Ament Arete

The weather in Yosemite has been exceptionally wet this winter. To try and keep my sanity I’ve been making trips over to the Sonora area for some sport climbing action. It’s kind of kicking my butt, but it’s great for training. Yesterday in Yosemite we had a glimpse of good weather so I hiked up to my project only to be completely discouraged. The waterfall there is a raging torrent and it seems like perhaps this will remain a project until next fall. This left me feeling a bit disconcerted and I wandered around for a couple hours feeling a bit lost and wondering to myself what was I really doing. Despite all the climbing the last months and weeks in Bishop and Sonora, intermixed with a few days here and there in the Valley I was feeling a little uninspired, lost and begging the question “Who am I?”. I went to the village store and saw the new Rock and Ice issue and opened it up to the table of contents page. There clasped  in my hands was a picture of me on Middle Cathedral rock in the Valley.  I laughed out loud and thought to myself, “There I am, that’s me. How funny that I have to find myself in a magazine.” As I looked closer at the picture and the pages next to it I realized that all I’ve really ever wanted to be is a Yosemite climber. For those who are familiar with Yosemite and it’s rich climbing history Middle stands as an icon of what Yosemite climbing is.  And there I was perched in that very place.  It was a good reminder of what my path is, where I’ve come from and what I am moving towards.  After leaving the store I discovered, much to my surprise and delight, that the Camp 4 boulders were dry and out came the bouldering pads. After a few recharging and harmonious hours playing on the granite rocks there I returned home, feeling much better than when I left. Because there I was,  in Yosemite, climbing rocks. I understood who I have become, who I am – a Yosemite climber.

Kor Problem

Stinkbug

It’s a cold and rainy day in Yosemite. I’ve been home almost a week  – back from a three week stay in Bishop. My thoughts drift in and out of climbing dreams, life dreams, dreams of dreams and I keep finding myself in the same position, sitting at my computer staring out the window. I’ve been wanting to write a sort of recap of the last month but I can’t seem to muster up the inspiration to do it. Perhaps it’s because I experienced so much that I am finding it hard to put words on. However, there remains this lingering feeling. My mind keeps returning to the east side, to the Buttermilks, to morning lattes at The Black Sheep, and to the friends that I parted with until the season starts in Yosemite.

Winter in Yosemite is a special time for the locals. The tourist head for warmer, dryer destinations and for those of us that live here all year we get a relief from the commotion. The cliffs are virtually void of climbers, leaving us to have our pick of routes (as long as they’re dry). We get in a flow and rhythm that is hard to find anywhere else. But, this year has been a little different – this year has been a wet winter. And, to prevent myself from completely losing it I opted for the dryer, sunnier side of Bishop.

In years prior my visits there were usually with a group of friends or a boyfriend and always with my pup dog, Sid. This year I went solo and with no real plan of any sort other than to climb as much as I could. I left on a Wednesday morning and drove through the day down through the smog choked central valley and up around the bottom of the Sierra. Once over the Tehachapi the landscape opened up giving view of the dramatic high desert. To the east were the Eastern Sierra to the west were the Inyos and the Whites and intermixed were beds of volcanic rock. Craters lined the bottom of the hills and mountains giving a glimpse into the history that created the area. As I made my way up 395 Mt.Whitney rose into view and a feeling so overwhelming and impressive came over me. I felt choked up, I wanted to cry. The Sierra and it’s Mt.Whitney were provoking me to feel them and I did, in my chest. Those mountains had taken up residence in my heart area and I knew then that this would be a memorable trip of growth and experience.

I coasted into Bishop sometime that evening and took up residence in my favorite parking lot in town. With my van tucked safely into it’s spot I now had a house in Bishop. Evening gave way to night and night gave way to days of Bishop living. I fell into a routine of mornings at the coffee shop sipping lattes, emailing, and  conversing with whoever was around. Around 10:30 I would head to the boulders meeting up with friends and dogs, unless there was some weather then I would cruise around town, checking to see what the larger population was up to.

Because I was alone on this trip I found myself venturing out more than usual. I went to the theater, I talked to local business owners, I talked to strangers at the hot spring, I stayed at newly made friends’ homes, and I got to know my friends better. I climbed a lot. For three weeks I bouldered, hiked, cooked, laughed, tried hard, failed and succeeded and felt free. My wings opened and I was sailing on the winds of the western landscape. I felt as if I could live out the rest of my days there. And then there was that lingering feeling. Yosemite was pushing it’s way back to me and I started to dream of my projects and all the familiar rock climbs and river spots that I love so much.

