Recently I did a photo shoot and interview with Eddie Bauer for their "Generations" campaign. This is what they produced. Check it out!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Women Through the Lens: Tuf As Nails
Story by Leif Whittaker (whittakerwrites.com)
Photos by Freya Fennwood (fennwoodphotography.com)
“When it gets fun is when you’re
all together and the boat kind of takes on a life of its own and picks up off
the water and flies,” says Dianne Roberts, a member of Tuf As Nails, a women’s
rowing team based in Port Townsend, Washington.
 |
| Dianne Roberts surveys shells at the Northwest Maritime Center boathouse. |
Tuf As Nails originated in the late
1980’s as a group of local women training for the Rhody Run, an annual 12k race
held in Port Townsend. Since most of the women had jobs, or children, or both,
they decided to meet at 6am, which was the only time they were all available.
For the next 15 years, the running group, called “Eat And Run”, met 6 days a week
in Northwest darkness and ran until the sun came up. They competed in long-distance
relay races, traveled the country together, and ran. Today, the group does
essentially the same thing except for one vital difference; instead of running,
they row.
 |
| Dianne Roberts looking through oars at the Northwest Maritime Center boathouse. |
One crisp morning at sunrise, the
group was running through downtown when they noticed a sleek wooden shell
gliding through the water. “It was just so beautiful that we said, ‘we have to
learn how to do this,’” says Roberts.
Nine years later, Tuf As Nails is
going strong. Their name may allude to a sense of playfulness, but there is
nothing casual about their aspirations as rowers. “The idea is that you can be
a badass rower and still have a good manicure,” says Roberts.
 |
| Putting the boat in the water at sunrise on Port Townsend Bay. |
These women, most of whom are over
60, are certainly badass. The team practices between March and October in the
rough saltwater of Port Townsend Bay and, unlike many rowing teams, they often
go out without a safety launch. In winter, when the water is too rough and the
mornings too dark, the team still meets to lift weights or row indoors on
mechanical ergs. Every season the team competes in national regattas like the
San Diego Crew Classic, Head of the Lake, and the Rat Island Regatta, a
long-distance open-water race. This year, Roberts will travel to Boston to
compete in the Head of the Charles Regatta, which is one of the largest and
most renowned races in the United States, if not the world.
 |
| Pulling away from shore on a calm morning in Port Townsend. |
So what motivates Roberts and her
rowing friends to get up in the morning? “It’s so beautiful, and it’s so
challenging, and it’s so amazingly fun when it starts going good. And it’s so
infrequent that it goes really well. It’s like completely intermittent
reinforcement widely spaced,” says Roberts.
 |
| Sunrise rowing, looking for the perfect stroke. |
She also says that, unlike other
team sports, if one member is absent, the entire team is unable to row. The
guilt of letting her teammates down is a big reason for her diligent
commitment. “The social aspect of it is just absolutely wonderful. I think with
our group it’s extremely rare because of all the years we’ve been together.
We’ve been through cancer, and deaths of parents, and teammate’s deaths, and
children have been born, and people have been divorced and remarried. You know,
it’s really been…life.”
 |
| Tuf As Nails with the Cascade Mountains behind. |
Through all of this, Tuf As Nails
has remained together, devoted to an active lifestyle, and in search of that
moment when the boat picks up off the water and flies. “You’re constantly on
the hunt for that perfect stroke. And then if you get one stroke that feels
pretty good, you gotta do it again, 200 times in a row.”
 |
| Lifting the shell out of the water after a morning row. |
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Roadtrip Part 6: Thanksgiving Crack Climbing at Indian Creek, Praying for Snow in Salt Lake City
November 20—Salt Lake City, UT
I take it as a good omen that on our first night in Salt Lake City it’s snowing. Freya and I are planning to spend the winter here skiing and there is nothing more exciting to a skier than an 8-12 inch forecast. If we didn’t have to find a place to live I would probably go skiing tomorrow, but it’s proving frustratingly difficult to meet a landlord willing to accept a 3-month lease. To make matters worse, I’ve picked up a terrible sore throat. It feels like I’m ripping through tissue every time I swallow. God forbid I yawn.
Life on the road was simple. The only stress was stress I chose to endure, like when leading a difficult route. There was no planning. There were no expectations. There was only the next climb, or really the next move within a climb. We made friends without trying, people who would risk their life to save ours, even if our only interaction together had been telling stories around a campfire. We drove until we felt like stopping and stopped until we felt like driving again. It was freedom. It was my version of the American dream and I loved it.
The city is a different type of adventure, but a valuable and cathartic adventure nonetheless. I’ve never lived in a city bigger than 80,000 people, and driving through Salt Lake I’m amazed with the seemingly endless sprawl of street lights, strip malls, and suburban developments. I-15 is jammed with speeding SUVs that don’t signal when changing lanes and diesel trucks hauling horse trailers down the HOV. Whereas the freeway is a maddening bustle of inconsiderate strangers, Downtown feels homey. It’s like a village hidden in the metropolis; trees line the streets; houses have character; the ingenious grid system makes finding any destination easy. Ted lives downtown and we are sleeping on his floor while we look for our own place to live. Already he’s taken us to a taco truck that serves the biggest $3 burrito I’ve ever seen and we visited the climbing gym, a luxury I haven’t had since college.
