Colorado Love

I woke up in a casino parking lot. A dome light dangled above my head. The electric wires spun in and out of view. I was somewhere in Nevada in the back of a station wagon.

My red Saturn Station Wagon. My beat down, gear laden, Saturn Station Wagon.
I fell out of the back and into the driver’s seat. I drove towards the sun rise. Behind me was a Yosemite season of disappointment. The eastern sun rise promised something new, at least something different. I was skeptical tho.

“Now let me welcome everybody to the wild, wild west- A state that's untouchable like Elliot Ness.” Dr. Dre and Tupac rap in California Love. “Cali got gun play, models on the runway,”sings Notorious BIG in Going back to Cali. Snoop Dogg sings “I’m all up on ya- cause you’re representin California” in the pop hit California Girls. Who’s famous for singing about Colorado? John Denver. He strums a guitar and sings about a rocky mountain high. That is not gangster. California 1 Colorado 0. I drove east anyway.

I arrived in Rifle with the goal of getting stronger so I set an appropriate goal- clip the anchors of 100 pitches and send 20 of them. The steep limestone requires serious technique- drop your right knee, drop your left knee, now shit yourself cause you can’t move. My first 3 weeks there were awesome. I climbed well, flashing and onsighting a few easy 5.12s and then flashing a 12c. I got lots of mileage on the soapy limestone.


This is me flashing Cardinal Sin. This route is 12a but in the gym it would be 13c.

For the better part of two weeks, Hayden’s house in Carbondale was empty. Think parents gone. Think huge mansion. Think kegs, cocaine and a house full of raging party. I commuted from Hayden’s house to Rifle for a few days, while I met people camping out there and got used to the scene. Hayden had to handle the dozens of Carbondale hotties himself.


Hayden on Pump-A-Rama at the Arsenal

Supposedly Michael Kennedy, Hayden’s dad, is a good climber. He’s climbed a lot of rock routes across the world. He’s done some serious alpine climbing. He owned Climbing Magazine and now works as the editor for Alpinist. Supposedly he’s a bad ass. I don’t know about all that- what I do know is that Hayden’s dad can drink some scotch. Part of my reasoning behind making the big drive to Colorado was to meet some of the talking heads I’ve conversed with via the interweb but never met. Michael Kennedy exceeded my expectations. After a few glasses of scotch, MK was able to discuss the effects the internet had on print media using eight letter words. I could only nod and watch the room swim. Professional. Point Colorado.


Hayden and Julie Kennedy stretching it out after too much Scotch and wine

Dan Mirsky, Jen Vennon, Wendy Williams, Andrew Bisharat, and a dozen other Rifle climbers, all crush steep limestone on the western slope. They also all wear tank tops. From plain white Target style Man-tanks to surf inspired Volcom hipster sleeveless shirts, tank tops are the hippest piece of climbing apparel in the canyon. To fit into the scene at Rifle, I bought one at the Glenwood Springs Mall. The 16 year old girl at Pacific Sun told me the turquoise shirt with the navy piping looked best so I wore it to the crag the next day. The warm-ups felt easier. I crushed the first pitch of my project and headed into the extension. I felt strong in my tank. The freedom that my arms had seemed to make all the difference. Just a few feet from the anchor, I threw for a crimp, hit the hold and promptly flew off.

“FFFFUUUUCCCKKK!!” I screamed. My belayer yearded 20 feet off the ground to the first bolt. I finished the route and lowered. What had gone wrong? I looked good. I had my tank top. I had the appearance of a Rifle crusher.

“Nice farmer’s tan,” said one of the sport wankers at the Project Wall. Something snapped inside of me. That was the answer- that was the reason why I had fallen. I wasn’t tan. Not only did the Rifle climbers wear tanks but they also had tans. Despite climbing in the shade all day, the climbers managed to be tan. Coloradians tan in the shade. Point Colorado.


Jen Vennon's birthday party. Andrew and Jen were having dinner at this sushi place once when the sushi chef started belting out "Take my hand, we'll make it I swear Oh oh, livin' on a prayer Livin' on a prayer!" Apparently Bon Jovi was sitting right next to them at this Aspen restaurant. He was wearing a turtleneck. CRAZY!


My blog wouldn't be complete without a picture of Max- the scardest dog I've ever met.

The Austrailian kid came running over to the Wasteland. “Rednecks are stealing draws from the Arsenal,” he panted.

Kenny Barker ripped his Cookie Monster t-shirt off, exposing a sinewy 6 foot 3 inch frame, and transforming into a beast. He owns a pug named GusGus, coaches for a youth climbing team in Vail, but grew up in the South East. The redneck in Kenny emerged as he marched across the street with four other climbers to confront the family of thieves. The family of four was waddling in and out of limestone cave on the other side of the canyon. The father was fat and had a tripod. The 20 year old son was fat and had a face full of metal. The 10 year old son was fat and had a walking stick. The mom was fat and had a frump so big she probably hadn’t seen her vagina in a decade.

“Did you guys take a draw off a route?” Kenny asked politely. We stood behind him. We must have looked like a group of maneroxic body builders.

“I’m actually a Yosemite trad climber,” I thought, “I’ve battled the wide.” I folded my arms, pushing my fists into my biceps so they would look bigger.” If there was a brawl…

“I climbed up the route unclipped it, and then dropped the car-biner slingee. I don’t know what happened to it,” the thug son said.

“Why do you need those things up there anyway?” The fat dad’s jowls shook. “If you were real climbers, you would hang your own car-biners every time,” The redneck had a point.
He held up a keychain carabiner, “How much do those things cost? 1 or 2 bucks? What do you care anyway? They’re not your car-biners. Who cares if we’re taking someone else’s stuff- that’s none of your concern.”

