Luke's Bloggie Blog

Book Tour and the Dirtbag State of Mind Gear

2013-05-15T08:47:00.000-07:00

Though I feel like I'm late to do this, and I've already imagined it for years, my first book tour is about to happen in less than one week. My stoke-o-meter is just getting started, and I'm anxious and excited to present my first book, Climbing Out of Bed, in a real and tangible way.

Yup people that are this stiked will be at the presentations!

It has been available as an e-book for almost a year now, but its fresh off the press with regards to the printed version. It is cool to have an e-book and the technology is great to have the work available on e-readers, but something is missing if a book is only available electronically: the human connection. We cannot virtually make love, or experience nature in front of a computer; the best things in life will be the pastimes, the things that were great a thousand years ago will still be greater than any electronic or virtual experience. Just a thought, I am so psyched to interact with an audience on the Western Slope of Colorado during this first stint of the Climbing Out of Bed book tour. This land is where I found my passions and reasons to live, and to present my book in Durango, Gunnison and Telluride will be a dream come true. Here's the information about the events, as well as a link to our new "Dirtbag State of Mind" gear via Adayak. Mallory Logan designed this logo, inspired by Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" and people have been loving it. I do too. Everything from Adayak is 100% organic cotton, good style and good karma!

See you on the road, and if you can't make it to this part of the book tour, I plan on hitting up more places in Colorado, Utah, and beyond this year...word!

Tuesday, May 21st at 6:30, Maria's Bookshop, Durango, Colorado

Thursday, May 23rd at 7:00, The Firebrand, Gunnison, Colorado. Sponsored by Deuter and the American Alpine Club

Sunday, May 26th from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., Mountain Film Reading Frenzy in Telluride, Colorado

Check out the "Dirtbag State of Mind" on Adayak!

Writing and Raining, Yurt Living

2013-05-06T09:20:00.001-07:00

When I want to write and I cannot I am not myself. I’m not talking about writer’s block here, writer’s block is a hint to take a break, do something else, or dig deeper; there is no such thing as writer’s block, it is an illusion.

I am talking about not having the time, or space to write. This has been my issue the last few days, but here I am, at a new house sitting gig, a yurt more specifically, and I have the time and space to write.

Writing is exercise, an art that comes to fruition when one is destined and dedicated. One of the most important ingredients though is something to write about, experience. I think that is why it may be foolish to study writing in college if you have not experienced much. A better bet may be to take a year off and move to another country, or ramble our own countryside, doing what you love: playing music, writing poetry, climbing rocks, floating rivers, or skiing mountains, etcetera.

Where I am, at this yurt, just outside of Durango, the rain is coming down, and my thoughts are centering, forming onto this page (screen). Rain is a blessing in the desert, and its timing is perfect. We are nothing without rain.

Living is simple on this seven acre piece of property. Each amount of energy is thought of as it is used. The water tank has only so much water, the computer can only be used when the generator is fired up, and candles are used for lighting. It is romantic. We get our eggs from the chickens, not the store, and have to feed the other animals (donkeys, sheep, cats, dog and the llama) twice a day. I am falling into a groove with this place and falling in love.

I am trying to turn my life into one where I can eat based on what I write. What a privilege that is. I am not there yet, but I am getting closer and closer. Closer to living the dream. I write my dreams and I write my experiences. The rain continues to fall, as I slip deeper and deeper into the moment, the groove, my destiny. What is yours?

A Mexican Wedding, Tufa Limestone, and Airport Benightments

2013-04-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

(This article appears in today's Durango Teelgraph.)

Sometimes the best way for me to realize how much I love Durango is to leave it. I’m writing these words, right up to deadline, from the lovely Denver International Airport (DIA) after a cozy night of sleep on the floor, surrounded by flustered travelers, socked in by a late spring snowstorm.

These are far from ideal writing conditions, I typically prefer a quiet room with a hot cup of tea to compose my prose, but alas deadlines are deadlines, and at least I’ve got an adventure to reflect upon.

My last four days were spent near Monterrey, Mexico, attending the wedding two dear friends, and sampling some of the finest climbing I’ve ever seen in my fifteen years of searching God’s green earth for vertical adventures.

I worked hard and saved my pennies all winter long for this one. I renewed my passport, which blew my mind to recall that it has been ten years since my first international travelling experience that changed my life when I helped build a small concrete house in Nicaragua for a family in need. On that trip I learned when one gives a gift he also receives something in return. Also, I learned that roosters don’t simply crow in the morning.

I’ve always had good luck with plane travel and that ended with this adventure. With more delays and missed flights than I care to write about my first night I found myself sleeping on the floor of the Houston airport, devising an archaic sleeping arrangement involving a backpack, a climbing rope, and a light sleeping bag. At six in the morning I was hungry and trying to resist the sweet smell of coffee, a habit I’ve recently given up. I ate some food and listened to a good ol’ boy Texan complain to strangers about not being able to bring ammunition on the plane. Only in Texas.

Eventually I flew into Monterrey in the morning, greeted by my friends at the airport, ninety-degree temperatures and a woozy state of mind. We drove to the town of Hidalgo, where my friend Mark spends his winter climbing and guiding, and had a few lazy hours soaking in the heat at his casa.

Hidalgo is small town Mexico, straight out of the movies. Everyone moves slow, and it feels like walking back in time. People smile and wave. The main form of industry is a cement factory and the two thousand foot limestone walls of El Potrero Chico loom in the distance. Our first move is food, always food, we spend a modest amount of pesos on lunch, 40 tamales for the three of us, and then like climbers do, make our way to the cliffs.

It’s a short drive on a slightly bumpy dusty road. Mining is evident on the cliffs just before the park. We talk about the mass murder that happened just months before. Seventeen people from the band, Kombo Kolumbia were taken from a bar in Hidalgo and were beheaded, their bodies dumped in a nearby water well. As we drive into the canyon Mark points out the bar, one he was warned awhile back to never go to.

We are the only climbers in this limestone paradise, and it feels like having our own Yosemite, all to ourselves. Trash and graffiti litter the canyon floor, as my mind adjusts to how nature is treated in Mexico. I feel dead to the world and struggle up the hike, as limestone swirls above me. Two slender towers to the left, and an eight hundred foot wall of orange and white stripes to the right, which we set up under and prepare to climb. The first climb is awkward and I feel like an instrument that is out of tune. Something amazing happens after our warmup, I am inspired to try a route at my limit, and I come alive. I am the climb, one hundred percent in the moment, and my body and mind are tuned. More friends from The States arrive and the fiesta begins.

After some more climbing the next day it was time to prepare for the wedding. We drive back into Monterrey. Forget murder, climbing, poisonous snakes and spiders, driving in Mexico feels like the most dangerous part. Stop signs are ignored, and the shoulder is always being used to drive on; it feels like a collective insanity.

The wedding is up in the hills, where the temperatures are cooler, there’s less trash, and it generally feels like paradise. Mark and his bride Norma are married in a small, quaint Catholic Church. Mark is one of the biggest dirtbags I know and to see him move into this lifestyle is serene. Tears are cried, happiness is abundant and soon it is time to party.

This was not a destination wedding, everything was authentic. The band rocks the house for five hours and all sorts of rituals are performed. I dance hand in hand with strangers, take shots of tequila, drink pina coladas, and generally get wild. Mark and Norma are decorated from head to toe in colorful costume. Hats, balloons and kazoos are handed out to the crowd. Later the band organizes a kissing contest between the bride and groom.

The next day climbing again on our minds. Mark takes us to a newly discovered cave. It is the coolest climbing area I’ve ever seen. Stalactites and tufas dangle from the overhanging limestone wall, some twenty feet long as if held on by some mystic prayer. Hung over, but psyched as could be we climb until dusk. It is my last day and I wish for more time.

The journey home goes well until the snowstorm hits Denver. We get on the plane, only to sit there for two hours and have to de-plane. I’m dreaming of being in the arms of my ladyfriend, but alas I’m destined for another night on the floor of an airport. I try to keep my cool and manage to do so, after all, life is but a dream, and now my greatest dream is to be back in Durango.