While cheap food and indoor climbing are great perks, the biggest attraction this city has to offer is the Wasatch Mountain Range. One afternoon, when Freya and I are tired of scouring neighborhoods for “For Rent” signs, we decide to drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon. There’s already snow on the ground at the mouth of the canyon and as we climb the winding road the snow gets deeper. Clean granite faces garnish the valley walls. Avalanche gullies are so frequent they look like lines in a college-ruled notebook. Reaching Snowbird’s dusty base, I glimpse a few neon-clad skiers carving turns into the pure white. I stop the car and get out. The air is dry and bitter cold. Oddly enough, it feels soothing on my sore throat. I can hear the sound of snow being pushed beneath waxed boards. It sounds soft. Hell, it smells soft. I’m half tempted to buy my season pass that moment, but it’s late and I know there are powder days in my future. I get back in the car, shivering yet budding with energy. Stress and worries disappear. All that remains is anticipation.
November 25—Indian Creek, UT
After a brief intermission in Salt Lake City, our climbing trip continued. Tuesday night we signed a lease on a 1-bedroom apartment downtown. The lease begins on December 1st. Wednesday morning we departed for Indian Creek, where a group of old friends and soon-to-be friends waited. It felt good to be on the road again. The southeasterly drive took 6 hours and we arrived as the setting sun painted the sandstone purple. The fading light revealed endless possibilities and endless challenges; very few routes at The Creek can be called easy. The walls are always steep, the friction always poor, the features pure and clean. Protecting the uniform cracks often requires 8 to 10 copies of the same sized cam. Therefore, it’s imperative to climb with friends who own a lot of gear. Thankfully, our group is well equipped.
The last and only other time I’ve been to Indian Creek was exactly two years ago. Freya, Justin, Martina and I climbed here a few days before Thanksgiving. Afterwards, we drove to Justin and Martina’s apartment in Durango, CO and spent the holiday feasting, drinking, and bouldering. (In fact, I wrote two blog entries about that very trip, the first one about Indian Creek, the second about Thanksgiving.) It was so much fun that Justin decided he wanted to make it a tradition, only this time—and forever onward—we would have Thanksgiving amongst the cottonwoods, next to the river, and beneath the red stone walls that are so enticing. The Facebook group was titled “Thanksgiving at The Creek” and Justin somehow coerced 7 lonely souls to join him for the dusty and frigid antics that were sure to ensue.
The dishwater was frozen solid on Thanksgiving morning, but once the sun hit our camp it was downright comfortable. Having purchased a 12-pound turkey and a $30 BBQ/Smoker, Justin got right to work on what would be an all day affair. Since the turkey required tending, and since none of us wanted to abandon Justin to this selfless job, we decided to spend the day playing games, snacking, bullshitting, and drinking. We had a Frisbee and a slackline, as well as a game we called Horse Balls, which was a variation on Horseshoes. To provide entertainment, one member of our group, Jordan, slung the entire rack of climbing gear over his shoulder, walked into the bushes and returned a few minutes later, completely naked save for the shiny cams and pitted nuts shielding his genitalia. Of course, the most revealing moment, the moment that made all the girls scream, was when he turned around to walk back into the bushes and gave us all a fleeting view of his chalk white buttocks. The other men in the group, myself included, cited Jordan’s young age—19—as justification for his boldness, an ego-saving excuse that would be used more than once over the course of the trip.
The turkey sizzled; the slackline bounced; the wine went down like water. Before long, the bright day had melted into a dark afternoon and our stomachs growled. When Justin announced a 1-hour ETA on the turkey the rest of us began preparing our own contributions. Eldon uncovered a baking dish full of candied yams; Sarah concocted an enormous vat of mashed potatoes; Ash baked green bean casserole in one of the Dutch ovens; Martina used the other Dutch oven for stuffing; Jordan opened a jar of homemade cranberry relish; Freya and I threw together a colorful salad and somehow salvaged a delicious gravy out of the discarded turkey neck and captured juices from the BBQ. It came together as if by magic. The perfectly moist and flavorful meat of the turkey was the piece de resistance. We feasted like kings and queens, huddled around the fire, complimenting each other’s culinary skill and giving thanks for adventure, friendship, #2 Camalots, #5 Camalots, turkey skin, freedom, wine, family, and warmth. At long last, the food and drink overwhelmed our enthusiasm and we filtered languidly into our tents, submitting to the inevitable comas that our bodies desperately requested.
The next day began late, with sunshine roasting our tents, and ended late, with headlamps lighting our descent. After breakfast, we drove two cars to an unmarked turnout, parked, and began hiking toward Technicolor Wall. The approach was convoluted and we wasted most of the morning in search of a suitable trail. When we did finally arrive at the wall, Jordan immediately called dibs on a fist-sized crack in a left-facing corner. He led the route clean, bellowing a triumphant woot! when he reached the anchors. Meanwhile, Justin was leading a chimney route that involved 80-feet of beautiful stemming.
The rest of us thoroughly enjoyed top roping both these routes, although some more than others. At Indian Creek, hand and finger size determines the difficulty of a route. For Freya, whose fist is the size of a Satsuma orange, the route that Jordan led required her to shove her entire arm, shoulder deep, into the crack. Needless to say, it looked painful and she uttered more expletives in those few minutes than she had all trip.
Whereas most of us were feeling humbled, Jordan’s confidence was soaring. He had just on-sighted a difficult route at The Creek and he was feeling strong. At that exact moment, a group of three ragged looking climbers arrived at the crag. One of these climbers, a grey-bearded, leather-skinned desert rat, asked to borrow all our #4 Camalots and began telling Jordan about the second pitch of the chimney route, the first pitch of which Justin had just finished leading. The old desert rat told Jordan that the second pitch had probably only been climbed once, by the desert rat himself when he had completed the first ascent. The desert rat made the route sound relatively straightforward. Hearing that he had an opportunity for a second ascent in Indian Creek, Jordan was instantly inspired. He geared up for the climb and I agreed to belay him, perhaps caught up in his youthful verve.
