This One Goes To Eleven

Thanks for the inspiration, Cupcake Mafia. I've always loved themes. They're so full of purpose! I think my love of themes hearkens back to the third grade when I wrote fruit-themed poetry on paper the shape of apples....

This one really did go to 11! Good friends = good times.

2011 is right around the corner so my theme-ing is well-timed with the new year. (side note: I really don't think the year's theme has to be decided now, nor does it have to stay the same for all 365 days of the year. just a hint of things to come on snarkybumbler - keep an eye out for revised themes.) Anyhow....

In, 2008 my theme was the Year of Selfishness. Not bitchiness, mind you but this theme served as a reminder to do what was best for myself before doing what was best for others. We become the best friend, daughter, girlfriend, coworker, self, etc. only after we've taken care of our own needs - that's my thinking anyways. So in 2008, I tried to put me first, sometimes failed, sometimes succeeded and over all learned a shit-ton.

2009...hmmm... it was the year of something...honestly, I forgot what, which is probably a good thing. Oh wait... its coming back, now. 2009 was the Year of Recovery, putting broken pieces back together and finding my footing once again. 'Nuff said.

2010 was the Year of Fearlessness! I am an over-thinking, sometimes over-reacting, overly-enthusiastic girl with an over-active imagination that often gets herself in over her head. And then overly freaks out. This was the year to breathe deeply, have confidence in my abilities and decisions, and remember that even in scary situations that I have what it takes to get myself through. Risk is actually a good thing. After all, if we don't take it on now and again, in the end we might find we've missed every amazing opportunity that comes our way; the view from a mountain top, chances to make new friends, the possibility of love.

This fall, a friend told me that fear is his internal indicator. It helps him asses what he's up against and make the decision of whether, with his skills, he can mitigate the "danger" to keep going or if he should instead back off. Halfway through the year, fear changed from being a bully that I loathed to being a great tool instead. So, less the Year of Fearlessness and more the Year of Fear-use-ness. Go figure.

And now, here we are on the brink of eleven. I like taking things to eleven. And I have a VERY good feeling that this particular "11" has some awesomeness in store. So...

2011 is the Year of Being Present. I do not feel old, I actually feel "younger" in the sense of physical strength, energy and happiness at 32 than I did at 22. But I know that every year goes a little faster than I'd like. Every experience provides perspective; and I'd like to hold onto those just a little longer.

I've mulled over and over the amazing days spent with incredible people in 2010. I've been provoked and inspired by thoughts from others; Redhead Writing's Blue Balls, Daily Pep Talk, Scott Stratten's Going Until We Stop, Rock Climber Girl's - well, every story she's written and conversation we've had, Dirtbag Diaries (also check the archives for the White Book)... this list is long.

What I've found - and dear friends you know this all to well about me - I'm always in such a hurry. Such a hurry to fix, clean, climb, ski, walk, meet up, dance, laugh that I rarely slow down once I get there. And I have a hunch that this is why my years are slipping by too quickly. In 2011, I will be present. I will take the time to hug you longer, better, will go on longer walks with the pup to watch her bounce and frolic. I will not hesitate to watch the sky morph through an entire range of colors as the sun begins to set until every star is out. I will be aware of each moment to notice the smallest flurry of a drifting leaf in the wind or the colors in the wings of a bird. Be present to notice all the things that make my life so wonderful and colorful and rich and then appreciate them. Right. Then.And there. 

Always Take a Buddy...

... or at Least Lots of Handwarmers

The long fingers of a frozen night creeped deep to the bone. Attempting to hunker further down into my bag, I made another futile attempt to rub my feet together and warm the ice-blocks at the ends of my legs. But like each of the dozen attempts I'd made before, I couldn't get them to budge. In my half sleep/half frozen, middle-of-the-night haze I dreamed the entire weight of the world were holding my feet down. In reality, the force that held them was a mere 33lbs of lean, never mean, usually happy, bouncing dog machine. But this night, she was not happy with me.

Summer Sausage and Cheese. Yum.

In a desperate attempt to pacify my inner forest gypsy, I'd ventured down a trail off I-90 over Memorial Day Weekend alone. I'd had enough with winter! My bullheaded desperation to get out wouldn't keep me cooped inside another minute. So despite not having any willing human partners to join me, I did what any forest gypsy HAD to do; I packed my pack, tied my sneakers, and coerced my ever-eager hiking sidekick to come along (this is not hard to do - she is an EXPERT trail lover). Since it was a particularly lovely week leading up to the weekend, I packed my spring/summer gear. Sunny and warm in the city means sunny and warm in the mountains, right? Oh, the sweet misleading and transfixing blindness of being bullheaded!

It was all sunshine and daisies until I reached mile 2.5 of the planned 6 and found the trail fully snow-covered. Of course, bullheaded forest gypsies dont let snow stop them. It also doesnt stop dogs who love that white stuff, even if they sink to their bellies. After post holing until the light began to soften into dusk, I finally back tracked to a different lake miles short of my original destination to make camp.

Is it a fox? No! Its Maile the Great!

Thats when my sidekick started getting cranky. She actually ate my sandwich out of my hand when I distractedly looked the other way (i swear she planned a diversion on purpose). Normally, she would spend the evening prancing after bugs, but before the sun fully went down she'd tucked her frozen little body in and nested down into my sleeping bag. Then I tucked right after sunset because it was too damn cold to stay up any longer and I was shivering through all the layers I'd brought.

It was at that point I realized the thin blanket I'd brought for her wasn't warm enough and the only warm place for her to sleep was between my feet. Or rather, kinda between my feet and mostly on them - I was sleeping in an efficient tapered bag after all.

