Yosemite!

When I returned from Indian Creek, I came back to a new set of BD cams that I felt compelled to use at Smith. However, I didn’t feel compelled to climb at Smith after experiencing the euphoria of the Creek, the perfection of the cracks, the ease of placements… So Nina and I hopped on White Satin, a Smith classic. Two pitches of sport capped by a shortie dihedral (5.9) that would be a perfect initiation for my new gear.

The route was more of a reminder of why I’m moving to Yosemite. Crumbly rock, sharp nubbins, run-out exposed first bolts and a dirty crack at the top that did not take cams but ate up every nut I brought. I left disheartened, afraid my love for Smith (carefully cultivated over the last decade) was obsolete. I felt jaded, like the Morning Glory crew who use Smith like an outdoor climbing gym, who call the Gullies the Gutter, who’ve done all the routes under 5.12d over fifty times.

So I left Smith afraid I’d never want to come back, and for the next week I felt disloyal. I knew there was a place in my heart for this crumbly choss pile, but compared to what I’d been climbing…I didn’t climb for a week and a half. Didn’t really miss it either. My body was still recovering from the Creek, my mind taken up with packing, saying goodbye, logistics, boring travel stuff, exciting plan-making.

Then I went out for a last hurrah, down to the Gorge with Nathan and Marco - Corvallis crew. You gotta love the Gorge; it’s the closest thing Smith has to quality rock, the closest equivalent to Creek standards. At the Creek I sent a 5.10+ and a couple of .11-‘s. In the Gorge, the hardest I’ve sent is 5.10b. Seriously.

Driving out to Smith for the last time, it felt like last summer. My windows down, my music pumping, I was sweating until I dropped below the rim of the Gorge and the blessed shade took over. So few people climb there, it’s a different world, like the Land of the Lost. I descended into the lushness, listened to the startling sound of a waterfall, looked for the familiar red shorts of Nathan, for Marco’s smile, and I was home. I wasn’t feeling so sure of myself or my climbing, but Marco led Pet Cemetery, and I said to myself, “fuck it. It’s my last day at Smith and I want to climb, see where I stand. I know I’m placing good gear, I know I can climb these routes, I’ve got a good belayer, and I don’t want to leave with any regrets.”

Bloodclot, here I come.

For the first time at Smith, I preferred sticking my hands and feet into the crack. Obviously I’ve reached a new level with my crack climbing (this is said in a pompous air with a head waggle and raised eyebrows).

I was afraid I wouldn’t make it. The thought of falling on my gear spurred me to place more, where I could, to climb carefully, to breathe. I was scared. I breathed a lot. You could say I huffed. I wasn’t sure if I would make it, but I took it one move at a time and I don’t remember much of the route, just snatches where I had to pause and work out a sequence, or the place I was convinced I was coming off.

Two goals accomplished: I got scared and I redpointed Bloodclot. I’ve still got reasons to return to Smith – The Optimist not being the least. But I’ve got a lot of exploring to do, experience to gather, my heels to kick up, and Yosemite is one hell of a jumping off point.

Will I come back to Bend? It has a pull for me, an attraction I’m not willing to give in to. It feels like it could be permanent and I’m still branching out, my roots aren’t ready to go deep yet. I’m in the Ponderosa stage, not yet a Juniper.

Something I’d like to clear up before I go:

The relationship between me and E. It could be that I read too much into her behavior, because apparently in that first week she was annoyed with Beth being so close as well, so she acted standoffish to everyone. It was still a good lesson for me – on two counts. One, not to assume everything is about me, and two, how to give space and preserve a relationship. We had a fun time together, and I’ll have to admit, we meshed well considering the tight quarters. But, both E and I learned about our road trip styles, and I don’t know that E will choose to have a road trip buddy in the near future. I can’t say I blame her. It’s so much easier to do exactly what you want, when you want, when it’s just you. Compromise…it’s overrated.

Just Say Yes

I’m ready to start saying YES. Yes to myself and what I really want. It’s easy to hold down the ‘no’ button, but Yes brings optimism and possibility, Yes invites inquiry, Yes is an opening to start something. I keep a notepad with me most of the time, and most of the time it’s an ongoing To-Do list, but sometime I write personal notes. “Just Say Yes” pops up a lot, and I’m ready to make the change. I wanna check out my possibilities in writing, explore what I might be good at, and shear off those preconceived notions of what a writer does and how she does it.

