The place where James Douglas Morrison, better known as Jim Morrison, lies to rest. His body entombed under cement and granite, engraved with the dates of his 27 year human existence. Vandalized and idolized. Crowds of people from across the globe stand in awe of this small landmark, barricaded and hidden by the larger tombs.  Snapping pictures, smoking cigarettes, conversing in hushed voices as if afraid to raise the dead. What is it that we come here to find? An understanding of what it was like to be Jim Morrison? Clues to a past? Hints for a future? A glimpse of mortality? Or perhaps a longing for something, a seeking of connection to an era, to an idea, to a way of life and a way to express ourselves? Or is it as simple a thing as just another site to see, a tourist trap like the Eifel Tower? The answer isn’t so clear to me as I try to soul search myself for the reason I wandered around in search of this grave. As cliché as it may sound I felt propelled to go there, to pay my respect, to a man who tried to break free of the ideals and confines that society has installed. He tried and in many ways he succeeded. And in those successes he made a deep and profound impression on an entire world and I find that to be quite noble, even though in the end he was perhaps his own worse enemy, trapped by his own ideals with a longing to escape.

The plane lurched forward as it hit the ground waking me from a fitful sleep as we pulled in to the gate, arriving in Belgium. The flight across the Atlantic somehow seemed to go by faster than I realized and soon I was exiting the plane down a brightly lit hallway which spilled out onto the cold slab of the Brussels airport. Many flights had arrived at the same time and we were being herded into lines determined by citizenship. Those with European passports to the left all others to the right. I was tired and excited and thankful to not be sitting any longer. Once I had secured a nice spot in line I lowered my bags to the ground and stretched my arms up towards the ceiling, my spine stretching and popping back into its upright position. With my arms in the air a strong aroma rose up from the depths of my arm pits. As it inhabited my nostrils my thoughts were, “whew, stinky.” Next to me in the line for Euros about three feet away I noticed a man catch the smell as well and wondering where it came from, fearing that it came from himself he opened his sweater and smelled his own armpits. He shrugged his shoulders, a bit bewildered and seemingly relieved as he realized it was not he who smelt so strongly. I found these first moments in Europe to be a bit ironic; because in the States it seems to be common thought that Europeans tend to be the stinky ones. And yet here I was, turning the table around – perhaps I would be fitting in just fine.

Broken bits of Freedom

lie scattered amongst the

bordered in trees

The essence of the land

use to run free

like wild horses in the wind

Now you rest here

with me and your

smoothed out edges

Lines etched across

wooden grain

A tribe broken

like the Buffalo

on the Kansas quarter

A glimpse of life gone by

But we’re making dollars

and expanding possibilities

of pipelines to capture

water diverting life

into used up wounded

beings of police brutality

and white-collar crimes

against nature taking

our spirits and tricking

our minds to sign up

for your military in the

name of killing for protection

our liberty to purchase

your $90 yoga matt

The keys to our spiritual reconnection

In Cadillac’s pulling

through McDonald’s

A cardiac path to self-destruction

We used to run free

like wild horses in the wind

But now we are owned by

those who have stolen life

With their patents on seeds

and boxes of greed

Cluttering up the harbors

and ports with landfills

of 5 cent deposit plastic

water bottles polluted

with petroleum-based products

lubing up the pain

of the realization

that we have sold ourselves

to the lies and manipulation

of the true cost of living

in track homes with no backbone

to carry the load

of perpetuating life.

Monday morning and I’m fortunate enough to be sitting on a rock next to the Tuolumne River and not at work someplace. It’s been 10 months since I’ve sat here in this very spot. I’ve been coming here for five summers now and it’s become a familiar place to me – it feels very much like home. One of the last memories I have here is being with Ron, Susan and Beth enjoying a breakfast of fruit that the ladies brought over. We sat together sharing in the company, the place and the food. That’s what this river means to me, sharing.

