Rollin' and fallin' and failin' and rockin'

I’ve got-ten stuck lately – no climbing, does that mean no writing? I don’t think so. I think a post more than once a week would be good. Sometimes I have to stop myself from posting twice a day, as in it’s too much, but I do have the reminder written on my wall to “Roll with it – Keep the momentum going” and, “If you’re not fallin,’ you’re not tryin,’” Which could also be read, “If you’re not failin,’ you’re not tryin.’” Whatever do you learn from success? It feels good and makes failure oh-so-much scarier.

Hmm, failure at my project is an interesting concept. I wonder if I’ll ever get on this thing, much less send it. It’s all about me and my motivation and getting other people motivated too, to the point of rollin' with it, keeping the momentum going. But it starts with me, what I want, and what I’m willing to do to get it. In the recovery section of the Rock Warrior’s Way, Ilgner talks about taking two weeks off – what I’ve essentially been doing for the last week and a half. Not necessarily by choice, but I might as well pretend I’m getting something out of it. He says first off, to look back on your climbing and revel in it, remember the successes and failures and projects to see how much you’ve done.

I didn’t do that. I haven’t even thought about it, what I’ve been doing since I got to Bend. I’ve been climbing, I came here to climb, I’ve met a lot of climbers. You could say I’ve let myself go – into climbing. In a way that many people never get to experience a sport or passion. I feel fortunate and scared. How far will this go? As far as Steve House and his year-long recovery? I think not. I have a knack for self-preservation. That’s why I boulder-hop slower than most, even without a pack, it’s why I’ve only ever broken my arm when I was six (too inconvenient to do again), it’s why I quit gymnastics while I was still ahead, it’s why I don’t free-solo, even something as easy and fun as The Knob, it’s why I pick and choose when I speed on the highway. I wouldn’t say that climbing the Optimist is a risk, it’s clipping well-spaced bolts for 70 feet (or however long the route may be). But the risk is the obsession that it takes to be able to climb that hard, the paring down of the body lard and life inessentials, and it begs the question: is it worth it?

What will I gain from climbing this really hard sport route?

I’ve got nothing to lose.

Except a well-rounded life. It’s going to take a lot to climb 5.14b. I’ve got an idea from interviewing Emily Harrington of what it takes to climb 5.14a – daily runs, an OCD complex and gym climbing even when I don’t want to. I don’t know that I want to pare my life down that much. I ask myself, ‘what about writing? And climbing with friends (which, no offense to all the great climbing buddies I’ve found over the last eight months, but I don’t push myself so much with you), and working out, and traveling, and going out, and playing with my dog, and making cookies just for the dough, and sitting in the soaking pools at McMenamins? I think I can still do all of that.

I just have to stay focused and know what I want, know it so well I don’t question when there’s a kink in my plans, I just go and do it.

Lately I’ve been questioning what it is I want.

Is climbing the Optimist what I want to do?

Yes, but it’s also a vehicle for me to do a lot of cool things in order to get there. 5.14b is one heck of a rating, especially for a woman to climb. In order to be able to climb that hard, I’m going to need a lot of experience. I’m going to have to do a lot of climbing. I might overdo it, me being the overzealous type. This could even be an overzealous goal. But it’s not the destination, it’s the journey, and I keep looking at all those killer lines in my Smith Guide rated 5.12b, 5.13a, 5.13d, 5.11c (which I think is the most perfect grade along the scale) that I’ll climb up to and beyond to get to the Optimist. Even if I don’t send, who cares, because there will be this great experience behind me that I can draw on for the rest of my life. Plus, it’s great writing material. Like the suicidal uncle said to his depressed nephew in Little Miss Sunshine, Marcel Proust’s best material came from his years of suffering, so learn from it while you can.

Looking back on the eight months I’ve been in Bend, I’ve already surprised myself, not least by announcing to my small world my intentions with the Optimist. Usually I keep those things to myself.