Speaking of which, I found the world’s coolest blog. Check out this personal treatise on YES, and see if you can resist reading the rest. http://glutenfreegirl.blogspot.com/2006/10/yes.html

Creek Lessons, Part Deux

This trip to Indian Creek helped me define a lot of my expectations. I have high expectations of myself, and equally high expectations of others, and that’s not fair. As I keep reminding myself (thank you Dan, for this lesson on the impossibility of equality between anyone, much less you and me) I am like no one else, therefore, I cannot compare myself to anyone else. My abilities are mine alone and while I may be able to climb the same routes as say, Beth Rodden, I climb them in my own way. When Jeff showed me the picture of Joi (pronounced Joey) on Soul Fire in the Patagonia catalogue, there was no rationale for my jealousy except I was comparing myself. The cool thing about Jeff is the way he is inspired by other people’s success – the day we went to the Cat Wall, Jeff had his heart set on sending Johnny Cat(5.11+). He’d even set aside a bottle of wine to celebrate. He was super quiet on the approach and on the warm-up route (which, by the way, I never would have hopped on if he hadn’t been there. Thanks for the confidence and inspiration, Jeff), and even though I tried to get him to crack a smile, he wasn’t listening to me. His mind was on the route already.

Jeff insisted I use a grigri; he didn’t want to take a grounder. I’m always hyper-conscious when I belay big people, but I can understand – this route takes smaller gear and it’s hard. It’s a perfect splitter that goes for about 70 feet, ending just below a roof. The thing is, it starts simply, ring-locks with footholds, and then the feet disappear and you’re left with ring locks for eight painful, power-sapping feet, until you get the killer hand jam that saves your life and you clip the anchors.

I didn’t know any of this when I belayed Jeff. He just quietly racked up, pulled the blocky face moves to the beginning of the crack (15 feet of unprotected slopey jugs) and started up. He moved slow and fell early, fell again, finally ending up aiding the top where it gets so dang hard. Not an auspicious start for this route he was saving a bottle of wine for.

At the base we met a Dave and Jeff (I’ll call him J2 to keep him separate from Jeff) from Colorado, who’d made the 8-hour drive specifically so Dave could send Johnny Cat. They waited for us, chatted with Jeff, cheered him on through his falls. Then Dave hopped on and sent, just like that.

Jeff hopped around the base, cheering, grinned and said, “Nice job, man. I’m living vicariously through you right now.”

It struck me that were it me, I’d feel the sting of competition with this other person and a little jealousy. Were it me, I’d congratulate, then get the hell out and hope never to see these people again. That’s just me and my irrational, emotional jealousy. Jeff proceeded to make friends - invited them to share his campsite that night, asked what they were up to for the rest of the trip…later we headed around the corner and found them on Puma (5.11+ finger crack), and cadged a ride on that stellar line.

I think I’ve got something to learn from Jeff. I keep reminding myself, but there’s nothing like an example to set me straight. Where Soul Fire is probably a warm-up for Joi, it’s a stretch for me. My logical side says it’s cool as hell to see a strong woman firing such a beautiful line in a Patagucci catalogue, but I feel jealous of her ability compared to mine.

What does it take to stop the comparisons?

One, seeing Jeff experience failure and revel in Dave’s success helped me to see my own senseless (read: emotional) response to Joi’s success.

Two, seeing my own success affect how other people feel. I wonder if E compares herself to me when we climb together. I was more motivated to climb this trip whereas she was in vacation mode. We climbed the same routes and our successes were different. I’ll admit, I wanted to be better than her. I also reassured her when she didn’t do as well as me. If she’d sent harder than me, how would I be reacting? Would I be jealous, would it be another bone of contention between us? I don’t know. It’s not often I get to climb with strong female climbers. The thought of climbing with Joi stresses me out. What if she thought I was stronger than I am? What if I couldn’t live up to her expectations of me as a strong climber? The fear of disappointing my climbing partner pushes me harder than anything else. It’s one of those things I’m working on.

**

When I came back from France, (after gaining 15 pounds of cheese weight) I went to the Crux a couple of times to play around. Kimball saw me, said hi, then said he expected me to be pulling a lot harder than I was, since I’d just been in France.

I didn’t go back to the gym after that.

**

I climb because I love it, and I climb hard because pushing myself is what I get a kick out of. I love coming home so tired I can only speak in monosyllables, waking up feeling every aching muscle and wondering how I’m going to move, and discovering those muscles I never knew existed. I love stretching myself on a route, trusting every part of my body to do its job so I can make a move and keep moving until I clip the anchors.

