This year the heavy winter weather gave way to a long and wet spring laden with some of the most spectacular wildflowers. I spent most of that time in Bishop – bouldering and face climbing – gearing up for a summer spent in Yosemite. Early morning approaches and all day exertions are the tell tale signs of Valley climbing. In the last couple of months here I’ve had my fill of both.

At the end of March I attended the Red Rock Rendezvous  as one of the instructor athletes for La Sportiva. Ben Ditto and I did a bit of our own climbing there, making an ascent of the ultra-classic Levitation 29, in our spare time. This had me hungry for long routes after a winter spent mostly on the boulders. We returned to California in early April. Yosemite was still wet and snowy. Bishop was still perfect. There was some bouldering still to do and it was prime time for Owen’s River Gorge.

ben ditto photo

We spent our days getting in pitch after pitch of crimps and high steps, ticking off a few 13s and testing the bolts on others. We were feeling strong and primed for a summer season in Yosemite. As the spring rains died down in the Valley and my work season starting I made the trek over to the West (aka. the wet) Side of the Sierra. The waterfalls raged and granite walls loomed above. I felt incredibly small and lost among the tourist and rv’s. I wanted to get off the ground. I wanted to be on the granite walls, the ground sweeping away hundreds of feet below.

El Cap was packed. Team after team stretched themselves across the expanse of the granite sea. It looked wet, too. I told myself I wouldn’t be going up there this season; I would wait for the quieter one. When the chances of getting hit by paper bags filled with poo or some aid climbers dropped rack of nuts are way less. No, this summer my sights were set on Leaning Tower.

At the end of April my good friend Eric Ruderman and I made our maiden voyage on the free climbing of the West Face of the Tower. It was a rough intro to the route, for we were stuck behind an aid party. After two hours of sitting in my harness I finally reached the anchor at the end of the 200 foot bolt ladder. Eric jumared up to meet me. We would not be reaching the summit on this day and so instead took our time in getting to know the two crux pitches of the route. He and I made a couple of more trips up there towards the beginning of May and again in June. Ben Ditto joined us and there was talk of making a team of three ascent. But, it was getting hot and timing was going to be everything. And our separate lives were pulling us in different directions.

ben ditto photo

Eric returned to the coolness of the Santa Cruz ocean and Ben and I continued to sweat it out in Yosemite. We found ourselves seeking out the shady cliffs and making early morning treks up to obscure classics like Arrowhead Arete. We either woke before sunrise and hit the climbing before the sun cast it’s paralyzing spell or slept in and went out in the cooling off, late afternoon. A lot of cragging filled our days in the month of June and the heat had us scared for what lay ahead.

ben ditto photo

But, this July in the Sierra has been one of unusually cool temps and soon enough Ben and I were making plans to go back to Leaning Tower. With the alarm set for 4am on July 10th we readied ourselves for what would be our last trip up there. We drove off towards the Valley in the dark, jittery with the buzz of coffee and pop-tarts. We approached with the rising sun and racked up as the birds made their first calls of the day. Pitch one, my lead, I felt tight in my hips- the wild stemming seemed hard – this felt like a cruel and unusual wake up, warm up. I anchored in and belayed Ben up. Pitch two, was his lead. He smoothly climbed through the awkward start to the pumpy crack to the sequency mantel before he disappeared over the bulge of the slab above.

The birds were in full aerobatics mode; flying and diving into the cracks that surrounded us. A lizard scampered by. I marveled at the grace and certainty in which these animals moved. I wondered what Ben was up to up there; had he reached the knee bar yet? Then a tug on the rope, I almost couldn’t feed rope out fast enough. I knew he had reached Guano Ledge, he had sent the pitch. He belayed me up and soon I found myself standing on the smears under the knee bar. This spot had been hit or miss for me before. I wasn’t going to give into miss this time. I reached up, grabbed the right hand pinch, shuffled my feet, got the knee bar, matched hands, pushed with my left foot and reached the right hand side pull. Soon I was pressing over and onto the ledge with Ben. I felt pumped but calm. I needed a sandwich, I needed some water. I needed to get focused for my next lead.

