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A Hastily Assembled Time Lapse

2011-12-21T23:55:00.008-07:00

Thought I would give the time lapse thing a go. Since the sun doesn't rise until 8 am during December in Seattle, it wasn't exactly an alpine start. Pretty easy process to do, but a tricky one to do well. I'll let you know when I do one well.

Meet the Man Behind 35 Years of New Climbing Routes

2011-07-13T19:16:00.003-06:00

Meet the Man Behind 35 Years of New Climbing Routes: "Meet the Man Behind 35 Years of New Climbing Routes | REI Blog: Weblog for an active community of people who love the outdoors"

Select the link above to see my newest blog hosted by REI.COM

A Slideshow by Dan Holz Photography

2011-07-12T07:36:00.001-06:00

I just put the final touches on my newest slideshow. Turn up the volume, kick back and enjoy!

And if you like it, share it!

Welcome to the Teva Games in Vail, CO

2011-06-14T21:11:00.016-06:00

This year I was fortunate enough to have REI send me up to Vail to cover the Teva Mountain Games. And I have to say that between the open bar (thanks GoPro) and the amazing events I had an absolute blast!

To read the full trip report on the games, please go to my blog hosted by REI.

Chelsea Rude climbing for Team USA at the World Cup Bouldering Comp.

Climber running a lap up the wall during the qualifying round.

Ian Dory pulling down for Team USA.

Freestyle kayak competitor taking one more practice run in Gore Creek.

Pandemonium at the raft cross event.

Raft cross competitor jumping in for his boat after it was swallowed by 'The Hole.'

Even the pups can get in on the action at the Eukanuba Dock Dogs Big Air Comp.

Catching some big air at the Teva slopestyle event.

Active Lifestyle & Adventure Sport Portraits Now Available!

2011-02-05T10:26:00.015-07:00

I am happy to present a new and exciting service provided by Dan Holz Photography:

Active Lifestyle & Adventure Sport Portraits

Have you ever been out there shredding the gnar and thought to yourself, 'Damn this must look absolutely rad right now, if only there were a photographer out there that could capture this very moment for me.' Well, fret not little rock monkey - now there is!

Hire photographer: Dan Holz to capture you living your passion.

We photograph all disciplines of Climbing, Yoga, Trail Running, Skiing, Paddling, Cycling or nearly any other activity that allows you to thrive in the outdoors.

Our ‘Starter Package’ begins at $299. Here’s what you get:

• Personal, three hour, on-location shoot with professional photographer: Dan Holz

• Retouched & resized image disk of the day’s shoot - ideal for emailing or showing off on social network sites. (high resolution disk available for an additional charge)

• Two retouched 12x18 prints of your choice

Of course, fully customizable packages are available. Please contact for your personal quote today!

The fine print: Package is valid for a single adventurer - additional fee for additional people. No travel fee within 30-miles of Metro Denver. By appointment only.

New Gallery Exhibit hits Movement Climbing + Fitness in Boulder

2011-02-05T09:46:00.004-07:00

If you happen to find yourself in Boulder, CO don't forget to stop on by the finest climbing gym around: Movement Climbing + Fitness. And while you're there, don't miss Denver photographer: Dan Holz's newest photo exhibit.

From the craggy peaks of the Rocky mountains and thin air of the Himalaya to the bountiful boulder problems of Hampi, this select collection captures the essence of the outdoors.

Movement's Hours of Operation:

Monday through Friday: 6a - 10p
Saturday and Sunday: 8a - 8p

New Photography Exhibit - A Journey Through Asia

2010-12-04T17:42:00.009-07:00

The exhibit is open now and will be on display at Vision Quest Gallery through the end of February 2011. This exciting exhibit is a collection of images gathered from my recent travels through Asia. All of the pieces are available for purchase.

Vision Quest Gallery
860 West 8th Ave
Denver, CO

Gallery Hours:
Wed-Sat 10am-6pm
Appointments gladly accepted

Come and join us for First Friday festivities from 4pm-10pm!

June in Loch Lomond

2010-06-29T17:23:00.006-06:00

The storm was chased out by curtains of flowing, pink velvet. It seems that thunderheads are no match for pastel…who knew?

I’ve been coming out here to Loch Lomond every weekend for nearly a month now. And each time I come here, it’s a new adventure. Last weekend it was photo shoot. This weekend it was fly fishing and a snow climb up to Mt Bancroft. With the multitude of couloirs and ridges to take on and six different lakes to cast your fly - what’s not to love about the place?!

Here’s a little glimpse of what we’ve been up to (the first three images were actually taken near St Mary's Glacier, but that's close enough):

GEAR REVIEW: BlueWater Lightning Pro 9.7mm Double Dry Rope

2010-05-17T08:08:00.015-06:00

Florian 'Flo' Heel on Taleus (5.10a) - Siung Beach, Indonesia

Quite frankly, I never gave too much thought about my ropes before my encounter with Bluewater’s prized line. I just knew that they were all UIAA approved and lasted about a season or two. But with an upcoming climbing trip that was going to span across the continent of Asia, I knew that I would have do some careful research on the subject. I was going to need a rope that would be extremely durable in order to withstand rigorous abuse in nearly every environment while being lightweight and compact enough not to fill my entire pack. My rope would have to endure ice (and occasionally poor ice tool placements), intense salty air, abrasive sand, high humidity, TR’ing over razor-sharp limestone ledges, monkey attacks and scorching desert heat. Does such a rope exist? Why yes it does, and BlueWater calls it the ‘Lightning Pro.’