More Airport Reflections

2013-04-17T18:51:00.001-07:00

Seven hours into a layover in the Denver International Airport with an unplanned bivy ahead of me (that's climber speak for sleeping somewhere unexpected) these are some things I've seen and noticed. I'm stoked to arrive at my destination of Monterrey, Mexico for my dear friends Mark and Norma's wedding.

An old woman tells me her story
An unexpected landing in another place other than my destination
Finally, we arrive in Denver, my plane long gone
Tickets rebooked, time to chill, kill

Snow falls in April
It's always winter somewhere in Colorado

A young black man pushes an old white woman in a wheelchair
People get their shoes shined, I've never owned shoes that needed to be shined

The New Belgium Brewery restaurant is a haven for lunch
A brief intoxication of one beer
I don't crave any more
I eat really bad Chinese food for dinner

I dream of the woman I've been loving lately

I people watch and think how did we kill time without these glowing rectangles

I watch TV shows, movies and read newspaper headlines
Here today, gone tomorrow

The most fascinating sight of all
A kids basketball team in wheelchairs
One kid has only one full arm, no legs
They are smiling tossing two basketballs between the eight of them
They are smiling more than any of the other travellers I've seen
So much of life is perspective

The next plane is here
I'll sleep terribly tonight
I hate sleeping in airports
But the sweet reward: climbing tomorrow in a Mexican limestone paradise
Then on Saturday a wedding of two people who love one another,
and friends who love one another, and more new friends to meet
The pie in the sky leads somewhere...

My Book is Now a Real Book!

2013-04-12T18:52:00.003-07:00

Last night I got the final proof of my book, Climbing Out of Bed, and it is now available in print! So stoked about this! It's been available as an e-book for awhile, but its much more meaningful to have it available as a real book.

Here's the link for the book in print, and I'll be doing a small book tour in Colorado this late May, starting with Maria's Bookshop in Durango on Tuesday, May 21st and The Firebrand in Gunnison on Thursday, May 23rd. More dates to be announced.

Thanks for the support everyone!

peace,
Luke

A Confrontation with Racism

2013-03-28T07:30:00.002-07:00

In my writing I shy away from controversy, and lean towards the warm fuzzies. I enjoy writing things that make people feel good about what they are reading, regardless if we share the same viewpoints on environmental, social, spiritual or political issues.

Recently something happened that I simply have to write about: a racist comment. It was late night, two in the morning, and I was at the home of some close friends. There were some people I didn’t know as well, but as it goes it Durango, new faces often become new friends. Then the comment happened. It was about black people. I looked across the room to see if anyone was as offended as I was, and sure enough my buddy spoke up and said, “I have black people in my family.”

The guy followed that up with another racist comment. My buzz was instantly killed, and my blood boiled. I was absolutely shocked to think that a person within my circle of friends could be so blatantly racist. I mean after all it is 2013, and we’ve had a black president for over four years.

Later I talked about the event with my friend who spoke up. He offered, “Man I’m from the south and used to racism, but to say something like that here in Durango, that surprised me.”

Thinking about the event more, I suspect the guy was just trying to act tough to impress his friends. I guarantee the guy would have not made the comment if there were black people hanging out with us. And why did the comment upset me so much?

Comedian Dave Chappelle is one of the most hilarious and genius minds of my generation. Before disappearing out of the spotlight he made two and a half seasons of the “Chappelle Show,” where he often made skits that covered racism in a comedic and unique way.

The most brilliant skit was, “The Black White Supremacist,” about a blind black man who was a leader in the white supremacist movement, able to hide his skin color under the guise of a KKK outfit. Blind and surrounded by racist white people, no one ever told him he was black. This skit was so genius because it nailed the absurdity of racism. Why does the color of one’s skin matter? We may be of different hues, but we are all human.

Reflecting on the situation some more I wondered why I was so upset about the racist remarks by a stranger, even if we did share some of the same friends. I started thinking back to my childhood, and ever since then there has always been a black person I’ve looked up to as a hero. As a child it was Michael Jordan. When I grew up into a man, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Learning about Dr. King and the civil rights era made me realize the importance of non-violence and love. I felt connected to that struggle even though I wasn’t even born yet during King’s time. Today I feel many of our country’s most brilliant minds are from hip-hop, an art born in the black community. Hip-hop represents my generation, and is the daily soundtrack to my existence. Black culture has always been part of my life, and will continue to be. I’m actually looking forward to being an old man, rolling up to some youngsters at a stoplight and bumping some 2Pac. God knows what the kids will be listening to then.

Last month, while working on the alumni magazine for my alma mater, Western State Colorado University, I interviewed a gentleman named Melvin Foote, who is the president of the Constituency for Africa, based in Washington D.C. Coincidentally Foote, who is black, is from Rockford, Illinois, the same town where most of my family lives. Before moving to Colorado he grew up poor and didn’t even know a single college graduate prior to attending Western. After college he joined the Peace Corps, went to Ethiopia, and has spent the rest of his life dedicated to helping the people of Africa. He’s rubbed shoulders with many influential leaders, including Nelson Mandela and Colin Powell. I reached out to Melvin earlier this week while working on this piece to discuss racism.

Nelson Mandela and Melvin Foote

Most of what we discussed I expected. Of course we talked about slavery, and how everything is tied back to that. Foote shared with me that racism is less direct now than it was in the 60s when he was in college, and more institutional.

Then he talked about those younger than me. He spoke of his daughter, who is 17 years old, and her group of friends, who are both white and black. “They don’t judge each other by their skin color, but rather the content of one’s character,” he said, quoting Dr. King. “They treat each other like sisters.”

Then he talked about children, even younger than her. “In a few years there are going to be kids that are 7-8 years old that have never known anything other than a black president.”

When he said that it made me think of my own life, and what I’ve known and seen in my very short 34 years. I wasn’t brought up in a racist environment, and that is probably why I am not racist. I was raised in a time where black people were not inferior, but where they were my peers, and even my heroes. I didn’t live through the civil rights movement of the 60s, but rather the aftermath, the path towards equality of all human beings, and that is something to be proud of.

So, I think that’s what pissed me off and shocked me the most, that someone could blatantly make racist comments in front of several people he did not know. In retrospect though, forty or fifty years ago it may have been commonplace for a white man to make such comments about black people. Today it is not. That alone is a small victory.

In closing, I wish I had a few thousand more words to reflect on this issue. There is a very similar struggle for equal rights going on for those who love the same sex. I can only hope my children grow up in time where everyone who loves each other can get married and share their love openly, regardless if they are homosexual or heterosexual. After all, God is love.

And wishing I had more time, more words, I’ll just leave you with a few that I first heard from a rapper, Andre 3000 of Outkast, “No one is free when others are oppressed.”

This piece appears in this week's Durango Telegraph.

Eyes on the Prize, Trying to keep the focus into spring

2013-03-14T10:03:00.003-07:00

The Highway is for gamblers

Better use your sense

Take what you have gathered from coincidence

-Dylan

I am a man of seasons, my behavior is defined by the outside conditions, and I can smell, feel and taste spring in the air. Clothes come off, and an awakening stirs within.

This winter I felt incredibly focused. I went into my own form of hibernation, writing thousands and thousands of words, starting a new book, writing articles, essays, blogs, working on The Climbing Zine, and also working a lot at the restaurant where I am employed. Delightfully I climbed almost all winter, and except for two cold and stormy weeks I got adequate doses of Vitamin D, climbing in the Southwestern Colorado sunshine that I worship. Some pray to the son of God, some pray to the sun.

Though I am seen as an oddball in a region where many people are obsessed with skiing (I haven’t been on a pair of skis in three years) in many ways winter is a treasured time of year. The older I get, the more focused I become, and I’ve realized writing is my life’s work. I am no longer trying to become a writer, I am a writer, I just need to channel my gift and be patient with it.

Now that spring is here I get a little more antsy. The mind drifts towards simple sinning a little quicker. My routine of early to bed, early to rise will be interrupted more and more. When I was a child I was full of angst, and something about warm weather, more sunshine, women wearing less clothes; well, a storm brews up when all these appear.