An interesting parallel I’ve stumbled upon, in the category of impossible goals and sharing those intentions with the world, is the book Julie and Julia, a true story of a woman in new York, about to turn 30, who chooses to cook her way through Julia Child’s The Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1, in a year, as a way of doing something important with her life. And she blogs about it every day. It’s neat because it wades through the garbage of her life in an honest and humorous way that’s more like eating slices of a frozen Milky Way (or should I say mousse au chocolat?) than sneaking glances at her dirty laundry. It’s delicious and familiar and the whole time I’m reading, I’m wondering, “how did she do that?” Not the cooking, that’s not the hard part. The way she writes it. It’s searing and honest and funny and explanatory and interesting, because she adds so much of her life, herself into it, because she is so honest. Where did she learn to write like that?

Maybe I’ll write a book too. (Ooh, there’s another one of those intentions I usually keep to myself. Things really must be changing in the Anchen world.)

What if I just wrote a post every day? That would accomplish two things: write every day, and keep the momentum going. I’m on day two already.

Recovering from the Void

Crappy weather and a deep dark hole of depression have kept me off the rock as of late. On the upside, I’m mostly over it and ready to take what may come, whether it’s a chance to snowboard or if I have to get my kicks at the gym. I’ll think of this as an opportunity to dig into pilates and yoga and weight lifting and writing for myself. I’ve already watched a year’s worth of movies this month, what more could I need to accomplish?

What really surprised me about completing my project (Heinous, not The Project) was the void it left, and my inability to fill it. It’s as if I lowered off the route and never stopped coming down; I didn’t know what to do with myself afterwards, especially since I couldn’t climb. The last couple of weeks have been ones of intense self-reflection and evaluation, adding blocks to my Master Plan; side trips and new possibilities to consider.

Do I really want to be a writer? Of profiles? Writing reviews have really been fun, and I also like climbing a whole lot. A lot a lot. Enough to make it my life? That could be a little extreme. Balance, my little grasshopper.

The void surprised me. And my self-defeating behavior didn’t help either. Essentially I stayed home, camped out on the couch, and ate whatever I could come up with. This is the closest to depression I’ve come, in the classic sense of the word. Classic. I like that concept. I didn’t have a problem getting myself out of bed; like clockwork, up by 7am every morning. But then I wouldn’t have a plan, wouldn’t do anything but watch old movies or read a book or bake a lot of bread I don’t need to eat. I’m not sure I accomplished anything of note last week except for resting – hardcore resting. I’m not even the injured one here.

Enough of the pity-fest. I managed to drag myself out of the house long enough to go to yoga on Friday and then Steve House’ slide show of his ascent of Nanga Parbat – an 8 day epic of mixed climbing and survival and stupid decisions that highlight the boyness of mountaineers, and makes me glad of my decision not to add that addiction to my list. Listening to him talk about his trip, I couldn’t tell how important this was. I didn’t get a sense of the determination or preparation or of the why of it all. I simply accepted that he wanted to do it, that he was already really good at what he did, so this wouldn’t be that much more of a stretch, and that he did it. He showed pictures of him and his partner smiling at the beginning, grimacing in the middle and half-dead at the end, he explained about their 23-hour days, their summit attempt that ignored their 2pm turnaround time, and their harrowing descent. I felt I got a taste of what they went through, but the motivation I didn’t understand. I wanted the gritty details, the motivation, the obstacles, the why of it all. They received the Piolet d’Or from the French Mountain Guides (or whatever they’re called) for this accomplishment, Steve was photographed for Outside Magazine, and other stuff, but the enormity of the accomplishment escapes me because I have nothing to compare it to, no experience of my own. Had he said, “imagine living in a harness for eight days. Now imagine being very cold and hungry all the time. Imagine eating only soup packets and snickers bars. Imagine sharing a pee bottle. Imagine pushing yourself to your limit every day, getting up after six hours sleep and doing it again. Imagine making the last of your food, after a day without anything and mixing it with gravelly snow on accident. That’s a taste of the hardship. Now imagine being obsessed with this line, of monitoring your heart rate and caloric intake and exercise all so you’re in the best shape to climb this thing you can be. Imagine rooting up hundred of photos of this face on the wall, of memorizing the line and understanding the uncertainty that will come at the end of the 3^rd day when you’ll discover if you picked the right line, or if you’ll have to turn back in defeat. Now imagine being so wrecked after the climb that you can only walk 20 yards before collapsing and eating 24 cookies. Imagine losing 20 pounds in 8 days. Imagine recovering from this for a year.”