When I hopped on Soul Fire for the second time, I didn’t feel particularly strong. At the base I told myself to focus on the present, not to think too much, and to move quickly. Halfway up the route, I still wasn’t feeling strong, and I felt scared. But I kept going, kept moving, and while my body complained about being tired, I focused on conserving energy, making large moves and finding locker handjams I couldn’t fall out of to place gear from. Fifteen feet from the anchors, I was sure I couldn’t hang on any longer. I made a deal with myself to keep moving and to take the whip if that’s what happened. The next time I looked up, I was two moves from the anchors. It surprised me, but I kept moving and somehow clipped from the thin-hand jam and I was done. I’d sent Soul Fire on an off day.

After I sent the route, I though a lot about Joi on Soul Fire and about the other strong women climbers I’d met at the Creek . Everything is hard, and you have to be tough to send, which demands a higher skill level, an extreme fitness level. I came to the Creek with high expectations that only got higher the longer I stayed, the more in love I fell with the place. I realize that for my first time there, I adapted very well and my trip should be regarded as a success. In comparison to Creek veterans, I was a baby and I wanted to shoot past that stage. That’s me, I want it all.

Fortunately, the Creek had a lesson for me. What I expect and what I get are two different things, in climbing and in life. If I want to be open to growth, I need to recognize my expectations and modify or ignore them, so that I can take whatever lessons are out there.

Reflecting Pool

I feel…like I’ve been getting away from my purpose in this blog. I still write and think and talk about climbing all the time, but doing something about climbing The Optimist seems very far away.

My point in starting the blog in the first place was to write about climbing in the context of training for this climb. Ironically, the more I climb, especially in new places, the less compelled I feel to do this route, since there is so many beautiful, doable lines out there. Besides, if I finished it, what would I do then? Become a sponsored climber? Quit climbing? Once I complete such a grandiose goal, it sends me into outer space. I feel lost and float without purpose. This is why I don’t like finishing things, it leaves a hole in my life I’m not sure how to fill. I know, realizing this is the first step to dealing with it, but if ya’ll have advice as to how I can start finishing more of my work (written pieces especially) send it along – what do you do to finish things?

However, this blog is accomplishing a lot for me and my climbing. I climb a lot. I give voice to my obsession, accept it as a part of my life, a necessary balance, and use climbing analogies to process the rest of life. Sometimes you get shortroped, sometimes you have great days you live off of for the next week.

On a completely different note, I leave for Yosemite in one week, to live for the summer and make my life from there – who knows where I’m going next. I’m excited to be free to make my own mistakes, take chances, to explore a great park, meet some motivated climbers, and see what the possibilities are out there for me. It’s exciting and scary as hell, just the way I like to keep my life. Remind me of this when I’m bitching about being lonely or bored this summer. Remind me I’m out here to stretch myself, scare myself a little, discover myself and that it’s not going to be easy. Remind me, ‘cause I forget sometimes to remind myself.

Beginner's Guide to Survival at the Creek

One: Just Tape It. You want to be able to climb for more than one day, right? Well, until you learn how to get the perfect jam that doesn’t tithe a layer of skin to the rock, cover that flesh with the white stuff. It’s worth it, and when you fall in love with the Creek, you can contemplate all the hardcore nuts who scorn tape and maybe you will too. The first day I didn’t tape adequately and got a gobie that lasted the entire two weeks that will probably scar. I don’t know who said this (help me out here Jeff) but scar tissue doesn’t grip as well as regular skin. Think skin preservation – whatever it takes.

Two: Take adequate rest days. I mean really rest and don’t do anything. Every two days. I started by climbing three days in a row and I think it wrecked me for the rest of the trip – my ankles and shoulders never recovered and I always felt like I was playing catch-up. Two days off in a row would be even better, especially for long trips, if you can stop yourself from swimming up the perfect cracks for that long. Of course, if it hurts to walk, that could be a deterrent. Well, not much of one. See number five.

Three: Eat a lot of protein, ‘cause you’ll be building muscle. Drink a lot of water because you’re in the desert. Drink a lot of beer because that’s what you do after climbing and you probably need the calories anyway. Plus, Utah beer might as well be a sports drink for the buzz it provides. But, plan for the protein. It’s all I craved when I came home from the crag.