After a brief rest I stood on the ledge looking out to the river below. A hummingbird flew up and hovered at eye level for what seemed like a timeless breadth. It reminded me to be light and free. I grabbed the rack and set off onto pitch three. Pitch three starts with some of that only found in Yosemite, slab down climbing before leaving you to make a huge spread over to where the real holds are. It had taken me great effort to figure this out previously. I needed all my power and technique. I placed a high piece and climbed down to the iron cross. I laid back on the left hand and stemmed my feet, my five foot frame barely reached the right hand edge. I matched hands. But I hadn’t reached far enough and now there was little to grab with the left hand. I went for it anyway, my legs swinging over to the right. I held it for half of half a second before falling and butt scumming across the slab below. There would be a bruise there for sure.

I righted myself, pulled back onto the rock and started over. I knew that if I could make this move then we would make a successful ascent of this route. I was once again down climbing into the crack(s). This time I managed a no-hands rest before positioning myself for the reach. I thought about Wolfgang Gullich and about his ideas of pushing the mind. He had felt that the body has always been capable but that it is our mind that really needs the training, that there is a gap between the two that we need to bridge in order to reach our full potential. I stretched out my left hand, I looked at my sinewy arm. I had the muscle to do the moves, I just needed to focus the brain – clear the mind and focus. I laid back on the left hand, stemmed my feet and reached out right. This time I reached a little further, I matched hands, swung my feet over and was moving over good edges to the mantle. I had made the move, I had bridged the gap.I stood at the last rest before the slopping, juggy, slippery, traverse. I shook out and continued climbing up the ramp, heal hooking and toeing in and soon enough I was belaying Ben up.

Aside from the logistical conundrum of pitch four the rest of the route went quite well. There were no falls (although I came close on the last pitch due to some foot slippage), no beat downs from the sun and no shortage of exposure or good climbing. The crack pitches went by giving way to the roof bringing us to the last dihedral before reaching the summit. Sitting there on top of that narrow spine of rock the Valley fell below us. El Cap stood tall and proud in the afternoon sun and the falcons swooped by in shows of great aerodynamics. We had made a team free ascent of Leaning Tower, sticking to our goal and coming out on top. It felt amazing to have helped one another get there.

As we rapped to the ground I thought about the limits of climbing and the limits of the body. I thought about the birds zipping by in their light and fast way – seemingly with no limits. I thought about the incredibly overhanging wall on the left with it’s project free climb and I thought about the amazing free climbing movement in Europe. I thought about that hummingbird’s reminder to be light in the heart and the head and I thought about the harmony of mind and body. Without this harmony we are as Morihei Ueshiba says –  stifled, but
with this harmony we can achieve greatness, we can attain our goals, we are limitless.

ben ditto photo

The red and white marble splattered wall had stopped us all in our tracks. It was so striking, with it’s crisscrossed veins arching with the curve of the wash. As we walked past, mesmerized by its beauty it occurred to each of us that we had seen something like this 2 days earlier. I turned around to check the view behind me. Yes, yes it was true, we had passed there two days before but heading in the other direction. We stood, mouths agape, looking at one another and the map. “What happened?,” I said as a chill crept over my entire being.

Two days prior Ben and I met our friend Brandi in the parking lot of Stovepipe Wells in death Valley. We were heading out on a three-day backpack trip through Cottonwood Canyon to Marble Canyon; a 26 mile loop that follows a sand wash through rocky hills into a narrow canyon (filled with Cottonwoods, Wormwood, and wild mint) before spitting you out onto an open plain which then takes you into a large valley, over a pass and down into a marble slot canyon. We would be going cross-country for more than half of the way. Packed amongst the basics into crushingly heavy packs were a compass and a map. We were psyched

After wandering around the Stovepipe Wells parking lot in search of the trail head with no luck we approached a government truck. Seated inside were two men who looked as if they had been in the desert far too long. Brandi and I leaned into their window and asked if they knew where we could find the trail-head to Cottonwood Canyon. The driver with his sandy, stringy, long hair and weather grooved skin held a corn-cob pipe in one hand and a match in the other. As the words Cottonwood Canyon spilled from our lips his eyes widened and he replied, “Cottonwood Canyon! Why on Earth would you want to go out there? People die out there!” After some more prodding he finally told us where we could find the start of the trail – about 8 miles out a dirt road past the airstrip. Before they drove away they graced us with one last warning, “Death Valley is a serious place, be careful out there.” And with that we headed out into Death Valley in search of what we would find.