The mom’s fat cheeks, her stomache, and her frump all bounced in time as she nodded in furious agreement.

“They’re part of the climbing community,” Kenny said diplomatically. “These are expensive pieces of equipment and we all use them for our own safety. When one is worn or goes missing, the climbing community replaces it. They’re expected to be there and essential to our safety. Do you really want someone to die?”

The family looked at Kenny and grimaced. Thoughts like these caused boig pains between their ears. They didn’t look happy with having to think so hard.

“Why don’t you ask your brother what happened to it? I looked- it’s not there anymore,” said the Aussie.

“You want some of this?” At the subtle accusation that the rednecks had stolen the draw, the 20 year old threw his arms in the air. The flab of his biceps swung around. “I’m from Denver.”

I had no clue where Denver was but from the looks of the fat ass it couldn’t be that tough. Things were heading to fisticuffs. Colorado was exciting after all.

“I’m just gonna be honest,” the ten year old boy squealed. He ran around the corner and returned with a $25 Petzl Quickdraw, the bottom fixed draw on Pump-A-Rama.

“Thanks a lot,” Kenny said. “Thanks for helping keep the climbing community safe and for your honesty.”

The father nodded. It was about safety after all. The young son looked at the ground.

The older one looked disappointed and pissed. He mumbled than spoke.

“Whatever,I don’t need these things,” he held up a keychain carabiner, trying to save face. “I free climb.” Point Redneck Freehander. I wish California had redneck freehanders like that.


Jed got to ride a Segway at one of his office parties for the bank he works at in Rifle. Jed's a classic Rifle character. Just check out that wolf shirt.

I’ve met Lynn Hill a few times. In Hueco. In Yosemite. This time in Rifle. Every time she asks me what my name is. I say, “James.” There’s a pause while I wait for her to say, ”I’m Lynn.” She never does and it makes me mad. Who doesn’t introduce themselves? A few years ago, her son was at the crag and threw a rock through a climbers’ window. Lynn got the guy compensation for the window and then wrote him an apology note. In with the note, Lynn added an autographed photo of herself sending the Nose on El Capitan. “Hey, so sorry my kid broke your window. Here’s a picture of me climbing harder than you ever will.” Point California for having people who keep it more real than people who live in Colorado.


The normal junk show at the Project Wall

“Are those Oreos?” My mouth watered slightly. It’d been days since I had a cookie. The backlight of the Rifle Campground fire made the tasty little treats glisten a little. I wanted one or two or eighteen.

“Actually, they’re organic Belgian chocolate crackers with a Peruvian vanilla bean filling. They’re fair trade,” she responded.

My hand shot out and stole a cookie. “Are you from Boulder?” I asked as crumbs fell out of my mouth.

“OMG! How’d you guess?” She said nearly laughing her $300 LuLuLemon Yoga Pants off.

“Like everyone in the world is from Rifle,” she said with the conviction of a religious zealot.

Danny laughed at her. He was from Atlanta.His girlfriend was from Delaware. I was from California. No one around the campfire except the girl from Boulder was from Colorado. The Austrailian kid and his Canadian girlfriend weren’t even from the States. No point for Colorado on that one. Actually Colorado loses a point.


Hanging at the Arsenal- Photo by Lukas Hill


Laos. Vietnam never felt this muggy. Sweat pours down my body. It’d be better if it was raining on the Project Wall. It would be less humid. The conditions suck. I shouldn’t care but I do. Instead of not getting attached to anything in Rifle, I started projecting. Bad Idea. I one hung 3 different 12ds in the same day and couldn’t manage to send any of them. I’m starting to wobble. I decide to take my fitness to the next level.


Rifle attracts all sorts of weirdos

At the end of the month, I was ready. Honed. Conditioned. I went into the comp with high expectations. There would be a cash prize. If I won the contest, the award would pay for my entire month of climbing. I’d done some prepping with Kenny Barker the week before.

The 40th annual Mountain Fair Festival in Carbondale attracted hoards of hippies, carnies who set up booths to hawk glass vases, do angel readings and make a few bucks from fat locals. I stopped by the pie baking booth as early as I could on Saturday morning. “You’re fruit number 1,” the official told me when I dropped off my lattice butter crust organic Granny Smith apple pie. I knew the competition would be stiff. The Olympic Sprinters of pie baking come out to the Mountain Fair festival for the contest. Over a dozen contestants enter into each of the three categories- fruit, crème and exotic. This year was no different.


Some of the other contestants at the bake off

“Randy has no sense of direction. He can’t find anything and has no clue what’s going on around him. Oof!” That’s when Beth ran into three people walking the other way at the summer fair. Andrew, Randy Puro, Beth and I cruised through the fair, scoping out the scene and stopping by to see Jen Vennon;’s origami earring booth (which was rad)


My bad ass pie

With a couple of cherry pies made with Kenny in Aspen under my belt, and a slew of other pies this year in Bishop, I knew I stood a fair chance. I spent 4 hours baking at Andrew’s house. Sunday morning was a great big disappointment to me. Carbondale resident Judy Harvey destroyed the competition, winning the fruit section with a marian berry, raspberry, blackberry pie. She also placed third in exotic. She’s won over 20 ribbons in the past few years for her baking expertise. Sandbagging locals. Point Colorado.

This is the part where I talk a little bit more about climbing. I do climb a lot. Blah blah blah fall fall fall send send send. It’s just about all the same but this time I went somewhere new. I’ll wrap things up now.