An hour and a half later, I was still belaying and I no longer felt that verve. Jordan had already taken two lead falls and was about to take another. Everything had been going fine until he got to the squeeze chimney. He cruised up the first pitch, passing Justin’s anchors and hardly breathing, but as the chimney got narrower and narrower, he started slowing down. Soon, he stopped completely and the rope didn’t move more than a few inches for a half hour. The chimney was so small that Jordan actually had to remove his helmet and clip it to his harness because his head was getting stuck. Painstakingly, he inched his way higher. Once he finally exited the chimney he was confronted with a knee-sized crack beneath a 90-degree roof. He yelled down that he didn’t have enough gear to protect the rest of the climb. As it turned out, Jordan needed every #4 Camalot the desert rat had borrowed. As if on cue, the desert rat walked around the corner with a hand full of gear. I asked him to tie it to Jordan’s haul line. The desert rat obliged and Jordan raised the gear to his precarious stance 100-feet off the ground, clipped it to his harness, and continued climbing.
The sun had dropped behind the canyon walls by the time Jordan reached the anchors. He rappelled through the chimney, cleaning his gear on the way, and when he reached the ground I could see the shell-shocked look in his eyes. We descended to the cars in silent darkness. Around the campfire that night, we joked with Jordan about his experience.
“So what is the moral of this story?” I asked Jordan.
“Never trust a desert rat,” he said. We were all glad he got it right.
November 29—Canyonlands National Park, UT
Freya and I walked to the Green River Overlook at sunset and watched the deep canyons fill with ruby light. The orange sun laid down on the sagebrush horizon. Shadows stretched across the countryside, gradually cooling the sand and rocks with a delicate touch. Just as the sun is setting, our road trip is winding down: slow and beautiful.
We shared two more days with the crew at Indian Creek. We climbed desperately, knowing that it might be the last outdoor climbing of the season. Justin and Ash pulled ropes up a variety of difficult cracks. I led the hardest rated trad climb of my life, a 110-foot hand crack called “Generic Crack” in Donnelly Canyon. Generic Crack was long and stately, a nearly perfect fissure interspersed with pods of wider climbing. Endurance was the challenge. Jamming my knee and hip into one of the pods, I found a perfect no-hands rest three-quarters of the way up. I rested there for a while, knowing that I would finish the climb, knowing that I had the strength and endurance, yet hesitating longer than necessary. I gazed out at the red rock canyons and felt a twinge of sadness. Perhaps, deep down, I didn’t want the climb to end; I didn’t want to say another goodbye.
A day of climbing in Moab, just Freya and I, reminded me of our time spent in Smith Rocks, where our road trip began. We’ve covered more than 3000-miles of pavement since then; the Subaru has taken a beating. We’ve grown stronger, mentally and physically. I think back to the very first climb of this trip: how scared I was, how shaky and weak. Balancing on thin sandstone footholds in Moab, I breathed in, calm and collected, then moved smoothly to the next precarious hold. I was still scared, terrified in fact, but that fear was subconsciously subdued; it didn’t overtake my mind. To me, the progression is obvious in hindsight, but in the heat of the moment I still feel like a frail human being, straddling the line between safety and risk, hoping that a hold doesn’t break, dreading a fall.
Without a doubt, the best moments happen when friends are around to share that fear. We’ve met so many wonderful people on this trip with whom we’ve built powerful memories. Connections like that don’t fade, no matter how much time goes by.
Tomorrow morning we’ll take a hike through Canyonlands; then we’ll drive to Salt Lake City that evening. The storms haven’t hit Snowbird yet. I’d like to think they are waiting for our return. I imagine the snow will start falling the moment we arrive and it wont stop until March. Our road trip may be coming to an end, but the next adventure is just around the corner.
The last vestiges of twilight fade from the desert sky. I shut down my computer, turn off my headlamp, and pull the sleeping bag around my shoulders. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I get to wake up. We’re sleeping in the car again and from the rear window I can see the Milky Way. I yawn. I close my eyes but I can still see the stars, unvisited, distant, and shining brilliantly.
I take it as a good omen that on our first night in Salt Lake City it’s snowing. Freya and I are planning to spend the winter here skiing and there is nothing more exciting to a skier than an 8-12 inch forecast. If we didn’t have to find a place to live I would probably go skiing tomorrow, but it’s proving frustratingly difficult to meet a landlord willing to accept a 3-month lease. To make matters worse, I’ve picked up a terrible sore throat. It feels like I’m ripping through tissue every time I swallow. God forbid I yawn.
Life on the road was simple. The only stress was stress I chose to endure, like when leading a difficult route. There was no planning. There were no expectations. There was only the next climb, or really the next move within a climb. We made friends without trying, people who would risk their life to save ours, even if our only interaction together had been telling stories around a campfire. We drove until we felt like stopping and stopped until we felt like driving again. It was freedom. It was my version of the American dream and I loved it.
The city is a different type of adventure, but a valuable and cathartic adventure nonetheless. I’ve never lived in a city bigger than 80,000 people, and driving through Salt Lake I’m amazed with the seemingly endless sprawl of street lights, strip malls, and suburban developments. I-15 is jammed with speeding SUVs that don’t signal when changing lanes and diesel trucks hauling horse trailers down the HOV. Whereas the freeway is a maddening bustle of inconsiderate strangers, Downtown feels homey. It’s like a village hidden in the metropolis; trees line the streets; houses have character; the ingenious grid system makes finding any destination easy. Ted lives downtown and we are sleeping on his floor while we look for our own place to live. Already he’s taken us to a taco truck that serves the biggest $3 burrito I’ve ever seen and we visited the climbing gym, a luxury I haven’t had since college.