On the first day we made it most of the way through Cottonwood Canyon before settling into our campsite on a little knoll, tucked into a small canyon. The wind picked up as the night sky appeared, dust flew into our mouths as we ate our dinner. The tent provided much welcomed shelter from the whipping wind. And with bellies full we drifted off to sleep under a star filled sky.

With sunrise early we awoke with the light and made a casual departure of our site heading toward the end of Cottonwood Canyon where we came upon an abundance of life. A spring cuts through the landscape allowing for trees, and other plants to grow in one of the most inhospitable terrains. We filtered a fair bit of water, drank quite a bit of it and filtered some more before we headed up and out the open valley. The sun was high as we trudged, fully exposed, up the slope towards a pass we were yet sure of. The trek was starting to feel endless when we came upon a lone rock just tall enough to offer some shade. Kicking my shoes off I noticed a piece of flint, perfectly formed into an arrow point. My thoughts ran wild with ideas about native people traveling over the land. I became inspired to really learn how to move over the land efficiently; Traveling light, being self-contained with the skills to move fast and light. After some snacking and resting we packed up and continued towards a series of mountains. Another hour and we were heading over Dead Horse pass and down into a tight, tree cluttered gully.

We seemed to be racing down the slope with excitement of progress. At the gully’s end we were released out into another wash, laden with the occasional Joshua Tree and sage brush. We found another knoll and set up home for the night. Once again, as the stars circled above, we rested soundly with bellies full until the early morning light would rouse us from our slumber.

Day 3 and we were off steadfastly towards Marble Canyon. Up until this point we had referenced the map and compass almost hourly. The landscape provided the best reference though and we seemed certain of our location. And so the compass fell by the wayside as we entered the mouth of a marble canyon. About 200 yards into the canyon we came upon the remains of a ram; The horns, spinal column, and some rib bones along with a lot of fur. I was immediately struck with wonder of what happened to this strong being. How did it die and end up here in this canyon? Had it been caught in a flash flood? Had it slipped on the rim and fallen to its death? However it had happened it left me with an unsettled feeling. Weren’t these animals quite nimble in this terrain?

We continued into the ever narrowing canyon of polished marble walls. At times the width was no more than a few feet across with the walls rising a few hundred feet above us. Further into the canyon we came across a skull of a mountain goat. My nervousness tripled; it is a well-known fact that mountain goats eat this type of terrain for breakfast. Yet, here was a dead one, here, in this tight canyon where the slightest sign of rain could be deadly. I wanted to get out of there, something was telling me to get out and get out quick. Further into the slot canyon we descended, with little down climbs over boulders which had been wedged into the narrows by rushing water. The deeper we went the bigger the drops were becoming. Being rock climbers Ben and I thought nothing of these down climbs but as they kept increasing in their size our friend Brandi was having more and more difficulty getting down them. Soon they were so technical that we had to pass our packs down them as we continued to be lured into marble canyon. My mind was set on getting out as quickly as possible and so continuing down the canyon in a timely manner was all that I was thinking about.

I positioned myself to be in front, this way I could set the pace at which we walked. This also gave me the advantage of scoping out what was ahead. As I turned a corner the shadow of a large bird passed over head. Looking up I saw that it was an owl. “An owl!,” I yelled. Looking back at Brandi I said, “Gosh, that’s weird, why would an owl build a nest in a highly traveled area?” Then it dawned on me that we hadn’t actually seen anyone else in three days. But, I pushed those thoughts aside and kept moving until I came upon another downclimb that stopped me in my tracks. A boulder about the size of a small house loomed over our heads – wedged into the canyon, too large to fit. It reminded me of a guillotine the way it rested above.