Put yourself out there. Try something new. Fail. Fail. Succeed. Grow as a person. It’s not easy but it’ll make you a better person and a better climber. Being willing to push yourself is a requirement of success. I don’t know how many points Colorado had in the end. I can’t count to twenty with my shoes on. I do know that I went out there, tried something new, failed, succeeded, grew, and mostly importantly had a good time with lots of great people. My trip to Rifle was fun, the way climbing trips should be.

Yosemite Spring 2011

Picture four limbs flailing in the air, a tangle of ropes whizzing by, and a man screaming. Lucho called me from the hospital that evening. There had been an accident.



I arrived in Yosemite with high hopes of free climbing a new big wall route. John and I woke up early, marched up the east ledges of El Capitan, and rappelled from the summit down to the two crux pitches on the FreeRider, the easiest free route up El Capitan. After warming up by toproping the Enduro Corner (5.12b), John and I headed down to the boulder problem, a section of 5.12d and the hardest moves on the whole route. We got schooled. John really wanted to climb the Freerider this season and getting shut down on the boulder problem was demoralizing. This 20 foot section of rock would stop us from a free ascent of El Cap. 20 feet on a 3,000 foot climb. Brutal. Before we made the long rappels to the ground, I gave John a hug on the side of El Cap. Climbing is hard.


Lucho and I climbing at Killer Pillar- Ben Ditto Photo

John and Lucho climbed Demon’s Delight, a 5.11- traversing route on Schultz’s Ridge below the East Buttress of El Capitan. The initial 3 pitches traverse leftwards and then the final pitch climbs straight up through a 5.11 mantle. Lucho followed the last pitch. At the belay, Lucho asked John if the rope was middle marked. The rope’s mark was highly faded from use. Lucho didn’t have a rappel device so John lowered him to the bolted belay at the top of the third pitch, approximately 90 feet off the ground. Lucho stayed tied in. John double rope rappelled but neglected to even out the ropes. Lucho saw the uneven ropes but didn’t say anything. John descended until he was ten feet above Lucho and a hundred ten feet above the ground. Then the rope went through his belay device and John started free falling.

Tim Derohen and I went climbing for the first time 11 years ago. Vermont Academy, the boarding school I attended in southern Vermont, hired Tim on as the climbing coach, a babysitter for a group of kids who needed an after school activities to bolster their college applications.


Coach Tim at the Keene State Bridge 12 years ago

“You didn’t have to show Grayson how to back step,” Tim said. On a trip to the gnesis sport crag of Rumney New Hampshire, Grayson Holden onsighted Romancing The Stone, a 5.10d. “He was naturally talented.” I was not. After two years of toproping on the Keene State Bridge in New Hampshire and other tiny crags, I managed to send Yoda- a steep 5.9 sport climb at Rumney. I moved to Yosemite a year later and started a ten year love affair with granite. I saw Tim a few times over the years when he came out to Yosemite.



We headed out to Washington’s Column. Jake Whittaker and I had dabbled on Planck’s Constant earlier in the season, trying the pitch twice. The crux of Quantum Mechanic follows a 5.11 crack to an enormous roof, which traverses left for 40 feet. It’s not an undercling- it’s a THUNDERCLING! Tim and I climbed the middle portion of Mid-East Crisis. We aided up beautiful corner pitches, scoping them for a free line. I returned with John Schmid and we freed the pitches in sections. I fixed ropes half way up the Column and returned to drill a lead bolt connecting the top of the crack system to some face climbing on the arête.



John’s arms flailed through the air. In an attempt to slow himself down, he grabbed Lucho’s end of the rope. The rope burned through his hand and he got tangled up in the other end. John crashed into the branches of an oak tree 100 feet from where he fell. After a few moments, Lucho heard him. “I’m alive! I’m alive!” Lucho fixed the rope and rapped down to John, who was precariously balanced in the branches. He clipped him into his belay device and the two rappelled to the ground. Lucho ran to the meadow, grabbed Dave Turner and the pair carried John down to the car. They drove to the hospital in Merced, where John was treated for 3rd degree burns on his hand, other minor rope burns, two slightly sprained ankles, and a pulled tendon in his elbow.


All Phoenix pictures by Michael Pang


Climbing in Yosemite involves toiling. Hike to the base, hump a big back pack, do some sketchy approach pitches, climb one splitter, epic topping out, scramble back down to the base, hike down at dark hungry and tired to deal with whatever fucked up camping and food storage scene you have going on in the Valley floor. That’s an easy day. A day when your friend doesn’t fall a hundred feet. The day after John’s fall, I jumared up his line on Demon’s Delight, rappelled, and then went to El Cap meadow and drank. The next day, I jumared up my four fixed lines on Washinton’s Column and rappelled the route, cleaning it as I went down. I was terrified rappelling down the wall, still shaken up by John’s fall. Yosemite was crushing me. I would have to return in the fall.



Hike from the top of Cascade Falls, rappel 60 feet to a stance, then head down another 120 feet, and you’ll reach the base of the Phoenix- one of Yosemite’s famous difficult crack climbs. An ascent of this route is a nice feather in any climbers cap and I managed to toprope it from below the crux. So I tried to lead it. This did not go as planned. I climbed pinned out 5.12 stemming, and placed a crappy piece inside a pin scar that opened up in the back. The climbing felt too hard to put in a more solid piece. I wanted to send the route so I punched it into the crux.



That’s when I fell. My cam popped out of the crack. I fell on a fixed piton. When I stopped, I was right next to Ashely, my belayer.