There was a reason that seven of my coworkers at Seattle REI's climbing shop all owned the same rope: the Lightening Pro just plain rocks. My first experience with BlueWater’s masterpiece was at Washington’s beloved crag: ‘Exit 32.’ My friend Paul Lebel had just prodealed his new project rope and was itching to pin it to a route. Of course, I was more than happy to oblige him in the endeavor. Right out of the package I found that it already had that supple, broken-in feel that typically takes at least several weeks of use to obtain. Upon first flaking, there were no bothersome coils that one normally encounters with a new cord. And the ‘knotability’ (flexibility) was superb. Every climber knows that a rope with poor knotability is a rope that will make you swear like a truck driver every time you untie a weighted knot or attempt to cram it through a tight belay device.

Lisa Eaton rappelling off the Fire Wall in Tonsai, Thailand

Other qualities that turned me on to this piece of gear:

-The incredibly visible bi-pattern weave in the rope’s sheath ensures that you will always find your center mark. There is no ink or tape that will inevitably wear off with regular use.

-It is a double dry rope. Meaning the dry treatment is applied to each individual fiber in the sheath and core. Not only does this keep the rope clean and dry, it drastically increases abrasion resistance – extending the life of the rope significantly.

-It’s American made. Given our current economy, probably a good time to buy local.

-More specific stats can be found here: www.bluewaterropes.com

These ropes even taste good! Alphin Alfiandi on Echo Wall (5.9) - Harau Valley, Indonesia

So without thinking twice, I ordered myself a 60 meter the very next day - thus bringing the number of screaming yellow rope owners in Seattle REI's Climbing Department to eight. After a light cragging season in the Pacific Northwest and an occasional ice route in the Adirondacks, I packed the rope and headed off on our Asian excursion.

Fast forward one pretty rugged year, I am still the owner of a very amazing rope. No visible core shots or dead spots to mention despite the dynamic whippers it endured. It’s still maintaining it’s incredible knotability and the dry treatment is still going strong. Though it looks and feels great, due to it’s rich and full life, it may be closing in on a retirement date. But I have to say that this 9.7 is a true workhorse. Most of the ‘burly’ 10.2’s that I owned in the past would not even have made it out of India, never mind seven countries. Needless to say my next rope will be another Lightning Pro.

Peter Watn lowering off Lion King (6c+) - Tonsai, Thailand

A Journey Through Asia

2009-11-06T12:35:00.011-07:00

Below is a collection of images from our seven month journey through Asia. This slide show is a showcase of images captured in
India, Nepal, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand and is set to the music of Brasileiro, Gomez, Jack Johnson and Michael Franti. Turn up the volume and enjoy!

Climbing in Siung Beach, Indonesia

2009-08-29T01:02:00.001-06:00

Hey guys. Just thought I would share some images from our recent trip to Siung Beach, Indonesia. We had a fantastic time throughout Java, but Siung was the highlight for sure. Amazing people, wonderful food, and fantastic beach side limestone. The bolts had seen better days, so if you plan on paying the area a visit, bring a drill and some hardware!

Want to find out more about rock climbing in Siung Beach, Indonesia? Read my full blog entry on Climbing Mag's website!

Lisa on a low tide boulder problem.

Flo taking the sharp end on this very nice 5.10.

There were some great routes in this canyon. It was a great place to escape from the midday sun.

Flo on Kuta Laut - an amazing 5.11a.

To clip or not to clip? Unfortunately, many of the non-stainless bolts in the area met the same fate as this one.

Lisa gets friendly with the locals.

The Burning Ghats of Varanasi

2009-06-23T23:13:00.000-06:00

First a glow, then the ash falls. To my surprise, the product of these fuming pyres stings my eyes. Drifting past this medieval scene in our leaky wooden vessel, I feel as if I transcended back through time at least a few centuries. I swear I hear voices whisper through the black night, the final dreams of passing spirits or perhaps last requests. In this feeble light it seems the shores themselves were hewn of rib and joint. Each ghat is crowned with roaring flames. Corpses wrapped in gold linen are carried down the stone steps for their Gangal dip then brought to the burn – back to the earth. The clang of bells dances upon the river; carrying with it weeping and sorrow. Costumed disciples twirl candles upon a stone tower with silent rhythm for those they know not. Another is lit. A dark, human profile turns to ash as the sandalwood smolders to infinity. If Hades were on earth, this river would truly be the fabled Styx.

Our boatman slowly paddles on. The air is so thick with spirits we nearly choke. I turn my head back to the night just to clean the slate before taking one last look at this haunting scene. The feeling is more than I expected of these public cremations. Blank. Solemn. Smoke. I feel quite voyeuristic, almost guilty for witnessing this scene. But the spectacle is so encompassing and the feelings so physically powerful – you are not merely watching, you are truly part of it all.

India Journal

2009-05-11T23:36:00.001-06:00

4/18/09
One more day in Delhi. It seems that Uncle Sal (my Dad’s pet name for salmonella) decided to leave me a birthday present in my spinach cannelloni. It was a gift delivered on my birthday, but not opened until the following morning. At least I can say that I have now vomited in a public urinal in Delhi. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. Let’s not relive the details though, ok? We hurried back to the hotel, bogged down by the triple digit heat every step of the way.

We actually sprung for a really posh place for my birthday. So if I’m going to be sick, this is the room to let loose in. But at thirty bucks a night, we can’t afford to stay long. One more day, one more bout with food poisoning.
In India, it seems every dining experience is a spin of the roulette wheel. Every spoonful lands on either red or black. We have been fed rotten food five times collectively now over the period of six weeks. Week after week, the odds have been in our favor. But, sooner or later the house always wins.

