Spain/Morocco

Hi Friends!

Just wanted to give a small update on my travels. I am currently in Sevilla, Spain dealing with the culture shock of big city hustle and bustle versus the High Atlas (beautiful mountain range in Morocco) lifestyle I have been enjoying the past week or so. I am safe and psyched and have a ton of great blog material (writing, video, and pictures) coming your way next week when I arrive home. The highlight of my trip has been new friendships made with Berber friends (Morocco´s original inhabitants, many of whom live a nomadic lifestyle in the deserts and mountains of their beautiful country). I am already salivating at the thought of a trip next winter to connect with them and climb on the gigantic, dusty red walls of their homeland. The climbing has been great of course, both in Spain and Morocco. I have enjoyed focusing on sport climbing, a style I literally never practice these days. Five years as a Cascade Slogger (a label introduced by my Cali rock crushing friends) didn´t help me send 8a, but I did manage to onsight 5.12 fairly consistently, proving to myself that I am reaching my goal of being a well rounded alpinist.

Now, Jessica, Rigel, and I are spending a few days sightseeing and relaxing (we should be on the beaches of Portugal tomorrow) before our flight to the States April 8. Can´t wait to get home and back into the mountains...alpine ice anyone? See ya soon!

Winter of Discontent

Being an athlete is not always easy. The pressure, the restlessness, and the drive (all self imposed) constantly spur us towards future goals. At times this cycle is gratifying, our success building confidence and leading to more inspiring endevours. But there are also the dry times, when we fall short of our expectations and no matter how bad we want it, we don't send.
2009 was one of the best years I've ever had climbing until a cold night out froze Cole's toes and sent me into personal crisis. I felt lost in my ambition, charging into the mountains only to be gripped with fear. Even though 2009 was a year for sending, it was also spicy. A flake of rock fell off Dragons Of Eden, shattering into dozens of granite missles that obliterated our lead line and nearly did the same to my head. A fifty foot fall below the Burkett Needle threatened my life within hours of arriving in Alaska. And then there was Cole's frostbite.

Raymond Cole Allen, for those of you who don't know him, defines the word beast. His strength seems super human due to endless positive phsych and a deep love for the mountains no matter what they're serving up. It also doesn't hurt that he's 200 pounds of pure muscle.

In the past few years I've done some wonderful climbs with Cole, summits that may not have been reached without him. Since the eighth grade we have shared friendship and intense passion for all mediums of climbing. If anyone understands what I feel when I look towards the mountains Cole does. Niether of us has ever fought that magnetic pull, unwavering devotion to the sport defining our lives. One joy we shared the last few years is the discovery of winter climbing. Frigid temps, short days, and hard climbing demand intense motivation. We have grown to love this style, our endless psyche funnled into upward movement in an icy, beautiful world. The anciness that we feel at the crags or boulders has no place here. We never have to wait our turn and we love moving in the mountains for hours on end. When Cole's toes blackened with cold injury our dreams for 2010 were shattered.

Although I still managed over forty pitches of ice and four summits this past winter, it was not with the desired confidence and joy. I felt scared and unfocused, always struggling to live in the moment. I tried my projects, but with little heart, bailing after the approach each time.
Now, as winter shifts to spring, new feelings are breaking the ground of cold memories, reaching towards the brightness of future. My head is clear and my heart is thankful for life and lessons learned. Exciting adventures are on the horizon and Cole's toes are getting better each day. In a life of climbing there are bound to be tough times. I'm glad to have this particular rough patch behind me.

The Reticent Hardman

I'm bold, I'm bad,
Only the mountains know who I am, The Reticent Hardman.
I slip through spray with skill and cunnining,
My climbs would deserve a Golden Piton if I were in the running.
But I'm not, for my ego, small and pure as it is,
Holds off on reporting climbs, small or big.
Most only know me by a secret avatar name,
I get on the net and declare actions lame.
It wasn't a first ascent and its not as hard as you said,
I did it back in '79, every pitch led.
I'm sick of the boulderers, slack lines and bowls,
Big numbers, hard sends, it's out of control.
I saddle up to my keyboard and turn down the lights,
This ranting post could take all night.
Tapping away at lettered keys,
I pen an electronic message designed to take posers out at the knees.
Rotten WI4 and scary 5.10,
I'd like to see any young gun repeat these ascents.
Bolted 5.12 and Mwhatever make me sick,
Stuck in my ways with no chance to improve is what makes me tick.