I pulled the rope, climbed through the stemming and then hung my way through the crux. I was scared. I climbed through the thin fingers section after the crux. I tried to place a cam but my smallest piece was too big. I tried to stuff it higher, than lower, than higher. Eventually I tossed the piece over my shoulder, and kept climbing. I got massively pumped, tried to down climb, got scared, and jumped. Ashley tied me off and went searching in the poison oak for the cam I had thrown. Thankfully she found it. I climbed the rest of the route without incident. I went back a week later with Jens Holsten and tried the route again. It was offensively hot. I couldn’t stick the technical jams at the crux. I needed a hug.

The day before my failed redpoint attempt, Alex Honnold free soloed the route. Honnold's actions were part of a Vendetta. We met 5 years ago in Squamish. When I told him I'd fallen off the crux of the notorious 10d offwidth Pipeline, he went and soloed it. When I was driving to Zion to free climb Moonlight Buttress, he told me he had soloed it a few days before. Regular route on Half Dome, The Rostroman, just about any long hard free route I've tried- same thing. Since I’d been working on the Phoenix this spring- getting close- so you know what Alex did?


Llyod Christmas in Foresta

Honnold’s a nice guy- for a dick.

“Speaking of ugly,” John Long leaned against the porch wall in El Portal as Lara Logan, the voluptuous 60 Minutes correspondent walked out to the group of men.



“Speaking of washed up has been rock climbers,” Lara knew how to work the film crew, flirting coquettishly and with just the right amount of sass.

Logan, along with half a dozen of out of shape camera men, met Peter Mortimier, Rob Frost, and Sender Films intern Kyle to film Honnold soloing the Choinard Herbert on the Sentinel. Long and Logan stood at the base watching him climb while Yosemite locals Mikey Schaefer, Dave Turner, and Ben Ditto dangled from ropes filming Honnold climb the route.



“Ho man! Looks a little touch and go up there,” Long commentated when Alex climbed through a bit of wet 5.10. Alex had climbed the route twice that season and had it pretty worked out. It wasn’t very touch and go at all despite the few wet holds. Alex is a calculated soloist. Long hammed it up for Logan and the 60 Minutes crew at the base. The ascent went by smoothly. A couple of times, Alex had to sit on a ledge for half an hour while the film crew jumared higher on their fixed ropes.

“How’s the view?” Logan asked Honnold in a radio interview at the summit.



“It’s good. But if I wanted the view I would have hiked around to the top,” Honnold said.

I cackled in the background, cracking up at Honnold’s penchant honesty. Mortimier and Kyle shot me a glance to quiet down, afraid that my braying would be recorded onto the interview. The Sender Films hired porters to hike a load to the top and then carry another one day. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a bunch of money, hang out in the 60 Minutes rented house, eat tons of food and drink lots of beer. I swooped. Ca-Caw!


A hungry climber, Coach caught a snake for lunch on the hike to the top of the Sentinel

Ben Ditto suggested that we were encouraging Honnold’s soloing. We were certainly participants in the stunt and were making money off of Alex’s life threatening climbs. It’s true. We had all hopped on the 60 Minutes gravy train when it rolled through but if we hadn’t who would? Not sure what else to say but that I hoped Alex doesn't die.


Ditto in the heat of El Portal

The heat, the traffic, and mostly the amount of work that needs to get done to go climbing in Yosemite worked me. My 8a card suffered and so did my fragile fragile ego. I climbed with Jens Holsten for a few days in Tuolumne but despite the great weather and being able to climb with one of my long time friends, I needed to escape. I spent the week with Kim, climbing in the gym, and with the next member of the 100 foot club- John Schmid.


Schmid lives

I hoped to salvage my season by becoming a bad ass gym climber and impressing Kim. I definitely didn’t do the former and the latter is still in question.



All I do is rock climb and to a great extent, my feeling of worth is directly linked to how well I climb. While it’s bad to attach myself so greatly to something as abstract as scaling a rock, I can’t help myself. I complained to Ben Ditto about not having done anything this season. “You’re putting in work for the future,” he told me.

I kept that in mind as I packed my car and made the 18 hour drive to Rifle Colorado. I was working for the future.

Unusual Suspects- Brittany Griifith

Brittany Griffith wrote this story about our recent climb on Moonlight Buttress in Zion. The original is posted over at the Patagonia Website- The Cleanest Line

Unusual Suspects

My springtime objective (okay, to be perfectly honest, it has been a dream of mine for a long time) of free climbing Zion’s Moonlight Buttress was quickly unraveling. My partner, Nellie, had spent the previous night projectile vomiting in a rental van. Puke everywhere—in her shoes, on her pack and on the rope.

NellienMebus


[Bummed on the bus. After failing on their first attempt, Nellie and Brittany contemplate their next shot. Photo: Cedar Wright]

As Nellie shivered and sweated in her sleeping bag, cursing the runny eggs she had eaten the previous morning, her boyfriend, Cedar, suggested I try James as an alternative partner.

“James?” I grumbled. All these years I had envisioned doing the route with a girlfriend, or at the very least with my husband as he hauled ice water, nori rolls and summit beers behind me. I didn’t even really know James. All I really knew about him was that everyone called him “Big Fall James” because of his miraculous survival from a 200-foot free-soloing fall in Joshua Tree.
“Where is he now?” I hadn’t seen him since early Thursday morning.

“I think he went back to Vegas to get his car and do laundry.”

“What kind of car does he have?” I feel you can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive—if their ride is a junk show, you can assume they are, too. It’s basic police profiling.

“A Saturn station wagon.” Definitely not a good sign, but I was desperate.

I texted James at 1pm on Friday, “Do u wan clim MB tomrw?”