Sleeping Bag Bandit

Between the dog-induced pain of feet gone numb from lack of blood flow along with the simple bloody, f-ing coldness of the night, my twilight bed time resulted in a collective 4 hours of sleep. I was up in flash the second a hint of daylight appeared. I've never packed a tent so fast. The dog, who if given the choice will sleep in past 10am, was up and ready to run before I could utter "summer sausage". Despite the beautiful, clear, peaceful morning, we were on the trail, back at the car and heading down the highway towards home by 7am. A full day before our planned return.

Most trips, I find, turn out to be nothing like they were planned. Most turn out better. Others, well, they turn out less than better. But usually with some not-so-bestness comes (hopefully) a bit of wisdom. Never again will I go on a snow camping trip without a second sleeping bag for my dog, another buddy who's larger body will help keep the tent warm, or enough handwarmers to line my entire sleeping bag and the dog's blanket with resupplies for halfway through the night. My inner forest gypsy will be running amok again soon. Hopefully she'll remember to pack a bit more carefully.

**Snarky Bumbler's Note: While I realize its time to ski not hike and I cant get enough of the deep white these days, this little memory pops up often, no matter the time of year. It reminds me to treasure the bits of goodness found in even the least pleasant of situations, to be like Maile and smile and bounce down every path - snowy or not, to breathe in every sunrise and sunset (even if I'm silently shivering down/up the trail in solitude), and to always pack an extra layer, a flask of whiskey, and handwarmers no matter the season.

A Tribe Called Wonderful

Where the magic happens.

The African proverb, reiterated by Hillary, said that it takes a village. In my case, "village" is more aptly dubbed "tribe." For me, it took a tribe.

The tribe I found myself in a few weekends ago is special; full of gumption, spirit, kindness and compassion laced with a hearty dose of laughter, vigor, and a bit of crass humor for good measure. Wise, experienced and humble. This tribe? The ice climbers of the Bozeman Ice Festival.

I embarked on my journey by first letting go of my dark-haired companion (the dark one in my nicely arranged blonde, redhead, brunette group). Due to an injury he couldn't come but sent me off with the gifts of love, a hug, and wishes for a good trip.

My amazing blonde and redheaded partners

We arrived late in the day on Friday to the valley full of eager anticipation and energy. The Women's clinics were the hot ticket of the weekend with a stellar roster of guides including Sarah Hueniken, Lilla Molnar, Majka Burhardt, Caroline George, Emily Stifler and Mattie Shaefor. While I didnt sign up for one of their clinics, like the "big girls" on a playground these amazing women are so inspiring to my "new kid in school" self.

Hiking up to the Unnamed Wall area, we came across other climbers on their way out, including Kyle Dempster, a friend and OR athlete. A short time to catch up and a few words of encouragement from that experienced tribe leader to this novice, and I was on my way again to my first WI climb.

A new Spokane tribemate

Being a climber of rock and an aspiring alpinist, I thought ice wouldnt be too much of a stretch outside my comfort zone. I'd climbed on seracs after all and had a ton of fun. How could WI be so different? What I found turned me completely upside down, and fully inside out.

Despite arriving late, my enthusiastic and experienced redheaded friend tackled the ice with passion and dedication. But by the time he'd set the rope and lowered down, it was well past dark. Cold, wet, nervous....I was completely out of my element. With every swing and step I took, I moved further and further from my element and closer and closer to fear. And screaming barfies. Ouch. Ten feet in and I was done. Using the darkness as my excuse, I lowered and let him climb again to clean it.

The next day, at a friendly and easy "cragging" type ice area (is it called ice cragging?) my blonde and redheaded friends and I found ourselves in the company of a group of guys from Spokane. Our new Spokane friends were quick to joke, offer tidbits and coaching, and forget any display of fear...the previous night's anxiety quickly evaporated as I made my way up the ice. By golly, it was almost comfortable! With examples of strength, calm and skill all around me, possibility revealed itself in every crook and cranny of my imagination.

Blondie, showing me how its done.

The final morning I woke with aspirations from the previous days session but a taste of bittersweetness in my mouth. The weekend was ending and I had to return home. And even more apparent was that after a night of sharing and celebration, I became acutely aware of the feeling of loss over the absence of certain members of this tribe -one in particular. Trying to let it go, I packed up and headed out for the day.

What we ended up on - the Matrix - is fairly irrelevant, unless you're keeping score. In which case, you can simply have all my points for this one. Belaying Christian up, watching Jim second, I stepped out to start my climb. Maybe it was my psyche-heavy morning, tiredness or bad toast. But fear gripped my heart with an iron fist. I felt alone. I was scared. This seemed stupid - what was I doing out there flinging head-impalingly-sharp objects at brittle ice?! I popped, screaming, cursing loudly. From above, words to cheer me on showered down. Shaking, terrified, I couldn't hear them and I continued, until... I Just. Couldnt. Take it.

Not yet in panic mode.

Hardly able to breath, I paused on a snowy ramp. Later, Jim who was belaying, would tell me he asked Christian, "How's she doing?" Christian's compassionate, yet sarcastic response, "she's doing great! and she's sobbing." Its hard not to chuckle at myself now.

But with the encouraging words of my partners, and thoughts of the women guides, my friend back home, the dreams of my own heart and mind, I made it. And when I did? My climbing partners made me feel as if I'd scaled the most impossible climb with the most grace and beauty they'd ever seen.

Later, I relayed my tale of tears to Kyle and a few friends in the parking lot later expecting teasing but getting congratulations and cheers to do it again instead. Really? After all that boohooing?!

Later, in an email exchange involving another badass, inspiring climber, Margo Talbot, Christian gave me the biggest compliment by sharing with Margo that I'd done so well on my first ever ice. Wow.

The scene of the tears.