Last summer I embraced the angst, the openness, every woman that came my way, but this season I hope to be more disciplined. Routine can be boring, dreadful, but routines can create health, which is wealth. Health is the altar I will pray to this spring and summer while embracing the ecstasy of the warmth.

Life is about to be action packed. I’m about to print my first book, Climbing Out of Bed, and go on a couple book tours this spring and fall. I have four weddings to attend in the next five months. The next Climbing Zine is coming out in April. When there are new things to do it sparks my cells and I feel alive. A writer must live an interesting life or else there is nothing to write about.

On that note, I’ll leave you with some words from a draft of a piece I working on for the next Climbing Zine. It’s called Hip-Hop and Climbing, and it covers the terrain where the two intersect. I hope the spring is awakening something beautiful within you.

(an excerpt from Hip-Hop and Climbing)

The fringe is where the magic happens.

Four climbers pack into The Freedom Mobile, a graffiti-ed vehicle, spray painted red, white and blue. The sun is shining so brilliantly, its impossible not to be intoxicated by the Vitamin D it provides, even before climbing.

The commute to the crag is filled with excitement, and hip-hop, the music of our generation. We are in Indian Creek, Utah, the red rock desert, our home away from home, or home to those that choose to not call civilization home. Red rock walls all around are where we spend our days. The energy of hip-hop is where its at. The lyrics are secondary, sometimes, it all depends on the mood, sometimes the lyrics are the most important thing. When we’re driving to the crag its all about the mood, the energy, hip-hop awakes us from the slumber, pumps us up, till people are so damn amped it must be time to climb.

This scenario unfolded for years, over and over again before I thought of the connection. Hip-hop has been a part of nearly climbing experience I’ve ever had. We listen to it on the drive to climbing, the words get stuck in our head, and nowadays with iPhones and iPods, music anywhere, anytime that fits in our pockets, we even listen to the music while climbing. I’ve been driving around a graffiti-ed car to climbing areas for years, and graffiti is the art that was born with hip-hop in New York City in the 1970s. And, the best of the big climbing parties in our crew of friends always end up in dance offs. Hip-hop is the soundtrack for my climbing experience, but does the connection just end there? Do hip-hop and climbing have a deeper connection that what is at the surface? Of course they do, but you’ll have to go to the fringe of your mind to believe...

My homey, Cheo, doing his thing!

Read the full article when The Climbing Zine Volume 5, The Dirtbag Issue drops as an e-zine on April 20th. A print version will follow the electronic version in June.

A Crack at the New Indian Creek Season

2013-03-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

Some thoughts on my first day out climbing in Indian Creek this season:

http://www.climbingzine.com/portfolios/a-crack-at-the-new-creek-season/

The Bridger Jacks, Indian Creek, Utah. Photo by Braden Gunem

Poker Night

2013-02-28T08:21:00.001-08:00

Written for this week's "La Vida Local" column of the Durango Telegraph:

“You don’t have TV, how do you live without TV?” my uncle asked in disbelief. I was back in the Midwest, and as usual, something about my Colorado lifestyle, was surprising my relatives. Typically the topic of conversation is about me sleeping on a rock face, or how if its hard to meet women when I’m living out of a vehicle, but this time it was my lack of access to cable.

Yes, I have all but abandoned the recreational pastimes I grew up with, with one notable exception: poker. I learned to play poker with my uncles in Illinois, and over the holidays every year we’d sneak off into a basement filled with antique beer cans, a pool table and a card table. I almost always lost my five-dollar buy in, but liked the excitement of playing, and when I was old enough, I enjoyed the beer my uncles provided.

Sometime after I moved west in the late 1990s, poker blew up in popularity. In particular, Texas Hold Em, a seven-card variation of poker, took the nation by storm, and suddenly it was the way to play the game. Even in the small corner of the world that I was living in at the time, Gunnison, everyone playing poker had adopted Texas Hold Em, and there was no turning back.

Somewhere in the middle of this I had a friend who had a grand idea, we could fund our climbing trips by gambling. He had a system for several ways of winning money with roulette, blackjack and poker. For a brief minute I believed in his system when I won seventy dollars in thirty minutes playing blackjack in New Mexico, after returning from a climbing trip to Mexico. “See, seventy bucks can last a week in Mexico,” he said.

I shared his passion for this idea briefly, until I lost two hundred dollars at a roulette table using his system. “Just keeping betting on black,” he said. “Eventually you’ll win your money back.”

Well, I did keep betting on black, and the little silver ball kept landing on red until I was out of money. I still never lost faith in his idea until he left me hanging in Las Vegas one time. He was planning on meeting me there to test his systems in Sin City, but couldn’t make it; something about a tooth falling out because of his frequent tobacco chewing habit.

What we didn’t know at the time was there actually was a man who funded his climbing trips by gambling. For over twenty years, John “The Gambler” Rosholt was a climber by day and professional poker player by night. He funded a dirtbag climbing lifestyle from playing poker, and was known for his methodical, scientific approach to both poker and climbing. Rosholt considered poker a science, and a job rather than a game. Not only was he successful with poker, but he was also one of the top climbers of his time.

Sadly in 2005 Rosholt went missing in Las Vegas. The media covered his disappearance, and his sister Jane, tirelessly searched for him. Many theories existed about his whereabouts until 2010 when a climbing party found some human remains on a wall in Red Rocks, a climbing area near Las Vegas. The remains were tested and found to be Rosholt’s. Apparently he was scoping out a new route on the wall, and slipped, falling to his death. There are many interesting stories about him online, and hopefully someday, someone will write a book about the man they called The Gambler.

In Durango, I’ve found a great group of guys to play poker with. Like me, most of them don’t want to lose more than five to ten bucks a night, and laughter is of equal importance to winning hands. My buddy Travis, a smooth southern gentleman, is the ringleader, and last winter somehow convinced six to eight people down in his frigid basement once a week for a friendly game of cards. Good beer was always on hand, and it had a similar vibe to playing with my uncles, but instead of the antique beer can collection on the wall, there was a Wu Tang Clan poster.

I can’t overstate how cold it was in that basement, one night my friend Tim, who doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his body, and suffered frostbite as a teenager, showed up in a puffy coat and pants that one might see in a picture of someone climbing Mt. Everest. Though we made fun of him, he insisted it was the only time he was warm enough down in that dungeon.

This winter Travis is off to exotic travels with his lady, but we’ve still kept a decent crew together. We play every couple of weeks, and have found a warmer location than a seedy, dark basement. We miss Travis and his wit, “I don’t want nobody to get shot or stabbed down here, it’s only poker,” he would often say, but don’t miss the fact that he usually took all of our money.

Through poker night I’ve met some climbing partners, new friends, and grown closer with others. It’s a good time even when I lose my money, which is most nights, but I’ll admit it is much more fun when I’m winning. I don’t have the keen sense that John “The Gambler” Rosholt must have had, although his lifestyle was envious, and I’m glad there was someone out there living that dream.

I don’t have any regret about leaving behind a more sedentary lifestyle back in the Midwest for a more active one out here. After all if I stayed in the Midwest I’d never have any of these stories. But, I’m glad I’ve hung onto at least one pastime, poker night.

Eat, Sleep, Paint. Alexis McLean trusts the artistic process

2013-02-07T20:39:00.001-08:00

Local artist Alexis McLean knows that the grass is green here in Durango, she just has to doubt it sometimes.

“Whenever I think that I need to move somewhere else with a bigger counterculture art scene, I’ll meet several artists right here in Durango,” McLean says. “It’s really a great scene here, one that I’m proud to be a part of.”

Being inspired by other local artists is just one element of McLean’s work, which is now on display at Eno, located at 723 E. Second Ave. An opening will be held today, Thursday, February 7th from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m.

Her show features twenty-eight original pieces, a mix of watercolor and oil paintings, as well as a few prints. About half of the pieces were made just for this show; incredibly productive considering she also has a day job at Z Chiropractic and works as a kids ski coach on the weekends at Durango Mountain Resort.

“I really had to dig deep for this show,” McLean, 30, shares. “Typically I can get into a creative space very easily. This time it was more challenging. I wanted to do a lot of new stuff. At first I was thinking about everything too much. The key ended up being just showing up to my studio, day after day.”

