t even know anymore. I want to go home. I have things to do! Christ, I just want my life back!’ Sick to my stomach w/ all of it, w/ him, w/ the place & situation, w/ myself. I told him to stop fucking complaining. What is it going to get you? Is it going to get you home faster? No, I answered for him. Besides, Albert, I said, flicking my half-smoked cigarette up & out, you did this to yourself. You did! No one else! How about you start, for once in your life, taking responsibility for yourself. You’ll find that shit will start working out for you if you start doing that. Grow up! I walked into our room & slammed the door, & like a mighty tree, felled myself upon the bed, feeling exhausted. In my slumber, as soon as my head touched pillow, I realized what I had said wasn’t directed toward Albert C. That it was myself talking to myself as if in front of a mirror. Such sudden insights are rarely poetic. Mostly, they are ugly, self effacing, paralyzing, because they are always an atomic truth igniting your ego into hot licking flames of fury…

Lewis rapping off the Gateway 5.12a

…As I thread the rope thru the chains, readying myself for the rappel, thoughts of failure (yet again) race thru my mind, but it is just that: simple, fleeting thoughts. It doesn’t bother me. For now, it is unchangeable. It is there & now it is gone. I get onto rappel & slowly begin to lower myself, cleaning Gateway once more. Dangling in space, the day over (I can see Mark shivering from here), I come to terms w/ the fact that another weekend has passed w/out a redpoint & that I am the only one to blame for this. True, time is running out…but…I stare off into the distance, hanging there for but a second & take in the beauty American Fork has to offer me. It is becoming a second home to me. Being out, trying my hardest, finding my personal limits & telling myself the ‘limit’ of me is a state of mind, is becoming second nature. I have made headway today tho, obliterating my initial crux into submission (only to gain another one higher up). Each step, each attempt is a day not wasted. I touch down, smile at Mark, & say, let’s go home. ‘It’s been a good day. It will come together for you. You did great today.’ Yes, I think, let’s go home. As I am packing all the gear back into my pack, I take one last glance around. A swirling memory of someone I used to know, wavers in my mind, almost as if a hologram of myself, out in the distance & it is waving goodbye. I smile once again, & mentally wave back, silently wishing the figure well, but glad to finally see him leaving. Mark & I walk down the trail in silent serenity toward another time, another day, another life.

Return to Hell

Lewis & Deuce writing their next post

It is a fire & brimstone desire; a naked Idol that stands in the forefront of my beleaguered cognition casting a ballooning shadow across the field of obsession. Half Acre,5.12a, perhaps to most, is not the most aesthetic line, the most difficult in the area – easy, perhaps, to most even, but to me it has been a tick burrowed deeply into my skin which itches furiously, & in my constant scratching, I see something most beautiful in it; there is something about this particular line that has been yodeling to me ever since the completion of my 'list' to give it a go, to hop on the thing & find something unknown - about it, about myself. Perhaps I will find nothing at all, but somewhere in that finding of nothing is a treasure of knowledge to be had, uncovering possibly everything. If one doesn't follow that undefined feeling which grows like lamenting demons inexplicably w/in, then what itinerary do we know to follow? How then, does one know the compass is correctly pointing... in any direction? It is early in the mourning, again, for much trouble I have sleeping in on the weekends even if the days' weather is the climbable sort or the reverse, which today, is the latter; nothing revs the mind's engine like early mourning dusk-light, a cup of coffee to combat a basement-chill, & pathetic self examination. W/ Half Acre marathoning thru my mind in large sweeping strides, the mourning's oppressive nature blanketing the plane of my existence, I lean back in my chair, tilting it on two legs, resting the back of it against the wall, unable to write that which I feel needs written. I stare at the screen & wonder what the real point of all of this is. That who would possibly want to read the thought-meanderings of a philosophical Drunk gone sober? That who would possibly be able to stay excited whilst belaying for hours someone struggling up routes week after week, legs burning & numb by the harness' dulling bite, in the name of pushing personal limits? Failure is nothing new to me. It has been a constant companion, a constant foe. A presence. But hitherto fore, failure has been mine solely to deal w/, to construct, deconstruct, & mold. But now it is somehow, different. Changed. Evolved into a Karmic Cocoon, even if such an evolution has taken place only w/in my imagination. I take a sip of tepid coffee, remove the glasses from off my face, & guide the heels of my palms across my eyes, back & forth... light begins to filter thru the window; a shadowed, subdued light, like crystal eyes casting furtive glances here & there. I let go the thoughts of Rehab snaking up my person & clamp down onto my lack of training this past week. It has been a long, slow one for me, filled to capacity w/ paralyzing lethargy & doubt. I decline the chair, toss my glasses aside, & think of what Churchill had said. “If you're going through hell, keep going.” Hell is a self imposed destination; a destination easily taken from place to place, point to point, eternity to & thru eternity, if you let it. Whether I am ready or not for Hell, I am ready for it. No one can truly be ready for anything, really. I am no different. The only thing you can do, is keep on going, & be ready for not being ready.