Over the course of just a few days I was fully welcomed into the tribe and despite my fears, meltdown and novice ability, though a stranger to many, made to feel as much a part of this phenomenal group of people as anyone else. Me. A part of this tribe? Yes. And I most certainly will go back, hopefully with slightly fewer tears. How could I not want to be around these people again, this tribe of wonderful? From my injured friend at send-off, to my partners and the "leaders" within the tribe, to the friends I made along the way, the climbers at the Bozeman Ice Fest are certainly some of the most incredible people.

Go next time. This is one tribe you want to be a part of. I'll see you there.

No Cage, Thanks. I'll Take Some Roots

     "I fear neither death, nor pain."
                "What do you fear, my lady?"
     "A cage, to stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. 
     And all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire."

The last few days have found me methodically packing for Montana. While I have only climbed "ice" twice - both times on seracs at Mt Baker - its become apparent that my psyche has really taken a fancy to this sport. With OR is a sponsor for the event, the Bozeman Ice Climbing Festival seemed the perfect opportunity to get on waterfall ice and learn what its really all about.

Into my bag have gone layers of clothing for battling the dry cold of Rockies, multiple pairs of gloves for testing, my beloved Scarpa Charmoz, harness/reverso, tools, and my swimsuit for the hot tub, of course. Tonight, I'll throw in my thermos, coffee and french press, making my kit complete. Tomorrow, I hit the road with my intrepid companions, forging ahead into a world I barely know.

Despite having very little experience, I feel an unusual calm about this trip. The words of Erowyn from LotR, above, have stuck with me since I watched the films in a marathon over Thanksgiving. Lately, and inexplicably, an incredibly steady confidence has been radiating from my core. Perhaps I'm finally outside the proverbial cage my fears have always tried to keep me in.

Or, perhaps my calm is from having a trusted, solid team to climb with. (Side note: my team consists of all men, one is a redhead, one a blond, and one a brunette. Ladies, could it get any better? Let the bad "so, I walked into this bar one night" jokes begin...) Without discounting that I am my own best "teammate", good partners are truly key. And these men, well, they're 3 of my favorite.

But, this unusual calm has me thinking....what is it with this trip? Maybe deep down I really love ice but just dont know it yet? Is it my own inner bird ready to fly free? My awesome friends? Or, maybe, maybe....

…Maybe I'm feeling a tug of my roots. After all, I am going back to the land of my ancestors. Livingstone was where my Great Great Grandfather homesteaded a ranch, the 63 (for the year, 1863 when he claimed the parcel). Of his 11 children, 2 were lost in infancy, 1 at the age of 12 when she was gored by a bull, several others lost in early life, one I believe when she caught fire on her stove while cooking and couldn’t wake her husband. My great grandfather’s first wife died 10 years into their marriage, his second wife 2 years after they wed, his third managed to stick around longer.

My grandfather grew up as a cowboy on the 63 and at the age of ~11 was riding, slab of steak kept inside his jacket during the winter's work to keep it from freezing, leaving home for stretches of time as a young boy. Not your typical way of growing up these days.

Ernest, my grandfather's cousin and a local mountaineer, is part of local legend disappearing on Granite Peak in 1959, the day of Montana's biggest earthquake. His story was quite a mystery then and remains so even after parts of him were discovered, first a shoe with a foot inside in 1999, then other bits and pieces a few years later.

Such hard, but adventurous lives, no where near as cozy or convenient as my gas-heated, 800fill down, SUV-driving life of 2010. Perhaps my calm comes from hearing the call of my family, feeling a pull towards the strength they poured into that land through their labors, feeling called to a "home" I last visited in 3rd grade.

This could also be hocus-pocus bullshit that I'm imagining because I'm a romantic-headed, creative-type with an over-active imagination. But even if that's the case, I'm enthralled by going where my grandfather and more distant relatives roamed. To be in the place that shaped my people so many years ago, where older generations influenced the next with drive, determination, and a need for exploration and adventure. I want to see and feel the beautiful surroundings that shaped who my grandfather was. That in turn, as it goes, shaped me. I think I might discover that I’m very much like him.

127 Minutes

I haven't read the book and dont know if I will. The movie might have been enough. Haven't spoken with the man its all based on either, so I have no reference to the film's accuracy. And as for Aron, the real person...?

We all have opinions, and, whether we mean to or not, we all pass judgment. What little information I have of Aron Ralston is from the news I heard at the time that featured bits and pieces of his story. And I remember wondering...why didn't he tell someone where he was going (thats so basic, I learned that in girl scouts - see, judgement!), was this bound to happen because he was cocky, and why didnt he just call his mom back for pete's sake?

I often cant explain in words my passion to be outside; climbing, hiking, skiing, biking, paddling, running. A few of those activities I love above the others, but any one will due when it comes down to it, as long as I can get out there. Groves of whispering aspen, forests of evergreens, mountains, salt water, wide stretching valleys....let me out to see and feel! Out there is where I feel alive and most like me.

But as a single person, I struggle to find consistent partners willing to get up at 4am to hike some snowy something-or-other, who desire to do these activities with passion of their own and want to push themselves to the level I do (not to say I'm any sort of wonder woman - I am not - I struggle equally finding partners who's level of pursuit I can step UP to meet). So, I often gone alone.

Though he pushed limits much farther than I ever will, am I any different from Aron? We are all similar in having a love of adventure, in wanting to accomplish something in our lives, in wanting to experience more of this world - in being unwilling to compromise opportunities even if it means doing them alone.

There has been a lot of chatter about the gruesome parts of this film. The best PR agency probably couldnt pay for publicity as intriguing as people passing out. But those scenes weren't the hardest for me. The hardest were the last ~10 minutes when he made his way out of the canyon. There was such hope, such human-ness. At that moment, my heart began to ache for his parents, for his sister and coworker and friends, for the people who wanted him back. And for him too, that he nearly didn't have the opportunity to see those people again.