Four: Don’t look at the ratings, look at your hands. It all depends on your personal hand size here, because the cracks are rated to a man-sized hand. A lot of the tens, especially the super-classic Supercrack are too big for my hands and equate closer to off-widths than hand cracks, which ups the grade to .11+ or more, especially if there’s a roof (T-Bones Tonight comes to mind, a .12- fist crack through a roof that would be like .13- for me). But, the wonderful perfection of a thin-hands crack that’s rated .11- and fits me so well that getting to the top is not about if I can do the moves but if I’m fit enough to make the same move for 100 feet. Sometimes I am, sometimes not. Pente, an uber thin-hands classic, was a super challenge (I also did it my first day before I had much practice at crack technique) to huff up on toprope, but Soul Fire was so deliciously perfect that all I had to do was concentrate on moving and breathing until I was at the top. Well, that wasn’t all I had to do, I also had to forget how much pain I was in between my stretched ankles and bruised backs of hands.

Five: Move beyond the pain. After the first day climbing, you will ache. Unexpected areas will hurt, like the muscles between your thumb and forefinger or your Achilles tendon in addition to your shoulders, neck, lats, forearms, calves, thighs (where did those bruises come from?), soles of your feet, and of course, ankles. The first route of the day will feel like you’re being put on the rack and your body will sag, trying not to put weight on those stretched-out ankles but the route will intensify, you’ll have to go for it, punch it to the anchors and all the pain is forgotten as you move with the route, snaking your rhythmic way (hand, hand, foot, foot, repeat) to the top of it. An experienced Creek climber knows that success is about the technique as much as your strength.

Six: Make big moves. In order to make it to the top of a 100+ foot route, you must keep moving, and the bigger the moves, the fewer you have to do, the less time you spend pumping out. Instead of shuffling your feet up a lieback, make big steps, so you can do the same with your hands. It might be more powerful, but you get to a good rest or the top quicker. No hesitation allowed. Same with a splitter. Make big moves – motor!

Seven: Don’t be afraid to try a route that might be over your head. You can always aid to the top. Trust me, I’ve seen it, I tried it out myself on The Inhabitants, a 5.11 thin hand crack that looked great until I got on it and from the get-go fell, hung or pulled on every single piece I placed. I aided through the crux at the bottom, Elvis-legged through the OW-for-me middle part and ran it out at the end when I ran out of pro. All in all, a wonderful lesson for me in a)listening to other people’s advice (Jeff told me he hadn’t been able to get through the bulge last year and he wasn’t getting on it this year), b)learning that ‘thin hands’ does not always mean ‘easier for Anchen,’ c)I can aid it if I can’t do it and d)I trust my gear to hold even more now, big and small stuff, and I pay more attention to my placements.

This is only the beginning. Tune in later for more reflections on the lesson of the Creek!

Me Be Like Me

Sunset on the Disappointment Cliffs
Me on a disappointing climb - but I learned a lot!
One of the many faces at Arches.

Now on to the good stuff...

OMG I am starving, like I’ve been for the last few days, the last two weeks. I wonder when this willy-nillly consumption of whatever I can get my hands on will stop? I’ve not been nearly as active as I’d like to be the last couple of days – driving home does that to you. To be honest, my body needed the break – waking up my last morning, I felt like I’d been beaten with Camalots in choice spots, (thighs, triceps, ankles, lower back) and watched my fantasy of climbing my last morning in the Creek vaporize like a bag of Kettle chips in the hands of climbers. Prisoner in my own body, won’t do what I tell it to…

Oh, rack it, I’m back. Back to the gray (weather, clouds, landscape). Everything has a pallor over it, a not-as-bright look to it, because of course I’m comparing everything to Indian Creek.

The other thing I’m missing here is Jeff. He was a constant topic as E and I returned whence we came, watching the rolling sagebrush give way to grassy rock outcrops and a barren beauty unique to Eastern Oregon. We analyzed his presence, the way he sparkled and lit up conversations, and I marveled at my lack of attraction to this perfect-on-paper climber. Shall I list the pros? One, he’s a psyched climber looking to push his limits, who doesn’t let injury or near-death falls (more on that later) modify his climbing style. Two, he helps people. He teaches 8^th-grade ESL in SanDiego to at-risk kids and loves it. Three, he appreciates good cooking and lets you know, every single time. You could say it’s his soft spot. He kept E and I in beers when we ran out; all we had to do was set out another plate for him at dinner. Four, he’s into books, stories, good authors, literary references and sharp wit. Five, he’s knowledgeable about what interests him. For example, he’s a surfer and I learned how waves work on our marathon 7-mile hike thru the Devil’s Garden in Arches. Six, he’s funny in a raunchy way but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Plus, he does great Borat impressions. Seven, he’s psyched on music and sharing his favorite bands with a know-nothing like myself. He will be missed – I feel like I’m writing an epitaph.