4/20/09
Two days have passed since my little ordeal. Now that we’re finally here in the mountain town of Vashisht, Lisa found that she should have placed her bet on black instead of red. Her last meal in Delhi, caught up with her here in the foothills of the Himalaya. Food poisoning is annoyingly persistent that way. But at least the symptoms were well mannered enough to wait until we checked into our new room. Poor thing, she’ll feel better in the morning.

I sit with my Tom Robbins book, nearly asleep in ‘frog pajamas’ myself. Then a billowy storm system rolls into the valley. For a mere 200 rupees per night - approx four U.S. dollars - our room boasts a wall of windows that allow sweeping views of the Himalayan range, prefaced with a river carved gorge below. With this view, I can spy every craggy ridge and every slot coulier. And this gift of rain dances upon the landscape; it may be the most refreshing act of nature I have seen in India so far.

I wake from my lethargic fog, and dust the 14 hour bus ride to the floor. A greater sense of awareness falls gently upon my shoulders and I realize that I feel as if I’m home. The mountains always steer me towards that direction. And with the trials we have been pitted up against in this country, I have to say that it’s about damn time! A quote by Ruskin Bond pops into my mind: “Once you have lived with mountains for any length of time, you belong to them and must return again and again.” Right on, so very, very right on.
I haven’t been inspired to write a poem for quite a while, but suddenly here I am pressing the pen to the paper for the first time in well over a year.

Vashisht Drops

And to my chagrin, it happens again
New place, new face(s)
Only this time, rain the wet blanket
It’s familiar touch, soothes souls and such
The Vashisht drops, she never stops
Only a rainbow can save us now

If that rainbow comes out tomorrow, we hope to head to the hills and get some climbing in!

And That's How I Got Rabies

2009-04-17T03:55:00.001-06:00

After being in the small Indian town of Hampi for nearly three weeks, Lisa and I had peeled through and exhausted all forms of literature in our possession. Apparently, it was time to hit the bookstore. We remembered seeing one not too far from our hotel, so we set out to grab some piles of pages to pacify us on our upcoming (twenty-six hour) train ride to Delhi. Our mission began with a left turn onto a chossy Hyderabadi sidewalk. We dove into the churning sea of what we have come to accept as a typical Indian street scene – wave after wave of sweaty humans threatening to topple us over – the undertow of shouting rickshaw drivers, careening motorbikes, and blasting horns grab at our bodies and drown our senses. The only way to survive is to surrender to the flow.

Not two minutes had passed when I felt a sharp and piercing pain in my left leg, followed by about twenty pounds of dead weight trying to stretch my skin. It was as if I walked into a piercing shop and asked for a heavy gauged needle to be threaded through my kneecap and accessorized with a bowling ball. I sharply blurted out a “What the hell!” then looked down and discovered the bag of mange that was clamped onto my leg.

I immediately began to shake my leg violently, but the scrappy monster had a solid grip and hung on for the ride. Locked away somewhere in the instinctual part of my brain, I had a plan for just such an occasion and I was able to access and process this plan in the span of about two seconds. Honestly, I had no idea my brain operated that fast anymore. Locking out my left leg and swiftly spinning clockwise on the ball of my right foot (speed aided by the greasy pavement no doubt), I flung the little bastard from his crushing grip. Landing on all fours, he stood about four feet before me. This was the first time I actually got a good look at him. Patches of bare black skin shown through the brown muted fur of what just might have been one of the ugliest stray dogs in all of India. He was a little guy – about nine months old, but as mindlessly ferocious as an undersexed, juiced-up frat boy. His foamy jowls were pulled tight, bearing his toothy weapons as he stared up at me. He has already tasted my blood, and I can see he is about to come back for more. Waiting for him to turn broadside, I chambered my kick, then let my sandled foot fly into his boney ribcage. He was airborne for about five feet before skidding down on the sidewalk’s opposite side. Defeated, he let out a whimper and disappeared back into the sea of Indian legs.

Marveling at the fact that I had never actually punted a dog before, I felt a small sense of Cro-Magnon pride for defending my mate and scaring off the wild beast. I hadn’t noticed the circle of people that stood watching the flying dog act. I wondered if they had seen the dog attack, or if they had just seen some white guy kick a poor defenseless animal into the street. I pray for the former, because I am greatly outnumbered here. Instantly, they lose interest. No concern is shown for the dog – or me for that matter.

Lisa inspected the leg of my now shredded (and only) pair of pants to check out the damage. They were covered in some sort of black frothy goo. “My God, what the hell has this little bastard been eating?” I asked, praying not to hear a reply. Rolling up the pant leg, we took a look at the rest of the collateral damage. I was bleeding, but not much. Just four small punctures encircled with red, soon to be bruises, showed around my left kneecap. “God damn hell hound – I should go finish him before he bites some kid’s face off. Where the hell did he come from anyway?” Lisa explained that he was just trotting along, happily walking towards us when he turned and pounced on me. “Must not like whiteys., the damned racist mutt,” I shakingly joked. “Off to the pharmacist for you,” laughed Lisa. Lucky for us, we knew the drill. Our friend Alonzo was bitten by a stray dog in Hampi and had to undergo the same rabies vaccination process that I would now have to endure – five shots over the period of a month. It’s not so much painful as it is a hassle. We all had a great time laughing at poor Alonzo’s expense. Unfortunately, rabies jokes are so much fun, but Karma is such a bitch.