While cheap food and indoor climbing are great perks, the biggest attraction this city has to offer is the Wasatch Mountain Range. One afternoon, when Freya and I are tired of scouring neighborhoods for “For Rent” signs, we decide to drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon. There’s already snow on the ground at the mouth of the canyon and as we climb the winding road the snow gets deeper. Clean granite faces garnish the valley walls. Avalanche gullies are so frequent they look like lines in a college-ruled notebook. Reaching Snowbird’s dusty base, I glimpse a few neon-clad skiers carving turns into the pure white. I stop the car and get out. The air is dry and bitter cold. Oddly enough, it feels soothing on my sore throat. I can hear the sound of snow being pushed beneath waxed boards. It sounds soft. Hell, it smells soft. I’m half tempted to buy my season pass that moment, but it’s late and I know there are powder days in my future. I get back in the car, shivering yet budding with energy. Stress and worries disappear. All that remains is anticipation.
November 25—Indian Creek, UT
After a brief intermission in Salt Lake City, our climbing trip continued. Tuesday night we signed a lease on a 1-bedroom apartment downtown. The lease begins on December 1st. Wednesday morning we departed for Indian Creek, where a group of old friends and soon-to-be friends waited. It felt good to be on the road again. The southeasterly drive took 6 hours and we arrived as the setting sun painted the sandstone purple. The fading light revealed endless possibilities and endless challenges; very few routes at The Creek can be called easy. The walls are always steep, the friction always poor, the features pure and clean. Protecting the uniform cracks often requires 8 to 10 copies of the same sized cam. Therefore, it’s imperative to climb with friends who own a lot of gear. Thankfully, our group is well equipped.
The last and only other time I’ve been to Indian Creek was exactly two years ago. Freya, Justin, Martina and I climbed here a few days before Thanksgiving. Afterwards, we drove to Justin and Martina’s apartment in Durango, CO and spent the holiday feasting, drinking, and bouldering. (In fact, I wrote two blog entries about that very trip, the first one about Indian Creek, the second about Thanksgiving.) It was so much fun that Justin decided he wanted to make it a tradition, only this time—and forever onward—we would have Thanksgiving amongst the cottonwoods, next to the river, and beneath the red stone walls that are so enticing. The Facebook group was titled “Thanksgiving at The Creek” and Justin somehow coerced 7 lonely souls to join him for the dusty and frigid antics that were sure to ensue.
 |
| Enjoying the fire in camp one night. |
 |
| The Camel Hut set up beneath a big cottonwood. |
 |
| Surrounded by sandstone. |
 |
| Eldon cooks a snack in camp. |
 |
| Sunset over desert towers. |
The dishwater was frozen solid on Thanksgiving morning, but once the sun hit our camp it was downright comfortable. Having purchased a 12-pound turkey and a $30 BBQ/Smoker, Justin got right to work on what would be an all day affair. Since the turkey required tending, and since none of us wanted to abandon Justin to this selfless job, we decided to spend the day playing games, snacking, bullshitting, and drinking. We had a Frisbee and a slackline, as well as a game we called Horse Balls, which was a variation on Horseshoes. To provide entertainment, one member of our group, Jordan, slung the entire rack of climbing gear over his shoulder, walked into the bushes and returned a few minutes later, completely naked save for the shiny cams and pitted nuts shielding his genitalia. Of course, the most revealing moment, the moment that made all the girls scream, was when he turned around to walk back into the bushes and gave us all a fleeting view of his chalk white buttocks. The other men in the group, myself included, cited Jordan’s young age—19—as justification for his boldness, an ego-saving excuse that would be used more than once over the course of the trip.
The turkey sizzled; the slackline bounced; the wine went down like water. Before long, the bright day had melted into a dark afternoon and our stomachs growled. When Justin announced a 1-hour ETA on the turkey the rest of us began preparing our own contributions. Eldon uncovered a baking dish full of candied yams; Sarah concocted an enormous vat of mashed potatoes; Ash baked green bean casserole in one of the Dutch ovens; Martina used the other Dutch oven for stuffing; Jordan opened a jar of homemade cranberry relish; Freya and I threw together a colorful salad and somehow salvaged a delicious gravy out of the discarded turkey neck and captured juices from the BBQ. It came together as if by magic. The perfectly moist and flavorful meat of the turkey was the piece de resistance. We feasted like kings and queens, huddled around the fire, complimenting each other’s culinary skill and giving thanks for adventure, friendship, #2 Camalots, #5 Camalots, turkey skin, freedom, wine, family, and warmth. At long last, the food and drink overwhelmed our enthusiasm and we filtered languidly into our tents, submitting to the inevitable comas that our bodies desperately requested.
The next day began late, with sunshine roasting our tents, and ended late, with headlamps lighting our descent. After breakfast, we drove two cars to an unmarked turnout, parked, and began hiking toward Technicolor Wall. The approach was convoluted and we wasted most of the morning in search of a suitable trail. When we did finally arrive at the wall, Jordan immediately called dibs on a fist-sized crack in a left-facing corner. He led the route clean, bellowing a triumphant woot! when he reached the anchors. Meanwhile, Justin was leading a chimney route that involved 80-feet of beautiful stemming.