As Brandi and Ben came behind me it was decided that Ben would go down first, then Brandi and then I would go. As Ben started climbing down I stopped him and set the rule that none of us would go down anything that we couldn’t climb back up. We all agreed and Ben continued down. It looked technical, maybe a V2 stemming boulder problem. I was concerned Brandi wouldn’t make it down this 15 foot drop. After watching Ben go down and then climb back up and then down again I decided I would go next. Something about this steep drop and the large boulder overhead had me concerned about what lay ahead. I scrambled down, yes it was tricky and Brandi would indeed have a hard time of it. Once on the ground I ran ahead, passing underneath the looming boulder, as Ben coached Brandi down the technical down climb. Disappearing around a bend I came upon another drop. I noticed a piece of webbing, tied to a piton that had been pounded into a natural jug full of sand, dropping down and out of sight. I approached slowly, looked over the drop and my heart sank with such a clunk that I stopped breathing for a moment. I pulled the webbing up the 40 foot dryfall and to my horror I saw what had been tied to it.

The webbing was about 15 feet long, one end tied in an overhand knot and attached to the piton. On the other end a series of clothing had been tied together – one long sleeve shirt tied to a pair of green rain pants, tied to another long sleeve shirt which was tied to a delaminated belt which was tied to a pair of suspenders. A thin tent cord was also in the mix along with a short black rope. All together the “rope” was still about 10 feet shy of the ground. I let the webbing drop back down the dry fall and leaned against the wall. All the anxiety I had been feeling in the canyon added up to this point. We were not in the right slot canyon. Looking up at the boulder hanging above I was filled with the fear these poor people must have felt. Who had come here before us, how had they ended up in such desperate circumstance?

Perhaps they, too, thought they were in the right canyon and had descended further and further, coming upon the initial 15 foot down climb and ending up trapped between this 40 foot fall and there. Had they not set the rule for themselves of not going down what they could not go back up? And who in the world would be in Death Valley wearing suspenders!? I was baffled by what I had just seen. Perhaps Ben and I could make it down there but Brandi would not. I didn’t even want to send her down there to see how it would go, besides she hadn’t even made down the other down climb yet. And where were we anyway?

I walked back over to where I had left Ben and Brandi. He was still trying to coax her down. I stopped them and suggested that Ben come and have a look at what was ahead. I didn’t want to alarm Brandi so I suggested that she just stay put for a bit. Ben seemed to have the same reaction as I to the webbing and clothes rope. But, he was curious as to where it ended up? Perhaps, he thought, the end of the canyon was just ahead. After much deliberating we decided Ben would go down the rope and see what he could find. After retying the webbing and black rope he descended, hand over hand down the water polished, pink marble. At the rope’s end he jumped to the ground and set off around another series of bends. Some minutes later he came back, he was unsure of another down climb but thought maybe the canyon ended just beyond it. He climbing back up the “rope” and we both went back to Brandi. Somehow he had convinced me that maybe if we got her down this initial down climb we could figure out how to get her down this other one. I wasn’t so sure but went with it. I thought I would see what her reaction to the dry fall would be and that would determine what we did.

With much assisting we got her down the 15 foot boulder problem and all three of us were standing on the edge of the dryfall peering over. She was horrified. It was decided then and there that we would not be going down that way. With much excitement and enthusiasm Ben wanted to keep pushing forward. He was still under the impression that we were in the right canyon and this just happened to be the kicker at the end, the surprise they don’t tell you about. Brandi and I agreed that we definitely were not in the right canyon. I also said that I was less than 50% comfortable with continuing forward and sending Brandi down the dryfall. So, it was agreed that we would turn around and go around.

We retraced our steps until we came to an area where it seemed to me one could get a better view from scrambling up a rocky hill. Ben and I picked our way up the loose slope. Towards the east there seemed to be a path that would take us down and around the canyon and into a wash. It was decided we would go that way. The descent was down a loose, exposed, skree slope. Brandi was almost paralyzed with fear and Ben and I patiently talked her down into the wash. Once down we were all so excited and certain that at any moment we would walk into the correct Marble Canyon, that we were only a slot canyon or two away from where we were suppose to be. And then we passed it, the red and white marble splattered wall from two days prior.

Shock is the best word to describe how we all felt. We had been more off course than we thought. All of us had been under the impression that at any moment we would be walking through the petroglyph filled slot canyon described in the guide. That Marble Canyon was just a few yards to our left. Turns out we were more east than we knew and had diverted off track down a side canyon at the beginning of the wash after Dead Horse Pass. We got lucky in our misdirection and ended up 6 miles from the start of Cottonwood Canyon. Morale sank with the realization and we kept our heads down as we hiked out towards the car. I thought about the people who had tied their clothes together, about the relief they must have felt when they too realized they were back at the beginning. And although we hadn’t gotten to where we wanted to go, we had indeed experienced a marble slot canyon; we had indeed found an adventure. We had gone into no man’s land and had made it out alive and best of all with all of our clothes!