Now, I’ve been an animal lover ever since I was a kid. I remember one time when I was about seven years old, my folks brought me to the Jersey Shore. There were these children about twice my size who were using sticks to stab and chop the jellyfish that washed up on the beach. So, I ran up to the group of savages, placing myself between the pointed sticks and directionally challenged invertebrates and demanded that they stop this madness at once. I was promptly pushed into the water and stung by several jellyfish. It seems that animals just don’t care.

My leg - post chomp.

Me, taking shot number 1.

Kudle, not so cuddly...

2009-03-27T05:10:00.001-06:00

Kudle Beach, India

After an eight hour pucker-fest of a bus ride and just over 10 hours of train travel, we found ourselves on sandy swampland with angry shores. We arrived expecting to find the typical lot of greased up tourists wearing cheap sunglasses and expensive suntans. But somehow we drifted right through that mess and found ourselves in quite another. All it takes is a quick glance up the shoreline to gain a full understanding of this place. It’s as if a freighter en route to Eugene, Oregon wrecked In the Arabian Sea and the survivors managed to save only the most valuable of their possessions: patchouli oil and hacky sacks. I’ve experienced the scene countless times during Phish tour and Festival season, but this was different. Something was amiss in these people’s Kool-Aid.

Our enormous packs, swollen with climbing and photo gear draw guffaws and disapproving nods from these seemingly half-starved creatures who apparently have only been living on yoga practice and bean curd. We continue down the beach for more of the same. I was sure of our immediate doom. A Frisbee goes sailing to my feet. I lean over to grasp it hoping to return it to a friendly face. Then my weight combined with the 40 + lbs transfer to my sprained ankle and I nearly topple into the surf. I recover and toss the little red ‘bee back to the owner, without even thanks in return.

I remember receiving a welcoming of this sort at a Wal-Mart set in some backwoods Adirondack town this past winter. Carhart and flanneless, I entered the building only out of necessity – we were out of beer. I remember strolling past the gun department after selecting a twelver of microbrew, and walking down the aisle just fast enough not to appear nervous. A few of the local boys, donning their mossy-oak camo, were standing at the glass counter. Talk about a recent 4-inch lift that one had done to their Chevy pick-up was keeping the pack pleasantly entertained. Out of habit of forever being a casual observer, I glanced over and accidentally made the mistake of making eye contact with one of the brutes. This “eyeballin’” was not taken well by the big fella who felt that it was his duty to puff up his chest and screw his face to the appearance of someone that wanted to carve his initials into my forehead. I decided it was best not to look up again until I made it to the checkout line. While smiling at the customer before me, the kindly old cashier began to greet me with pleasant “Hi there.” And when laying eyes upon my out of towner appearance, she finished with “Oh, hand me your I.D.” Word to the wise, leave the puffy Mountain Hardware jacket in the car when venturing into this sort of backcountry.

The crispy noon sun turns our naked heads crisp and the searing sand is doing the same on our bubbly toes, but we continue to hump our packs down to the very end of the beach. Surely we will be handsomely rewarded for having to endure such a gauntlet. We continue on, thinking of the Shangri-La that awaits us at the end. Turning our heads to the right, we notice that we are walking parallel to some sort of liquid nastiness. Earlier, we observed a small channel opposite the surf when we first stepped foot on the beach. We dismissed it as a stream. But here, it opened into a large festering pool of sewerage and jungle rot. We stop and watch as people wade through the dank sludge on their way to restaurants. We make an oath to avoid the mystery liquid no matter how good we hear the food is on the other side.

Reaching the end, we trudge up the concrete steps where we are informed by the smiling Thai ex-pat that all the rooms are full, but we should try next store. Ducking under a paisley tapestry, we make our inquiry at the Ganja Café (eyeroll). It was a cursed little shack that resembled more of a tomb than a shelter. Four concrete walls, a sporadically operational fan, and a soggier than usual cotton mattress. Looking at Lisa, I feel she is about to cry. I don’t blame her. But after I tell her that the mosquito netting will keep the nasties at bay and the waves will sing us to sleep, all is well and we head to the surf.

Due to the raw sewerage that streamed from the faucets in Ooty, it’s been four very humid days since we last bathed. Our plan is to first swim, then shower. Stripping down to our bathing suits, pasty skin blinding all those around, we run into the sea where we are instantly taken out at the knees. “Jesus, this place will kill us yet!” I yell. We stand up and give it another go. The sea grabs us, and sucks us into the party. Pummeled by breakers and pulled at by the rip tide we give up the fight and head back to shower.

After a few minutes of searching around the hybrid tree house/fortified compound for the bathroom, we decide to ask a guest for directions. He was a tall, stringy, dreadlocked German with crazed grey eyes. There seemed to be a little too much pupil showing for this time of the day. I would have just kept walking but it was already too late, Lisa had already intiated the conversation. At first he looked at us like we spat on his mother. Then his thin lips pursed to a smile when Lisa repeated the question “Where can we shower?” “Oh no showaz?! Therz no showaz since zee storm came through yesterday.” Well that explains the beachfront sewer, I think to myself. Then thwarting a plastic water bottle in our faces he shouts, “You must take cat shower! Like zees!!” He splashes the water over himself, hooks his veiny wrists like paws and uses them to spastically wipe down his torso. “See, like cat!! You try!!” From the corner of my mouth I lean to Lisa and ask, “Holy shit, do you think Shultz needs to chill on the acid a bit?” Without words we agree that we have to leave this scene at once, so we slowly back away while the tall German finishes his feline grooming.

We decide to try our luck at some lunch. I’m hoping for a piece of Tuna and a cold beer. Instead, I get a doughy pizza and a mineral water. Should have known, “there ain’t no liquor in this town.” These people are ritualistic tokers, not casual drinkers. We decide to leave immediately the following morning.