Over the process of paining and writing (she uses words and poems in several of the pieces), she became so inspired she didn’t want to stop. “I ended up pulling an all-nighter, the first time I’ve done something like that since college.”

While she doesn’t have a specific name for the show, one central theme emerged during the process: trust. “Trust is the web that connects everything,” McLean says. “Trust is a part of what we go through as humans. As an artist I needed to trust the paint and to trust my intuition as an artist.”

When asked to describe her style as a painter she first says “subconscious frontiers” and then also adds that others might call it “representative abstract”, but not solely abstract. She constantly uses birds, bees and hearts in her work. “There’s just something deep about a bird flying, that freedom and mystery. I especially like using ravens in my work. They are wise and crafty.”

Faded Wisdom by Alexis McLean

“I have a visceral connection to birds, hearts and bees,” she feels. “I can’t paint them and not feel anything.”

McLean notes that the emotions she feels pour directly into her work, even if she does not realize it until years later. She enjoys the reactions from others with their interpretations often being completely different than what she was feeling when she painted it.

“One of my favorite parts of creating these paintings is to see what they evoke in people,” McLean says. “I create from my own space, my own self indulgent emotional darkness, my own light and beauty, my own heart wrenching memories, my own nothingness. All of that disappears in a show. They are not mine anymore.”

McLean has been creating art as long as she can remember, and always had the necessary tools available while she was growing up. “Both of my parents are creative people, my Mom is a jeweler and a writer, and my Dad is a builder, an abstract thinker who is always doing something creative. There’s a picture of me at an easel when I was five years old.”

Listen by Alexis McLean

At Fort Lewis College she got a degree in Humanities and took courses in painting, ceramics and art history. After college she didn’t paint much, and then one day it hit her, and she just had to paint. “It became a need for me, like drinking water and sleeping. Sometimes more important than sleeping,” she jokes.

In addition to the act of creating art, the need to be surrounded by other artists is of equal importance. “It’s nice to be a part of the growing art scene in Durango. I love watching my friends evolve, and it’s refreshing to see more contemporary work, not just the typical Southwest themes.”

She thinks that the Durango Arts Center has done a great job promoting local artists and is active in the Studio & community. (She is participating in an art show at Studio & on February 22nd.) McLean has a studio on 9th and Main, one where other artists also have spaces nearby, and she enjoys having them close. “I enjoy seeing other artists’ spaces, where they create,” she adds.

McLean is constantly trying to experiment with new art forms, and wishes that there were more places in Durango where graffiti art could be featured. “The cities where it (graffiti) is allowed have an amazing artistic expression.”

She has a project to paint a friends art car in the works, and has been dabbling in writing poetry. Last summer she had a show at the Diane West gallery that featured hand written letters from various friends and family. She appreciates poets and hopes to help organize future spoken word poetry events in Durango. In addition to all this she is a fit athlete, an active skier and climber.

McLean’s future goals involve finding a gallery to represent her and seeking a residency, where she can dedicate more time to her art, in a community with like-minded people doing the same. She also enjoys teaching art, and would like to share what she’s learned with others. More and more she is being commissioned to create pieces for people who like her style and want to give her the freedom to paint something specifically for their homes.

As for this current show, McLean is very proud of her work, and enjoyed the process as much as the paintings she created. She loves being an artist, if only for the sake of it.

“When we approach our desks, stages, easels, journals, we need to talk to our brains into the fact that the end result does not matter. When we think of how something will look or sound, the moment of creation becomes limited. We need to distract the brain so the heart will be free to express the truth.”

Alexis McLean’s studio is located at 101 W. 9th St. More information about her art can be found at www.alexis-mclean.com and www.facebook.com/alexismcleanpaintings.

This article was originally published in the Durango Telegraph, Feb. 7, 2013.

Another Freedom Photo

2013-02-06T07:44:00.001-08:00

Another photo of The Freedom Mobile, taken by my friend Ashley King, at Hartman Rocks, Gunnison, Colorado, summer 2011. This was what The Freedom Mobile was all about, getting to the rocks, to climb. It was a thousand dollar car that lasted seven years, went to Potrero Chico, J-Tree, Yosemite, Red Rocks, Indian Creek, Castle Valley, and the Black Canyon. It was part of my American Dream, to live cheaply, simply, and full of free time, freedom, free climbing. Let freedom ring!

The Freedom Mobile's Last Stand

2013-01-31T09:55:00.000-08:00

This piece was written for this week's Durango Telegraph.

I’ve waited until the last minute to compose these words. Not because I’m slacking off, but because I caught the flu during a trip up in Salt Lake City, Utah for the Winter Outdoor Retailer Show. For the past couple days I’ve been laid up on the couch, unable to write. This morning, as my deadline is staring me right in the face I feel much better, grateful that this nasty bug seems like it’s going to pass.

Even though I do feel better starting to write something feels like I’ve never written before. It feels like this bug has attacked some brain cells, in addition to the other havoc it has wreaked on my body.

So as I was working through this post-sickness writer’s block, I decided to look though last week’s issue of the Telegraph online. Since I was out of town last week, I hadn’t seen the paper yet. The title for Missy Votel’s La Vida Local “Germ Warfare” caught my eye. As I read through her comical take on the flu season I felt grateful that my bug seems like it wasn’t going to stay around for as long as it does for some folks.

Anywho, after that dismal introduction, what I wanted to write about this week was cars, specifically The Freedom Mobile, my graffiti-ed, red, white and blue 1988 Mazda that I recently replaced with my dream ride, a Subaru Outback.

Before it was Freedom, it was just a car I bought for a thousand bucks. I drove that thing all over, from Mexico to California, even before we spray painted it. It was reliable and got great gas mileage. I lived out of it for months at a time, camping, climbing and devising systems to get around that pesky 14 Day Limit rule. One of the most hilarious antidotes happened when my Dad was taking a look at my car, and opened up the flap under the trunk. To our surprise, there was a plant growing out of some dirt that had found its way down there. Further investigation revealed a bag of beans I’d bought in Mexico slipped down there, and so had a patch of dirt. Yes, this car was fertile.

The patriotic, spray-painting was inspired by the 1969 American road movie, Easy Rider, with Jack Nicholson and Peter Fonda, where they travelled the country in a red, white and blue motorcycle, donning the clothes of the same color. I’d already put some 40,000 miles on this car, and figured it would last maybe another year or so, why not graffiti it up?

photo by Braden Gunem

When I painted the car I was living in Gunnison, gainfully employed, and I could have easily afforded a new ride. Instead I decided to spend my money on things that seemed more important at the time: gear for the outdoors. I had two bikes that were both more valuable than the car itself, not unusual for a mountain town resident.

When the economy tanked my job got cut to half-time, and I was ready to move on from Gunnison. I packed up everything I owned into The Freedom Mobile and hit the road. I knew I was moving to Durango, but wanted to take a big road trip first. I’d planned the trip with my buddy Dave from Telluride, and at the last minute his truck blew up. We’d have to take The Freedom Mobile.

We drove into Utah, to Red Rocks in Las Vegas, over to Joshua Tree, California and over to Yosemite. Now well over 200,000 miles the Freedom Mobile just kept rolling. Never mind that every single warning light was lit up, and it made weird clicking noises and smelled like leaking antifreeze. All over the American Road we got positive responses, my favorite, a woman sitting passenger in a truck who passed us in Utah, hooked up to breathing oxygen, she looked at us, and gave us the biggest grin I’d ever seen and two big thumbs up.

At the end of that trip I just prayed it would take us back to Colorado. I scored a house sitting gig in Durango that would start soon, and had to meet the owners of the place. They lived in a plush home in Durango West 2, and upon seeing the car remarked, “it looks like it’s been through a war.”

Every time I thought the Freedom Mobile was going to die, it just kept going. Nothing lasts forever though, and as winter was approaching I considered getting a new ride, something with four-wheel drive to be a little safer in the snow. I started looking around, and really started getting serious when my friend and mechanic, Andrew Kubik took a look under my car and said, “You need to get a new car.”