The cons to Jefe are that he lives in San Diego and there was no mutual spark, not even when we spent two days in town, wanting to climb a tower and unable to on account of the rain, which transforms sandstone towers into sandcastles. We followed a lightning storm and camped illegally at Ken’s lake, enjoyed a greasy diner breakfast and marveled at the sheer number of arches in Arches. Maybe I’m just not ready to be in a relationship and I refused to see him as anything but a dirtbag adventure partner. This is without any consideration for how he feels about me – I have no idea what he thought of me. In any case, it was wonderful to have such a surprising and fun presence mix up the trip.

On the way home E hatched plans to create an anthology of climbers on the road, collecting their stories, fact and fiction and maybe some poetry, photos and art, mix it up into a paperback dirtbag version and a color coffee-table version and it’s going to be called No Permanent Address. It’s E’s idea, but I helped brainstorm and I’ll contribute a story.

It’s so good to be encased in the road bubble where nothing else affects you except your immediate surroundings of the road, of the people you meet, the places you are that make you feel whole or highlight what you’re lacking. I imagine being on a roadtrip is like living in a portable bubble that floats across the landscape, touching down only to bounce farther along, getting stuck on a bush or trapped in a hand before rotating free to continue. Sure, you can get stuck for good and the bubble can burst, especially from a trip to town where you talk to real life, get the news good or bad from the last week or so and wish you hadn’t, find yourself back in the worry groove, the very one you tried to postpone with a road trip.

But there it is, The Future, surrounding my peaceful bubble, closing in on all sides.

I worked through it, worked really hard to put it away until I came home, but the Creek didn’t feel the same and my body was all give-out, tired and unreliable for the last week.

I wanted to do more, be more, climb more, socialize past my ability of conversation or coherence, party hard at night then wake before the rest for my walking meditation and coffee beneath the Bridger Jacks.

Possibly one of the coolest things about my trip was waking to light on the Bridger Jacks, watching it slide down the columns like a broken yolk, hit the talus slope all the walls balance on, and continue like an avalanche to the bottom. When this golden column loomed over camp, I knew it was time for everyone else to be up and I wandered through campsites, looking for early grunts and signs of life.

I wrote a lot in the early mornings, mostly advice to myself, lessons to reiterate until they stick (Assume and it'll make an Ass out of U and Me), ideas and encouragements, things like...

Trust myself

Believe in myself

Climb hard

Be persistent

Make an idea box to drop idea cards into.

Write a lot to get good

Don’t take it personally

Do it right the first time, put your all into the first go. Focus, be calm, let the rest of the world drop away. Love life. Live life.

Dare to follow your passions. Dare to invest the time in your passions. Dare to believe your dreams.

Believe in your own power, in your own compelling story, in your own ability to accomplish what needs to get done, and do it.

Be open and honest.

All good reminders for myself. Now that I'm home I want to maintain the momentum of being on the road.

Happy enforced rest day

– it rained last night, and I woke up to wet this morning and snow dusting on the tops of the walls. I walked down the road behind the Bridger Jacks while I awaited the campground’s awakening.

On one hand, waking so early is a blessing; I get so much more time than other people to get ready for the day. I walk, I write, I revel in the quietude of a wild place before the interference of radios, of camp-to-camp calls, of breakfast and bathroom sounds (Jeff…), of the conglomeration of life that starts up late and ends late.

Today I woke up hungry. As part of my new ‘good partner’ policy, I don’t start coffee until E’s up and dressed. And since I’m not Little Miss Sunshine in the mornings, making friends in other campsites who might give me coffee in the mornings is out of the question. As if cracking a smile that early is an option.

Lately I’ve been thinking of what’s next. Really, all that time I had to spend in Moab (2 cabin-feverish days) made me think of what I’ve got coming up, all the uncertainty I’ve set myself up for, what with quitting Deschutes and moving to…Zion? Yosemite? The Grand Canyon? Bishop? The more I think about it, the less sure I feel about it. I want to explore Zion, but already it’s tourist season and I’m afraid of all the people, and the heat. I don’t want that to destroy the magical feeling I get from the place, so I may preserve that for the winter…