Seconds later my phone chirped, “ok. Packing be there at 5”. I guess laundry could wait.

James arrived at camp as promised at 5. He was wearing a tight neon pink threadbare T-shirt that had iron-on black block lettering that read, “University of Yosemite”. I took a look inside James’ Saturn (which he lived in, by the way) and it appeared he was on his way to the Salvation Army for a drop-off. Some of the items strewn about included an old Snoopy t-shirt (screen printed with “I’m kinda a big deal”) fashioned into a bag, which he had stuffed with clothes (or maybe his laundry?), a paper Trader Joe’s grocery bag that was torn and spilling its contents of cereal, potato chips and dried mangos, and a suspicious looking plastic bin that upon closer inspection I surmised was his bathroom kit on account of the multiple toothbrushes and Costco-sized Trojan box.

I also noticed that the interior dome light dangled from exposed wires. “How do you like my chandelier?” James humorously offered up.

SaturnChandelier



[Saturn chandelier. Photo: Brittany Griffith]

James’ Saturn, a dusty, hammered relic with 175,000-plus miles and a missing passenger side mirror, was definitely a far cry from my Gypsy Van.

I did a quick scan of his climbing gear. Junk show. “We’ll use all my gear,” I said immediately.

Injuries from his 200 footer has left James with a unique gait—slow but still kinda spasmodic, like a cross between Quasimodo and a super model strutting down the runway—and as we hiked to the base of the climb the next morning, my doubts on our success were high. So was the river crossing—which James didn’t really want to do, and he balked a couple of times on the bank. I led the way, stripped to my underwear, which I think ultimately got him across.

Moonlight Buttress starts with four pitches of moderate climbing, and then is stacked with six pitches of 5.12 lead to the summit. After we cruised up the easy climbing and the first 5.12 pitch, James set off on the notorious crux layback section.

MBcorner


[Brittany grimaces on a prior unsuccessful attempt at the crux pitch. Photo: Cedar Wright]

After placing two cams in the first 40 feet, he began sketching—heavily… the rope was behind his leg and he had a cam crammed in his mouth. I heard a muffled Man Scream, sounding somewhat like a donkey in heat, and then he pitched off. James landed upside down, a few feet from my head, with the cam still in his mouth, his lips now bloody. I lowered him the few remaining feet to the anchor.

I stayed silent for a while, letting us both recompose. James sagged in his harness, his gaze fixed above.

“It’s moved into the sun now.” He said flatly. We both knew what this meant: warm rock = less friction = more effort required to hold on.

James, however, was game. He pulled the rope, tied back in, took a swig of water from the pack and headed back into the layback. That’s when I realized that James wanted it as bad as I did, and that’s all that mattered. We could do this.

He triumphantly reached the next anchor without falling, and I followed cleanly. Next, I grappled with a slot, twisting and contorting my small fingers to wedge into the deep crack, and at the top of the pitch I heaved my body up onto an ample ledge.

Jamesonpartyledge




[James patiently waits for the shade and contemplates how turkeys mate.]

We were half way there, three of the six 5.12s dispatched. We had four hours of decent light left, so we decided to take a good rest on the comfy ledge. I lasted about seven minutes before I started to get antsy and anxious. Idleness has never been my strong suit.

James, sensing my impatience, kept me distracted by asking me questions about growing up in Iowa, my numerous stepdads and about my garden. I asked him some questions, too, and here’s what I found out.

Last week he had been to a wedding in Vegas and wore his “black khakis.” I argued that khakis were khaki and therefore couldn’t be black. He said he’d look it up on the Internet.

He had seen the movie Hanna, most of Scream 4 and the last 15 minutes of Source Code the day before.

James has an identical twin!



James and Matt

[OMG there are two of you!]

After nearly an hour on the ledge, we continued climbing, freeing every pitch and swapping leads, which gave James the last pitch (which was actually a link-up of the last two pitches, making for one giant 180-foot pitch). As he left the belay, I could tell he was nervous. Free this last pitch and we’d be done, a free ascent of Moonlight.

“You got it, James.” I tried to sound cavalier, but I was nervous, too.

James finessed the tricky 5.12 crack/face and entered the final 5.10 bulge. He thrust in his last piece of gear and aggressively tackled the last steep bit of sandstone that guarded the summit. One of his legs dangled and the other was behind the rope—again. I could sense him panicking. Despite the fact that there was a real danger of him getting hurt if he fell this time, I believe he was more concerned about not doing the route. I was more concerned about his skull and that he had already used up his one “Get Out Of Death Free Card” on his Joshua Tree fall.

He stomped his dangling foot up on the rock and tried to stand up to a handhold but came up short.

“Faaawk…” he cussed. Oh shit, this was serious.

“James… we don’t fall here.” I sternly encouraged.

He quickly regrouped, refocused and punched through to the summit. Yes! I flew up the pitch after him. I couldn’t wait to see him and give him a great big hug. I was so happy for him. I guess I should have been feeling a sense of accomplishment for myself, but oddly I didn’t.

In the end, when I think back on free climbing Moonlight, I probably won’t remember the things I thought I would remember: the sequence of powerful crux locks, which cam went where, or when the route goes into the shade. I’ll remember how common culture, aspiration and stoke are what’s vital in successful partnerships—and the look of pure terror on James’ face as he went down in the raging Virgin River on our return crossing…

SaturnStoker



[James, northbound and super stoker on the I-15 after freeing Moonlight Buttress. Kids, don’t try this while driving your mom’s Prius.]

My Attorney's Advice

My attorney advised me to keep climbing. The woman above me cried in the chimeney, a fish flopping through the tight passage. My attorney doesn't register the epic yet but he'll know soon enough.