Sidney and I use to come out here in the mornings. Ron was always up and enjoying his riverside coffee before me. Sid would come running over here, so eager and happy to tell him hello after a night’s sleep. We would sit here, sipping steaming coffee from warm mugs; enjoying conversation or simply just being with the flow of the water. Occasionally Sid would get too warm from the sun and venture back to the campsite, waiting for me to join her so that she and I could continue to share time and space. It’s been almost a year that she has passed away – her final resting spot here in Tuolumne. And so this morning I’m at the river alone but with me these memories and emotions and these rocks that are consistent companions.

As I sit here this morning listening to the water as it finds its way down stream it’s telling me many things. A little over a month ago I had my too close to death experience that left me unable to climb for many weeks. For the majority of those days I was in much pain and my focus had shifted to just getting well and strong again. At times it felt like an uphill struggle and fear would creep in. I feared that I would never climb again, that I would be riddled with this pain and lack of movement for the rest of my days here. When I took the slip down the East Ledges slabs I told myself, I told the universe that dying up there was not an option for me at that time. I made a very clear decision to not let that happen. And so I find myself returning beck to that determination in my recovery process. I will get better, I will climb again has been my mantra.

Last week I went climbing for the first time since the accident. It felt ok. My endurance was a little less and the strength of my left leg was less than the right. I had only recently started riding a bike to rehab myself and build my range of motion. I was growing eager to see how climbing would feel. I still had some pain and discomfort and I knew it wasn’t ready yet. I felt that within a week or so it would be even better. So, I continued to take care of my knee – biking and some PT as well as acupuncture. Things were getting better.

Yesterday I came back to Tuolumne and went bouldering. I was amazed at how much stronger and better my knee was feeling. I could do things that only a week ago I could not. I marveled at the resiliency of the body and the power of the mind. I had plans to meet two of my girlfriends back behind Pywiak Dome to do this climb, “Electric Africa.” Both of them are working on this route, it is their project. I was thrilled to go there with them and offer my support. I was also curious as to how I might feel on it myself.

To me “Electric Africa” is the epitome of what Tuolumne rock climbing is about – technical, balancy and beautiful. The backside of Pywiak is one of the most spectacular places in the world. Tenaya Peak lies to the west; to the east are undulating domes that continue to give definition to Tuolumne; directly behind the dome are these granite, water streaked slabs that rise up to meet with a view of Cathedral Peak.

Sitting there with my friends I thought about the recent news of an accident on Cathedral Peak. A young woman had fallen 400 feet to her death. I was struck sick by this information. I recalled all the thoughts and feelings that went through me as I was sliding down those East Ledges. I could only imagine how she must have had similar things racing through her as she was free-falling, only she didn’t walk away. As I lingered on this thought my name was being called. It was my turn to climb.

My friend handed me the rope and as I tied myself in looking to my belayer for insurance that she had me I felt so fortunate to be able to put on my climbing shoes and climb again. I wasn’t expecting to be able to pull all the moves or to even make it to the anchor. I was simply there to enjoy the place, share the company and get my body reacquainted with the rock. As I reached up to grab onto the first holds everything seemed to come back to me – the focus, the movement, the technique. I moved up the rock freely, flowing like the river. I had pulled all the moves, I had reached the anchors. I was surprised, actually, at how easy the climb had felt. In all my times there it had just felt the easiest. I lowered to the ground, untied and sat down.  I placed my hand on my knee – it felt good. I was so grateful to be able to move like that again. A few minutes later I did another lap on the climb – once again reaching the anchors without compromise. I was filled with joy.

But, the joy wasn’t from making the climb exactly. The joy was from just having the opportunity to climb – regardless of outcome. And it dawned on me how deeply personal rock climbing is for me. It’s a pure expression of who I am – fully engaged in nature, sharing.

It’s Wednesday; a beautiful day in Yosemite with flowers blooming, bees buzzing, dogs running and children playing. It’s a huge contrast to the Wednesday of two weeks ago. It’s been fourteen days since I took the ride on the East Ledges. I’m still recovering, healing, getting back to what I was like before. Except, as each day passes I move further away from what was before. I know that I will never be what I was in the past – this is an impossibility, one that we each carry with us as we keep moving forward. And so it is a good thing because with each passing day I’m moving closer to being better, better as a human being, better as myself.