I have too many options, not enough decision making power. What’s worse (and my present dilemma) is that my body is betraying me – I don’t feel stronger for all the climbing I’ve done, I just feel tired, achy, sore, and wonder what’s wrong and why my body won’t do what I want. I feel like I’m learning all the climbing skills here; hand and fist jams, finger locks, thin hands, foot jamming, laybacking, how to gun it, when to rest. I’m modifying my climbing style and taking lead falls but my body is giving out on me. On Soul Fire, I just couldn’t climb anymore, and the same thing happened yesterday on The Inhabitants, a 5.11 thin hands (granted, not all thin hand cracks are created equal, as E will attest to as well) that started with an overhang. I simply couldn’t. I pulled or hung on every piece I placed, which was good for my head, but wrought havoc on my body. Urgh. Halfway up my right leg shook like I was singing “Blue Suede Shoes” and I had the wrong size cams for everything. After today I’m wondering where I’ll be with the cracks, what I’ll be capable of. It’s never happened that my body’s capabilities have deserted me so utterly.

I have two days of Indian Creek cracks left to me. What’s next, how to spend it?

E’s jonesing to finish a route – she’s set on the Cave Route. I guess I am too - jonesing to finish something. I think of the wealth of cracks here, the projects I’m coming back to, all the beautiful routes I’ve tried, and what kind of satisfaction I want. I would be happy with visiting new cliffs; I’d also be happy sending Soul Fire and revisiting Battle of the Bulge buttress to try the namesake route that I was too chicken to touch before. I’m understanding that ratings don’t apply the same way here.

My head has gotten stronger on this trip – I’ve taken my first trad lead falls, I’ve pushed myself on some .11s, and I practiced my aiding on a route that was above my head, and I got to the end of it. I have a lot to be proud of, a lot to come back for, and a lot to train for next time, next year.

It’s not technically the end of my trip, but I’m wrapping things up in my mind, not staying in the present. I keep reminding myself to focus and be present, don’t think too much, relax and enjoy the now. I’m doing more reminding myself than any of the above, but I’ve still got two days to change that.

Jeff’s friend of a friend, Zak from Germany, has joined us, and Beth is gone. I met the author of newclimber.com, who’s a photographer in Boulder, CO, and you should check out the photos of his whirlwind weekend trip here. http://www.newclimber.com/gallery/indiancreek/index.html

You can see me climbing a dihedral with a yellow chalk bag on – pretty much the only pic there is of me climbing, which I’m working on changing. I got a Swiss guy, Tomas, to take pics of me on the .11 I flailed on. Very generously, he didn’t document the ‘French Free’ technique I employed to get to the top.

To distract ourselves from the disintegrating weather, the boys brought out the entertainment, and I noticed something -

There are two lives at Indian Creek – Crag life and Camp life. At the crag, you talk about the rest of life and repeat soundbites; yesterday at the Way Rambo wall, Jeff and Jackson, a climber with a group we met before, did impressions of Borat and Da Ali G Show, and when that ran out, told raunchy jokes (what’s the difference between a band of pygmies and a woman’s running team? One’s a bunch of cunning runts, the other’s a bunch of…ah, alliteration).

In Camp, you live life and talk about the crag. Last night we watched Da Ali G Show and Jeff picked up more material for our next day’s entertainment, and we talked about the lines we’d climbed. How does one climb the .75 top of Way Rambo? What do you do? Finger stacking? Is this how you do it? Jeff demonstrated and E copied him, questioning him as if she were beta-caching a route, making sure she had the technique right, because hell, that is the beta. It’s all about the technique.

I’m feeling melancholy despite the beauty and energy surrounding me. It all seems like a good dream about to end and I’m not ready. E told me to make friends with the van with Oregon plates down the way, which is enticing...And with the weather acting the way it is, it seems like I could be holed up in my tent or Jeff's truck watching City of God or more Borat.

So I'm telling myself: Appreciate the beauty around you. Focus on the present, be open and honest, and take advantage of your opportunities. That last lesson's from Cedar Wright, his philosophy he explained to me my first day climbing at the Creek. He's paid to climb, can't argue with that!

I Think I'm in Love

Esther and I have wordlessly worked things out. I’ve stepped back a little, gone into camping mode instead of plush van-life mode, which was a little too close for comfort for the both of us.

I’m sitting in the Mondo coffee shop in Moab after a not-quite big enough breakfast at the Jailhouse Café, where the motto is, “Good enough for your last meal,” contemplating what I’ll write for my blog to tell you all how this last week has been. Are there even words?

One: The Creek is social.