The hike started early in the day. A standard Yosemite rack- singles to a 2, a pack of GU, no topos, and no water. The cotton mouth would set in before noon. Schmid and I trudged into Black Velvet canyon with Sol Wertkin, a friend from Leavenworth Wa, nipping closely on our heels. I stared down the holds on a boulder problem sitting in the wash.

"The right exit is V7. The straight up is V11," Sol said. "But who cares about the boulders. Liberty Cap." The Washingtononians love to hike. That summer Sol had sent the Thin Red Line on the back country formation. He hiked for days to get out to it, and then climbed a few hard pitches. Sloggers all of them. My legs turn to jelly at the mention of cross country miles. I spent the winter bouldering. My back was a pizza slice and my body unused to the death marches. I wish I had a crash pad to sit underneath the boulder.

"Never sandbag your girlfriend," my attorney said. "That guy is not getting laid tonight." Epinephrine is a neurotransmitter, a hormone that increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and participates in the fight-or-flight response of the sympathetic nervous system. That's what Wikipedia says. The girl screaming in the chimeney would have said Epinephrine is the worst route in Las Vegas.

"We'll climb slowly up to them and then pass quickly. They won't notice us if we can keep from laughing." I wonder if he was seeing the girl turn into a fish.

Epinephrine climbs for 1600 feet up a buttress in Black Velvet Canyon, just outside of Las Vegas. Four hundred feet of climbing up through ledge systems leads to a large chimeney system for three hundred feet, followed by another nine hundred feet of scrambling to a ridge to the summit. The crux is the chimeney section, which is sparsely protected by bolts. It's a better route than the Steck Salathe- less pin scars and some classic Indian Creek-esque splitters.

John Schmid, my attorney ran the Oakland Marathon earlier this week, sprinting the whole thing out in 3:30. For John, all the hiking felt easy. I constantly wanted to sit down in the shade. My mouth tasted like cotton. Schmid is a marathon man. He advised me to keep walking.

The ridge eventually headed back down to the wash. It was a death camp march. I hate slogging. At 5 we reached the base of Frogland, a dog sat at the base. After stealing some people's water, we climbed the route. John went first. I spotted him as he soloed across a traverse under a roof. He crossed to a two finger pocket and went to a jug. He sprayed me beta as I soloed the move as well. Higher was a cool chockstone. I wanted to lay inside next to it. My legs were jelly and my feet were swollen. My attorney advised me to keep climbing.

We made it back to the car, fueled up, and hit the road around 7. After beers with Sol at the campground, we had dinner at the Half Yard, where we saw Bill Ramsey and Chris Weidner- those guys are famous hardmen!

The climbing was a ton of fun, and reminded me how much fun rock climbing can be! Too bad my legs feel like jelly this morning.

The Ultimate Sandbagger- John Schmid

At 5’8” 145 pounds with brown hair and brown eyes, the 29 year old John Schmid appears like a mild mannered rock climber. After receiving a biology degree from Colorado College, where he began rock climbing ten years ago, Schmid moved to the bay area to take up a job that would support his climbing lifestyle. Schmid became a murse- a male nurse. During the graveyard shift, Schmid works in the neo-natal intensive care unit of Alta Bates in Berkeley where he saves the lives of sick little babies.


Schmid on the Tuolumne classic On the Lamb (5.9) photo by Mikey Schaefer

A hard working regular Joe during the evening, Schmid transforms during daylight hours. When the sun comes up John Schmid is a rock crushing super hero! A solid trad climber with ascents of Zion’s Moonlight Buttress (V 5.12d), Indian Creek’s Optimator (5.13-), and an onsight of Yosemite’s Tales of Power (5.12b), John’s ability to crack climb comes from his years destroying the back of his hands in Indian Creek and Joshua Tree.

After becoming a crack warrior, Schmid headed to Yosemite in an attempt to learn to wall climb. “A few years ago, Geoff Christensen and I climbed the Regular Route on Half Dome (VI 5.9 A2) in a longish day. We topped out in the light. Then James Lucas encouraged us to climb the Nose in a Day. We believed him that we could do it. We made good time climbing to the Great Roof but then it got dark and we got tired. We only had ATCs. We fell asleep with the ropes wrapped around our arms to arrest the other climber’s fall. We topped out in 27 hours 45 minutes. It was a long day. Thanks. James.”

“I’m a good weekend climber,” said the notoriously modest Schmid. On a recent trip to Bishop, Schmid climbed his second, third, fourth, and fifth outdoor V6s. He hiked the steep Every Color You Are and then nearly flashed Atari, falling on the last move and then sending the problem a few minutes later. After a morning at the Buttermilks, where he claims to have gotten worked, Schmid dispatched Mr. Witty (v6) 2nd try and flashed Rene (V5 highball). He also sent Strength in Numbers (a highball V5) and Molly (v5) and French Press (v6) on a subsequent trip to the Sads. “I don’t boulder. I can’t hold things very well.”


John onsigting Tales of Power (5.12B) photo by Max Hasson

Despite his "inability" to boulder, Schmid climbs with a significant amount of tenacity and dedication. One morning, Schmid downed a half dozen Monster energy drinks and left Berkeley before sunrise to climb Yosemite’s classic Beggar’s Buttress (IV 5.11c). On arriving in “the Ditch”, it started raining. Neither John nor his partner had checked the weather. Determined to climb, Schmid smoked a couple cigarettes than hoofed down to Kaukulator, a slightly overhanging 5.11c test piece on the Rostrum. After hiking the crux, Schmid fought his way throw the notoriously difficult and sandbagged 10c offwidth at the top. Schmid grunted, moaned, and squirmed as he climbed the wrong way into the crack. In an impressive onsight, Schmid clipped the anchors and started to lower. A quarter of the way back to the ground, Schmid yelled to his belayer to stop. For the second time that day it started raining- the second time it wasn't water but Schmid puking from the monstrous effort.