First impressions are often interesting encounters in that they set the tone for the relationship that follows. They can be positive, they can be negative but more often than not they are lasting impressions that determine how one will continue to interact with another.

Sometime in the fall of 1997 I took a trip with a few friends to a climbing area in northern Alabama called Sandrock. It had been a couple of years since I had been introduced to rock climbing. But, I had primarily been climbing indoors and this was the first time I would be returning to real rock.

We left Baton Rouge in the late evening on a Friday and made the seven hour drive with great anticipation. As we headed north we left the muddy banks of the Mississippi and drove through the pine forests and rolling hills until we were winding our way up county roads to the top of Shinbone ridge. Road weary and in the dark we threw our sleeping bags on the ground and called it a night. Sleep was crucial as the next day would be a day of great rewards.

As the sun started to light up the ridge and poke through the trees we were roused awake. All around us were sandstone rocks. Some were scarred with graffiti and broken glass lay shattered under many rock outcroppings. And although the place seemed a little abused I found it to be one of the most inspiring sights I had seen. We made our way through the maze of reddish brown walls and fins of rock to an area called the Sun Wall. There was a group of people at the base of this wall. A woman who looked to be somewhere in her mid-40’s was gearing up to lead a climb. As of then I had never seen a woman take the lead. Of course I knew it was going on all the time and there were even some women breaking records and making men look like little boys. But, I had never seen a female in the flesh on the sharp end. I was mesmerized.

Turns out she had tried this route before and fell at the crux. This time she moved through it, right hand grabbing a small crimp and locking off to the next hold for the left. I stood still, palms sweating as I watched her move up the rock – executing perfect sequences and milking each rest. She clipped the anchors and yelled take. I asked her belayer what she was climbing, “It’s called Misty, 5.10c/d,” he replied. She had shown me what was possible and I turned to my mates and said I wanted to go next.

A little surprised and extremely supportive they said, “great, go for it!”

I tied in, counted out ten quick-draws and climbed up the coarse sandstone through crimps up thin moves over a bulge to perfect in- cut edges up a steep upper wall. I shook out, I pulled hard and I clipped the anchors. The climbing had been technical and calculated. It was my first lead climb and a lasting first impression. Throughout the next 14 years I gravitated to other climbs that had a similar style – crimpy, technical, and steep would be what drew me in.

This past winter I returned to Sandrock for the first time in some 7 or so years. As we walked through those brownish red, coarse sandstone walls I found myself at the base of the Sun Wall. Misty was aglow with the morning light and that first encounter came back to me.

I tied in, counted out ten quick-draws and once again made my way through the crimps up towards the steep upper wall and to the anchors. I remembered almost every move from fourteen years before. I remembered how the crux hold had felt so biting and painful and how I had over gripped to insure I wouldn’t take the whip and I remembered being incredibly pumped by the time I arrived at the jugs below the anchors. This time as I clipped the anchors and lowered down I thought about all the climbs that lay between that first lead and now; the hundreds of pitches I had taken the sharp end on and the dozens of climbing areas I had been to. Each hold led to the next. I had come full circle 14 years later, to the roots of my climbing. The first impression had been a good one.

I’ve just sat down to unlace my climbing shoes. My blue suede shoes that are on their sixth resole and soon to be seventh. In the summer of 2005 I moved to Yosemite to climb the granite walls high into the realms of being human. I needed a good pair of shoes.It wasn’t long after I arrived in the Valley that I met Surfer Bob. We became quick partners and as we climbed up the clean and varied cracks of Yosemite’s lower canyon we talked shop about life. He said if I wanted to learn to climb these wide cracks I needed a solid pair of hightops, I needed the Kaukulator. Only thing was, La Sportiva discontinued the shoe some 10-odd years ago. It could be hard to come by a pair.

I went on a search via the interweb and eventually came upon a pair on Ebay. Someone had bought them for their wife some time ago and they had been sitting in their garage unused. They were brand new and $35. When they arrived they felt like magic shoes. That day I took them on a test run. They were magic; not only could I climb the wides, but I could edge on dimes. I knew these shoes were going to open up a whole new realm of climbing for me.  I also knew that they would wear out and I would be in need of another pair.