That’s what I would have liked to hear; being able to relate his story to something familiar in my life, maybe laugh at, sympathize with, and marvel at once I applied it back to him. Now that I’ve done that, taken the bits he fed us and made the comparison to my life, I can sympathize, and I have a better idea of what he did. Except I’ve never been on a face that big, and I’m not familiar with big wall mountaineering, not the tools or techniques or awkward bulkiness of it.

Now, this man was obsessed with this climb. You could say he was on a quest. Therein lies my familiarity and recognition of a common thread. I don’t feel I’m as hardcore as Steve House, but I’ve also got a lot less to lose if I don’t make it. I’ve got a lot more leeway, and, I’m not as attached to the outcome. If there was one thing I learned from Hau, it’s that though we may all be going to the same place, you learn from the journey as well as the destination.

A Week Off

Happy February 21st.

I've had a week of debauchery in the climbing world. As in, not climbing.

I took a personal day and watched three old movies, a genre I'm in love with and only getting in deeper. Last night I got home from work earlier than usual and watched Now, Voyager with Bette Davis (who I'm also falling in love with) and read The Scarlet Pimpernel. I have to set time limits with that book, because I imagine the movie in my mind, the 1982 version with Anthony Andrews and Jane Seymour and they fit, making the jump from book to film to fit the image in my mind.

Climbing has been peripheral lately. My body is tired. I'm sick, still fighting off a sore throat and now stuffy nose for two weeks now, and it's getting me down.

And I don't have a project.

That's the void in my life. The next step.

I just finished Climbing Free by Lynn Hill, and the lesson I gleaned from her hard-climbing carefree life was to find a mentor to carry me to my next project. She relied on her man friends, first John Long to encourage and support her, then Russ ____(whatever his name is), her husband, etc. She listened when they said, "you should do this" and she did it.

Did she ever have ideas of her own? The book struck me as being written by 'we' the whole time and I have to confess I wondered where Greg Child's expertise came in, there were so many cliches and highschool transitions. I'm not here to criticize. Climbing Free is a compelling story, if incomplete, and it provides insight to Lynn's level of commitment and focus, her motivation and skill at climbing, her single-mindedness that makes her so good at the physical, and so human in the rest of her life. I suspect she's socially awkward. It's hard to be focused and fit in.

I know a few climbers like that. They're not all good, but since climbing is a common bond, climbers will forgive a lot, put up with personality quirks and more often, voids. Climbing fills that void, that small talk edge so many people learn to cultivate. Climbers don’t small talk, they talk about climbing. It’s simple, it simplifies, and fills the void.

This week’s forecast is all about snow. Snow and climbing don’t generally mix.

Suggestions for inspiration, anyone?

Take a Powder, I think, will be the next route to try. Onsighting is too much of a buildup, I’ve decided that projecting is much less of an expectation for me and it could lead to several good things. One, the first attempt will always be an onsight attempt. Two, the discipline of projecting something. Three, trying and falling will be good for my head. Four, this will help build my hard route experience base. There are all kinds, you know. Also, I learned you can set up Sunshine Dihedral from Take a Powder, and I’ve been wanting to hop on that since…Wartley’s.

I have an inkling...

I have an inkling

Of how difficult this 5.14b thing is going to be.

On Tuesday I went out with Paul. He’s a sport climber, strictly in it for the physical satisfaction, the longer the route the better, so we started on Morning Glory before anyone else got to the park. I was done climbing quicker than I’ve ever been done.

After warming up on 9 Gallon Buckets and Overboard, Paul walked his 70m cord to the base of Churning and squirreled up Churning Sky, as smoothly as if he were running laps. He probably has. My mistake was to watch him and compare. As Chris (another Bend newbie and no slouch of a climber himself) filled me in, the locals have probably done these routes 50 times, and Brian the Scotsman (definition of local is this ragged friend, willing to put up about anything and complement it with blow by blow beta) says he has been to the park three to four thousand times.

E Gads.

I don’t repeat routes. I hardly project. My last proj was an onsight for cryin out loud!

I gotta come up with a system so I don’t get sick of the optimist. I’ll work To Bolt to get myself ready, then head out to the marsups for some serious tries.

I struggled up Churning in the Wake then Kings of Rap, and finally Darkness at Noon before the hamburger that used to be my fingertips took control of my senses. It was hardly two o’clock and I couldn’t climb anymore.