The rest of us thoroughly enjoyed top roping both these routes, although some more than others. At Indian Creek, hand and finger size determines the difficulty of a route. For Freya, whose fist is the size of a Satsuma orange, the route that Jordan led required her to shove her entire arm, shoulder deep, into the crack. Needless to say, it looked painful and she uttered more expletives in those few minutes than she had all trip.
 |
| Ash lights coals while Justin rubs turkey. |
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| 12lb turkey; $30 BBQ/Smoker |
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| Justin attempts to juggle on the slackline. |
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| To be 19 again...sigh... |
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| Justin drools on turkey while carving. |
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| Give me some of that immediately! |
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| Martina showing off. |
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| First of three helpings. |
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| Justin with a too-small plate. |
Whereas most of us were feeling humbled, Jordan’s confidence was soaring. He had just on-sighted a difficult route at The Creek and he was feeling strong. At that exact moment, a group of three ragged looking climbers arrived at the crag. One of these climbers, a grey-bearded, leather-skinned desert rat, asked to borrow all our #4 Camalots and began telling Jordan about the second pitch of the chimney route, the first pitch of which Justin had just finished leading. The old desert rat told Jordan that the second pitch had probably only been climbed once, by the desert rat himself when he had completed the first ascent. The desert rat made the route sound relatively straightforward. Hearing that he had an opportunity for a second ascent in Indian Creek, Jordan was instantly inspired. He geared up for the climb and I agreed to belay him, perhaps caught up in his youthful verve.
An hour and a half later, I was still belaying and I no longer felt that verve. Jordan had already taken two lead falls and was about to take another. Everything had been going fine until he got to the squeeze chimney. He cruised up the first pitch, passing Justin’s anchors and hardly breathing, but as the chimney got narrower and narrower, he started slowing down. Soon, he stopped completely and the rope didn’t move more than a few inches for a half hour. The chimney was so small that Jordan actually had to remove his helmet and clip it to his harness because his head was getting stuck. Painstakingly, he inched his way higher. Once he finally exited the chimney he was confronted with a knee-sized crack beneath a 90-degree roof. He yelled down that he didn’t have enough gear to protect the rest of the climb. As it turned out, Jordan needed every #4 Camalot the desert rat had borrowed. As if on cue, the desert rat walked around the corner with a hand full of gear. I asked him to tie it to Jordan’s haul line. The desert rat obliged and Jordan raised the gear to his precarious stance 100-feet off the ground, clipped it to his harness, and continued climbing.
The sun had dropped behind the canyon walls by the time Jordan reached the anchors. He rappelled through the chimney, cleaning his gear on the way, and when he reached the ground I could see the shell-shocked look in his eyes. We descended to the cars in silent darkness. Around the campfire that night, we joked with Jordan about his experience.
“So what is the moral of this story?” I asked Jordan.
“Never trust a desert rat,” he said. We were all glad he got it right.
 |
| Jordan leads fist-sized crack. |
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| Jordan making it look easy. |
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| Justin leads something way too hard. |
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| Just another day at the Creek. |
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| Second ascents all over the place. |
November 29—Canyonlands National Park, UT
Freya and I walked to the Green River Overlook at sunset and watched the deep canyons fill with ruby light. The orange sun laid down on the sagebrush horizon. Shadows stretched across the countryside, gradually cooling the sand and rocks with a delicate touch. Just as the sun is setting, our road trip is winding down: slow and beautiful.
We shared two more days with the crew at Indian Creek. We climbed desperately, knowing that it might be the last outdoor climbing of the season. Justin and Ash pulled ropes up a variety of difficult cracks. I led the hardest rated trad climb of my life, a 110-foot hand crack called “Generic Crack” in Donnelly Canyon. Generic Crack was long and stately, a nearly perfect fissure interspersed with pods of wider climbing. Endurance was the challenge. Jamming my knee and hip into one of the pods, I found a perfect no-hands rest three-quarters of the way up. I rested there for a while, knowing that I would finish the climb, knowing that I had the strength and endurance, yet hesitating longer than necessary. I gazed out at the red rock canyons and felt a twinge of sadness. Perhaps, deep down, I didn’t want the climb to end; I didn’t want to say another goodbye.
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| Starting up Generic Crack (5.10) |
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| Already running out of gear. |
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| Better keep moving. |
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| Pure and clean. |
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| Jordan leads Generic Crack. |
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| Jordan placing gear on Generic Crack. |
Without a doubt, the best moments happen when friends are around to share that fear. We’ve met so many wonderful people on this trip with whom we’ve built powerful memories. Connections like that don’t fade, no matter how much time goes by.
Tomorrow morning we’ll take a hike through Canyonlands; then we’ll drive to Salt Lake City that evening. The storms haven’t hit Snowbird yet. I’d like to think they are waiting for our return. I imagine the snow will start falling the moment we arrive and it wont stop until March. Our road trip may be coming to an end, but the next adventure is just around the corner.
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| Sunset over Canyonlands. |
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| Grasses of the desert. |
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| Sunrise coloring the sky. |
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| Almost falling off the edge trying to take a photo. |
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| Petroglyph imitation. |
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| Snow prayer. |
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| Eight-mile hike on the Syncline Trail. |
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| Couple's self portrait. |
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| A final jump for joy. |
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Roadtrip Part 5: Reunions and Reinvigoration at Joshua Tree National Park
November 9—Joshua Tree National Park, CA
The last and only other time I’ve been to Joshua Tree was a week after graduating college in the spring of 2007. Nine other climbers and myself piled into three cars and drove 18-hours without stopping, going 90 mph through the California night. We arrived at Ryan Campground at 11am, exhausted and ecstatic. Clean boulders, sharp and bulbous, surrounded camp. The enticing angles of the rock burst through our sleep-deprived haze, begging us to climb. We unleashed three crashpads from Eric’s truck, toted them to the base of an innocuous, egg-shaped stone and, harnessing the verve of youth, attacked the coarse granite.