Minding the faulted mind & Pressing On The Gas

The word ‘HOME’ was sloppily & childishly scrawled upon a sandstone rock which was propped up on our mat in front of our tent’s door. I stood there looking at it, arms full of needed gadgets: hatchet, a shovel, & a bag that we had labeled ‘bouldering’ which contained our climbing shoes, chalk bags, a guide, & two extra blocks of chalk. I was entranced looking at this piece of décor which Haggle had made. Silly & fittingly, it…fit. Something about it warmed the corridors of my heart. What’s more, was the thought that she had had the mind to do such a thing. Before, to create a comfortable energy of familiarity, I had started hanging prayer flags from our tent, or stringing them up between trees at whatever campsite we found ourselves, but alas, failing, I had forgot to bring them along.

Lewis, Duece & Haggle - Usual camp setup

Perhaps this is why Haggle added something personal to this particular site, but nevertheless, it worked. Substitution to that which I forgot. It seemed hard for me to move. To rent myself from my enraptured stare. Perhaps I was finding too much meaning where meaning wasn’t to be had (but the mind works best, & meaning is most found, when you turn it over & down upon itself, dissecting those ordinary thoughts that exist in the mind already – it is the watering of a flower in a desert heat), but Haggle unknowingly taught me something great from such a simple action: Enjoy where you are, not where you aren’t. I believed in a moment’s snap that wherever I was, was home. W/ Haggle & Deuce present, her smiles, his constant digging & contented demeanor, I could find home wherever I wished to look, & it would be there – no longer a mirage, a transient ghosting sense of something real, but a reality. Something as tangible as those things which I was holding in my arms. Even surrounded by the clay-like sheer cliffs of the south, beautiful, hold-less, perfect walls, climbing escaped my mind. I un-packed calmly. Deliberately. Slowly. Glad to be out at least…Enjoying exactly where I was, for I was home… 

Near Green River, Utah

...US 6 is a stretch of lonely road that seemingly elastics on for eternity; after every hill Eternity once again smiles its ugly, snide grin, daring you to contemplate its longevity. & that is exactly what you do. W/ Haggle asleep next to me, the stereo lightly coursing its tune, the hum of the tires jazzing it up in musical-tranced perfection, its all I can do but let the thoughts of my up-coming climbs criminal back into my head – apparently the weekend of contentment over, & back to the project I drive, back to the very real beast of failure I spin, & a sheath of futility paints over me in an awesome stroke. It is this futile emotion that grows w/in me as I gas the car forward (ever forward! Does this road ever end!) that spurs me on. So many years of such feelings, giving into them, forgetting & lamenting, cursing & spitting, but to what end? I glance over at Haggle. She looks peaceful in her car induced slumber, at home w/ herself & for a minute wish it was I who was the one fastly asleep, unaware of all that is. Solitude creates wishing. Wishing creates doubt. Doubt creates a loathsome concoction of ever stirring misery & pain induced longing. I cease to take notice of all that is passing by. The Southern Mountains dull in their natural gleam, the sky blue is just another expanse of nothing. I sigh soggily, arching my aching back; my knee, a torturous flame combusting from the inside out. Yes, the echo of US 6 creates something w/in me that resembles doubt. Mirrors that which I've left behind a long time ago. It aches & screams like my aeonian lust for the contents of a bottle. It's there, all of it, & should be acknowledged, & I do. I roll down the window, a gust of wonderfully warm air explodes into the car & onto my face, seemingly revitalizing something deep w/in my psyche. I step on the gas, marvel once again at what the mountains have to offer me, & say, fuck you, to US 6 & watch it recede into the rear view mirror.

Haggle & Lewis

My knee is healing nicely; a bruise slowly fading into history. My mind is beginning to forget & turn toward the future. Tuesday or Wednesday of next week will, if all goes as planned of course, find me at Big In Japan, 5.12 b, located on Storm Mountain, in BCC. But first thing's first – sometimes we all need to step back from that which we dream, attempt, want, need - to renew a humble perspective. Haggle & I will be traveling down into Southern Utah, spending the Easter Holiday w/ her family, camping somewhere in Dry Valley Canyon, taking it easy & enjoying the sun & company... but first, we will spend Saturday in Big Bend , Moab – checking out the boulders for the first time.