I struggled. I panted. I sweated. I felt like cursing. I tried really hard. Paul only gave me beta when I hung out a long time. Part of that was the lack of fitness, stamina, endurance.

None of the moves on Churning or Darkness were that hard. They just kept coming, that’s all. Same with Kings, except it had better rests. I spent more time hanging than on the wall than climbing, and lost count of the number of times I peeled off. Linking…sounds too painful right now. I need time to think about these routes, feel out if I really want to do them. As my climbing level increases, these will feel more mainstream, not so much of a stretch to add to my circuit.

Like the locals have.

But I don’t want to become one of the high school crowd.

Paul joked to Chris that they should have a scale at the base of the trail to determine if you were allowed to climb or not. Chris is fit, and solidly built. He’s been pulling holds off classic routes left and right since he arrived at Smith in November. Brian nicknamed him The Quarryman. He takes the ribbing well. He has a lot of respect for the locals. The locals have no respect for the rock. Jaded, Esther called it. Critical, it sounds like

I don’t need it, don’t know if I can handle this shit in order to achieve my goal. Need I find a new climbing partner? Esther volunteered belays, so has Wayne. I wonder what it’ll take to go out with Logan.

The thing is, I love having a ropegun to put up the hard lines I’ve never been on before. Churning and Kings and Darkness gave me a taste of the struggle to come, left me with throbbing souvenirs at the ends of my fingers, an ache in my muscles reminiscent of Crux bouldering sessions, and an inkling of my potential.

All smiles

Disclaimer: This is a completely self-indulgent blog. Read at your own risk of disgust. And enjoy!

Climbing! What’s next?

I’ve taken a few days off, working and feeling sore when I wake until I wrap myself around a cup of coffee and allow the caffeine to jumpstart my mind and muscles.

I’m reading Lynn Hill’s Climbing Free, her memoir/autobiography. The stories are exciting and provide insight into early climbing years, giving the big names like John Long, John Yablonski, Warren Harding and other classic crazies real personalities, quirks that make them real people, like hearing about nicknames and their fireside stories and what they’ve turned into now. I imagine Lynn (they used to call her Lynnie!) hanging out awkwardly amongst these literal and figurative giants, the teenage prodigy looking for her niche, and I identify with that. We all look for our niche, and some of us are lucky enough to find it in the climbing community. I wonder now if there’s still a dirtbag community in Yosemite, and I remember that yes, there is, they work in the lodge as servers, I’m working with one now.

My climbing community has changed over the years, and I’ve grown more comfortable in the midst. Part of that is growing up and becoming comfortable in my skin, no longer relying on my climbing ability to prove myself. I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve realized I climb for myself, to satisfy myself.

Unless I’m climbing with an unfamiliar partner and he’s climbing really hard stuff. Then I feel like I have to show that I’m hardcore too, because I’m a woman, because I despise the crag girlfriend, because I live to shatter the female stereotype. Then I’ve got something to prove.

It’s a good thing this blog is just for me, since the above contradicts itself right and left. Your problem, not mineJ

The reason I picked up Climbing Free was for inspiration. If Beth Rodden had a book out, I’d read that and hope there was a section on The Optimist. But she doesn’t, despite her English degree (Tommy, we know who writes your articles), so I look to climbing’s greats that are old enough for memoirs. Suggestions for who’s next? I’ve got Joe Simpson’s Touching the Void, but I think that will be pretty quick – if you’ve seen the movie, how much more could there be?

This week is exciting for several reasons: I’ve got two solid climbing days lined up, I’ve got a new hat design in the works and a pair of glovelets halfway done, I’m reading climbing history and literary classics (My Antonia), AND,

Nate and Shan are coming to visit this weekend!!!

Can you not tell how excited I am? Maybe you can. I’ll let you into a little piece of my brain: Nate and Shan are coming and maybe Morgan to and they’ll get here on Saturday night so we’ll meet at the pub and I’ll get to introduce them around – who will be there? Kurtis and JC and whoever’s working the door and we’ll sit at the Lbar and drink a beer and maybe have an app and I’ll be smiling so hard my face will hurt and do I want to invite anyone else to come or do I want to have these guys all to myself to start with? Maybe later that night, we’ll head back to my place and make some dinner, maybe we’ll have a huge house dinner since Kaylie’s friends will be in town too and we’ll all drink a lot of beer and fill up our house with light and noise and cooking smells and the neighbor lady might or might not yell at us it probably depends on how drunk she is and maybe our neighbors will come over, depending on what happens at the Valentine’s Bonfire.”