Those last minutes were hard because, self-preservingly, I love my life and want to keep living it. But also, so many people I care about are out there too. And already, there have been too many who haven't made it home. Whatever you think of Aron, judgments aside, if nothing else, his story reminds me, that we should take better care. I, as someone who goes out alone, should take better care so that we make it home. Because we need to call our moms back and we have too much to accomplish tomorrow.

Lofty Ideals

What might the outdoor girl's ideal sunday night be made of? Simply combine a glass of Malbec, a crisp apple the size of a softball, the tastiest stinky cheese from De Laurenti, a classic climbing book and an epsom salts bath. After a weekend including the third battle in The War on the Tree I Hate and an eye-opening, awesome first day of skiing - eye opening for the deep, unexpected powder and realization just how much I need to practice beacon work and get these legs ready for the season - I figured I'd indulge in a little recovery.

Yes, I may be loving the relaxation that comes with recovery, but more than that, I'm loving my recharged motivation to get out again stat! The sooner I get after it hard, the sooner I can give myself the earned excuse to have another night like this.

Harness Your Inner Power Bird

Honestly, I cant remember the exact moment when it happened, but it was sometime early in the climbing season. It may have been up at Squamish or out at Vantage, but I know it was with my dear friend and climbing partner, Z. While the exact time and location are fuzzy, what has stayed very clear in my memory was my focus. Keeping my fears feeling as light and inconsequential as possible so as not to let them distract me, I pushed all my energy into breathing steady and deep, trusting my feet and continuing to look up.

There are lots of Power Birds in CoR.

It was while looking up, that I saw it. A wide-winged hawk, soared above me, from thermal to thermal, high above all other features of the land. I imagined myself inside the mind of that hawk; no fear over being so high in up, only love for the view, for the exhilaration from feeling the air moving through its feathers, for the fun of diving and twirling its body to soar fast, slow, high or, (channeling Dr. Suess) low. And calm came over me.

The incredible effort I had been putting forth to suppress fear and lift my confidence seemed like overkill. Climbing higher and higher, visions of my hawk friend filled my brain leaving me smiling, giggling at my own ability to "soar" up the rock, the strength and almost grace of my movements - I felt so peaceful and so powerful! You see, all I had to do was harness my inner Power Bird.

Holy smokes, that was a new feeling on rock!

While I dont remember all the details. I do remember at some point nearly shouting like the dorky goofball that I am, to Z to, "Harness your inner power bird!" Though I hadn't really been looking for it, I'd found my "spirit" animal.

As cheesy as it is, every time I climb now I'm always on the lookout. It might be a hawk again, or a crow or sparrow, or when I'm most lucky, a hummingbird (I superstitiously take these as the greatest of all omens bringing me love and wonderful messages). Whenever that tickle of fear starts in at the back of my brain (always), it never fails that I look up and some power bird is soaring overhead, having come to remind me of my own potential - if I choose to accept it.

Perhaps you have your own power "animal"; maybe its a zippy chipmunk (they're great climbers, esp when chased by Mailes!), a sticky footed beetle, words from a friend who always believes in you, or even a completely inanimate object like, oh, hmmm... like your puffy jacket. Whatever it is, power "animals" have magic to work. Harness your inner power bird, then let her go and watch her fly!

A Case of the Blues

A bit of the blues

Robin's Egg. Glace. Tarn. Cielo. Crystal. Opal. Juniper Berry. Polar. Cloud. Cobalt. Iceberg... 

Last time I was on the Coleman Glacier, almost a year ago to the day, I was confident I'd never come back to do the same activity again. But there I was, having finished a hike that started in the dark of predawn, back at the edge of the glacier to do exactly what I said I wouldn't repeat. Despite my love of the vertical, my primeval self prefers terra firma. I can win most cases with that inner cave-dweller when arguing the safety of climbing rock. Gear, when placed well, will most likely hold if I fall. Climbing ice on the other hand requires an entirely different argument that I dont know how to win yet.

I'm not entirely sure why I thought it would be a better idea the second time around. But there I was. Jason Wheeler had offered to do another Intro to Ice Clinic for us and, before I even had the chance to debate with myself, I'd jumped on board.

Following the Jasons onto the Coleman

Perhaps I jumped because I cant resist any opportunity to get into the mountains. Perhaps because I verge on being a cheap dirtbagger and cant say "no" to free instruction. Perhaps because it gave me another opportunity to learn from one of my favorite instructors and climbing friends (Jason teaches through BC mountaineers and the ACC - I HIGHLY recommend you look him up if you want to learn climbing skills. He is the most patient, fun, thorough, confidence-boosting and tall! instructors; and its obvious he loves to teach). 

Whatever the reason was for saying "yes", it was Saturday morning, I was at the edge of the glacier, fighting a mean head cold after a 4am wake up and a 2.5hr drive in the darkness with only my marginally brewed coffee and a gas station doughnut to get me going. The thought "Why again do I do this"? teased my brain.

Why am I doing an activity I swore off 352 days ago? Why did I wake before the sun, on purpose! while most, including my dog, were still tucked cozy and warm into bed? Why, with a stuffy nose and sore throat, did I knowingly hike through the cold drizzle while carrying a heavy pack? Why was I putting myself in a position where I could fall with serious consequences potentially including stuck crampons and legs that shouldnt bend certain ways or chunks of ice the size of the warm pillow I left behind taken to the face? (I'm so good at the "why's?" - I must've asked a LOT of questions as a kid; sorry Mom and Dad) My cave dweller was winning.

Hiiiiiyah!

But then at the edge of the glacier, the drizzle stopped and the clouds let hints of sky peek through. Sipping hot tea from my thermos, more shared jokes from the Jason's left me smiling while we took a quick break (the "Jason's" being instructor Jason and coworker/friend/instructee Jason). Then with the comforting feel of my harness securely cinched around my waist, crampons were strapped on, we tied in, and moved away from the edge onto the glacier. That's when I remembered why and when the blues started filling my head.