My skin was shredded, grabbing crystallized granite holds was painful and pulling on volcanic pockets was tugging my tendons too much.  I would need a few days of rest to feel really good but Yosemite weather was looking intriguing. I decided it was time to make a break back to Yosemite; if I didn’t do it now, I thought, I may never go back.

I left on a Wednesday morning and drove down passing underneath the Sierra and across from the Whites and Inyos over Tehachapi and up through the haze of the Central Valley. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and wondered if I would survive the drive up hwy 99.  As I got closer to the Merced river canyon relief hit me. I was excited to see home again and I was coming back a slightly changed individual. I was coming back more familiar with myself and with my relation to the land.

The Eastern Sierra will be there, right over the walls of Yosemite. Their presence never too far away and their inspiration forever in the  heart and mind.

I was invited to a dinner party at 7:30 on Tuesday night, by an old acquaintance, at the house of a very generous and welcoming couple, Tony and Olivia. She baked a delicious leek tart with Wasabi mashed potatoes, green salad and there were some great beverages as well. Another couple, Dan and Ally arrived. It was Ally’s birthday and some other people came to join in the celebration. At some point after dinner someone started talking about Jambalaya and my ears perked up. How could it be that out here in the high desert of California someone could know about Jambalaya? I was interested so I listened on. The words boiled Crawfish fell out of Dan’s mouth floated across the room and hit my eardrums! In my most flattering, southern, ghetto-esque accent I blurt out, ” I’m from Louisiana, what y’all know ’bout eatin’ crawfish?” The room exploded with laughter. Dan went on to tell a story about being in Alabama with his dad and their waitress explained to them that the proper way to eat crawfish is to suck the heads. I energetically replied, “Hell yeah, that’s the shit!” More laughter proceeded and that inspired me to go into great detail about sucking heads and how good it is. I further went on to explain that the real dirty south way is to stick your pinky in there, pull out the good stuff and eat it. The room was in shock and there was Dan, on the couch looking at me with eyes wide. In between bouts of laughter he managed to allude to the fact that he was a little enamored with me and now I had just floored him. He lay there almost quivering as his wife laughed hysterically. And I sat there almost naïve to what I had just done. From the corner of the room someone said, “Wow, I had no idea.” And I then realized what had just gone down. I blushed and made my way to the kitchen for a drink of water.

It’s not that this is my first time here but this time is different. Perhaps it’s from all the events that have happened in 2009 that have me reborn in 2010 and in my 30th year. I’ve been here for seven days and so much has happened in such little time that I feel like an entire books-worth of stories is transpiring.

The weather was perfect for a few days and then a storm rolled in from the pacific and has slammed the Sierra. Bishop is positioned just so that a great vantage point is given to the surrounding mountains and to the wintry blusters that inhabit them. It’s been rainy and snowy here for a few days now and rest days are being forced upon one.  And so when not climbing what is it that one does to occupy the time?

It was Monday, MLK Day, and the morning was spent in the Looney Bean fumbling with the internet and getting over caffeinated on Lattes. Looking around the room my gaze was met with families passing through on their way back home from a weekend of skiing, a few locals enjoying their day off and a handful of fellow homeless climbers, all wondering what to do. I had a moment of bewilderment as I realized we were all in the same boat, it didn’t matter how famous or well-known any of us were; the fact of the matter was we were all biding time before our next climb and our options for doing so were limited. It was a flash of insight into the life of a climber and how hard it really is at times.

Finally I was fed up with the spotty internet and my friend James and I headed for the pet store. What better way to spend a rest day than to love on some puppies! More hours were spent wondering the streets of town and finding the best parking spot conducive to napping.

Tuesday morning I opted for the Black Sheep for my latte fix. Word was that their internet connection was better than the Looney Bean and they offer an array of fresh roasted organic beans for your brew of choice. The clouds loomed on the horizon, blocking the view of the mountains and the winds swirled through town ripping my top vent on my van clear off and into the void. Rain fell relentlessly on my bed and a quick fix was in order. A jerry-rigged job of gorilla tape and plastic solved the problem for the time being until I could head over to the RV store and get a replacement.Once at the store the friendly Dale showed me what I needed and relief came over me as I understood that the leaky roof would soon be fixed allowing for maximum comfort once again as I spent many more days lounging in the van, sheltered from the winter outside. Upon checking out the lovely woman behind the counter asked me “Where’d ya get the shiner?” I laughed and told her that I was accidentally kicked in the face by a friend while bouldering due to a hold breaking and being on a slope. It almost knocked me out and I was left with this beautifully colored purple and blue eye. I asked her is she would have felt bad if I had told her my boyfriend beat me up and she responded by saying, “You don’t seem to the type to let that happen!” It was quite funny and it left me wondering just how it is people perceive me.