Andrew helped me find a 2000 Subaru Outback, with a mere 150,000 miles. To me it feels like a new car, and drives like a dream. The first question my parents asked me was, “you’re not going to spray paint it are you?”

I ensured them that I wasn’t going to, much to their relief. I do still love the concept of art cars though, and there’s nothing like someone rolling up next to you at a stoplight and giving a big smile. There are some cool art cars in Durango, more than I’ve seen in any town in Colorado. I even met a lady in Telluride one time who organizes an art car parade in Houston, Texas, apparently the biggest in the world; who would have thunk it?

In the end I quit while I was ahead with Freedom. It could have easily broken down somewhere out in the Utah desert (that became the furthest I would take it after the big trip), but it didn’t. When I got the new Subaru my friend Katie Brown asked me if I was going to miss the Freedom Mobile. I replied, “definitely not.” I’d taken Freedom so far I was just glad it didn’t leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere.

I’m more excited about where the Subaru will take me; it’s a good feeling to have spring around the corner, and to have a new ride. But, for now, I’m headed back to the couch to nurse the rest of this sickness.

Typewriter/Modern Writer

2013-01-05T08:55:00.000-08:00

"The more space I get the better I write," Jay-Z

I often wonder what it would have been like to be a writer in the time before computers. Maybe I was in a past life, but I don’t recall, so I’m left to wonder. Surely a typewriter would have replaced the computer, or before that a fountain pen.

I have to imagine the distractions were less. As a writer in this modern world I simply try to minimize my distractions, I know I’m going to end up checking various web sites over the course of my morning writing. What does that do for the flow of the mindstate? I would never check my email in the middle of a yoga class, that would be wrong. Good writing sessions are like meditation, surely the flow of thought was just different when one wrote without a portal to the endless world of the interweb.

Maybe some day I’ll have the discipline to take on that experiment. Buy a typewriter and write with it every morning. I imagine it would be different. I don’t know how, just different.

I feel blessed to be a writer in the modern age, especially as I’m entering the world of publishing books. I was able to publish my first book as soon as it was done, as an e-book, but still published nonetheless. I can’t imagine having written a book, and not being able to get it out there to the people. Computers and technology make getting your own work out there easier than ever. This is a gift for sure. The power of the word is in the hands of the people!

Recently in an email conversation with a woman I met through The Climbing Zine, she proposed that the meditation gained through the act writing is the greatest gift of the art. This suggestion implies the timeless benefit of being a writer, that we can bask in a similar that writers have been for thousands of years. Further contemplation made me realize that lately my favorite part of the writing craft is sharing my writing in a public setting; interacting with people by reading my work out loud.

While I love the solitary meditation of being a writer, I am not the type of artist who wishes to only write; I crave interaction.

Winter is here, the most solitary season for me. I’m submitting to the flow of winter, but planning for spring and summer. My first book, Climbing Out of Bed, is about to be printed, and I want to do a book tour to celebrate this; get out on the road, go places I’ve never been and read my work; meet new people, and get out of my comfort zone. I’m thinking of first doing presentations in my home state of Colorado, and possibly branching off into Utah and beyond. In the fall I want to visit the Southeast, to sample their climbing and culture, to expand what I know about my country. And maybe when I’ve done all this I’ll get myself a typewriter, just to see what it is like.

peace,

Luke

A Review of The Responsible Company by Yvon Chouinard and Vincent Stanley

2013-01-03T08:26:00.001-08:00

I wrote this review of The Responsible Company, What We've Learned from Patagonia's First 40 Years by Yvon Chouinard and Vincent Stanley for this week's Durango Telegraph.

“Most people under forty don’t watch the ads placed on TV…they fast forward through the boring bits when they watch the show after airtime on a laptop. They get their news from Jon Stewart and then twitter it to their friends. And they have been raised to be concerned about the fate of the planet and want to support companies that are responsible.”

From The Responsible Company

There’s an incredible, simple truth that Patagonia has tapped into: customers will pay more and support a company that makes a good product and aims to do their business in an environmentally friendly way. In Responsible Company the wildly popular clothing company, is delivering a new, honest message that starts with this premise: businesses need to be honest and start using the word responsible instead of sustainable with regards to their environmental practices.

Written by Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard, and longtime VP of their wholesale division, Vincent Stanley, this book chronicles the environmental actions taken by the company over the last 40 years, and sets a platform for other businesses to take similar actions.

Patagonia is a true dirtbag success story. Chouinard was one of the original rock climbing pioneers of Yosemite in the sixties, when dirtbags lived wild and free in Camp 4, and only a few people had ever climbed El Capitan. They were a generation inspired by the beatniks, and created their own counter culture, that has only grown in numbers to this day. He went on to found Chouinard Equipment, and they forged their own pitons for climbing. Later when the company realized the intense scarring that pitons caused they discontinued their use and introduced protection like hexes and nuts that didn’t damage the rock; the type of gamble that would set the tone for Patagonia in the future. Chouinard Equipment would later be sold and became Black Diamond, and Yvon founded Patagonia.

There’s a lot of brutal honesty is this book, and one thing that the authors do well is articulating the absurdity of our consumer economy, and its dependence on endless growth. “Poke your nose into any store in the mall and look around. Much of what we produce to sell to each other…is crap…We’re wasting our brains and our only world on the design, production, and consumption of things we don’t need and that aren’t good for us.”

Chouinard and Stanley argue that the economy as we know it now is going to evolve into a more post-consumerist one, one where people shop more for their needs, and less out of entertainment.

The other way they use honesty is admitting their own mistakes, and how they grew as a company by learning from them. One perfect example is their move to only use organic cotton. Much like Chouinard Equipment’s leap to move beyond pitons, they made the move with little data on how that would affect their sales. They simply realized the conventional cotton was too toxic and polluting, and could not ethically continue to use it. Again, this environmentally friendly move did nothing but enhance their popularity with costumers.

Another impressive effort by Patagonia that is covered in The Responsible Company is their Common Threads initiative to repair or recycle everything they produce. This began in 2011, fully implementing the “reduce, reuse, recycle” mantra, while also adding repair, and finally reimagine (a sustainable world). Encouraging consumers to only purchase what they needed over the holidays, later that year, they famously placed an ad in the New York Times on Black Friday, with a picture of one of their garments and a headline reading, “Don’t Buy This Jacket”.

Checking in at 123 pages The Responsible Company is a quick read, and could be consumed in a couple sittings. It will likely be enjoyed most by those who run businesses themselves, and are looking for ways to reduce their impact on the planet, while also saving money and resources at the same time. To cater to those readers the book has an extensive appendix of checklists that businesses can use to become more environmentally responsible.

All in all this is a solid effort to understand Patagonia’s success, and to see what the world could look like as we move towards post-consumer economy.

For The Love of Seinfeld

2012-12-24T10:30:00.000-08:00

I've always been a huge fan of Jerry Seinfeld, and I am endlessly entertained by watching re-runs of Seinfeld over and over again. This week, I came across a couple new Seinfeld related things, and wanted to share. First, there was a feature article about Jerry in the New York Times. It was really well written, and gives a glimpse into his hard work ethic, and his genius. Second, Jerry has a web series called Comedians in Cars getting Coffee. Some are funnier than others, but the episode with Michael Richards (Kramer) is gold, "gold, Jerry".

Check 'em out: Jerry Seinfeld Intends to Die Standing Up by Jonah Weiner, New York Times.

Comedian in Cars Getting Coffee: It's Bubbly Time, Jerry with Michael Richards.

Coffeeshop Reflections

2012-12-19T22:06:00.001-08:00

This is my latest column for the Durango Telegraph's La Vida Local. While alot of folks have powder on the brain this time of year, the winter is the time when I slow down and get alot of reading and writing done. Anywho, here's Coffeeshop Reflections:

My favorite coffee shop in Durango is my second office, all part of a goal to put in 10,000 hours towards the writing craft. When I left behind the 9-5 world in my pursuit to become a self employed writer, I heavily considered two options: earning a graduate degree in creative writing, or simply writing creatively a lot. With the state of the economy and my unwillingness to go into debt the latter option won.