I watched Ebay obsessively for another. Nothing for weeks. And then one day as I was walking through El Portal I saw a pair on the dumpster. Someone had discarded them. They were well used but still had life in them. They were broken down but still stiff. They seemed perfect! I carried them home almost skipping with joy. Come to find out they had belonged to Jo Whitford and she had already had them resoled three times. She felt like it was time to let them go.

Since I picked them off the dumpster I’ve come by four more pair, making my collection a total of six. It seems a good idea to stock up on them since they’re discontinued but as this pair has proven – they’re built for the long-haul. I’ve worn these shoes on hundreds of pitches and have had them resoled three times myself. They remain to be my best Yosemite all around shoe.

So, here’s to things that last.

Thursday – February 4th

Sitting on my sunlit, cedar porch in El Portal. The flow of the Merced River echoes off the canyon walls. There are signs of the upcoming spring all around – birds chirping in the newly green treetops and little buds littering the limbs of the Buckeyes. Needless to say it is amazing to be here.

I’ve been climbing with Ron (Kauk) all week; going to our old favorites like Catchy Corner, Outer Limits, Cookie Monster and The Phantom. This time of year while the sun still hangs low in the sky but is on its uprise the south-facing cliffs are basked in the golden sunlight most of the day – making for ideal climbing conditions in the cold of winter. We also went to something new, well at least for me. Separate Reality.

I had been pestering Ron all week to go on the Nose with me and for a little while he seemed to be at least thinking about it. But, in the end he proposed a different option of going to another Yosemite classic.

Ron: “Hey bird, have you done Separate Reality yet?”

Me: With ears perking up, “No, actually, I’ve never tried it.”

Ron: “You wanna go?”

And so we came to the compromise of going there instead of the Nose. I was stoked either way.

We rapped yesterday afternoon to the ledge below the roof and upon our arrival we saw that the corner into the roof was dripping wet. The ledge was completely in the shade as the sun had already passed. It was cold, and while the roof was dry it definitely would be cold and wet getting into up into it. I stated that I would rather be there in the sun, since I would be getting a little wet I would rather at least be warm. So, we jugged back out with the agreement of coming back next morning to catch the sun. Around 10am today we rapped back in. It was an amazing experience stepping down onto the sunlit ledge. I was psyched to be about to meet this climb.

As I racked up Ron walked over to the top of Tales of Power and noticed how bad the bolts for the anchor are. Looking around he saw this horn and told me the story of when he topped out Tales for the first time (making the FA). All he had left was a sling and #8 hex – he slung the horn and slotted the hex behind it. As he looked up at the roof and saw what was to become Separate Reality he was amazed at what he had discovered; here was a little something more. He belayed his partner up and they made their way to the base of the corner. Ron went up to right under the roof, looked out at it and lowered down. They exited out the big ledge and to the right around the corner up some other crack. They returned some days later and  began to probe their way out the roof placing hexes. That was 1976.

About a year or so later a photo of Ray Jardine on the roof crack showed up on the cover of a climbing mag in Europe. Wolfgang Gullich had seen a copy and at first couldn’t decipher which way he was supposed to look at the image. When he realized the climber was going out a horizontal roof it changed his perception on what was possible in climbing. Some years later Wolfgang went on to make the first solo ascent of Seperate Reality.

As I sqauted in the perch at the top of the corner I looked out the roof to the jug at the end. The river rushed below. And I pulled into the crack, inspired to be part of the lineage of climbers who had set sail before me. I slipped out a little more than halfway out the roof. My palms pumped out from the jamming. I didn’t onsight it but I was completely blown away by the aesthetics of this climb. I lowered down and Ron pulled the rope as I unlaced my shoes. I took a drink of water as I looked up the canyon at the ice-covered walls. I felt honored to be there, in the ampitheater-like setting getting an upclose view of the canyon below. A few more sips and I relaced my shoes, tied back in and topped out the climb. Ron gave a cheer up to me and I gave out a big Thanks! Another Yosemite Classic had been introduced to me.