During the next ten days, we cut our teeth on Joshua Tree’s world-renowned crags. I spent most of the trip with Eric and Dana, the only guys beside myself who were really interested in crack climbing. It was a blast. Every day without fail, we would drive into camp late in the afternoon, beating the roof of the car with our bloodied hands, The Rolling Stones turned up as loud as the radio could handle, and all three of us singing along at the top of our lungs. Without a doubt, those were the best ten days of rock climbing I had ever experienced, not only because the climbing was so good, but also because the people with whom I shared those climbs were so generous, forgiving, energetic and hilarious.
One of those people in particular, Pablo, was not even a part of our original group, but he fit in like we had known him for years, which in fact, Dana had. It was a random connection the likes of which make the world feel small. One lazy morning in camp, as Eric and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, Dana overheard someone talking about Tonasket, the small eastern Washington town where he grew up. Poking his head around the corner, Dana came face to face with his long time friend and occasional climbing partner, Pablo, who was camped in the site next to ours. Throughout the remainder of the trip, Pablo climbed, ate, slept and partied along with us. He was a strong climber and it was a luxury to follow him up classic routes that would have been far too hard for us to lead. He was an excellent teacher with a child’s soul who could show you how to build a bombproof climbing anchor one morning and then drink you under the table that same night. We liked him immediately.
Ten days passed in a blink. None of us wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. Most of the guys had to return for the spring quarter of college. I had to move out of my apartment and decide what the hell I was going to do with my life. These were not easy tasks, nor were they appealing, especially in comparison to the moment-by-moment life we’d been living. Still, we had to say goodbye.
I knew I would see most of my cohorts again, in the climbing gym or wandering the red brick pathways of campus, but I wasn’t sure about Pablo or about Joshua Tree. Driving away from the knobby rocks and forked trees, a melancholy sadness flavored my emotions. My stomach knotted up and my throat became parched. It passed in a moment, once we hit the freeway and turned the music up, but it could have been much worse. It would have been much worse if I had known that I wouldn’t see Joshua Tree until four years later and that I wouldn’t climb with Pablo again, at least not until today.
Early this morning Freya and I were driving the dusty roads of Hidden Valley Campground in search of an unoccupied campsite. Even on a Tuesday, everything was full. It was disappointing and I was ready to give up hope when, suddenly, everything changed. As we drove the last dusty finger of road in the campground, we passed three climbers standing next to a white truck. Creeping by, I glanced out the window and immediately recognized Pablo. I couldn’t quite believe it. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, “Is that Pablo?”
“Yeah man! Who’s that?”
“It’s Leif. Dana’s friend. We climbed together here…”
He cut me off before I could finish, “Of course! Whoa! Good to see you man. It’s been forever.”
We shook hands, smiling.
“So, are you guys looking for a site?” he asked, “You can share ours. We’ve got plenty of room.”
Two hours later we were high fiving at the top of a two-pitch crack called “The Swift.” Pablo’s girlfriend, Kim, followed his lead and I led my own rope with Freya tied to the other end. Climbing with Pablo, I felt like only seconds had passed since I saw him last. He hasn’t changed. He’s still energetic, outgoing, and positive. He’s still a great teacher and he still lives like a kid.
On our first climb of the day, we led separate routes right next to each other. As we simultaneously neared the end, Pablo realized that he didn’t have any gear to fit the crack and that we was 20 feet above his last piece of protection. He asked if I had a #4 Camalot. I did. I unclipped the cam from my harness, made sure my left hand and foot were sticking solidly to the rock, and fully extended my right arm, cam clenched tightly. Pablo performed the mirror image of my move, grabbing the cam with his outstretched fingers.
“Sweet! Thanks man. I was getting a little worried there,” he says, chuckling.
“No problem. I’ve never done that before.”
“Me neither. It’s a good thing you guys showed up.”
I can’t wait for the week of climbing ahead. Joshua Tree is filled with special connections. It turns out that Pablo isn’t the only climber I know here. David Farkas, an AAI guide who spent the summer on Mount Baker and assisted Brandon and I in a rescue, was kind enough to let Freya and I set up our enormous tent in his campsite (it turned out that Pablo’s site was not nearly big enough). David will be leaving for Red Rocks in a few days and we will take over his campsite after that. Mike Pond, another AAI guide from Mount Baker, and his girlfriend, Lauren, are camped a few hundred yards away. We’re all planning to climb together tomorrow. I can’t imagine who we’ll run into next.
From the picnic table in our campsite, I can glance across Hidden Valley and see Pablo frying a quesadilla. He’s close enough that I can smell the oil and cheese. Maybe if I ask real nice, he’ll pass one over. I’m sure he’d be happy to return the favor. A song by The Rolling Stones plays through my head. You can’t always giiiit what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you nee-eed! Oh Yeah!
November 16—Joshua Tree National Park, CA
We’ve been trying to leave for a while now, but this place just keeps getting better and better. We haven’t climbed alone or eaten alone for the past week. We’ve made new friends and reunited with old ones. We’ve felt bold and been humbled. The weather is turning warm again. The campground is full of smiles. The rangers supply free coffee on weekend mornings. Why leave?