The coffeeshop portion of my writing day is always preceded by working from home. I am a writer that relies on routine. On an average morning I’ll drink three cups of murderous coffee, check Facebook 12 times, and ideally write 1,000 words. I work best when I’m working on several writing projects at the same time, coupled with a deadline. The words always pour out when they really have to.

These days I’m working on my second book, and the progress has been frustratingly slow. I don’t have a deadline, an agent, or a publisher. All I have is a vision. At the moment I live alone, and fighting with an idea in my mind, all by my lonesome, yielding little results, makes me question this pursuit to rely on my words to eat.

A lesson I learned from an artist friend of mine a long time ago always kicks in at these moments: when your art is not flowing it is time to recreate. So when I’ve reached that point of sheer lunacy because the vision from my mind won’t reach the computer screen, I typically get out my running shoes, and head out for a trail. After that I head into town.

Two years ago when first I moved here I was a stranger walking the streets of downtown. I was reveling in my new life, basking in the freshness of new faces, and just taking it all in. I settled into a routine, and started frequenting the same coffeeshop most afternoons, where I would sink into the ink of reading and writing. Since I didn’t know anyone I would rarely get distracted, and that was one of my most productive periods of writing I’ve ever had.

It was also winter, my favorite time to just simply be. I believe I’ve confessed in this column previously that I don’t drop my knees to the altar of skiing (I am happy to see it snowing out of my writing window at the moment though) so I am not possessed by that pursuit. This is good because I am obsessed with rock climbing for most of the year.

That winter I vividly recall reading Love in the Time of Cholera, an epic novel by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez. That body of work had everything in a novel that I was looking for, and I was entranced by the love story told within its pages. It was the kind of story that made me want to be a writer in the first place, that someday I could hope to produce words that would put a reader in a similar meditational trance. At the same time, and probably at least partially induced by Garcia-Marquez’s words, I had a crush on the barista who seemed overly friendly when I ordered my daily cup of tea. My imagination ran wild as I read the love story, and when I finished the book I finally got up the nerve to ask her out. I got her number and asked for a date, but she never called back. Oh well, finding love is almost like finding a good book; both are elusive, but if you stay positive and keep looking you’ll find it sooner or later.

The changing of seasons always changes my coffeeshop habits. While I do revel in the calmness of winter, spring’s flavors are irresistible. Often, when the weather is warm, I’ll find my attention span shorter, sometimes floating to two or three locations in a single day.

One fine day this past spring, I was shopping for a wedding gift for my brother and his soon bride to be. I ended up at a local bookstore where I bought a journal. The intention was that they could write in it during their upcoming honeymoon in Southeast Asia. After that I headed over to a coffeeshop that I’d never been to, which had an outdoor patio. I sat down, and struck up a conversation with a woman I’d seen around town, but never talked to. It turned out she was a writer herself, and we had this immediate connection, as if perhaps we’d known each other before, maybe in another life. I read her the note I wrote to my brother and his wife in the journal, which began an instant connection of words that we share to this day. She’s now one of my most reliable editors, and helped me shape my first book together for publication. Together we are starting another Durango-related writing project, tentatively called The Durango Dream Zine.

After two years of living here and dwelling in coffeeshops I’m no longer a stranger. Anonymity has been traded for community. In my beloved coffeeshop world I don’t simply bury my head in literature, I have meetings and visit with friends. Still, on a cold wintery day, I’ll pull out my journal, sip a comforting cup of tea, and float off to a dreamy, Durango consciousness, and let some words write themselves. Or, I’ll melt into a good book, and take a journey without ever leaving the coffeeshop. And in these moments there is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

The Birthday Challenge

2012-12-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

Over the last six months I've been planning my Birthday Challenge. Originally I'd hoped to do it early, first in the summer, then when summer passed, the fall. Finally I ended up doing my challenge on my birthday this last weekend. Here's the piece, with links to two previous Birthday Challenge articles I wrote for www.climbingzine.com. Cheers.

http://www.climbingzine.com/portfolios/the-birthday-challenge/

http://www.climbingzine.com/portfolios/just-one-more-b-day-challenge-training/

Badger sending at The Golf Wall.

Birthday Challenge Part 3, The Big Day

My favorite thing about climbing is that if you try hard enough you can always be a champion. It doesn’t matter if you are the best, it matters how it feels.

The Birthday Challenge is a concept passed from climber-to-climber, and I was first introduced to it by my good friend Shaun Matusewicz, at the age of 25. Nine years later I finally completed my first true climbing Birthday Challenge at 34 years young.

I’ve always been psyched on the concept, but my birthday is in December, a month when rock climbing and weather don’t always align.

Last spring, while climbing with a relatively new, but equally psyched climbing partner, Jonathan “Badger” Mitchell, we discovered our birthdays were three days apart. To top this off, we are only a year apart in age. I told him about The Challenge, and he thought it was super cool. Together, we decided we would do one together, except we’d bend the rules a bit and complete it in the summertime; with longer days and more sunshine it would be easier to achieve.

We immediately began training for the challenge, doing extra pitches after we’d normally retire for the day. At the peak of the summer we reached 20 laps at our local sport climbing crag, The Golf Wall, an overhanging wall of limestone. Then like the summer does it faded away and we’d yet to do The Birthday Challenge. Our dream continued into the fall, but both of us hit the road more to climb. When I returned from my climbing trip I was beat up and had a couple nagging injuries. The Challenge would have to wait till next year.

But as our birthdays approached The Challenge still lingered in the back of my mind. My injuries were getting better, and I was feeling as close to one hundred percent as a 34 year old can get. At the last minute Badger confirmed he was in, so we figured out the details, and recruited our closest friends for belays and psyche.

The first day of December this year was a nightmare for skiers, but kind to climbers. The high was going to be 50 degrees, perfect sending temps for The Golf Wall.

We arrived at the wall at the perfect time, one of the three 5.10s was just going into the sun, and its reflection on the slick, steep grey limestone wall was an invitation to begin. Badger and I both agreed our first pitches were a little sloppy as our minds were on how big of a task we had ahead of us. We tried to remind each other to breathe and stay in the moment.

By pitch 7 I was very worried because I was already very pumped. I took my first hang on pitch 9, and thought in my head that I might not be able to do this. There were a lot of folks at the crag that day and I also realized my ego was afraid of falling on routes that I normally have dialed. I was afraid of failure.

I failed again on pitch 17, a 5.11 that is an overhanging series of roofs; a climb I have so dialed I often warm up on it. Luckily it wasn’t a severe blow to my ego. I just kept on, and at 20 pitches I resorted to running toprope laps on a 5.10. I think I did 10 laps on this pitch, some were ugly attempts, I felt like a complete beginner thrutching for holds and totally losing all technique. Then a funny thing would happen, I’d remember to breathe and stay in the moment, and my technique got better on the next lap. The mind is the strongest muscle.

At pitch 30 I had a total bonk and consumed all my remaining food, just laying there, gone to the world. Slowly my blood sugar came back and I tied in for four more laps on the last route for the day. My dear friend Tim Foulkes who belayed me for 15 straight pitches was on the other end of the rope, and there’s something uplifting about having someone you’ve climbed with for a decade belaying you. After my 33rd pitch I got word from around the corner that Badger was done with his challenge, and had even led his last pitch. So, with some friendly competition in the air, I pulled the rope, put some quickdraws on my harness and led my last pitch.

At that moment everything aligned, somehow I had energy again, and I felt better at pitch number 34 than I did at number 17. I think I was getting in my own way about being worried if I could complete The Challenge. My mind was playing tricks on me.

After that last pitch all I wanted was a beer and food. After that it was time to dance and party…

Creeksgiving

2012-11-27T08:28:00.002-08:00

This piece was written just before Thanksgiving, and was published in the Durango Telegraph. A little late, but better late than never right?

I write these words with visions of climbing red rock sandstone, cooking turkeys in carefully dug pits in the dirt, and sipping good beer in the Utah desert swirling in my head. By the time these words go to print I’ll be living the dream, celebrating my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, in Indian Creek, located just on the southern edge of Canyonlands National Park.