This is what’s going thru my head right now. Every minute I want to squeeze from these guys. I cannot wait!!! (There’s the three exclamation points again. Bad writing technique, I know, but effective).

I love having friends like these guys.

Goal, Accomplished

Reminder:

This blog is a record of my journey, set up for my use, my inspiration. What I put up here is personal, a part of the trip, not set in stone. I may think this one day, change my mind the next.

Am I really one of those wall rats down at Morning Glory? I don’t think so. I don’t fit into the high school mentality that perpetuates at the base, I was never one of those popular kids, and time hasn’t smoothed me over. My best bet is to be my amazing self, awkward and assuming and judgmental and full of nervous laughter, until I know these people, until I’ve found my niche amongst them or until I’ve completed my projects and gotten the hell out. Right now I’m not sure I want to endure the ‘fitting in’ phase. Like I said, high school was painful enough.

Painful or not though, I’m on my way. On to my project. Projecting something? A daunting proposition for me, when my project this spring was to onsight Heinous Cling.

Yeah, that WAS my project. Until yesterday, when I was climbing with Paul Tomlinson, down in the Dihedrals, and I’d just done Latest Rage on TR and led Moondance and was looking around for the next route du jour and I was feeling mediocre, a little shaky, like I had to prove myself alongside this hardman whose project is Vicious Fish (5.13d), but I was climbing well, had the goal of scaring myself still to accomplish, since I hadn’t yet fallen.

Latin Lover was behind me, that slightly overhanging face lined with half-pad crimps that my book says I flashed on TR when I was 15. I should do that again, I thought. Paul also talked about Vision, a 5.12b arête beside Go Dog Go that sounded heavenly.

Just to my left sat Heinous, chalked pockets marking the way, the two rails like safe havens to recoup your focus for the next sequence. ‘Too hard,’ I thought, “I’m not ready, I don’t know my partner well enough, it’s too cold, I’ve sent all my projects on innocuous days like today. I don’t have any pictures of me on Wartley’s, or Magic Light or Overboard or Zebra Seam. Those were all unplanned too. No expectations.’

Paul finished cleaning Moondance and asked, “What’s next?”

I looked around, avoiding my proj now looming to my left (I’m not ready yet) and suggested Latin Lover.

“What about Heinous?” Paul came right out and said it. “You’re climbing well today.”

That was all he had to say. A little encouragement, and I said, “OK. I’ll do it.”

You can’t think too much about these things. Standing at the base, tied in and balancing in my trusty Katanas, I looked at the starting holds, then focused on a wrinkle in the rope bag, relaxing my shoulders and stomach, breathing out the anxiety and expectation of onsight. Relax, I told myself. Enjoy the climb, feel the movements, be in the moment, be present, feel the moves, enjoy the climb, I repeated as I breathed out my anxiety, relaxing my muscles and drawing into myself. I closed my eyes and felt the emptying out of my mind, wondered how to get there the next time. Paul was silent.

When the anxiety had faded to a quiet ticker tape, when the emptiness took over and I couldn’t simplify any more, I looked at the starting holds, checked my knot, and said, “I’m through two and double-backed.”

“I’ll spot you.”

I started on pockets and the crack, looking carefully for feet, conscious that falling at the beginning was no beginning at all, and truly feeling the solidity of the holds and my fingers in them. I breathed and placed my feet, grateful for the blunt numbing cold that I’d cursed and tried to windmill out of my fingers minutes before. I ratcheted my left hand up the crack to a worse hold, scrambled for a foot while my right hand still held a pocket at my shoulder, said fuck it, and went for the top of the crack. With that much chalk, it had to be good.

A daring opening move that set the tone for the rest of the route. I tried to be smart, take rests where I needed them, not chalk too much (damn gym habits) map out my sequence before I committed. I was in it at the first bolt, focused on scoping chalked holds, feeling the deep pockets, the clean moves, kicking myself for never having been on the route. Classic! It screamed, Beautiful line! I wouldn’t mind working this, I thought.