*Note
This fun little poem is a stance against the judgement of certain climbers in our community. They claim to rise above "spray", all the while playing climbing police and reveling in their hardness...all behind a fake name and a computer screen. I'm not losing sleep over it, rather just having fun with the idea. Ego is a central issue of hardcore climbing, whether we like to admit it or not. I struggle with my ego contstantly, but I never deride the efforts of others or claim my style to be "the way".

Base Building

Blue cold water drips off the fang of ice and winds its way down the shaft of my axes. I swing over the bulge, trusting the feel of my pick’s bite, my tools invisible in 6 inches of new snow. Two distinct crunches and my feet are positioned. I stand tall and mantle. Tapping up lower angle ground towards the belay I feel the buzz of exhilaration. A relative beginner on ice, the energy of discovering upward movement through sheets of frozen water fills me.

Max on the season's first ice: fat 'n easy on The Goatee

The last few weeks have been a frenzy of swings and kicks, snowy hikes, and moderate alpine climbing. I call it base building. I remember one of my early mentors, Taylor Roy, telling me I should do every 5.11 at the crag before trying a 12a. Build a foundation through habitual action and experience. Essentially climb everything you possibly can so as to engrain the feeling of upward movement into your deepest being. The movement becomes a part of your natural reaction to the vertical world, making those daunting steps between grades less significant. And so for now, I am swinging my axes at any good, bad, pretty, or ugly ice that will support my weight. Every time my tools are wielded I become increasingly comfortable, my technique more focused and sure.

Max on Chair Peak

When I drive through the canyons near my home I strain my neck to check the progress of those ever changing sculptures of hard water. Each day they take on a different shape and beauty. When a climb looks ready we swing the car to the shoulder, tighten our boots, and shoulder our packs. A beginner’s nervousness grips my throat just the way I like it. Before long we hang our weight from tools, placing total trust in those metal extensions of our arms. Every day I feel less separation from the ice I climb, my gear becoming a part of my body, allowing me to tune into the intricacies.

Chair Peak fun

Yet as much as I love waterfall climbing, it is no end all for me. My focus lies in high peaks and alpine adventures. Learning to climb ice is the next step in my development as a mountaineer, filling the empty spaces of my skill set. A peek out my front door shows rain and slop. Heavy snow falls in the high places. But when it clears and stable conditions return (they will, they must!) it will be time to take the experience of the past few weeks and apply it to the winter’s goals of hard peaks cloaked in their toughest armor.

One Step Too Far

The North Face of Dragontail: lean and cold

Dark air interuppted by sparks of light, my picks find no resting place. I hook an edge, match a tool, and throw the other in five-inches of snow on rock. Shifting my body weight onto the slab, unexplainable forces bond water and stone. I don't fall. As I go higher the snow is deeper and more secure, but I know it will only last until the next rock band. All too soon I am forty feet out again, trusting life and limb to a frozen disc of moss, feet splayed out on steep verglased blocks of granite. I don't want this challenge turned nightmare to last any longer.

Cole following low on the route

"Oohh!" Cole's monkey call pushes through the winter forest. I step akwardly over a fallen log and gaze at the north face of Dragontail. Even though I've summited many routes on this peak I feel intimidated. 2000 feet of rock and snow on a mile wide face has me feeling small, so I turn my focus to the trail in front of me. One foot in front of the other and we're setting up basecamp in a shifting fog. The sun falls, but light is constant in a rising full moon. I hold hot choclate between sweaty palms and let my eyes follow a cold path up skinny couliors and tilted snowfields. The cruxy rock bands that seperate easier ground look difficult, but passable. That night, Cole and I stare at the illuminated cieling of our tent, each lost in excited thoughts about the day to come. "Remember when we used to bike and bus to Little Si (the local crag we learned on)? I could never sleep before those days either," I reminicsed. "Tell me about it! I haven't slept in three nights!", said Cole. Between packing, approaching, and finally climbing, there had been plenty of excitement. Finally, I hear Cole snoring. I follow his lead into my own dream world just as the full moon slips beyond a ridge and darkness settles in.