Tomorrow I will return to the Eastern Sierra – to the boulders of the Buttermilks and petroglyphs of the Tablelands. It’s a wonderful life to be able to climb these rocks – I am fortunate to have the opportunity to do so.

I’m spending another winter amongst the rocks and vistas of Bishop, CA. Every winter here seems to have some theme that I fall into. This years theme is all about exploring the limits of my reach. Being a massive 5’00” I have a great advantage over most rock climbers, in that every route and/or boulder problem offers me a little bit more. Because something is a bit reachy for me isn’t exactly a bad thing, it just means that I need to adapt myself and the way I climb in order to better reach the next hold(s). In this way climbs give me a little bit more to work for and while it may be seemingly daunting getting shut down on a V5 because “dang it, the hold is just too far away,” I’m taking it as added training. I have to be that much more creative, try that much harder, and want it that much more. So, I’m running with this theme this year and I’m seeking out boulder problems with massive reaches so that I can push myself into the realm of doubt and hopefully come out on the otherside successful, enlightened, stronger, and maybe even a little bit longer.

We’re experiencing writers block. Here’s some eye-candy in the meantime.

About two weeks ago we arrived here at Ceuse with nothing more than some clothes, a small tent, a whisper lite stove, some climbing gear and a few days worth of food. Upon arriving via a series of train rides, bus rides, and hitched rides we inhabited a campsite situated under some hazelnut trees. We chose such said site because strewn about in its vicinity were two small wooden tables, a couple of white plastic chairs, a few pallets, some string and a tarp very crudely rigged between two trees. This place had potential! So, we happily moved in making quick use of all inherited items.

We restrung the tarp, moved the tables under it, set a chair on either side and soon enough we had a nice little kitchen built. The tent we placed under one of the trees. I should mention that the tent we have is minus a rain fly, thus making any sort of wet weather a somewhat iffy scenario for us. Before we left Grenoble for the country we went on a search for tarps at various outdoor stores and paint shops. Oddly enough it seems that the French don’t have such a huge market for them and all we came up with was a small plastic sheet that barely covered the tent. And with some rain on the projected forecast we chose the spot under the tree offering the most weather cover and rigged the plastic sheet over it hoping for the best.

A few days into our stay while at the dumpsters relieving ourselves of our trash we acquired some more discarded campground items. A small la fuma chair, which was broken but usable (for a while at least);  a little butane stove, which had a melted plastic cover but also seemed useable; and best of all two perfectly edible carrots, which allowed us to stretch our food supply a couple more days.

We got lucky for a bit with the weather and had about ten days of blissful tent living. With the newly inherited second stove we also enjoyed many delicious meals of stir fried delights, pasta with sausage, lentil soups, fresh picked apple tarts, and our new favorite snack Nutella wrapped in cabbage! But, as the saying goes all good things must come to pass and with that came the rain. It did, however, work nicely with our schedule as the bad weather moved in with our planned rest day. And, so we huddled in our leaky little tent until things were so damp and cold we could take it no longer.

Ceuse has some of the best accommodations of any campground I’ve ever seen. In addition to  a barn with a ping-pong table and climbing wall they also have a few caravans for rent. Once we were good and soggy we decided to go big and take up residence in one of these little tin cans. In a matter of minutes we went from squalor to baller from dirt bag to trailer trash! And here we are today living the good life of climbing until exhausted, eating until full, and sleeping in a bed with a roof over our head. Yes, indeed the living in Ceuse is easy.

Tracks laid across landscapes

traveling through towns and villages and

countrysides spotted with evidence of human habitation.

Arrived at the depot carrying backloads and armfuls

of our minimum possessions.

Through cobblestone streets where passersby looked on in curiosity.

The climbing rope, tied to the outside of the pack,

telling a tale of what we seek to do.

Through a large wooden door on the street

up polished slabs of camel colored stairs.

Winding upward to another door where we can stay the night,

before retracing our steps.

Down stairs, out of doors, across streets to a bus

that took us through more of the countryside.

Into the hills and slopes of mountains with walls

made by the earth of limestone rock.

Arrived in Gap with stomachs empty

and the heavy loads pulling us inward.

We sit at tables eating kebab until full

from which we continued out trek on up the hill.

Thumbing a ride at the edge of town.

A middle-aged woman, Vivian, transported us

to the camping at the base of Ceuse.