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I've been trying to write this in a blog for a long time, as I think it's worthy of being shared. I have been thinking about the parallels of life, and climbing. I know that sounds retarded, but it works. Damnit.
Each climb is like a lifetime to me, though I've only been alive once, and not for very long. You start off happy, though largely ignorant of what's ahead. You know it's probably going to involve being cold and tired for a long time. You start the long approach up the road in the snow, which is relaxing, so you feel at peace. Eventually, you can see the route on the mountain you wish to climb. The sun comes up enough to light up just the top of the mountain, and if you haven't climbed much recently, it might look intimidating.
The sun eventually uncovers the mountain, and you learn more about it from a distance. You can tell what's up there to a degree, but there are far more questions than answers.
Eventually, you reach the base of the climb. Alluvasudden it's like you've got some sort of strange new job, as you break out the ice tools, put your harness on, and rack up your gear. Stepping into an unfamiliar world and you're burdened by all of this junk?
You start up the easy snow slope and judge the route ahead. Go left, and it looks like an avalanche came through and tore up the area, but at least you know from experience that the snow is very compact and good for travel. Go right, and it's craggy, with some ice, but mostly dry rock with some snow on top. This requires a more delicate and smooth approach. She's a special girl. Unsure of which way is the best way, you decide to try the mixed route to the right, to see if you're delicate enough,
You move up to the base and try to coax the mountain into letting you climb it. You stumble for a while, and try your best to clumsily scratch your picks into small holds on the rock. Denied. Try a different approach. Denied again. You get pissed off and have to cool off for a second. Then you move ahead and use holds you were previously uncomfortable with. Gotcha! Solid. Slowly, you move your frontpoints of your crampons onto the rock. It all comes back to you in an instant. All that fancy footwork you learned a couple years ago and refined the most last year. You smoothly, confidently, and coolly step up, placing your frontpoints onto dime edges with all the finesse of a ballet dancer.
Climbing up further, you realize you are moving a bit too fast. You look up and notice the rock ahead of you rearing up and overhead, loose and apt to clock you in the head if you so much as breathe on it. You carefully back off, traversing a snowy ledge to go over to that comfortable-looking couloir of snow on the left. You may have lost some time on the rock you just came up, but you learned some lessons you would've missed had you gone the old, comfortable way you're so used to.
Moving up the snow, you motor along and reach some harder snow, where it has matured. Your points grab solidly and you can rely on this medium to hold your weight. You take a rest, feet solidly planted on the steep terrain, and break open a bottle of water. You look down and notice how much progress you've made, laughing quietly inside at the soft rotten snow at the bottom, now just a memory. A few more swigs and you comfortably move out.
Further up the route, you get into good solid alpine ice. You try to kick in, but your points are too dull to get purchase. You should've sharpened your points before coming up here, but that doesn't really matter now, as you're here and you must continue to remain safe. Time to use a different technique. You very carefully crab up the good ice using French technique. Ah, your calfs remind you how much they seem to enjoy this technique! Your brain tells you to be careful or you'll blow a ligament in your ankle like you did last year.
The ice gets harder, and you move up feeling very strong. You can see further up the route now, with a thousand or so feet of snow, ice, and air below your feet. The sun is shining up above, but it's dark where you are. That sun may be shining for someone else, and you'll pay for it. The warm sunlight loosens rocks from the icy grip of freeze-thaw cycles past, and you notice all of this due to large missiles flying past your head. You duck for a few, trying not to get hit while keeping your attention on your crampon points so you don't loose your tenuous grip on this mountain. You hear a few rocks whiz nearby, just out of range. Then, you hear one that for whatever reason just feels like it's going to get you. WHACK! Right on the arm! You're still standing, firmly planted, but your arm hurts like hell. You start thinking about a broken bone, distance from safety, no medical help, having to climb with one arm, and then you shut it all out. You look for safer terrain... ah! Some rocky spots on the left with protection from most rockfall. Carefully moving over there involves bands of snow in various states of maturity, some too soft to help you or provide any support, and some welcome ones that can hold you up and keep you safe.
You reach the rocky section so that you can take a break. The snow around the rocks is rather varied as well. You kick your feet into the weak soft snow, but you're used to dealing with it, so you can stay planted and demand it's respect. You control it. Checking on the arm that was hit... just a cut, some blood, and it's a tad numb. Take some more water, breathe out, relax...
Looking above, you plot your route. There's a ridge. Ridges are safe from rockfall, which just hit you, but they receive the full bore of weather. You enjoy the cold and the elements, so you move up with confidence in your heart, eager to see what nature can throw at you (other than rocks). Some thinner small ridges must be traversed prior to getting atop the ridge. You're carefully walking atop loose rock held in place by hard snow with steep drops on either side. To the left, unknown. Probably death. The ice won't stop you, and there isn't much for a couple thousand feet of pure snow, rock, and ice to break your fall. Not that you'd want to be injured up here, anyway. To the right, hey, that's where you just came from! You can see the road you walked in on, so conveniently close to the route. At least you could identify the way back down as you whiz down it with a pack on your back, getting flipped over as your crampon points grab into the ice and snow with your ice axe flailing around on its' leash, occasionally hitting you before you black out. But, you won't fall. Falling is for quitters.