So, after a quick RV repair I headed for the Happy’s in hopes of getting in a bit of bouldering and much to my delight that’s exactly what went down. The weather grew colder and colder and the wind grew stronger and stronger and soon I was witness to everyone fleeing the boulders and heading back to town. I was left there to myself and the rocks and felt so inspired to be there alone with the hawks and ravens and any boulder problem I so desired. Eventually I tired myself out and I too fled for town. Evening hours were spent in and out of dream-time until 7:30 arrived and I was invited to some folks for a dinner party.

It is here that the story gets funnier….stay tuned for more to come!

Came bouldering today at Cathedral Boulders. It’s freezing cold and small hail has been falling off an on all morning. I’m out here alone but the forest feels so comfortable, so much so, that I don’t feel alone at all. A loud, thunderous, crashing sound is echoing through the trees – ice falls somewhere above. And as I turn around, scanning the skyline my eyes are met with a peak at Higher and Lower Cathedral Spires. It is a beautiful day here in the boulders with a thermos of hot tea. I would be happier in no other place than here today.

Warm bowl

of  rice, eggs, onions and spinach.

Green and yellow and brown.

A bowl consisting of plants and embryos –

cells that are more beautiful

than words can recall.

This bowl of warmth

so good on this

winter morning.

What is it that rides on the late fall wind,

that brings feelings of fireworks

subdued by the mist of the early morning air?

It is something that stirs the soul deep within

covering the back,

embracing the shoulders like a blanket warmed from fire.

It is something that at once seems electrifying and serene,

vibrant and dull.

Is it the coming of winter

with it’s quiet slumber under a chill filled sky?

No, no it is much more than that

which rides on the back of the November wind.

It is the magic of life

that sparks with the stars

and ripples down the river;

it is the crest of a wave

and the crash on the shore

beating patterns in the sand.

Again and again.

This wind carries with it

the pulse of existence

that circles the earth

and twirls through the universe

and resides here

in our hearts.

It’s 6am and I’m sitting by the fire as the earth turns toward the sun. The glow from the wood stove is warming me up just right taking the early morning chill off. Outside a pale blue light is appearing as the fog tucks the trees and the canyon in for the next few hours until the sun, with all its glory, melts the fall mist away. A new day is on the horizon welcomed by the flames that keep life warm.

I received this in an email the other day and it’s had me thinking. I feel it is so symbolic of our American society. We have all of this stuff, so much stuff, yet it leaves us hungry and always wanting more. And in the end the stuff takes over and we’re left empty. What a tragic comedy we have playing itself out. Thankfully someone let the air out of this ball so that the fish could go on living, maybe something will let the air out for us people. It’s so curious as to what the next chapters will bring.

Letting go can be such a hard thing to do sometimes. But, it seems that when the notion to leave or let go comes to you then perhaps that’s exactly what’s to be done.  For some time now I’ve been struggling with feelings and wants about one particular relationship. It isn’t how I would want it ideally and I seem to want more than is being offered. And I feel bad through it all and even feel myself becoming all the ugly things. It’s all there however; the friendship, the care, the love, the companionship but there is one thing missing – the commitment to the boyfriend/girlfriend relationship.

At the same time I’ve been trying this climb. I enjoy it thoroughly; it’s aesthetic, good rock, good movement, technical, hard and it has my interest. I’ve got the first part completely dialed, so much so that it hardly takes effort to reach the first anchors. That in itself feels really good. Then comes the middle section, it starts off of and then come a few moves of incredibly hard bear hugging to a smearing, heel hooking, dead point to a dime edge. This move eludes me. I’ve stuck it once, once out of countless tries. I can see it sometimes and others I feel at a loss for what to do. The rest of the route follows in similar style to the first part, with not too much issue. So, all in all I;ve done the entire route except for ONE move.

Yesterday I went there optimistic, hopeful, wanting. I got to the middle section and I couldn’t get it. It felt impossible, unlikely, not for me. My leg slipped and I slammed my knee into the arete. I cried, I yelled, I screamed. I felt lost, hopeless and after several attempts of getting now where I lowered to the ground. Feeling defeated as I took of my shoes and wondered.

Perhaps I will never get that move.  Perhaps it’s not meant for me. I decided to let it go. I realized that the harder I hold on to the idea of doing it the harder I will make it for myself. I will continue to go to the climb but I will use it as a trainer physically and mentally. It’s not about doing it anymore, it’s about enjoying it for what it does give me.

In this understanding I see the relationship, too. It is the same. It’s all there except one part and I can no longer try and force that part. I can only let it go and take it for what it is. I’m letting go.