Whereas the other climbing areas that Freya and I have visited on this trip have felt somewhat antisocial, Joshua Tree is a buzzing hub of conversation and camaraderie. Our next-door neighbors, Manny and Gloria, an elderly couple with an RV, start a fire every night and encourage us to add fresh logs even after they’ve gone to bed. An eclectic group of climbers ceaselessly surrounds the fire. Steve, a grey-bearded ex-Marine who’s been a dirtbag for most of his life, tells raunchy stories about prostitutes, climbing accidents, and Yosemite. His voice is deep and gravely from too many cigarettes; his stories are both hilarious and offensive. He’ll be your best friend instantly if you offer him a beer. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy; he says he’s killed 14 people. Then there’s Flo, a 19 year-old Bavarian kid who shares our campsite. He’s been traveling the US for three months, climbing at all the best crags and walking highlines in aesthetic places. A German slackline company sponsors him and his next stop is Fiji, then New Zealand. He climbs harder than I probably ever will. He says food in the US is too expensive. He pours creamy ranch dressing on his cabbage salad. We offer him a burrito and he gladly accepts.
Besides random campground acquaintances there are also old friends. One afternoon Freya and I drove into town to fill our water jugs and I received a message from Jeff, a childhood friend who lives in Los Angeles. As it turned out, Jeff and two other Port Townsendites, Charlie and Clay, were headed to Joshua Tree for the weekend. Their mutual friend, Ringo, drove from Phoenix to meet up with the crew. On Saturday we all took a hike into the Wonderland of Rocks. Pablo and Kim came along too. Charlie jumped from boulder to boulder while Jeff and Clay snapped photos and Ringo quipped one-liners that brought us all to tears. It started raining and we scrambled off the slippery rock and headed back to camp. We invited everyone into our enormous tent that night for a feast. Five stoves were set on the sandy floor with eight bodies huddled inside. On Sunday we visited the Hall of Horrors and I let the boys borrow my shoes and harness so they could top rope a climb called “Lazy Day.” They grunted and sweated their way up and I followed suit. Their visit ended with hugs and high fives. Our campsite felt empty when they left, but another group of friendly climbers soon occupied the void.
When we’re not socializing, we’re climbing and we’ve been climbing hard. One morning I decided to lead every sandbagged classic in Hidden Valley. We walked from crag to crag, never more than five minutes from our tent, and climbed routes that are notoriously difficult for their grade. Each one was more challenging and fulfilling than the last. The next day I was feeling bold and attempted to lead a 5.10b route called “Pinched Rib,” which is located directly behind our tent. I took five ten-foot lead falls, scraping my hip in the process, before letting Pablo tie into the sharp end. On his first try he found a key hold that I had been missing. I tied back into the rope, took one more lead fall and then finally sent the route clean. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. The rest of the day was a crapshoot and I’m still sore from the effort.
We’re running out of time on this trip. We have to be in Indian Creek for Thanksgiving and it would be nice to find a place to live in Salt Lake City before that. I think we’ll have to skip Red Rocks, save it for next time. There are so many wonderful places to visit and so little time. Without a doubt, Joshua Tree is my all time favorite. Just like last time I was here, I don’t want to say goodbye. I know how it will feel to hug Pablo and Kim, to drive through the gates heading north; a melancholy sadness will fill the car; it might even bring me close to tears. Maybe it won’t hurt quite so bad if I promise to come back. I promise…I promise…
The last and only other time I’ve been to Joshua Tree was a week after graduating college in the spring of 2007. Nine other climbers and myself piled into three cars and drove 18-hours without stopping, going 90 mph through the California night. We arrived at Ryan Campground at 11am, exhausted and ecstatic. Clean boulders, sharp and bulbous, surrounded camp. The enticing angles of the rock burst through our sleep-deprived haze, begging us to climb. We unleashed three crashpads from Eric’s truck, toted them to the base of an innocuous, egg-shaped stone and, harnessing the verve of youth, attacked the coarse granite.
During the next ten days, we cut our teeth on Joshua Tree’s world-renowned crags. I spent most of the trip with Eric and Dana, the only guys beside myself who were really interested in crack climbing. It was a blast. Every day without fail, we would drive into camp late in the afternoon, beating the roof of the car with our bloodied hands, The Rolling Stones turned up as loud as the radio could handle, and all three of us singing along at the top of our lungs. Without a doubt, those were the best ten days of rock climbing I had ever experienced, not only because the climbing was so good, but also because the people with whom I shared those climbs were so generous, forgiving, energetic and hilarious.
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| Preparing to lead the Headstone on our first day of climbing. |
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| Bouldering near Ryan Campground. |
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| Joshua Tree and formation. |
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| Evening light behind a Joshua Tree. |
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| Raven enjoying the warm air. |
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| Rappelling off the Headstone. |
One of those people in particular, Pablo, was not even a part of our original group, but he fit in like we had known him for years, which in fact, Dana had. It was a random connection the likes of which make the world feel small. One lazy morning in camp, as Eric and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, Dana overheard someone talking about Tonasket, the small eastern Washington town where he grew up. Poking his head around the corner, Dana came face to face with his long time friend and occasional climbing partner, Pablo, who was camped in the site next to ours. Throughout the remainder of the trip, Pablo climbed, ate, slept and partied along with us. He was a strong climber and it was a luxury to follow him up classic routes that would have been far too hard for us to lead. He was an excellent teacher with a child’s soul who could show you how to build a bombproof climbing anchor one morning and then drink you under the table that same night. We liked him immediately.
Ten days passed in a blink. None of us wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. Most of the guys had to return for the spring quarter of college. I had to move out of my apartment and decide what the hell I was going to do with my life. These were not easy tasks, nor were they appealing, especially in comparison to the moment-by-moment life we’d been living. Still, we had to say goodbye.