The slow return of light and a new day evolves seamlessly from the night. A heavy fog obscures the rising sun as our Dragonfly roars through the gloom. Soon we crampon towards the Gerber-Sink and start up. We are prepared for a neve dash to the summit, armed with a few pieces. We use a 40 meter rope, hoping to move together up the face in a matter of hours. The difficulty of the first two rock bands suprise me. I'm using every trick in the book and fighting hard for pro. I think of retreat, but then a fun coulior and a snow field push me a few hundred more feet towards the next rock cliff. As always, Cole follows quickly and efficiently with no complaints about the long belays and difficult climbing. I make one more horrific lead to a hanging snow field that looks to promise quicker movement for the remainder of the route. Unfortunetely, challenging conditions have forced me to climb variations that are less direct and as darkness falls we hang from an off-route snag cemented by snow and stone and eat a bar for the first time all day. The climbing has been some of the scariest I have ever experianced. Every pitch I dig through snow to find a few pieces that are barely adequete. Most of the time those pieces are well below my boots while I execute hail-mary mixed moves. This brings up an important question. Why am I doing this?

I don't know.

But I do know we are not going down anymore. I look over my left shoulder and follow our boot tracks down the face until they blend into black granite. Our rope wouldn't even make that rappel, I think. I start off into the night shift, frustrated at our predicament, but committed to climbing as quickly as I can to the safety of the summit coulior. I arc leftwards for a few hundred feet, before moving up into the final difficult stretch of climbing. I begin to lead, but return to the belay, cursing the unprotected, scratchy mixed ground I am on. My brain is mush. "These leads are killing me Cole," I whimper. For a moment I feel the end of my ropes slipping through my palms. I arrest the lack of confidence, shove it deeply away, and find a place next to Cole to rest for a bit. Another bar and ten minutes of shut eye are all I get before I am out on the lead again. The final step holds a few inches of sugar snow over rock. I pendulem between different snow patches, trying to gain elevation any way possible. Finally, I am 40 feet from the end of the pitch. All I have to do is go for it. A thin snow finger wiggles upwards before me. I know there will be no pro, but I pray for a stick or two at the final bulge. Charging upwards I don't think of falling this time. Frozen moss and a kamikaze scream of adrenaline propel me through the pitch and into the coulior above. "600 easy feet to the summit," I think as the sun rises. Of course it is beautiful and Cole and I gawk at the views of our beloved Cascades. For a few minutes we forget the horrors of the past hours. Perfect, moderate snow climbing in an intense alpine setting takes us to the top. We high five and laugh.

Myself in the final coulior

Summit shot

Our descent is quiet. We both think about life, climbing, and our choice to push the envelope like we do. By the time we are back at base camp I am seeing visions. I am so worked. We fire up the stove and begin hydration and nutrition exercises. We need food and water badly. Cole tries to remove his boots, but finds the toe area of his right sock to be a solid block of ice. Only 30 minutes of thawing over the stove allows him to remove the sock and get his boot back on. His feet look wet, but normal and soon we are hiking the ten miles towards our car.

"What's up homie." Cole is still in bed. He sits up. "Are you going to work today?", he asks. Even though the last 48 hours stretched us beyond our limits, I have things to do and plan to resume normal life this very morning. "I think I bruised my toes in those boots. They are so damn small." I look at Coles feet and my heart sinks. Even though I've never seen frost bite in person, I can recognize a cold injury. After some research and a few phone calls I am feeling scared. His feet are clearly in serious condition. We end up in the ER and learn that he in fact does have a fairly severe case of frost bite on six toes. I stare at the steril white walls and curse myself over and over. Why didn't I bail when I knew the climbing was taking too long? Why wasn't I more concerned about cold injury, especially knowing that Cole's foot wear was questionable? Why, why, why...the wheels spun out in my brain.