Drama over with, you move up some easy snow to the ridge. A beautiful view! You feel like you've retired. The way ahead looks easy, but you remain reserved as you're used to false peaks. You don't set yourself up for disappointment. Taking in the views, you stroll up the ridge, looking ahead to get a glimpse of the summit. You laugh about even caring about the summit, a typically meaningless place. Love and life is found in the journey, not the destination.
You're hungry, and it's getting late. To think you walked up before dawn, and you're now about to be treated to sunset with a nice warm meal in cold surroundings in your second home? Time flies when you're having fun. First time being in this pack since this morning... oh sweet, my favorite beer, Asahi Kuronama! You push it into the snow, the whole alpine world your cooler. Break out the stove and chopsticks, and a can of spam! Good old's spam, so delightful but such a pain in the ass to clean off bowls up here. You promise to never bring spam ever again, though it goes well with most beer at 9,000ft. Ah, that beer. You pop the top off with your Leatherman, and take a long swig from it, enjoying all the flavors and notes the black ale from Japan provides. Holy shit, damn this beer tastes friggin' badass up here! Always worth the weight.
While you eat, you look around, completely alone, with the only reminder of civilization being the wind blowing through the trees, as if someone could be right over that ridge. You clean up, pack up your stove, smash the spam can up, and put it all away. Before gearing up, you drink that last bit of ale. The best. Put the bottle in the top of the pack, under the top panel. You're tired, and your mind drifts to those close to you, and someone you wish would let you into their life. You think about her too much. Things never worked out with her. She reminds you of a pitch lower on the route. You've got to climb on, this life is almost over.
It's getting late, and you don't bother going up what you know is an easy hike to the very top of the mountain. You instead start moving west to search for an easy gully to quickly run down to get to your car. Along the way, there are some easy ridges, easy overall but they tease you. "I'm too tired for this", you think, but you just move up and down them. Ah, this looks like the gully. This looks like the other eight gullies... but at least I can see further down. Time to get movin'.
Walking gives way to a standing glissade. You keep your crampons on as you ski down, having a blast maintaining control on the snow that at just the right consistency to allow you to fly down and not eat it bigtime. You always keep your eyes ahead, looking for a change in snowpack, but more importantly, looking for any waterfalls or very steep terrain. Nothing like blowing your quick and fun descent by having to rappel off really poor features, or getting boxed in with steep terrain that's so loose you can't climb it. Just another pain in the ass in that case. Been there done that. Like talking to someone you wish you never had to deal with. Everything looks clear though, so you clear your mind. No need to cloud your thoughts with negativity when you should be having fun.
The terrain levels out. You can see the road now, just a short hike to the car. So close to civilization, but you're still out her, so you enjoy it. Looking up, you see wispy clouds holding onto red and pink rays of sunlight from the sunset. Wow, I really made it down pretty fast! To the east, some higher peaks covered in snow and ice. Familiar peaks where you've spent many a cold, yet happy night. A feeling of accomplishment overwhelms you. You feel like you've done something great here today. Always humble in the mountains, but this feeling is special, and it's yours. Hiking along the trail to the road, you pass some folks playing in the snow. They look at you with confusion, wondering why this man is walking by with a big smile on his face, a big pack on his back, sharp pointy spikes on his feet, rope, lord knows what else hanging off his waist (dentist tools?), and wielding some sort of stick with a sharp pick on it. He's already gone. I think he said hi. You continue past those folks, and see someone up ahead smiling. They know you by your nickname. Always wonderful meeting folks in the mountains that you've only known online, putting a face to a name. Talking for a while, the two of you walk back to your car while they ask about what you did that day, what's in the future, and that annoying guy on the forums who doesn't do anything cool, just posts meaningless drivel all day long. You move the conversation to beer, because beer is wonderful and it makes life kick much more ass. Beer is a life-turbo.
Taking off your stiff boots brings relief to your tired feet. Slipping on trail runners, you sit down for a bit and let out a loud sigh. You look back and what you've just spent the last whole day doing, and realize that you can do it again right now if you wanted or needed to. Did I lose my cellphone up there? Nope, right here in the top pocket under the helmet thingy. Sweet. That would suck.
It gets darker. You sit with your new friend on the tailgate of the truck, gear strewn about, just talking about whatever and whenever. They bid you farewell, as they have to walk up the trail to get to their kids, who are playing up the road. You thank them and shake their hand. You love meeting folks up here. Always great folks. This is in contrast to daily life. This season is an escape from reality... these experiences, these climbs, they help you regain your sanity and most of all, they heal your soul.
Cleaning up the last bits of your gear, you shut the tailgate, alone at the parking lot. Time to drive home. A lifetime is over.
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This writing segment thingy is basically what happens on the average trip out climbing in the mountains. I love pushing a big new route in the mountains for these reasons. You don't get the same out of short routes. Whether I go solo, in the case of the story, or in a small team, in the case of most of what this story is based off of, you gain a lot.