I’m  sitting at the tree in El Cap Meadow – the tree where us climbers tend to gather. And it’s a rare moment in time for I am here alone, aside from the life of nature that surrounds me. A bullfrog croaks in the El Cap lake as a nice breeze moves through the grass, the mist from Ribbon Fall sweeps across the trees to the west of El Cap. It is warm in the sun but the shade is working its way across the landscape. I’m sunning my legs until I, too, am consumed by the coolness of the fading light. My left leg, slightly bent at the knee, because I’m yet to be able to straiten it. And I’m taking care not to expose the still tender and pink laceration  on my head to the sun so as not to worsen with wear.

Running my fingers over the healing scar I think about the stitches that held the skin together. My flesh, busted open and bruised, exposing the truth of what’s inside. Sewn together so as not to leak out, not to come apart. As the days go by and I encounter more and more people, climbers in the community, friends and heroes and I share my story of near death and disaster they share their own tales. Stories of falls down ice shoots, slips down rock scrambles, falls on rock faces – stories of broken bodies, broken skin and how they were put back together to heal and mend.

As I hear these stories I come to understand that the stitches that held each of us together are more than just medical procedures. They are the part of what hold us all together – to each other – threaded through the community. They are the glimpse of our mortality, the fragility of life, the knots tied at the ends.

Mikey Schaefer photo

Ben Ditto photo

It’s Monday, May 10th and as of this moment Ben Ditto and I sit snugly in the little wooden cabin while a lite drizzle hits the shingled roof. We are supposed to be on El Cap right now – traversing the Golden Gate with Hayden Kennedy. But, the merciless weather on the wall forced us down to the ground.

Some months ago when Ben and I were first talking about going free climbing on El Cap some of the original idea was to figure the free variations to The Nose as well as the Salathe. The winter weather had been stormy with frequent systems delivering both rain and snow.  I was personally suffering from low morale and was looking forward to the glory days of late spring Valley climbing.It was decided that Ben would come to Yosemite and we would climb as much of what we wanted to do as conditions would allow.

A couple of weeks ago we started to check out the free variations on The Nose. But conditions were wet and storms kept coming in. We soon came to understand that freeing the Great Roof pitch would be out of the question as well as several other pitches. We considered going up there anyway but the idea of aid climbing was unappealing.

Hayden had been talking about this route, Golden Gate. A line that the Huber brothers freed which cuts off right of  the Salathe Wall. He felt like much of it would be drier than the Nose as well as many other lines on El Cap. After a few conversations and some glances at a topo it was decided that we would go check it out. We had a small weather window of great conditions backed up to a small system of possible rain and snow. We were going to check it out no matter and would plan for both the best situation and for the worst.

We would free climb up to our bags on Heart Ledge then move everything over to Hollow Flake where we would bivy one night and then move up a few pitches the next day to the Alcove. From there we would see what the weather had in store for us and which way we would proceed. If things were looking good we would go on to Golden Gate. If things were looking bad we would bail.

Day 1 we started up Freeblast. Hayden and I swapping leads and tagging a second line for Ben to minitraxion up. By noon all three of us had reached our bags on Heart Ledge. We needed to move over to Hollow Flake ledge and haul our bags over. What proceeded was more free climbing followed by what can really only be compared to wrestling pigs.  Once the bags were with us we set up camp – putting together the port-a-ledge, adding more clothes, cooking food and enjoying the beauty.  We had about two hours of light to enjoy looking down at the meadow and across to Middle Cathedral before the sun dipped behind the canyon walls.

Night descended. And as I laid in the ledge looking at the star filled sky I could hear the frogs down in the meadow making their nightly chant for the water – for the rain. A few satellites orbited by and we caught the glimpse of headlamps coming down the Catwalk gully. They seemed so far away and I was relieved to not be them as I tucked into my sleeping bag and drifted off into the dreams of the universe.