I knew I would see most of my cohorts again, in the climbing gym or wandering the red brick pathways of campus, but I wasn’t sure about Pablo or about Joshua Tree. Driving away from the knobby rocks and forked trees, a melancholy sadness flavored my emotions. My stomach knotted up and my throat became parched. It passed in a moment, once we hit the freeway and turned the music up, but it could have been much worse. It would have been much worse if I had known that I wouldn’t see Joshua Tree until four years later and that I wouldn’t climb with Pablo again, at least not until today.
Early this morning Freya and I were driving the dusty roads of Hidden Valley Campground in search of an unoccupied campsite. Even on a Tuesday, everything was full. It was disappointing and I was ready to give up hope when, suddenly, everything changed. As we drove the last dusty finger of road in the campground, we passed three climbers standing next to a white truck. Creeping by, I glanced out the window and immediately recognized Pablo. I couldn’t quite believe it. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, “Is that Pablo?”
“Yeah man! Who’s that?”
“It’s Leif. Dana’s friend. We climbed together here…”
He cut me off before I could finish, “Of course! Whoa! Good to see you man. It’s been forever.”
We shook hands, smiling.
“So, are you guys looking for a site?” he asked, “You can share ours. We’ve got plenty of room.”
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| Moonrise through Joshua. |
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| Mike Pond leads in Outer Mongolia area. |
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| A place unlike anywhere else. |
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| Climber leads the Pinched Rib (5.10b) |
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| Sharp stuff is abundant in the desert. |
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| Someone told us that Joshua Trees evolved from underwater plants. |
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| The lap of luxury. |
On our first climb of the day, we led separate routes right next to each other. As we simultaneously neared the end, Pablo realized that he didn’t have any gear to fit the crack and that we was 20 feet above his last piece of protection. He asked if I had a #4 Camalot. I did. I unclipped the cam from my harness, made sure my left hand and foot were sticking solidly to the rock, and fully extended my right arm, cam clenched tightly. Pablo performed the mirror image of my move, grabbing the cam with his outstretched fingers.
“Sweet! Thanks man. I was getting a little worried there,” he says, chuckling.
“No problem. I’ve never done that before.”
“Me neither. It’s a good thing you guys showed up.”
I can’t wait for the week of climbing ahead. Joshua Tree is filled with special connections. It turns out that Pablo isn’t the only climber I know here. David Farkas, an AAI guide who spent the summer on Mount Baker and assisted Brandon and I in a rescue, was kind enough to let Freya and I set up our enormous tent in his campsite (it turned out that Pablo’s site was not nearly big enough). David will be leaving for Red Rocks in a few days and we will take over his campsite after that. Mike Pond, another AAI guide from Mount Baker, and his girlfriend, Lauren, are camped a few hundred yards away. We’re all planning to climb together tomorrow. I can’t imagine who we’ll run into next.
From the picnic table in our campsite, I can glance across Hidden Valley and see Pablo frying a quesadilla. He’s close enough that I can smell the oil and cheese. Maybe if I ask real nice, he’ll pass one over. I’m sure he’d be happy to return the favor. A song by The Rolling Stones plays through my head. You can’t always giiiit what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you nee-eed! Oh Yeah!
November 16—Joshua Tree National Park, CA
We’ve been trying to leave for a while now, but this place just keeps getting better and better. We haven’t climbed alone or eaten alone for the past week. We’ve made new friends and reunited with old ones. We’ve felt bold and been humbled. The weather is turning warm again. The campground is full of smiles. The rangers supply free coffee on weekend mornings. Why leave?
Whereas the other climbing areas that Freya and I have visited on this trip have felt somewhat antisocial, Joshua Tree is a buzzing hub of conversation and camaraderie. Our next-door neighbors, Manny and Gloria, an elderly couple with an RV, start a fire every night and encourage us to add fresh logs even after they’ve gone to bed. An eclectic group of climbers ceaselessly surrounds the fire. Steve, a grey-bearded ex-Marine who’s been a dirtbag for most of his life, tells raunchy stories about prostitutes, climbing accidents, and Yosemite. His voice is deep and gravely from too many cigarettes; his stories are both hilarious and offensive. He’ll be your best friend instantly if you offer him a beer. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy; he says he’s killed 14 people. Then there’s Flo, a 19 year-old Bavarian kid who shares our campsite. He’s been traveling the US for three months, climbing at all the best crags and walking highlines in aesthetic places. A German slackline company sponsors him and his next stop is Fiji, then New Zealand. He climbs harder than I probably ever will. He says food in the US is too expensive. He pours creamy ranch dressing on his cabbage salad. We offer him a burrito and he gladly accepts.
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| Wonderland of Rocks. |
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| Chimney through the Hall of Horrors. |
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| Bouldering near Cyclops. |
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| Lost most of my finger skin on that move. |
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| Slacklining under the stars. |
When we’re not socializing, we’re climbing and we’ve been climbing hard. One morning I decided to lead every sandbagged classic in Hidden Valley. We walked from crag to crag, never more than five minutes from our tent, and climbed routes that are notoriously difficult for their grade. Each one was more challenging and fulfilling than the last. The next day I was feeling bold and attempted to lead a 5.10b route called “Pinched Rib,” which is located directly behind our tent. I took five ten-foot lead falls, scraping my hip in the process, before letting Pablo tie into the sharp end. On his first try he found a key hold that I had been missing. I tied back into the rope, took one more lead fall and then finally sent the route clean. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. The rest of the day was a crapshoot and I’m still sore from the effort.
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| Freya's first trad lead. The route is called The Bong. |
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| Kim sends a boulder problem. |
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| Ideal campsite. |
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| Small plants, big rocks. |
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| The crew. Left to right: Jeff, Ringo, Leif, Freya, Clay, Charlie, Kim, Pablo. |
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