How many words can describe the different shades of white and blue that color a glacier? Changing light yields different hues, unveiling a multitude of features and textures to this living, moving beast of snow and ice.  Horizon. Mist. Snow cone! Mediterranean. Seagull. Azure....

I could tell you all the details of the day...Relearning how to use crampons in vertical ice (challenging). The strain in my arms until I figured those feet out (burning). Feeling incredible strength and power of my body when moving up vertical, slightly overhanging ice (wonder woman, hiiiiyah!). The excitement of seeing a friend try a completely new sport. The lingo and tricks I learned; "ooeys", "dinner plates", the necessity of nutter-butters...These little nuggets of goodness are, well, good.

Our fearless teacher helping us off down the seracs

But what I remember most is finding that thing I sought at the edge of the glacier; that thing that keeps me coming back. Its the camaraderie and fun shared between me and my companions. The satisfaction of knowing I can meet a challenge head on and the feeling of success in my body, mind, and heart at the end of the day (whatever "success" is; the top, the attempt, the new knowledge). The incredible beauty that my eyes beg to absorb from every direction, that no camera will ever do justice to, that only my mind can remember as it should be.

We all have our own reasons for getting out there. Next time I will remember mine and wont hesitate to debate the cave dweller who says "no." The arguments of potential pain, failure, discomfort, fear lose completely, and every time, to the arguments that say "yes."

Oh, and the number of words to describe the blue and white? Endless....

A Lovely Love Affair

I know, I know; I said love. Its a mushy, squishy, sometimes lovely, and sometimes uncomfortable, cringe-inducing word. 

Dont worry. I wont make you blush. I'm simply in the deepest love with my climbing shoes.

Admittedly, I'm a gear junky. For example, most folks may have one, maybe two puffys for the spectrum of their adventures. But when you work in this industry and for a great company that features new colors of your favorite puffy every fall (this year in berry!!) and a new girlie version of the best uber-cozy, ideal-on-rainier puffy well, its hard not to suddenly up the count in your closet to (please dont judge) six. I often cave to the "shiny-and-new" but gear comes and goes so quickly in this highly competitive industry that its hard to get attached to any one thing before its lost its luster.

Until now.

At the start, I was unsure of this relationship. I had my eye on an entirely different shoe but the great folks at Second Ascent didn't have it in my size. The helpful sales guy didn't give up playing matchmaker and steered me towards Scarpa's Thunder. They fit well, but I was a bit turned off by the cumbersome laces vs. speedy velcro that I sought and the dull grey, last-season color.

Love, In The Color Gray

Edging, friction, solid precision, and a snug fit that didnt allow the shoe to slide around my foot in crack and on tiny features of technical routes but with enough comfort for long days.... all qualities of a perfect shoe that I didn't think existed. Though I wasn't sure if they were aggressive enough, the Thunders seemed to have quite a bit of what I wanted. And, its hard to find a shoe that even fits my foot; wide toe-box, narrow heel, short achilles, and sensitive big-toe joint. These fit and they were on sale. Hesitant but hoping for the best, I took them home with me.

A few days later I found myself at the climbing gym for break-in session #1 with the Thunders. At first a little nervous, worry melted away after the first climb and a lightning bolt of love shot through my heart. 

A month of fairly consistent climbing and they've ever-so-slightly molded to my feet for longer-wearing comfort without losing the snug fit for feeling small features. On Straight Shooter, it was easy to toe into the small crack with good purchase. Secure, solid smearing of rough sandstone a few days later, I felt confident on my feet despite my road-trip hangover. And much to the annoyance of my climbing party, I could not quit shouting "I love my shoes!" How can a girl do otherwise when her heart is soaring?

Though they're a moderate shoe - probably not aggressive enough for 5.11+ climbing - I have a better ability to feel with my feet and more confidence in my footwork than I've had in quite a while. They've ticked off every one of the "requirements" from my list. 

We're a match made in heaven, my Thunders and me. And even now, after enough use that they're starting to violate the 3-foot rule, I'm still in love.

A Case for Dreaming

Y2K. RR, NV

The breeze catches my shirt, the chalk bag clipped to the back of my harness, the wisps of curl set free from beneath my helmet, gently urging me up...up...upwards. The sun is warm; not so hot to bake out my energy, but that perfect temperature that keeps the chill away. Calm, steady, smooth, I step higher, reach higher into the perfect splitter to a solid stance and bomber gear. I place, I clip, and I continue upwards on rock that feels as much a part of my being as do my lungs pumping a steady breath in and out and my heart that hums with the rhythm of my movements. Wings spread wide, a hawk soars above watching my moves, acknowledging with approval, my existence in this place. Without rushing, I make my way to the ledge, pausing to rest and take in my surroundings. Then I anchor in and bring my partner up.

Smooth, calm, and full of the same exuberance for this experience as me, my partner climbs to meet me. We high-five, share a chuckle at some inside joke that came from this experience, exclaim our happiness at this most incredible day and our burly achievement, swap gear. Then my faceless climbing partner continues on.

My partner is "faceless" because this is a dream. This partner embody qualities from many of the people I've climbed with over the years - the arms of one, feet of a second, ears, hair, helmet, harness of others, but with the inspired joy for this activity that all have shared. They cannot have a face, since one is not enough. In this dream, I scale the vertical and overhanging, small-featured faces and sustained cracks and I have no hesitation, I do not waver, I do not need to "take." I am confident and I am crushing it! 

My new friend, Mr. Burro

I love this dream. I dream it when I sleep and I dream it when I'm awake, while I stare over my desk and out the window towards the Olympics, out the windshield of my car, out the window by my kitchen sink into the dark as I do my dinner's dishes. This is the dream I'm chasing, hoping to turn into reality.