David Marcinowksi starting up Biggie Smiles, Broken Tooth wall.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because it is the simplest, sharing food and drink with friends, old and new. Of course we’re out there for the climbing too, Indian Creek is known to have the most perfect cracks for climbing in the entire world, people travel from all over the world to experience what is basically in our backyard.

The proximity to Indian Creek and the red rock desert is a major reason why I live in Durango; I know I could easily find better job opportunities elsewhere, but the truth is I’d rather be broke and happy here than rich and unhappy somewhere else. And a big reason why I’m happy here is because I can climb to my hearts content, in just about any season.

The climbing at Indian Creek is masochistic, pain for pleasure. It involves jamming your limbs into whatever size the crack is: an inch takes your fingers and eight inches it demands your shoulders and legs. To write these words onto paper makes it sound silly, to do it provides an athletic alchemy of endorphins that feels divine; a feeling I can never get enough of, and my desert junkie friends can’t seem to get enough of either.

We are a tribe in the desert that gathers how modern recreationists have been gathering for the last generation or so, though going to the desert now is almost like going back in time. At The Creek our cellphones don’t work, I hope they never do out there, and everything is so surreal it is as if Ed Abbey himself might walk up to the campfire and hit the peace pipe.

Thanksgiving dinner involves three to four turkeys cooked in pits all day (sometimes we’ll even get a tofurkey thrown in there), and twenty some other dishes all meticulously lined up for sharing. We always go around to other campsites and invite strangers, friends we haven’t met, to dinner, and our campfire circle is typically 40 to 50 people, stuffing themselves delightfully under the cool desert sky.

After dinner we have an epic dance party, but first, while digesting everything we’ve just stuffed ourselves with, we go around the campfire and everyone states what they are thankful for. It’s a beautiful thing. I remember vividly was I was thankful for last year: that my friends who had recently been in climbing accidents survived them. There were three that year, they all involved big falls, one with human error and the other two were on terrain with loose rock. Any of these easily could have resulted in death, but fortunately none did.

For many mountain folk this time of year marks the transition from land based recreation to snow based, and thus out in the desert at this time of year there are always folks talking about how excited they are about the upcoming ski season. I always just sit and listen to these conversations, because I don’t ski. If skiing is a religion as it seems to be, then I am a gentile. My backcountry skiing friends are always discussing the delicate science of snow stability, and I find the risk versus reward component of skiing fascinating. While climbing is full of inherent risk, I don’t think it compares to the intensity of assessing avalanches.

Shortly after last year’s Thanksgiving celebration I lost a dear friend who died in an avalanche. Adam Lawton was a hardcore backcountry skier, who had a hunger for living, and an insatiable appetite for powder. He is one of three friends who have died in avalanches, making that the number one cause of death amongst the young people I know who have passed away.

The last time I saw Adam was at Indian Creek at last year’s Thanksgiving. We partied and climbed together for what would be our last time sharing each other’s company in this life.

Though I’d like to think the climbing I do is safer than my friends who ski in the backcountry, my track record of near death experiences proves me wrong. Both happened early in my climbing career, over ten years ago now, but either could have claimed my life. The first was a 40-foot head first fall where I landed a few feet above the ground, and the second I rappelled off the end of my rope hundreds of feet above the ground, but luckily I was wedged inside a chimney and didn’t fall to my death.

My reaction to both of these near death experiences surprised me, I simply got right back to it, I didn’t sit around to reflect if I should be risking my life with climbing, I just continued with the adventure. I don’t know if that reaction was the result of adrenaline and testosterone, or a way to validate that I was doing what I loved.

As I get older I certainly get more conservative. Safer climbing with protection is more appealing than dangerous big walls. I reflect a lot on my younger days, and I realize I made some very stupid mistakes that I barely survived. Tears well up when I think of my friends who weren’t so lucky, those who lost their lives while they followed their passions for experiencing the great outdoors to the fullest.

With these thoughts in mind I know I have plenty to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I’ll party and climb with my tribe in the desert that defines my existence, while honoring the spirits of those that would be there if they were still around. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do for my favorite holiday.

What are you thankful for?

Luke Mehall is the author of Climbing Out of Bed, and publisher of The Climbing Zine.

Simple Things, Winter Winds

2012-11-12T13:15:00.000-08:00

The winter winds blew this way last weekend, and what seemed like an endless summer ended abruptly. Winter is my most productive season when it comes to writing words, and I welcome it knowing I’ll enter a headspace I value very much. This will be my third winter since I committed to the life of a free writer, a decision I don’t regret in any way.

I write these words from my second office, the coffeeshop, though office is certainly the wrong word for a space to create art; rarely do I write much from the coffeeshop, usually I’m doing electronic chores for the day, sending emails and doing other interweb related things.

My town, Durango, is my kind of town, home, a place I don’t ever see moving away from, one that will fill many chapters in the book that is my life. I enjoy the chapters of winter because it is the only season I don’t feel much angst. I can accept the shorter days, set small goals to get done each day, type a few paragraphs for chapters, allow the novel that is life to build slowly. In spring, summer and fall I feel so much pressure to climb, run, party, love…winter is the season that balances it all out, to just take it slow.

And how slow can I take it? How much could I appreciate this sip of tea, this moment in my downtown, the trees that shed their remaining leaves, the mountaintops that finally look right because they are covered in snow.

What is this life as a writer? How does it influence my daily life? The trips I make, the risks I take? When the season of adventure is nearing a close and the season for reflection begins? For others it is the opposite, snow has a different meaning for everyone. For some their love for snow will claim their lives this winter. It always seems to. We’re all going there, one way or another.

They say you can never go back home, I guess you can never just go back in time. Yet with seasons are the constant reminders, and though the climate is changing many reminders are still there. I think we can still find home though, find home in a place we’ve never been, yet the community is waiting to accept us, welcome us.

On this third winter, on my verge of my thirty-fourth year of life I am at home, hoping for a few more days of Indian Summer to spend in the red rock desert, then welcoming winter in, to take it easy, take it easy baby.

Airport Reflections

2012-11-10T08:48:00.000-08:00

This is a piece I wrote a few weeks ago while hanging out in the Las Vegas airport. I didn't post it after it was written, but I figured I'd do so now. Enjoy.

I am at the end of a 12 day trip, sitting in the airport, way early for my flight, with random thoughts of prose popping into my head, scattered notes that are unable to form into something big or coherent, but important thoughts all the same.

This trip was important for me personally because I climbed El Capitan, one of my longtime life goals. It was my third attempt, and physically the hardest thing I have ever done. I did it with a great partner, Dave Ahrens, and we worked as a team to achieve the goal.

Dave Ahrens high on El Cap, baby!

El Cap really isn’t on my mind much this morning, it’s a rock and we climbed it, that’s what climbers do, we climb things. What is on my mind is people. After Yosemite we drove to Las Vegas, because Dave has a guiding certification course he is taking at the Red Rocks climbing area. Its hot as hell here, and yesterday while Dave went into Red Rocks to practice some rescue skills I loitered in Vegas. I started off in Starbucks, moved over to Dunkin Donuts, and eventually was coffee-ed out so I went to get something to eat. I ended up at the nearby Red Rock casino food court, ate some grub, and then walked around the casino.

I can see why gambling is illegal in most places, it brings out the desperation and pathetic nature in a lot of people. The lonesome person clicking the same button over and over while they smoke their cigarette; a slow easy death. The sight of one is enough to make the soul sad, but a hundred of these people, well, that’s really damn sad and pathetic.

Then I think of other people, my people, the dirtbags, the risk takers, the adventurers. We look for thrills mostly in the outdoors, and that energy is absorbed into the essence of who we are. Interact with a vibrant person, and we feel that energy within ourselves. I’m not saying living an existence in the mountains is the only way to access this energy, it’s just how my tribe does it. God, energy, whatever you want to call it can be found in a thousand ways, but it must be found, its not going to come without effort.

I started out with trip with a dream to climb a rock with a friend. The dream came true. I didn’t know if I could do it, but I did. Third times a charm. So is the eleventh or a hundredth. Keep trying. Keep dreaming. Dreams with effort come true.