I am surrounded by people I’ve met this week. Here, at the cafe, Jeff, the surfer/8^th-grade ESL teacher from San Diego, sits across from me, showing me pictures he took of Esther on Soul Fire yesterday. Beside me sit Mike and Rob, two climbers from Las Vegas we climbed with a couple days ago. My first day in Indian Creek, Esther’s shoulder still hurt her so I bummed a ride with Sean and ended up at the same wall as Micah Dash, Cedar Wright and John Dickey, to drop a few names. They were working Less Than Zero, a .13- mixed trad route. I was lucky enough to climb with Sarah and Jimmy Haden, also very talented climbers, and got to hop on Pente and Wiggle Waggle, classic, hard cracks that served me as an introduction to Creek climbing.

Two: Everyone climbs hard.

This is T-Bones Tonight, a .12- overhanging roof crack that Andrew, one of Beth's friends, onsighted after he drove all night to get to the creek for a three-day weekend. I scour the Creek bible for .10- or thin hands and watch Beth or Jeff or some Canadian scamper up Slot Machine, a 5.12- 100+ foot dihedral – incredible and inspiring. Every day I see some amazing sends, and it inspires me to be that good. A good step on my way to the Optimist.

It’s working; I started by leading a 5.9, then The Cave Route, a thin hands .10+, and on my fourth day climbing, I led two routes – a .10+ called Tube Steak Tomorrow where I freaked and hung at the very beginning and took too much of a gear cue from Jeff, who’s 5’11” and likes to space it out. The other one, I TR’d first, a route called At Your Cervix, a 110’ 5.11- layback. Ohh, and now it gets embarrassing. I decided to lead it, racked up, had a strategy not to pump out before the rest above the roof and I was working it on lead, loving it, but I placed too much gear and just before the roof I grabbed the wrong piece, my left hand was pumping out and I chucked the cam instead of reclipping it back to my harness. Not to be outdone, I grabbed another, smaller one from the other side of my harness, placed it, climbed up to the rest and figured out I was out of the right-size gear with another ten feet to go before I could place again.

Stupid.

When I started thinking of the fall potential, I thought, don’t think too much and focused on relaxing, breathing, and what the next ten feet of route would be like, until I could place a piece.

I finished the route and was relieved to find out I’d dropped one of my own cams.

Three: People whip here. So I’m climbing harder, learning the Creek style and how to translate the guidebook from man-hands to mini-hands. Yesterday we hiked to the Optimator Wall and I tried to lead Soul Fire, another .11- thin-hands classic. I felt great, confident at the bottom, taking the stemming rests and loving the perfect hand jams, until I had to get into the crack. My ankles are killing me from jamming, they feel over-stretched or something, and standing on them made me question my sanity. I kept going, wanting the send, loving the jams, placing a #1 cam every time I stepped above the last one, and I didn’t take the route seriously enough. A couple feet above my last piece, 15 feet from the anchors, my hands and feet flamed out, and I took my first whip on lead. On trad.

The piece held. I’m still in one piece. And I went about 15 feet down to a nice, soft catch. I wasn’t even scared.

The thing I didn’t expect was the way I was so juiced I could hardly finish the route. I hung for what felt like forever and not long enough; when I finally got back on the route I climbed three feet, placed a piece, hung on it, climbed and placed two pieces and hung three feet below the anchor and stared at those anchor bolts shining in the sun, so close I could almost touch them because I just could not jam any more. It was ridiculous.

Four: Indian Creek works you. I was done climbing after one route yesterday. I didn’t want to be done, but I simply couldn’t anymore. Everything hurt. I’ve been lucky and haven’t gotten any gobies, the scrapes on the back of the hand when you peel out of a crack. OK, maybe one, but it’s nothing compared to the one I saw this guy, Chandler, get peeling off of Scarface, a sick, overhanging 5.11- classic. Half of the back of his hand was red, shiny and raw like skinned meat – and he finished the route.

According to Logan, you can climb every day here, but I try too many routes to take it easy enough to do that.

Five: Everyone is in love with climbing. That goes without saying here, but you hear people exclaim, “that’s so beautiful!” or “Ooh, look at the Bridger Jacks right now.” I’ve taken more sunset photos than anything else here, because I’m always at the base of a wall as the sun sinks behind the Bridger Jacks. I don’t mind hiking back in the dark, or cooking in the dark, for those last rays of sunlight on the last climb of the day.

The Rest Day That Almost Wasn’t

Seriously, I almost climbed four days in a row on my first trip to Indian Creek. What really happened is we had a rest day planned (and well-deserved, after three days of pretty hardy climbing in the sun, on long corners, up heinous finger and fist cracks) and then Beth,

one of Esther’s Creek friends from last year, wanted to do a tower on Bridger Jack

and invited me along. How could I refuse?