Reality check

So, that brings me to today. Cole is recovering on the couch after a week of questions and finally anwers. It looks like he will be keeping all of his digits, which of course was a our major concern, but his road to recovery will last months. It hurts to see my friend in pain. Damn the mountains. But even now, I am dreaming of another winter battle. Climbing, no matter what, will always inspire me to push my limits for reasons known and unknown, but the past week has been grounding. I feel like I let my perspective slip up there on Dragontail. Our experiance wasn't worth Cole's pain. I should have bailed when I knew how difficult and cold the climbing was. It's hard not to fall into the hype of hard sends and high summits, but the reality is mountains are uncaring and kill with no mercy. 2009 has made that clear to the climbing community. Everyong knows the saying, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I certainly hope that applies here.

Nada Chance

Looks good, but behind the thin curtain the water rages

A few minutes after I read the words, Nada Lake Falls is in (thanks Craig for hiking up there!), shavings of metal fell from the picks of my axes. When they seemed sharp enough, I worked on dull crampons, then stepped out into the crisp evening air. A cold, star studded sky stole my imagination and that night I dreamed of good picks and the rhythm of ice climbing.

The next afternoon, Cole Allen and I pushed through fresh, knee deep snow to a bivi at Nada Lake, only 40 minutes from the base of the falls. We sipped on whiskey and cocoa and enjoyed the alpine bliss. But soon, I felt the dread of warm air pushing up valley. A pesky pineapple express had come to ruin our fun. Hopefully it would stay cold enough. When I woke up at mid night to hard rain and a soaked tent, I knew our chances of success were dwindling. Still, we made our way to the falls the next morning, establishing a tricky path through giant boulders only lightly covered with a wet, gloppy snow. The formation was there, but so was the rushing water. When I swung my axe into the ice, it easily punched through into the raging torrent behind. Getting creative, I started to work out a mixed start a bit to the right of the main falls, hoping to climb consistently crappy, but lower angle ice up high. After establishing a belay on top of pitch one, the sun kissed ice daggers above my head, melting them further and causing them to crash down around me. Clearly, this was not the place to be in the rising temps, now in the lower forties. So down we went. Back at camp, a large ice fall boomed across the valley. It seems we had made the right choice just in time.

Part of climbing in the alpine is making smart choices even when all you want to do is go up. That day at Nada Falls, Cole and I followed our intuition well, had fun, and came home safe. This is just the start of a season we are dedicating to major winter projects in the Cascades and the lesson learned in retreat was a great reminder that winter climbing is fickle. You gotta want it, but you gotta be level headed. Success can be rare on these short, dark days, but when it all lines up, there is nothing like a winter summit in the Cascades.

Powergonia

Sol hiking Pile Driver (5.11b) mid link

You gotta make training enjoyable. The more fun it is, the more you will do it. And remember, it doesn't have to be fun to be fun.

My good friend Sol Wertkin is perhaps my most motivated training partner. In a previous blog post titled The Games Climbers Play (May 2009), I rehashed another training "game" that we used this past spring where we tried to link Leavenworth's 15 most classic 5.11 pitches. Looking back, that little "game" provided a solid base of fitness and flow that flowered into a successful summer of goals reached and dreams established.

Last week Sol and I tried our hand at another self-imposed challenge, a link up of all the pitches on the Powerhouse Wall, a chunky, overhanging chosspile in the desert of Central Washington. Although the quality of climbing is nothing to write home about, it will get you pumped, a nice challenge for us low-angle traditional climbers (I rarely sport climb, although I should more for sure!). Anyone climbing these fairly short routes would find themselves pumped and confused. The blocky nature of the rock makes on sighting or flashing very difficult. A good hold always lurks close by, but will you find it? The extra time searching for the hidden jug makes for even better training.

The title of this piece speaks to the gusty wind that swept the desert basin that day. We started to make the connection between Patagonia's weather and our game at the Powerhouse Wall. I think it is really great that as climbers, we can be inspired and have fun on the world's most iconic walls and peaks (like in Patagonia) and then capture those same feelings on the state's scrappiest wall of choss. Bottom line, climbing is fun no matter where you are as long as you have the right attitude and good friends to share the joy with. So get out there, train hard, and have fun!