We arise early the next morning, visit the squat toilets, pack up our gear and grab some breakfast. We take the walk up the beach, back to our point of origin. Happy to put this beach in our rearview, smile brim our faces. From beach, there is a short jungle approach to the drop off point atop a bluff. We ask the rickshaw drivers how much to the train station. Unsurprisingly, transportation inflation has set in over night. It has a funny way of doing this when you are stranded 20km from nowhere in blinding heat. Lisa’s usually quiet demeanor instantly takes a back seat as she berates the drivers for doubling what we paid to arrive - cursing them all as thieves. One driver calmly replies, “Madame, your taxi takes cheaper gas than our two-stroke auto rickshaws.” And another “Madame, followed by more mouthfuls of lies.” These people are so polite, even when they are screwing you.

We decide to find some shade beneath swaying palm until a cheaper driver comes along. But with every vehicle that rolls up, the drivers inform the newcomer not to go charge anything other than 300 ruppees for a ride. “Goddamned pimps!” I shout. “They’re all in it together!!” I want to slap one just to teach the others a lesson. But I figure the rest of them would be on us like jackals. I could probably only take a few out before being dragged into the jungle, kicking and screaming as they politely say “OK sir, we kill you now. OK mister?”

We decide to take an offer of 240 rupe’s, only because of our desire to put this place behind this. We climb into the 3-wheeler, and we’re off – cursing the tout at every mile that passes.
Next stop Panjeep - Wish us luck.

Eight Things

2009-03-10T07:21:00.000-06:00

Morning. Ooty,India . 2240 meters above sea level. A spider web of shadows cling to a folded window curtain. A Spattering of flattened mosquito corpses adorn the cool adobe wall. There’s an off center photo hung a bit too high for anyone to easily view without a step ladder. Standing on the balls of my feet, I see the man in the image is meditating upon a granite slab amongst a sea of coffee fields. Not a bad place to be. Accented English slips beneath the hallway door – breakfast time. Talk of tea and destinations, past and future. I slump back in bed for a few moments more – I saw my first wild elephant yesterday and it was more than I could have asked for.

There are 8 good, bad and ugly things that I have learned since I touching down on the tarmac just one week ago:

1 – Similar to the European way of nodding one’s head up and down to signify the answer ‘yes’ or side to side for ‘no,’ in India the wobble of one’s head while conversing can mean one of three things: yes, no, maybe. I still don’t really get it, so maybe I really didn’t learn anything here.

2 – Never, ever smile at a monkey. In monkey speak this means ‘bring it on!’ That for me is going to be a tough one for sure. I mean, how do you not smile at a monkey?!

3 – No matter where one finds themselves in the world, the crows will be waiting. Ghastly creatures, these oil slicked nuisances’ favorite game is to shrilly caw their Nevermore prose just outside my morning window. And it seems that they are larger here than their stateside cousins. Their call carries with such strong contrast compared to lilting twitters of the morning keets. They sound like an overweight Armenian man with a mouthful of sandwich who just stubbed his big toe on the way back to therefrigerator. I am convinced that these feathered demons have been sent from the blackest realm of Hell just to poke at the resting soles of all mankind. Crows are truly the douche bags of the bird world.

4 – Natural Oils are an absolute miracle. For example: water lily extract is a natural mosquito repellent. Goodbye Deet! And sandalwood is a fantastic cure for aching muscles, treating mosquito bites (if you forgot to use the water lily), healing the inevitable cuts & scrapes, and apparently damaged tendons. It was recommended to me our ‘oil salesman’ that I apply this sandalwood to my sprained ankle to accelerate the healing. I applied the miracle oil to the sprain and within minutes I had full mobility. My foot has never smelled better!

5 – Common barnyard animals will eat just about anything. Just yesterday morning we watched with disgusted intrigue as a chicken pecked at a dead rat. And every day we are truly amazed as bovine graze happily on piles of street trash.

6 – There are a lot of goddamned people here. I’m pretty sure that every square inch of this country is currently occupied.

7 – I’m convinced that all cars, trucks and busses cannot operate without a working horn. If it’s on the road, it needs a horn. Preferably, the blaring kind. Horns like the wobble of the head can signify many things. Such as: I’m passing you, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m going around a blind corner at an alarming rate, get the hell out of my way! Or, what there’s a cow in the road, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m running this traffic light, get the hell out of my way! Or, Hi friend how have you been, get the hell out of my way! I approached two men that were repairing an auto rickshaw in the street that apparently wouldn’t start, I asked them if the horn was broken. They didn’t find it nearly as amusing as I did.

8 – India has the best coffee in the world. Yes that’s right Seattle, I’ll say it again – India has the best freaking coffee in the world. I don’t know how they do it without fancy cappa-frappa-soy mocha-steamer machines or by selling thirty-five different varieties of travel mugs or those special Starbucks artist cd samplers – but somehow they manage. Maybe it’s because they focus on the experience of sharing the beverage as opposed to swilling it down by the pint like recluse junkies. And I suppose the fact that it’s grown, roasted and ground about a kilometer away has a bit to do with it too.

Well, my internet cafe bill is racking up, time to cut this thing loose. I leave you with some photos of the day...enjoy!

I call it, "Freerange Chicken pecks at rat before a dung wall." Catchy? Yeah, probably.

Rickshaw Down!

A craftsman hammers out chain links in Mysore.

Roadside tattoo anyone?