This dream was a big part of why I so eagerly anticipated my road trip to Red Rock Canyon. This was going to be a marker as to how far I'd come in my "year of climbing". I was going to get on BIG! things. And finally, as in my dream, feel like a real climber.

But, my trip was not what I expected. And this last week it dawned on me that I don't even know what being a real climber means. Can someone be a "fake" climber vs. a "real"one? Is there such a thing? And if not, what is this goal I'm trying to achieve anyways?

The current reality: I forget to breathe, my legs shake, my confidence falters. "Crushing it" means finishing a 2-pitch, 5.7 trad climb or clipping 5.9 sport bolts, maybe when pushed a 5.10, without panic. This reality is not my dream. I am not there. Yet.

Pre-lightning

In Red Rock, torrential rain, thunder, and terrifyingly close lightning were a surprise. I got only 4 days on rock instead of 7. Climbing Pauligk Pillar, that 2-pitch 5.7, took my breath away, required all my focus, and, were it not for my partners singing ridiculous songs for distraction, I might not have been able to smile away the heart- and climb-stopping fear (light-years away from even a hint of 5.12). The one "longer" route I climbed kicked me off at halfway when another downpour hit. I had enough down time re-repack my dirty clothes, wander a bookstore for half a day, and drink too much coffee. None of this was planned.

But also not planned was the time to make new friendships, renew ones I'd let lax, and redefine others, including the one with myself, this climber girl. (And the time to hang out with wild burro!) Despite all that was unexpected, I still had fun. So, what is it that this climber really wants? Is it to someday redpoint 5.12? Climb big walls? Find some hidden, unknown line to FA?

New day, new landscape. 

At one point, these goals were that beautiful dream. Maybe, they're still parts of it; I'd like to hope so. But they are no longer the definition of what that dream climb is all about. My purpose for being in Nevada's desert, on PNW granite at home, or on that nameless climb in my head has changed. While the dream may still look similar, I'm reminded that its actually about the feel of the breeze, the joy for a moment shared with a good partner, the journey to find peace through letting go of fear, the fun in achieving even 5.7, and in the unexpected goodness of "off" days with friends.

One thing I am very confident of; I still love this dream, its what real climbing is to me. And this is reality.

Nineteen Hours

First 19hr leg: Seattle to Vegas by way of Twin Falls with a five-hour sleep at the KOA and a drive-fueling breakfast at IHOP. 

Last 19hr leg: Newport Beach overnighting outside of Los Banos, CA in the back of my car with a brief stop at Mt Shasta enroute back home. 

The long and straight of it

Between these was the ~9 hour drive from Vegas to Newport Beach - in which I did have great company and a relief driver. And also was the 5hr RT drive back to Jtree in a last desperate attempt for one more day of climbing. Over the course of 11 days, I tallied 3,356.9 miles, most of which I racked up alone. 

There is a bit of pride that comes from the willingness to go for what I want, when I want, with or without anyone else. No partner for a memorial day weekend backpack? I'll sleep in the snow myself. Travel-mate-less catching a chicken bus in a country who's language I cant speak to a location I cant pronounce? No worries, I've got a smile, watched a lot of MacGuyver, and can get myself out of most situations. 

Many friends have taken on bigger projects, farther-off lands, longer journeys; alone. In my circle of adventurous friends this attitude is common, almost of a requirement of "being." Its typical among those who seek out adventure, and I feel, an especially noted point of pride in women. Just look at the number of books on Amazon with titles such as Wanderlust and Lipstick, A Journey of One's Own, or Gutsy Women. Its as if going through life solo is the most worthwhile, strong, honorable, and only way to go; by any other means is a life with less value. To be solo is to be independent. To be independent is to be strong in mind, and heart. To be strong in mind, and heart, well shoot, you're practically Yoda. Though my goings alone aren't all that exceptional, I've still how I've gone about life.

Somewhere in northern Nevada...

Living without needing others there has been my MO. There's no one else who's opinion must be weighed into plans. No one else's bank account balance to be considered when determining if I can or cannot extend my own dollars. No one else's needs that need meeting. No one else's thoughts to invade my own. The solo experience has meant independence of not having to deal with someone else. 

Solo time can be recharging, a good check in with myself, to quiet outside influences, and just breathe. I sometimes worry too much solo time might make me go crazy. But usually what seems like "crazy" is the road to my own sanity and I come out feeling refreshed and recharged to keep pushing for good things in my life. Solo can be good. 

Which is exactly the reason I found myself alone on a 19 hour drive to Vegas just over a week ago and a 19 hour drive home Sunday night. 

But a 19 hour stint in a car. Twice in just over a week...well, it provides a girl a lot of time to think. Alone.

And I realized, I've had it wrong. 

The experience of life is so much richer, fuller, more memorable when I have someone, or several someones, I care about along for the journey. The sun is brighter on my face when there is another face turning up to feel its warmth next to mine. Lightening storms are more intense, scary, and thrilling when friends sit on either side of me oohing and aaahing at the bolts that flash all around us. The weird road signs and interesting passerby are more laughable, more interesting when someone else's eyes see them too. What is challenging, beautiful, giggle-inducing, sorrowful, inspiring, mundane; it takes on an extra level of meaning when its witnessed not just by me, but also by the ones I'm with - even if we experience things on a wholly personal, unique level. 

Copilots are key in safe navigation...

So maybe its not the popular way of traveling through life, maybe its not my OWN old, preferred way of living mine. I might be considered weak, unable to truly face my inner self, or heaven-forbid, needy, by others (or myself) who tout the solo journey as the only way to find meaning in this experience of life. If that is the case, then I accept being weak, I accept that I'm needy, and I will never be as cool as Yoda. But who effing cares? My life will be so much richer for the sharing of it. And I am grateful to my friends and family who have shared parts and pieces of this life I have lived. And also to the ones who will share more with me down the road. 