Untitled from James Lucas on Vimeo.

“I’m already a plastic prince,” said Schmid of his constant presence at the Touchstone gyms. A long time indoor climber, Schmid grew up in LaFayette and climbed at Conord’s Diablo Rock Gym before moving to Temescal. Schmid splits his time between Great Western Power Company and Berkeley Ironworks climbing with the tough guy sport crew. He climbs with Tony Calvert and Ethan Scwartz, whom he mostly climbs routes with. “I really want to climb 5.13 in the gym so that I can tell James (the Touchstone blogger). My climbing career peaked 5 years ago in Indian Creek. I want to get back to that high point and tell James.”

Schmid employs a well known climbing tactic- that of the sandbag. He enjoys downplaying his abilities and then serendipitously sending your project. I am thinking about punching in the head for all the times he's sandbagged me.


John on Equinox (5.12c) in Joshua Tree

Schmid will be spending the rest of the week in Bishop. James hopes to sandbag him before he heads back to the bay to send the 5.13 at Ironworks.

Saving Mule Days

It’s Wednesday, January 26, 2011. I am anchoring a couch in Bishop California, letting my skin heal from climbing on the granite boulders of the Buttermilks. I am here for the climbing. I am also here for the job.

I wake up on hump day with a list. Statistically speaking, suicides occur most often in the middle of the week. Shots in the head and a planted gun, a suicide note and a push off the building, and the old “accidental overdose” happen on Wednesdays because assassination attempts in the middle of the week often look like suicides. The list of lives to save, of “suicides” to stop, begins and ends with one person: Neal McCoy.

On Wednesdays, I work my part time job as a secret agent. Wednesdays are busy days.


This is what I look like in uniform.

I tussle my hair in the bathroom mirror. Secret agents have a casual clean look. Think James Bond. They also have good oral hygiene so I brush my teeth. My contact wants to meet at Schatz, a busy and buttery local bakery. I do a few pull ups on a bar hanging above the bathroom door to make room for an apple fritter and walk down to meet the CIA spook.


Practicing my shooting at a Bishop firing range.

I pretend to examine the rows of danishes. Really, I am watching the reflection of people walking into the bakery in the glass display. I am also counting the number of apples in the fritters two rows down. Secret agents are good at multi-tasking. My contact doesn’t recognize me. I am disguised as a derelict rock climber. I blend in to the environment of the East Side of the Sierras. That’s why the CIA hired me; I can blend in. I watch the contact pretend to read the news paper. I sit at the table next to him and eat an apple fritter. I should have flossed. The contact looks around the room suspiciously, glances at his watch, then leaves. He doesn’t bring his suitcase.


Secret agents love apple fritters. You should too.


On Memorial Day Weekend in Bishop, more than 700 mules compete in 181 events at the Tri-County fairgrounds for the Mule Days Celebrations. Thursday night, a couple days before the longest ever running non-motorized parade, more than 30,000 people pack into the stands of the fair to see the show’s headliner. This year Neal McCoy, a 52 year old Irish Filipino country musician from Texas, will be starring the show. McCoy’s Billboard hits include “No Doubt About It,” “Wink,” and “Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On.” He’s a perfect crowd pleaser for the desert town. He’s also a perfect candidate for a highly publicized suicide.


The target: Country crooner Neal McCoy

My contact’s briefcase include McCoy’s itinerary for a day reconnaissance to Bishop for a Mule Day's publicity shoot. It also includes information about the assassination attempt. A crazed member of the Bishop Chamber of Commerce decided that the death of McCoy would bring more tourism to the town than an actual show. Bishop will be the next Graceland, a place thriving on the memorabilia of a dead star. A suicide would look best- at the very least people would go to the Thunderbird Inn to see where McCoy died.

Orange juice is good. Lots of Vitamin C. Lots of antioxidants. Lots of good good stuff. For McCoy the morning orange juice would contain heavy amounts of hydrocodone bitartrate and acetaminophen, or Vicodin, an opiod that in heavy amounts is lethal. Cue pun about pulp in the orange juice.


Drink Milk cause OJ will kill you. That's right. Secret Agents make bad jokes. The difference is if you don't laugh, I'll kill you.

McCoy required that there be good old fashion oj at his hotel room for his 9 am continental breakfast. The Thunderbird Inn imports their Minute Maid from the nearby Vons. From there it hits the kitchen, and then McCoy’s room. Room service would be dropping dissolvable pills in and then housekeeping would be staging the “suicide”. My Wednesday mission was to stop that orange juice.

After finishing my apple fritter, I tussled my hair again. Look good Be good- that’s the motto they taught me at my old alma mater HBSAS (Handsome Boy Secret Agent School). I headed down the street as the innkeeper stepped out of his Dodge Dakota with a gallon of Minute Maid. At the back door, I karate chopped the room service man in the neck as he was taking a cigarette break. After changing into his uniform, I ran inside and grabbed the already poured oj. The innkeeper yelled behind his back, “Smitty, go to room 211 before you hit McCoy at 200. There’s something the Mule Days chairman needs you to deliver down the hall.”

“Room service,” I knocked shave and a haircut-two bits on the door. The chairman brought me in, double checking the hallway. He pulled out a wad of bills. It was a hundred wrapped around a dozen ones. He pulled from the middle of the pile, and stuffed the bills into my pocket. It amounted to $6. Cheap bastard.