Mysore - Day 1

2009-03-07T03:12:00.000-07:00

Fireside in my parent’s backyard – Gripping a foamy, red, Solo cup I hear the joyful laughs lap their way from the pool. The happiness just seems to have a way of echoing through the fields at my parent’s place. John is strumming out some Bowie, confirming that it is indeed Saturday night. Then the wind shifts, wafting the smoke to my stinging eyes. I roll over and awaken to an attack burning plastic wafting from the alley below as castanets ping from the hallway. A new dream begins: India.

After over 35 hours of travel via car, jet, prop plane and now bus, I’ve been awake for well over 40 some odd hours, maybe 50. It’s tough to sleep on a plane when the passenger behind you confuses a touch screen monitor with one of the punch-screen variety. Not to mention my ankle sprain developed into quite a purple, throbbing cankle while en route. Tired, groggy and limping we at once decided it best to keep our momentum and leave Bangalore immediately to continue south to a town of less severity. Three highway hours of cow dodging swerves eventually brought us here to Mysore.

Doing our best to dismiss the jetlag after an eventual pass out session, we dropped 20 rupees on an auto rickshaw and buzzed right to the zoo. It was here that we accepted our fate that we were more of an exhibit than the animals themselves. Traveling with a blond-haired, blue eyed girlfriend certainly draws some attention on the streets. But here in a place of education and wonder, these qualities instantly give you celebrity status. For hours we smiled as people shifted their gaze from the suddenly uninteresting animals to Lisa’s “opposite” complexion. Posing for group photos and responding to the inquisitive, this was a zoo experience like no other.

Heading over to the reptile exhibit, we were greeted by a smiling man in his 20’s by the name of Hariesh. A zookeeper, he had learned the trade from his late father who had taught him the zoo keeping trade since he was a young boy. In broken English and an open heart, he explains the details of his job while taking us on a tour of his vast region of responsibility: the entire retile and hippo collection. The cleaning, feeding and daily maintenance that these animals require is unsurprisingly constant. Not to mention it’s very dangerous. (not long ago, Hariesh’s father was attacked by a bull elephant, injuring him severely) But Hariesh has no qualms about jumping right in the cage and slapping a hippo on the rear with a stick to stop her from destroying a gate. And we watched in awe as he lifted a hefty 5-foot crocodile by the tail to give us closer look. He truly loves his job and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Group photos with strangers, personal zoo tours, new friends, perfect sunny weather – we were thinking that this day couldn’t get any better. Then there were the bonnet monkeys. A local troop, these free range little buddies were not caged and were truly in full effect. Anybody who knows me, knows of my fondness for these guys. We were so enthralled by the troop’s antics as one turned on a faucet to take a sip of water, then respectively turned it back off when he was finished. Others tangled and bounced their way through the trees above. And still more wrestled in the walkway. We were surrounded by the troop, who paid us no heed whatsoever. For me, this is paradise found.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the added bonus of the sweet signage displayed throughout the grounds. Here are a few of our personal faves:

Let There Be Ice!

2009-02-06T09:32:00.001-07:00

Swing, Thunk - Swing, Thunk, Thunk - Clink...Clink. My arms scream and begin to quiver like frightened chihuahuas. My calves turn into tight spirals of pain. My brain begins to lecture me: you're not twenty any more, you can no longer muscle your way up. So much technique has been forgotten while living in the Pacific Northwest. I shake my head as a smile warms my face. Marveling at what was once so elusive on the west coast and is so absolutely bountiful here in the Adirondacks , I swing my picks and let my arms scream with glee! But despite the good time I'm having, if I don't start getting back to the basics I'm not even going to make it through this single pitch, never mind an entire day of WI4+.

Back to Basics - Don't expect to throw the figure 4's like Ines Papert right off the bat. Just like climbing rock, ice climbing is a sport that requires patience, skill and time to develop proper technique. Here are a few pointers if it's your first time out (or if you're just a little rusty like me):

Rules of the Swinger:

Start off with a good book. Will Gad's book is a great one. This book is truly an invaluable resource for any ice climber to keep - novice or expert.

Don't swing unless you need to. Keep an eye out for pick placements, these sweet spots are a gift to be used for energy conservation.

Keep 'em close - When you do swing, be careful not to overextend your arm. Think of it as hammering a nail into a 2x4. Wouldn't it be much more comfortable if that nail were closer to head-level? Not to mention that keeping those arms closer your heart makes for much warmer paws.

The best way to stick it is if you flick it - Remember: it's all in the wrist (isn't it always?)

Heads down - When it's time to remove that pick from it's icy grip, for God's sake don't look at it! Adze and eye don't make the best of bedfellows.

Spread 'em - Swinging from a stable & balanced position equals less falls. Create a triangle by spreading your feet fairly wide, allowing them to be the triangle's base. Allow your non-swinging arm to be the point - just above your center of gravity. After you get a good feel for ice, you can move on to more advanced techniques.

Drop those heels - Unless, of course, you are an absolute glutton for punishment. It is oh so very tempting to want to keep those front points sharply angled and buried into the ice. Remember, by trusting your front points and keeping your heels down, you'll create a stable base that will save your calves from a lot of unnecessary torture.

Stay warm. Remember, you're not going to be climbing all the time. For half the time, you'll most likely be belaying your climbing partner. During this down time, bundle up and have some rockin' gloves or else you can fall victim to the screaming barfies. Believe it or not freezer gloves work wonderfully.I poked fun a my climbing partner on our entire ascent of Liberty Ridge because he looked like he was dressed to clean dishes while wearing these things. But when the climb was over, I was the one with frostbite.