Is there any point to all this blathering about of words? I suppose not really, or only really to me. That I'm newly challenged to redefine the value I find in this life I have been given. Now, time to go live it. Care to join me?

"Once Upon A Time" Was Yesterday

I love my yoga teacher. Or rather, my yoga teacher's assistant (Eiric says you are your own teacher, he just helps that inner teacher figure things out). I have learned more in his class the last 5 weeks than I did in many of my college courses. If I'd taken his yoga classes during college, perhaps I would've done better.

Eiric's class began with him talking of a scenario: "you know that feeling, after you've read a page in a book, but once you turn to the next, you can't remember a single thing you read?"

Ridiculous dog pauses for a campaign photo

I exclaimed to myself, "Yes!"

He continued, "this happens because we're distracted." And that distraction often comes from us inserting preconceived notions into a situation, anticipating before letting it play out, our expectations distracting us from the real moment at hand. (sometimes, honestly, I cant remember a single word because I'm so tired I keep falling asleep and the book keeps smacking me in the forehead, but still...).

Very often in reading or yoga, these thoughts come in the form of dark expectations; "last time I fell in this pose", "putting my feet over my head is scary", "its so strenuous and my legs burn." And you'd better believe this happens for me all the time climbing. Thoughts run rampant like one continuous what-if, "what if I fall...what if my strength/balance fails me...what if my belayer gets distracted by a bee flying around their head/the cute belayer next to them/my ridiculously funny dog/blowing bubbles with their gum?"

But really, so what if any of those situations were true once upon a time. Maybe once upon a yesterday I fell over in a pose, or once upon a year ago I took a mini-fall a few feet. Maybe they were true. Once.

Today is different. Today is all new. We all have previous moments in life that helped shape who we have become. But we certainly are not required to react now the way we once did. Today, we're allowed to let go of expectations shaped by yesterday. Let go of the "shoulds" or "dids". Each experience, even if its a repeat motion, is new today and different from any other time. 

A place I can always find possibility...

I have anxiously been counting down the last days before I break free to climb in Red Rock Canyon. This trip feels a bit like coming full circle; my goal of the Year of Climbing came partly out of my trip there in March. My break tonight from gearing up was to go to yoga and Eiric's message was incredibly well timed. Let go of expectation, let go of old perceptions. Let go of Darkness and Embrace the light. Similar Arno Ilgner's wise words in Rock Warriors Way to "look for the options," Eiric's class was a reminder to open up to possibility. Possibility allows that anything can happen - it is in this space that I can move, grow, learn, and truly feel life happen in the moment. 

Taking my teacher's assistant's words from tonight to heart, I've packed them along with my rock shoes, swim suit, and camera. I've also packed along another of his teachings - and my mantra for the summer - "its not good, its not bad, it just is." Oh, and one last bit of good thought dispensed to me tonight, "dont forget to have a ton of fun." I packed that as well.

Wishing you Possibility for whatever you choose to step into tomorrow, too.

(ps - i love my yoga studio! if you're near beacon hill and are looking for one, i highly recommend yoga on beacon. so much goodness in that little studio.)

Fear is a Four Letter Word

Darrington, my new favorite spot

I admit, I fell off the wagon for a bit. I was doing so well (City of Rocks, Squamish, E32, Darrington) but things slowed in the last few months of my Year of Climbing and I was a bit befuddled as to why until recently. "What happened," you wonder? Well, I was doing quite well and then who do you suppose knocked on my door again? Yep, my dear old foe Fear stopped by to remind me it was still hanging around town.

It happened slowly. But the big kicker came, ironically, on one of my favorite climbing days of the entire summer. Rappelling off of an awesome route in Darrington, I came to the last rap station, and while chitchatting to my partner - you could say I was a bit distracted - I forgot what I was doing. I’m embarrassed to admit the situation completely, but thank God for my partner’s strong arms (hence the distraction), a huge ledge at the anchors, and my own quick reflexes. Considering the location, angle of the slab, etc. I don’t think anything bad would have really happened but the potential of an accident of my own doing was a scary reality check that I’m only now realizing had sunk deep into my psyche.  What I did realize the next time I was out, was that my old foe Fear, who’d taken a break from me for a while, was back.

We have a complicated relationship, Fear and me. Like telling a stubborn teenager to do anything rational, Fear can push me to do the opposite of what it’s trying to convince me to. But, being the kind of person who doesn’t feel its necessary to rock the boat unless it really matters, Fear is most often very good at convincing me to do what it wants.  I was happy that I’d had a break from this dysfunctional relationship, and I was peeved it was back. ?!*&%?!

My inner stubborn, foot stomping, huff-puffing, teenage-angst-inspired self finally decided to put my big-girl boots back on and kick it in the shins.

Looking Fear in the face, 1 granite crystal at a time.

A few weeks back, my kickass roommate, Sara and I went to E32. We’d talked about climbing together since she moved into the little green house and it was finally time we made it happen. It was no surprise to either of us, but climbing together is just about as natural, fun, and comfortable as a gin and tonic sipped in a hammock on a warm summer night. And, being that we were in such a state of climbing partner bliss, we hopped on a10something-or-another at Blackstone Wall we really didnt have any business leading. I’d TR’d the climb before so felt ok on lead and clipped the first 4 bolts, but backed off at the 5th. There was too much reach, too much exposure, and my post-workday head wouldn’t let me reach Fear’s shins to kick it away. So Sara made a go. Solid. Finesse. Stretch.  Lock off. Hold…hold…uh oh. Dropping into the smoothest, most controlled fall she shouted "Falling!!!AAHH!" Down she went letting loose a fantastically huge scream. WOAH! I was ready to catch her fall but certainly wasn’t ready for her powerful lungs to give it quite so loudly.  As she shook out her arms, she calmly let me know to expect anytime she popped, her fall would be accompanied by a scream. She then got back on and rocked it up to the 5th bolt (it was sketchy, folks, but she made it look like ballet). 