I breathed chalk, got the particles in my eye, blinked through it, forgot. I looked ahead at the maze of pockets and edges, focusing on the moment, deciding which way to go, what’s my best bet? My fingers patted a mediocre pocket, reached above and hit another sloping edge. I downclimbed to rethink the sequence, keep myself safe, not pump out. With two fingers slotted into the well-chalked pocket, I hung out and dipped compulsively, considering my options and the pump building in my forearm. I had to go.

Feet. It’s all about the feet, I reminded myself. Use ‘em, get ‘em high, trust ‘em. Breathe.

“Climb smart!” Came at me from below, and I went. Precise movements, trust in the holds and the pattern that emerged of two bad holds, one good. Feel the moves and go, focus on the movement, the present moment, don’t look ahead, don’t think ahead, BE.

I breathed and moved my right hand to the pocket, crimped the slopey edge with my left, and relying more on skin friction than grip strength, I back-stepped my right foot, found a potato chip for my left and feeling wholly into the movements, I realized I was through the crux as I reached easily for the left-slanting ledge that had to be the end.

I did it. I was 10 feet above the last bolt, had another 10 to go before the next, and another 20 to finish the route. It was too soon to scream, to yell, to smile. I focused on each move, on placing my feet, making careful movements and planning the sequence. Breathe.

“Hell yeah!” I whooped when I reached the anchors, then told Paul I was going for the full Heinous, like I promised Logan. “I figure I have enough rope to clip the second draw,” I called down.

Paul just said ok as I went for it. I climbed a little above the first bolt, to a pocket sequence that ended with a desperate lunge for a hold too far away, and took a 15-foot whip that elicited an involuntary scream. On the ground, Paul said with a grin, “I had to be quiet when you said you were going to the second bolt.”

He knew I wouldn’t make it past the first one. I didn’t expect to either, but this was a way for me to get scared for the day, acclimatize to pushing and falling.

Goals accomplished: Get scared and Onsight Heinous. Check.

It didn’t hit me until I began writing about it. Last night I barely told Esther, and spent the night cooking and watching Mr. Skeffington, an old black and white flick I picked up at the library. I did a freewrite in bed before sleeping, then awoke at 6:30. This morning I sweated as I poured out the drama onto the screen, more full of adrenaline than when I did the route. I wanted to stay home and write rather than climb.

Warning:

Climbing is an addiction. Witnessed by the faithfuls at Morning Glory wall each weekday, lapping the same lines, spraying the same shit, reaching for that next hold, complaining of the grease and the heat and sore muscles, these men and women bring their lives to the crag because the crag is their life.

I am one of those.

I’m not proud.

But I can’t help it – a day without climbing isn’t a day for me. Even an hour at the gym redeems me, renews me, recenters my focus, my happiness, helps me be content for a while. This doesn’t feel right, this dependence on movement. Is it right?

Primal beat

Bouldered 1hr at gym, listened to Erik B and Rakim on my ipod, which made it slightly more bearable. Walked to Tumalo falls and worked at 4p. I’m compiling a list of climbing music, but so far Erik B is as far as I’ve gotten. I’ll probably add some Sublime, some Rage, and start looking for some suggestions. The collection begins. No pull-ups on the RR today.

An activity log, a food log – input and output records, something to look back on to track my progress. Is there a website you can link to for this? I’ll have to look into it. Right now I keep track on my timeslip at work. Not a long-term solution. As for other things on my mind…

Climbing climbing climbing – like the message in the Matrix, this word repeats unbidden in my thoughts, a flash into my psyche before it’s crowded out by daily operations. It always reappears, sometimes in print form (times new roman) and more often as a primal beat, a blinking neon sign, short lived and forceful, leaving a puzzling aftertaste that hints at something – could it be a greater something? It is open to my interpretation.