Keep your cool. When your thoughts become a bit too heady and you start wigging out because your feeling ridiculously exposed, your hands are cold, your anchors are making a funny creaking sound and the mountain goats are giving you the stinkeye, just remember that you're carrying your holds: your frontpoints and the shafts of your tools. As long as you still have them, you're still in the game!

Technique - it's what we develop to conserve energy and climb longer. It's byproduct is a beautiful display of grace and fluidity. Develop this and you are well on your way to a bright and shining ice climbing future.

Escape!

2009-01-21T08:37:00.000-07:00

After five years of outfitting others for the trips of their lives, it is finally my turn. No more living vicariously through others as they escape to the dark jungles of Burma. No more envy of the travelers flying south to climb limestone Patagonian giants. And best of all - no more work!

Yes, the time has come - Lisa & I are going to Asia! Our year-long, overland journey will begin in Bangalore, where we will immediately head to the hills in search of some elusive sport climbing. Then we'll spring on up India's sandy, left coast before tucking northeast for a visit to tea country - Darjeeling. From there, we polish up our yak saddles gain elevation...lot's of it. We'll trek, bus and hitchhike our way over to Kathmandu, racing against a weather window. Once the June Monsoons head into the high country - every road, trail and walkway becomes a leach infested, muddy slip & slide.

From Kathmandu, we head east. In a perfect world, we would pass from Nepal to Tibet and on into China before heading south to Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam & Thailand. However, China doesn't readily hand out visas to those who travel from occupied Tibet. (In fact, if you're not part of an organized tour, you're not crossing the Tibetan border either). Though this is not really a surprise; China is the great walled country after all. Politics, it'll kill romance quicker than a baby seal on bat day.

So, our backup plan is perhaps the lesser of two evils. Head back south and through the foreboding country of Myanmar, essentially taking a short cut to Thailand. The more I read about Burma, the more intrigued I become. Sure it's got an uber paranoid and oppressive government. But the country is virtually untouched by tourism and blessed with some of the most unique landscapes in the world. Boasting glaciated peaks of 19,296 feet, buffered by over 1200 miles of sandy coastline and filled with countless acres of lush rain forest Burma offers something for every traveler who wishes to find himself a bit more off the grid. Sounds good to me!!

A Journey Through Thailand @ The Leary Traveler

2008-11-30T14:52:00.000-07:00

Current Photo Exhibition: A Journey Through Thailand is showing now through January 2009 at the Leary Traveler (4536 Leary Way, Seattle)

Dan Holz Photography presents: A Journey Through Thailand

2008-08-15T00:56:00.000-06:00

Hey guys! I've got another show coming up on Thursday - August 28th at 8pm. This one will be held at the Great Nabob in Queen Anne (819 5th Ave). Come down and see images from my recent trip through Thailand. Hope to see you there!

Come on down to my opening!

2008-04-29T00:46:00.000-06:00

For Love of Food

2008-04-19T09:19:00.000-06:00

To truly experience, wholefully enjoy and just flat out live Life, one must just get out there and taste. What have we become here people? Our "food" is processed, warmed and delivered by a pasty clown wearing big red shoes! C'mon now, that's just not right. Why must everything in our lives be so damn prepackaged?

I want my fast food to have wheels beneath it. Pad Thai from a food stall rolling down the humid roads of Bangkok. A bowl of red curry on the outskirts of a street market in Bangladesh. Hell, I'll settle for a churro from that little guy pushing his little belled cart down the dusty barios of Tijuana.

With that churro, you may get a story, be told a joke or maybe just exchange a sincere smile. I don't really see that exchange happening with the speakerbox in the drive through.

America, we've lost our sense of adventure. Trade in your chocolate Frosty for a wooden cup of Brazilian Mate. Even if you can't cross any international borders right now, try to seek out something different. Break out of your flavorless rut and mix it up a little. Just get out there and let your mouth be your passport and food a tasty visa.

Mt Rainier ~ June 2006 ~ The lost pages

2008-03-27T00:03:00.000-06:00

After digging through one of my random memorabilia boxes the other night I came across a journal that I thought was long gone. Tucked away in the last few pages was an entry I had made on a climb up Mt Rainier a couple of years ago. It's a cool little entry depicting an act of sheer and utter stupidity. The part of the village idiot is played by myself. Note: This is not the continuation of the Rainier story I began a few months ago and never finished. I will finish that one for you folks soon enough, I promise.

June 26th, 2006 - Camp Schurman, Mt Rainier - 9460 feet

We descended from the summit during an unseasonal and until earlier this week a very unexpected warm spell. The freezing level rose to a hefty 14,500 feet. It was tee shirt weather at the top for sure! Hooman and I thought it would be a good time to glissade back to camp for the last 1500 feet of the glacier. Hooman on foot by standing glissade, myself on rump - slip and slide style.

Because of the extreme warmth (approx 45 degrees F), the glacier resembled the look and feel of a 7-11 Slurpee (minus of course the flavoring and that cool little red-cupped straw that you can use as a spoon when you're tired of slurping through said straw.) But I digress. And with both Nalgenes empty, I was getting extremely dehydrated from the altitude and reflected heat. After we unroped, I plopped my Gore-Tex covered bum down in the slushy layer, picked a line and with ice ax in the ready to self arrest. Then shot on down the mountain. I love glissading. It takes me back to when I was a kid riding the gigantic water slide at the Jersey shore. Not too much difference between the two; only in the mountains there are no lines and a lot less mullets.