I never knew falling could be so graceful. Or so explosively loud. And that both could go together and be a good thing.  Screaming- I can do that.

The two of us decided to back off the climb after I clipped #6, but not before I took a couple practice falls. Its true! Me! Falling! And this time, I let my terrified self express it's feelings. Vocalizing the fall made it just a smidge less scary. And it actually felt kind of good. It didnt take away the fear entirely, but made it a bit more acceptable. 

Lightbulb #1: Scream more often cause it feels good. Piece of cake.

Guides on rock

Fast forward to Labor Day. We went to Leavenworth. The first day was a nice and easy one for me getting to take the follower’s seat. But the afternoon of the second day, somehow I got dubbed the rope gun. What the?! Huh? I took it on with reluctance; I was climbing with a couple of guides after all. Wouldn’t they naturally want to lead? But there I was. The first went fine with a few slow, shaky moments of pause. But then the second...

With encouragement from the guys, I was making progress. Until it just ran out. Where did all the features go?! Hardly an edge to hold onto, not much to smear on, I was stuck. I tried going up a couple times and backed down. Looking down at Austin and Eric, I admitted I didn’t think I could do it. The real reality? I could feel Fear trickling in, wrapping its cold, hard fingers around my brain. And squeezing. Until the battle began with my stubbornness sett in.

Patience is a kind belayer

Barely sticking to the wall by the crappiest of nothing features, I slowly let myself stand taller to reach above me. Slowly, slowly I moved and then POP! I was off the wall and falling. And falling. And still falling with enough time to turn and look at the guys and yell, “Are ya gonna catch me?!?!?!” (But with a few extra choice words thrown in for spice. Sorry, guys.) Scared and completely rattled, it felt like I’d fallen forever and so very far. Far is supposed to be bad, right?! Remembering to breathe I took a moment to shake it out. And in that moment the hard reality sunk in. I was actually fine. No scratches, no bruises even. Just fine. And maybe, just maybe, was I feeling a slight bit of enjoyment out of the shock, adrenaline, and fear of the fall? So doing what any misnamed rope gun would do, I got back on, and finished it. Yes, I was still a little shaky after I made it back to ground, but the new sensation of mild enjoyment and the renewed determination to finish what I’d set out to do was completely exhilarating.

Lightbulb #2: Discovering new sensations can be entirely thrilling. Take the time to do it more often.

Glow of sunrise on Rainier

This past Saturday I was determined to get to Camp Muir (remember my distraction from Darrington? yep.). The weather had been terrible and winter was starting to put out the welcome mat, but it was supposed to lighten up. With good motivation to get there along with the pure enjoyment from having a trail and all its beauty all to myself at 5am, I knew with the melted out trail, I'd be fine at least until Pebble Creek. Getting that far would be easy enough even if it was totally socked in and at that point, I could safely decide to keep going or head back to the car. 

Lucky for me the morning was gorgeous. The lower clouds broke up just as I hit Pan Point and I had the most gorgeous views for my hike up. The morning slowly wore on as I warmed up in the shelter and it became clear that the weather would turn that night to the point that climbs were being called off for safety. While shoveling snow (yes, I like shoveling snow – its therapeutic) the clouds began to roll in. I was told I should keep an eye out and be sure to head down before 3pm.

At 3pm, it didn’t look good. Not quite a white out, but bad visibility. And the snowfield had apparently opened up in a few places since I’d walked up that morning. And I was solo. And I'd given away most of my food. And I didn’t have a compass….

Pre-panic in the early hours of the morning

So many things running through my brain in an attempt to prove that going down was a terrible idea. Dang you FEAR! Back again, fingers on brain, squeeeeeeezing. And I was scared. Being reassured with a smile and a kiss and a confident “you’ll be fine, follow those people going down and stick with them” helped but didn’t make the lump in my throat subside.  As I headed down with a few tears in my eyes, I was reminded how terribly out of my element I felt. Fear, you are cruel.

I moved fast through the rain and the clouds wanting to stay with the party near me but the desire to be down immediately pushed me faster. And then the clouds lifted. Not enough to make the rain stop or reveal the peaks around me, but enough to see the trail below. Before I new it, I was at Pebble Creek, then Pan Point. It was beautiful! Even the marmots were out enjoying the day chomping on drippy, brushy green snacks. And I began to laugh. What was I so afraid of? I had nearly let the Fear take over what had been a wonderful day full of surprises that kept getting better than I’d expected. As I laughed at myself for being so silly with it, I realized, my experience also wouldn’t have been as real without it. The cold wouldn’t have felt so cold, the views once revealed wouldn’t have looked so rugged and beautiful. The time spent with others wouldn’t have seemed so precious and fun.  If I hadn’t had Fear as my company, would I have missed out on all these most important experiences?

No need to fear, even what cant be seen

I realize I’ve had it all wrong all along. Fear hasn’t been my foe, but a friend – there to keep my reality in check, to highlight to the wonderful things I experience.  To push me to try harder, expand my point of view and help me discover newness all around me. Maybe I even like this four letter word.

Lightbulb #3 Don’t pass over the pleasure of fear. Without it, challenging experiences wouldn’t feel so vibrant or real or inspire the hope to come out, unscathed, on the other side. 

My relationship with Fear may be more intimate than it should be – obviously I don’t know it all that well, so perhaps I should take the time to learn and get comfortable with it. And yes, Fear is a four letter word that often elicits the use of other four letter words. But it also is so often related to other so very valuable four letter words that without a little fear wouldn’t be quite so precious; hope, time, love, and cake.