This was still the night before.

The first day at the Creek, E bailed with a hurt shoulder, and found me a set of hard-climbing partners who didn’t mind a tagalong. However much they said they didn’t mind, I felt like an outsider who didn’t belong. Partially because of my lack of experience and fitness (my first day at the Creek compared to these locals who’d been coming for years, who were working a 5.13-), and partially because I’m not sponsored and my entire life is not climbing with everything else in the peripheral. Later, after the day was done and I back to being myself instead of the uptight, tense, afraid of criticizm or of being criticizing wanna-be I felt like amongst the Giants, I realized how our perspectives differ. The are Climbers. What they do is Climb. In between they deal with life. I am a climber. I deal with life and then I climb.

The second day went better. E decided, with the added incentive of having a good friend around, that she had to climb, so we tagged along with Beth and Jeff

to the Scarface wall, which has some truly classic lines (what walls here don’t?) and I even got in a lead on some 5.9+ that felt awkward and burly and set my head back on straight. Meanwhile, Beth and Jeff started on .10+, allowing us to TR their lines as they moved on to bigger, longer cracks.

I made myself a pair of tape gloves that by the end of the day I’d reinforced twice and I still had raw skin, but no gobies. Taping seems to be a pride thing here, but I’m not too proud; I know my newbie status and that two weeks is not long enough for me to grow callus and improve my climbing fitness.

That’s what I’m learning it’s all about here, is efficiency and fitness. The cracks just keep going in the same size and you have to be confident and straightforward in your climbing so you can get to the top after making the same move 40 or 100 times, depending if the route’s 40 or 100 feet long. Thankfully the gear is easy to place and you just have to gauge the size and plug it in and hope the cam doesn’t walk or get wedged, and keep moving.

My climbing style’s changed since I got here. That efficiency I’m talking about? That’s my new focus, along with trusting my hand jams, finding the right cracks to fit my hands (‘thin hands’ in the book might as well say ‘Anchen hands’), trusting my foot jams (yes, I do wedge my feet into the crack and I love it, even though after day three of climbing my ankles are so stretched and sore I can’t trust them not to roll), breathing in sync with my movements, and not letting the grade of the route dictate what I believe I’m capable of. I’ve found my niche here and I can’t wait to get into it.

However. It takes two people to climb, and E and I have different expectations of climbing partners, apparently. I think I’m cramping her style, expecting to go climbing on a fairly regular schedule, looking to her to know a little about the Creek, but I also feel cramped. I came here with a partner for a reason – so I wouldn’t have to look for folks to climb with – but I’m realizing that I’m gas money and now that she’s here, she’d prefer if I didn’t hang around so much.

On the Road

So I wrote you guys a page and a half about climbing this weekend at Smith instead of leaving and Esther injuring her right shoulder on the first route and getting on the road right away and the smile that won’t leave my face despite chapped lips, but I figure I’ll just give you the short of it.

We’re in Moab, about to embark on a climbing journey into Indian Creek, where Esther is dreading the first-day pain and I’m blissfully unaware of it all, only happy to finally be climbing after three days rest and driving. Admittedly, the scenery has been beautiful, breathtaking, startling in its creativity, but I’m ready to settle down for a bit. My mind is numb from the wind rushing by at 65 mph (top speed for the van) and the hours of inactivity. Let’s move! I’m ready for a run, the one I committed to do every day for half an hour. E’s sold on it too, so we’re running buds, and we push each other to actually do it.

We’ll get to Indian Creek tonight (after a late start on Friday, three bags of chips, a six-pack of beer, close to 1000 miles, a detour to Springdale so I can check out jobs – there are lots it looks like – one run, three apples each, and mounting excitement to get to the creek so the adventure can begin) and we decided to start at the wall in between Supercrack and Battle of the Bulge. I forget the name, but it’s got moderates, E’s injured, so I’ll be leading tomorrow and I hear it’s hard.

What am I supposed to expect? Seriously…Indian Creek is supposed to be the crack climbing capitol of the world, should I take it for granted that I’ll get spanked? I want to think I’m at least a little prepared, that this will be fun for me, although today E did make me promise that I wouldn’t say I hated it after two days – “if you still hate it after a week, then you can say it.”

We’re off, me into the unknown, E back to fairyland, which she hopes will be as good as last year. Me, I know about those darn expectations, and I’m trying not to aim too high.