Day 2 morning arrived and with it a chill that had us shivering in our bags. As the sun rose higher swifts and swallows and ravens were flying about, catching the wind currents and hanging on the breeze. Middle Cathedral was aglow with the light of a new day and we sat enjoying our breakfast of pop-tarts and tea. Clouds started to move in and we discussed the best options for moving forward. We decided to take down camp and get things ready to haul. We would either go for a day mission up a few more pitches and then bail to the ground or we would go up to the Alcove and bring our bags with us.

Ben Ditto photo

After we were packed I led us up the next pitch. As I was nearing the anchors it started to snow. It was a little taste of some alpine conditions. But it tapered off and I belayed Ben up. Hayden followed on the minitrax and Ben and I launched off on the next pitch. Halfway up the pitch it started to dump on us. Hail was stinging our faces and we were at a standstill for a while until the weather slacked off and we could proceed forward. Things were getting pretty wet and cold. I climbed up to meet Ben while Hayden rapped down to our bags. It was decided for us that we would bail off  the wall. We never really needed to talk about it, we all just sort of understood that was the thing to do.

As the weather continued and we got increasingly wet water was pouring down the slabs onto Hollow Flake ledge. What had been a comfortable, ideal, dry bivy had quickly turned into a large puddle. One in which our poop tube was floating! We were getting a beating from El Cap and were happy to be retreating. As I dealt with stuck ropes and sketchy rocks and water pouring down and around us I came into contact with two of the smallest most beautiful Monkey Flowers I have ever seen. There they were nestled into a crack in the sea of granite with its cascading water, vibrant with life! What seemed so fragile and small was completely at home and capable of dealing with such harsh conditions. I was humbled by my own fragile humanness and and marveled at how ironic life can be sometimes.

After some more rappelling down into space we arrived at the ground and were greeted by our friends with hot tea, whiskey, smiles, and empty packs to carry our stuff in. We were happy to be feet on dirt and in the company of comrades. Even though we were forced down the wall we had succeeded in getting up and down alive and healthy.  It turned out to be a great trip anyway.

Each of us as a human has the right to our own vision(s). Through these vision(s), I believe, we find the opportunity to discover who we are.  As a rock climber my vision is to continue to allow the places in which I climb to shape me into the best human being I can be. My vision is to walk a humble path of strength and power, but not power in a take over sort of way. Power in a way of personal freedom, the freedom to be me and express it as best I can.

Traditionally, it seems, societies had a sort of rights of passage for the people to assist them in their visions and aid them in their path of growing up. As a Yosemite climber one of the “traditional” rights of passage is climbing El Capitan. As a free climber my personal rights of passage is not only climbing El Cap but free climbing it. This brings us to today.

It’s a rainy day Tuesday here in Yosemite. And a rest day to boot! Yesterday Ben Ditto and I went up on The Nose to fix our ropes up a ways. The general idea is to free climb our way up there or “French Free” if need be and check out the route.; to become familiar with the terrain and the systems, etc. I’ve had my fair share of long routes but I’ve never done a wall in full wall style. Meaning, mostly that I’ve never hauled before. Yesterday was my intro to hauling!

This was very interesting aspect. Throwing one’s weight around in order to haul up a large bag full of gear and water and food is a bit of a burly task, especially if you are trying to free climb. Needless to say I was a wee bit worked by the day’s end. But, it felt great and it had me (it has me) excited about the whole goal, about the vision.

So, the rest day, rainy day is welcome. As of this moment the weather is looking like rain and possible snow until Friday. Come Sunday its sunny skies and we’ll most likely take up residence on The Nose for a few days. This will be step three in the whole process and something I anticipate greatly. The climbing will be interesting, the hauling will be tough, the view will be breath-taking and by the time we reach the summit I’m pretty sure I’ll be exhausted. It’s going to be a good journey and I look forward to seeing what lies on the other side.

The Eastern Sierra dream-scape patterned onto the world.

Shinny, shimmering glimpses of a life perpetuated by life.

Ebbing and flowing.

Catching currents of the wind and riding the crest of the crashing waves of a reality dreamed into being.

Crossing boundaries and borders.

Seeping through the cracks.

Grabbing hand holds to pull through to the higher level of freedom.

Being.

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.