Climbing climbing climbing comes and goes, popping through my thoughts like a whale breaching, presenting itself plainly, a moment of clarity, then disappearing, allowing the sea of my everyday thoughts to replace it. The word comes always in threes, sometimes with urgency, never with an accompanying thought or memory or reason behind it. Why is this here, what does it mean, what am I supposed to do with it? I know I’m obsessed and I welcome the singleminded focus I haven’t had the luxury of experiencing since high school. I’m willing to go with it, hell, I want this, I want this to take over my life and my thoughts – who knows when I’ll have the motivation or the opportunity again? There are so many other things out there vying for time and attention, it’s so easy to get caught up in the life grind until your life is fresh ground every day – all in bits and pieces, where does it all go? Not so easy to track. With a focus, you can track it, watch the progression, not spread yourself too thin.

Does anyone else here see the resemblance to peanut butter? Me, I want a chunky lifestyle with just enough butter to hold it all together. Time to pay the bills, go to work, and the majority left for fun. In my case, climbing. So many people are happy with a creamy existence where everything rolls right off the knife, no resistance, no crunch. Before you know it, the whole jar is gone and you can’t even remember where you spread it.

Snowball Effect

I was in the gym, working a problem with Logan and when he asked all casually, “So, what are your projects this spring?”

“Onsight Heinous Cling,” I blurted proudly, with temerity, and he asked “full Heinous?” I shook my head ruefully, not daring to go all the way.

“But you’ll keep going if you onsight the first pitch, right?”

“Hell, yeah,” I said forcefully, as if I was really saying you’d have to be an idiot not to. “You’d have to be an idiot not to.”

I turned the question back to him; “what are you working this spring?”

He smiled up at me from his lounging position on the crash pads and said, “To Bolt or Not To Be has some heinous crimpers on it. I’ve been on it. And Villain.”

I knew he’d sent Scarface last fall. This seemed a logical progression. Later, I looked up Villain in the Smith Guide. It certainly wouldn’t be my choice for a .13d.

As long as we were on the topic of projects, I forged on with my own: “What I’ve really been thinking about is The Optimist,” I said, and rushed on, “but it’s so far out it’ll be hard to find a climbing partner for it.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve been thinking about Just Do It, that’s a pretty long hike too. We can be belay buddies.”

I smiled awkwardly, thinking there’s no way I’m in the same league as this guy. He’s talking about Villain, one of the hardest cruxes in the park, and To Bolt, an uncontested 5.14a!

Before I thought too hard, I stuck out my hand and said, “Let’s shake on it. We’ll work our projects together this spring.”

And he put his hand out, reached up from the mat, and I put my hand down and we shook in a warm and insincere kind of way, a forced pact that meant nothing more than what I would put behind it. If anything’s going to come of this, it’s got to be from me, pushing for it, and feeling worthy of climbing with him. I’ll make that decision when I’m ready.

An Unexpected Outcome

Smith Rock creates its own ecosystem. The rock rises three or four hundred feet from the river, far above the plateau that surrounds it. By creating its own ecosystem, I mean it’s usually ten degrees warmer at Smith than in Bend, or Redmond or even Terrebonne. When I headed out last Friday with Esther from a fog-socked Bend, I expected the usual sauna phenomenon.

No such luck.

We’re experiencing an inversion, after which the delicious Deschutes IPA is named. Unfortunately, the reality downright sucks. You have to go high for sunshine, and Smith is lower than Bend. Smith will be keeping the fog for a while.

So as not to make the trip a total loss, we decided to scope out the Marsupials for better days, and give our dogs some exercise. The fog stayed thick all the way around and up and into the Marsups, as we scoped Koala and headed over to Brogan’s Spire, Delerium Tremens and what’s this? The Optimist?

I set my water bottle down for this one. I stepped up to the starting edges, ran my fingers over slick rock, not solid enough for a double-redpoint attempt by the husband and wife team. It’s a good thing the arête still waited to go free on the Monkey.

The climb scales the line of an almost-dihedral – it’s shallow and overhanging, without visible holds except for the pin scars when this was an aid route. The bolts are uncharacteristically (for Smith) closely spaced and almost clippable off the ground. To the right of the route are a couple of bolted lines, probably Beth’s warmup.

Standing back, I take it in, the graceful arc to the left ending below the great roof – is this the right route? I smile at Esther, giddy, goofy with enthusiasm, optimism. I feel it. This is my route. I can see myself doing these moves, pouring my soul into this line.

What does it take to climb 5.14b?

This is what I’m going to find out.