“McCoy needs his sleeping pills in his breakfast,” he cracked a dozen Viocidins onto a piece of paper on the nightstand and brought the powder over to my tray.


The Thunderbird: free continental breakfast, lots of bed bugs, and home of an assassination attempt.

“Not on your life Chairman!” I did a flying crane kick, knocking the powder out of his hands and drop kicking him on the head. “I bet you didn’t know that there were bad-ass handsome secret agents around Bishop did you!? Well, the CIA will be having words with you!” I cuffed him to the bed and texted the Spook that the mission was accomplished.

I delivered the oj to McCoy’s room. I didn’t ask for an autograph, though I should have. I saved his life.

I headed home. The dog needed to be walked. It was 10:00. I had a busy day. The couch still needed to be anchored.

Thank God I saved McCoy. He'll be playing Bishop's favorite song at Mule Days

Gang Related

Lucho loved two types of music. “This shit is gangster,” Lucho claimed. We listened to Tupac Shakur. “This shit is also gangster,” he fiddled the knobs on the iPod. Phil Collins came on. Lucho was a true gangster. We were driving to down canyon Yosemite to climb on the sunny winter cliffs. Black ice coated the road. Phil Collins was signing about the air tonight. Lucho’s Toyota Tacoma hit the ice, skidded across the road to one side. Lucho over corrected and his pick-up hit the snow embank. Phil Collins sang about holding on. The truck flipped and we ended up sideways. Lucho’s shoulder pressed into the yellow line of the road. Glass covered the road from the broken driver’s side window. I hung sideways, supported by the passenger seat belt. Lucho told me to get out quick in case the truck exploded. An hour later, a California Highway Patrol officer flipped the rig onto its wheels with the winch from his suv. The truck ran fine. It didn’t explode- just a lot of dents and broken glass. Too bad about the explosion- that shit would have been gangster.


Lucho painting his house on York St.

Lucho ‘s lived on San Francisco Mission District’s York Street for thirty years. In fifth grade, he joined the Nortenos. They claimed red. Outside of a place they called the Dungeon, the basement in a crack house, a half dozen kids jumped him into the gang. They kicked him, punched him, and beat him for twenty-three seconds. The gang claimed 23rd street. When a group of wetbacks, claiming brown, showed up on 23rd street, the Nortenos grabbed pipes, bats, and chains to reclaim their territory. The smallest kid wearing brown pulled a hand gun out when the Nortenos were across the street. He emptied his pistol on them. Lucho and his gang dashed. A Norteno was shot. Another Norteno pulled a pickup around, Lucho and the others threw the shot kid in the back of the truck, and they dashed to the hospital. They left the shot kid at the emergency room. Lucho was 16. That shit is kind of gangster.


York St in the Mission

Lucho met Cedar Wright in the boulders behind Camp 4. Lucho had some chronic weed. Cedar had a strong desire to smoke it all. They hung out often. Imagine that. They climbed together too. Cedar needed a belayer on his numerous projects. He wanted to freeclimb Wild Apes, an aid route established on Higher Cathedral rock by three local climbers. Cedar convinced Lucho to come with him. Cedar attempted to free the Banana Chute, a difficult thin crack next to a chimney system. The climbing proved too difficult and he tried the next major feature, a huge roof. With Lucho hanging at a bolt next to a crack, Cedar freed the Gravity Ceiling, a 5.13- 30’ crack route. Gangster. Lucho learned a lot. They hiked to Higher Cathedral 8 times. He definitely learned how to hike. The weed supply dimished. Imagine that. Later, the pair headed up to the Turkey Chute on Liberty Cap to attempt another new free route. They climbed high onto the formation, came to some difficult climbing, and retreated. They pulled their ropes and granite blocks came down on their heads. A large baseball fell onto Lucho’s shoulder and broke his clavicle. Cedar and Lucho hiked down the hill together. There was nothing gangster about being hurt.

Zach Romero sat in Coiler’s shop in Chinese Camp. I’m not sure what year it was- sometime before the stripper pole went up and after the three dozen license plates got hung on the wall. A couple cute girls from Tahoe, friends of Coiler tossed back beers for us. They talked about Lucho, who was famous for his suave. “Platinum and I went to the gym the other day,” I told Romero. “Lucho showed up half an hour late. When he walks in, he gets right on our gym project. He’s half way up the route, throwing his limbs all over, screaming like Bruce Lee, and totally going for it. He sets up to throw, and launches himself into the plastic world.” The girls start listening when they hear of Lucho’s heroics in the plastic palace. A thousand pieces of paper exploded out of his pockets as he dynos across the wall. As he’s picking up stuff up, I realize he’s picking up condoms.” Romero cackles, and notices the ladies perking up. “Magnums,” he interjects. “Really!?”, said one of the girls, “Little Lucho?” “Yeah, he’s got a six inch dick- when he folds it in half,” I added. It’s good to make your friends sound like gangsters, even if it’s not necessarily true.


Lucho on Wapama Rock in Hetch Hetchy.

Before the Tacoma exploded outside the park, Lucho and I were driving through Tuoulumne. It was late. The moon was high in the sky. It was cold. As we came into the meadow, Lucho’s headlights hit the body of a fawn laying on the shoulder of the road. He slowed, then stopped. He stepped out of the car, walked to the still warm body, and carried the dead fawn off into the woods. “It’s a better place for it to die,” he said. "I couldn't leave it there." He returned to the truck and we drove off. Lucho was a true gangster.