Within minutes, I descended the first 600 feet cheerfully and without a hitch, but I found that I was uncomfortably out of site from my climbing partner who was undoubtedly still plugging away on foot. Not to mention that I was now paddling and bicycle kicking through at least eight inch layer of slush in order to make any progress down the mountain. Moving fast via my bum is now pretty much out of the equation. I gave sliding a few more earnest attempts, then decided it was time to continue back on foot.

As I flattened by cramponed boot on the glacier to begin to stand, the entire lower part of my right leg disappeared into the mountain. And all of the weight which it was once bearing shifted to my right elbow as I shrunk into the ice. Oh shit. Calmly, I continued the shift to my right arm in effort to distract my torso and prevent it from getting any smart ideas like following my leg into the really neat hole that it just made in the snow. As I did this, my right arm thought that it was bored anyway and decided to join its' buddy (the leg) in this little game of hide and go seek. So it dissapeared into a neat little hole as well. The funny thing about emergency situations like this is that you suddenly begin to think in the 3rd person. Its' as if you are an instructor who has to talk a hopeless moron out of this super shitty and extremely perilous situation. And the kicker is that you have to go home and have beers with this asshole even after you save his life!

So the first thing the 'instructor' tells me is, 'Dude, you are so screwed right now.' The second is to breathe. So I took his advice and with a deep breath analyzed the situation. I am slowly being eaten by a very angry volcano. Its' mouth is a cold, gaping crevasse; possibly hundreds of feet deep. Do I quickly roll to my side and hope that it's solid? But a shift in weight could send me plummeting to my demise. So this 'mouth ,' is it running vertically or horizontally? Perhaps it's running on an angle? No telling! With my free hand I attempted to spin my ax on it's end in order to probe the surrounding glacier. I'll just poke around until I find something solid. But that subtle motion was enough to make the thin snow bridge give way and my entire body dropped out beneath me. Luckily the instructor took over and both my hands were tightly gripping the shaft of my ax while its' teeth bit tightly into the crevasses' lip.

Slow motion. The dyneema sling vibrates with tension from ax head to belay loop. It is then I realize only the first few centimeters of my pick are set upon the edge. My legs kick with authority into what seems like concrete, sharpened crampons desperate to make purchase with no success. I take a moment to look down into the blue ice; centuries deep and contrasted by seemingly bottomless black nothing. This mountain wants to devour my very soul. I throw two more fierce steps into the icy wall, this time they stick. Climbing way way out of the shivering maw, my heart races and eyes have never been wider. Hyperventilating, I flop upon my grateful belly on the solid ice and remember that famous statistic on how a vast majority of climbers are injured on their descent.

Lesson Learned. Always rope up kids!

The Decemberists Winter in Seattle

2008-01-31T11:34:00.000-07:00

Photo compliments of www.decemberists.com

After canceling their world tour due to an illness of a group member, the Decemberists came back to play at that city by the Sound. While I didn't catch their opening act's name last night, they were certainly entertaining. The lead singer sounded something along the lines of a Matt Costa who was trying a bit too hard to weather & scratchify his voice. It got to be a bit grating, but they certainly had a solid rythm section thanks to the retarded monkey that stood on stage left. He had a beautiful set of congas, a couple of musical shakey-rattley devices and a tambourine that he used to beat the congas while jumping up and down. Smiling and spiddleing all over his set the guy was having a hell of a time up there. I remember my buddy Noyes would loose his shit every time I even thought of playing his congas while I were wearing a ring on my finger for fear of damaging the instrument's skins. Imagine what these skins must look like after being beat by a furry primate with a tambourine! Every time I looked at this guy, I just couldn't hold back the laughter. I imagined that if my friends had lashed together a somewhat successful band and went on tour, I would most probably play his part. 'Dan's cool, but he doesn't know how to play a single thing except for that little egg with the sand in it. But he sure does look happy jumpin' around up there, doesn't he?'

Set Break - After a whopping 30 minutes of playing. The opening act said their goodbyes, packed their monkey into his cage and left the stage. Can't drink in the theater. And we couldn't muster the motivation to battle the crowd at the bar for $7 Makers & Cokes. So, we sat & waited over an hour for the show to start...

Just as I was thinking these guys better wow me after keeping us waiting that long in between acts, Colin Meloy took the stage. As the opening song unfolded each player found their position on stage. One by one they wove themselves into the rich tapestry that is the Crane Wife. It was a beautiful experience, and I could have truly left the theatre content after hearing only that one song. I have never heard such a voice; so distinctly clear, yet stirring. The show picked up momentum from there until it boiled over into a heaving, frothy stew rich in both vocabulary and feeling. Writhing on the ground, instruments clutched in hand, the Decemberists apparently had tied just the right buzz on.

Meloy's words tell of corduroy clad street urchins who have drowned in lost rivers and mariners seeking revenge while in the belly of a whale. Their songs reek of brine. And I love it! I was slightly surprised to see such a young crowd playing the part of bookend by the 60 somethings sharing the theater. All ages show indeed. And Meloy knows how to entertain these young fans that swarm the front of the stage. Grabbing a cell phone from a fan, Meloy calls someone from the contact list then screams the words from Culling of the Fold into the receiver. Bestowing a rock and roll moment that teeny bopper will never forget.

Would I see them again? You be your sweet patutty I would. But I'll only see them again if it is an 18 and older show. The band clearly catered to the younger crowd this evening. With their tried & true rock n' roll antics that we've all grown tired of seeing night after night at our favorite dive bars, they forced more than one eye roll out of me. There was a bit too much self indulgent crowd seeking, speaker jumping, bass humping for me to get into. They are amazing lyricists and fantastically geeky musicians. So maybe a little less dropping to the ground and writhing on the stage and a bit more playing of the music. Guys, what do ya say?