I climb because it is like meditation to me. I've nearly died multiple times, but I don't come up here for some sort of rush. I don't like adrenaline. I like being in a position where I should, in theory, have adrenaline rushing through my body, but I've trained hard and now that huge drop and tenuous foothold on life itself is comfort. I can look all around, and I'm comfortable. That is beautiful.
I may climb to get away from the city, its' people, and their drama, but I don't like to bring all that up here with me. I drive hard in the mountains, "touge" style, but I don't bring the young arrogance others do. I go up here to share the mountains with my friends, to share the roads in this case. I can take this straight at 90 miles per hour, then downshift three times, entering a second-gear turn with my rear end hanging way out in a fatty drift, 3,000ft drop behind me down into Cattle Canyon and Thompson Ranch, without a single drop of adrenaline going through my system. My eyes are locked on ahead, the only sign of the drift being a big smile on my face that isn't allowed to move my eyes. God, I wish that was on camera. Sure would suck to be that guy following in his new and very expensive European sports coupe that just had a stripped, nearly-stock, and beatup $3,000 Japanese sports coupe show him how it's done up here. At the end of any run, smiles on everyone's faces is the goal. Shake hands, smoke a cigar, have a drink, and have a good time.
Total mind, body, and soul engagement. Sometimes even the heart is involved. These are the things you want to stimulate when involved in any hobby, sport, etc. Zen, of sorts. Either through removing all thoughts clouding your mind through driving hard, forcing you to react to turns, or by concentrating on something very hard, by sitting atop a peak and focusing your mental energy on the sunset. Sake helps.
Sometimes I climb alone. I feel that I need to climb alone at times, as it helps me deal with my problems at home in the city. I think of all the bullshit, the anger, the annoyance, and I leave most of it at the trailhead. If there's a special girl in my life to any extent, I usually think of her all day long. If I find myself in a position in which failure means serious injury or death, my mind clears and I move up. If not, I think of my buddies while I sit and contemplate my moves. My mind clears a bit, not completely, and I carefully move up, no help from anyone. This is what solo climbing is about for me. I have to solve my own problems. Money isn't an issue. I move myself through this "life" through willpower and physical fitness. The brain controls everything, but the soul guides me there, and at times love helps me through.
A brain working without input from the soul lacks creativity and feeling. A brain without the heart is black and white, has no passion, and is idle. A heart without a brain is wild and uncontrollable, and very difficult to predict.
I climb to understand myself. I figure out things about my behavior, and I try to fix them along the way. Every climb, at least big ones, truly is like a lifetime for me. I learn more and do more than any other month or year in my life, honestly. I don't know how others live without doing something similar. i must be missing something in daily life.
When I reach the summit of a peak after a hard solo climb, I sit down and take a break, enjoying the view. It's usually a sunset. Lucky me. Shows that not getting an alpine start (very early morning) has its' advantages. Sitting alone up on the small summit, my route below me, has me thinking. My heart talks more than my brain, who now has nothing to worry about as the "hard part" is done with. I always wish i could have a special girl in my life to share this sort of moment with. not necessarily in the mountains, or through climbing, but just someone to share the special moments in my life with. I often climb alone because I am very lonely. Sounds like the worst way to treat loneliness, but it helps me learn about my heart. I never seem to be able to get a relationship going with that special girl, but that's OK in the end, I guess. Plenty of fish in the sea. I can see many seas from up here atop this 8,900ft peak, all alone, as the sun sets on another day, and another life.
Being up here also has me thinking about all those lights I can see in the city, under the setting sun and rising moon. It's dark up here, but lights are twinkling in the city. How many people are down there? How do they feel? How do they all live without something this powerful in their lives? I'm positive they have such a thing, I just can't see it. I've got a lot to learn. There's gotta be someone out there for me.
Not all climbs "end" in loneliness, though. I climb with my buddies, for there is really nothing you cannot achieve in a team of well-trained and like-minded folks. The climb I based my "story" on was done with my buddy Fritz, who is my #1 climbing partner and a great friend, even though we don't spend much time together outside of the mountains. The mountains forge strong people, and strong friendships. The story just ended up with me being solo for whatever reason, as I had to run with speaking of life while talking about a climb. Most of my best climbs are done as part of a small team. It's absolutely wonderful to share a climb with someone. Fritz and I have a tradition of bringing top-notch beer up a route, to be consumed at the end of the route (usually the halfway point of the trip). With friends, a trip which would be considered a "failure" because you didn't climb what you wanted, is NEVER a failure, as it's a great time out with your buddies, enjoying true freedom. The mountains are truly a gift.
I feel I did a pretty good job explaining what a climb is truly like, but you'd have to be there to truly understand. It took a while for me to understand. It took a long time for me to accept it as a form of betterment and meditation. I thought that was all hippie-crap until I started studying Japanese culture, mostly involving the writings of Yamamoto Tsunetomo in his book, "Hagakure" (Hidden by Leaves). The mountains helped me.
There's more to it that meets the eye. There's always more.
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