Slideshow in Durango at The Rock Lounge Tomrrow

2012-11-07T08:22:00.000-08:00

This Thursday, November 8th there will be a free slideshow with local climbing authors Luke Mehall and Ian Allison at 6:30 p.m. at The Rock Lounge.

Luke Mehall is the publisher of The Climbing Zine and author of Climbing Out of Bed, a definitive collection of climbing and mountain town stories. He is also a frequent contributor to the Durango Telegraph. During his slideshow he’ll talk about the stories from the zine and his book, with a focus on his climbing partners that have inspired him over the years.

Ian Allison is the author of Durango Bouldering and has been a part of the Durango climbing community for the past 12 years. During his slideshow he’ll talk about some of the places in the world he’s climbed at, with an emphasis on his recent trip to the climbing meccas of Kalymnos and Meteora in Greece.

The Rock Lounge is located at 1111 Camino Del Rio, and they can be contacted at 970-259-7625. More information about The Climbing Zine and Durango Bouldering can be found at www.climbingzine.com and www.durangobouldering.com.

Zen and the Art of Dish Diving

2012-10-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

A reflection on my career in the restaurant industry, published in today's Durango Telegraph. Enjoy.

More Yosemite Words

2012-10-20T07:42:00.002-07:00

I had the pleasure to sit down and recall some of the best moments from climbing in Yosemite last month. I wrote this piece for Deuter, a company that I am an Ambassador for. This is just a rough draft, but wanted to post these words up. Here it is, Just a Couple Guys from Colorado on El Cap. (see photos from the trip in the post below)

It’s amazing that climbing El Capitan in Yosemite is no big deal for a lot of people: routes that originally took parties days, even months to climb, can be done in just a few hours by elite climbers. For yours truly and my partner Dave Ahrens climbing El Capitan was a big deal, a life goal that would take all the knowledge we had about climbing, and then some.

Before the stone is touched the climb is a dream. Dave and I had talked on the phone for months prior, finalizing details of how to borrow aid gear, who was going to buy offset nuts and cams, and where we could get our hands on a poop tube. We had all the details down, and we both openly expressed our nervousness. Neither of us are aid climbers, and this would be the crowning achievement for our climbing careers. We were ‘just a couple guys from Colorado’ testing our mettle on The Big Stone. Here’s some highlights from the most memorable pitches:

Pitch 1: We decide to hop on El Cap our first morning after arriving to Yosemite thinking that we won’t spend too much time staring at the monolith, and therefore won’t be able to talk ourselves out of it. We arrive at the base of the route at the same time as another party. We converse diplomatically; they are working a free variation to the route, Freerider, and insist we go ahead of them; knowing we will be slower we insist they go ahead. A refreshing start and a good omen that we’ll share belay ledges with these friendly, strong climbers.

Pitch 11: We’ve successfully climbed the first part of the wall, The Freeblast, and everything goes smoothly. Dave takes a decent fall (about 15 feet) on the crux slab pitch, but all is well. We leave our rack of cams, nuts, and slings at Heart Ledges where we will haul all our gear up to the following day. We rappel fix ropes back to the ground, and just like that we are committed to the route.

Hauling is difficult, exhausting and frustrating like it always is. We haul to Heart Ledges efficiently though, and bask in the glory of a comfortable ledge. There is free water left by another party, that we help ourselves to. We lead one pitch from Heart Ledges, and then fall asleep with the cosmos, happy to be on the rock of our dreams, El Cap.

Pitch 13, The Hollow Flake. Of all the pitches on the route I was the most nervous about this one, an off-width that you have to pendulum into, and supposedly had little protection from falls. It was the hardest pitch, most emotional pitch of the route without a doubt. I swung over into the off-width, climbed up with my left shoulder in the crack, and my left hoot in the heel-toe formation. Soon I wondered if it would be better if I was facing the other way so I down climbed and put the right side of my body in. The whole time I was trying to keep my #6 camalot in the crack, the only piece of gear keeping me from a massive fall. Finally I realized left side in was the way to go, and I kept inching upwards, with prayer that I wouldn’t fall. Fifty feet up now the crack was bigger which makes the #6 useless, but by then I had the entire left side of my body in the crack, and both of my feet were heel-toeing. I kept looking up to the anchors, my savior of life. When I reached them I felt a wave of relief and happiness as I looked down to the Hollow Flake, and put it into my bank of scary climbing memories.

Pitch 19: We climb into the darkness to reach our bivouac. Dave aids an off-width crack to an oasis called The Alcove, where the climbers we met at pitch one are staying. Luckily they have a portaledge, and there is room for the two of us to comfortably sleep. Exhausted, we talk with our new friends; they have been successful thus far and have free climbed every pitch. We are happy for them, and they are stoked for us; the true spirit of rock climbing is evident, and we realize we are more than halfway up the climb of our dreams!

Pitch 20: Dave is a great climbing partner because we are so similar in so many ways. We are exhausted in the morning, so we’re lazy and drink coffee; a favorite pastime we share. We have food and water for four days, so we decide to take it easy and not rush the climb. Our lazy morning in the vertical is rewarded with this shot that Tom Evans took from below, with Dave at the El Cap Spire in the perfect light. Tom tells us its one of his favorite shots, and he says he’s going to turn it into a poster.

Pitch 23: Dave leads up a pitch known as The Sewer, labeled as the worst pitch of the route on the topo. In late September though The Sewer is completely dry, and the climbing is enjoyable. We thank the heavens for our luck, and climb up to our bivy for the night, at The Block, an uncomfortable place to be, as it is a sloping ledge not really suited for sleeping, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Pitch 29: The Salathe Headwall is an unforgettable place to be. Our haulbag is feeling light, and we are near the top of the wall. The trees below are tiny specks, and the exposure puts a knot in my stomach. The pitch is relatively straightforward with excellent gear placements. I am climbing on my last energy reserves, and we are relieved the summit is near.

Pitch 31: Exhausted and dehydrated there is still more climbing, it feels like this route will never end. As I embark on this lead Dave makes a remark about our dear friend Adam Lawton, who died in an avalanche earlier in the year, and how he would be proud of us. Soon after he says that I come across a fixed pink tri-cam, which was a piece of gear Adam carried with him everywhere. For me it is a divine sign, and I feel his presence with us near the top of El Cap. Though I am exhausted and have a headache from dehydration I feel sublime.

Pitch 35: Dave leads us to the summit. The sunset is unreal, deep fire red and orange, the sunset of a climber’s dreams. We hoot and holler like we have been unchained from El Capitan, which we have. Somehow Dave digs up two packages of tuna from the haulbag, which taste better than tuna ever has or ever will. I think of the people closest to me, my friends and family, and I couldn’t be happier to be alive and on the top of El Cap with my homey Dave. We have a restless night of sleep on top, and walk down in the morning. When we get back to the car the climb seems surreal, and we bask in the relief of what we have done.

Yosemite and El Capitan photos and prose

2012-10-08T09:38:00.002-07:00

Here’s some photos from my recent trip to Yosemite, California, and our climb of the Salathe Wall on El Capitan. It’s been just over a week since the adventure took place, but the time seems like months ago. Time is funny like that sometimes, but what is time other than something man invented? The past is the past though and a past climb must be used as a foundation to build something bigger; spiritually, physically or mentally.

Climbing El Cap was a life goal of mine, and the satisfaction after it was completed was immense. A big climb always makes me appreciate the simple things in life: a shower, water, food, friends, a lover, a comfortable place to sleep. Removal of the simple pleasures we take for granted makes them more valuable and appreciated.

My mind is still sorting out the thoughts, the pitches, and the lessons. I need to wait to write about them until the right time, yet I can’t wait too long before the memories fade.

For now the photos stand for themselves, moments recorded, forever gone, yet a reminder that a dream can turn to a reality, and then when one dream is achieved it gives birth to the possibilities of new dreams.

An Ode to Tubing

2012-10-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

I'm honored to be a columnist in the Durango Telegraph once a month in the La Vida Local column. Here is my first post, An Ode to Tubing (and the Durango summer).