Zenetopia

NON-ATTACHMENT

2014-03-23T15:21:00.000-06:00

Lewis, Haggle & The Boys on The Desert Rat's maiden voyage to Ibex

I awake from a dream, unsure of the time. It is still dark outside; cold, I am hesitant to relieve myself from the embrace of the blankets trapping the body heat from Messner, Haggle, and myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember that we are in IBEX, Utah, camped in a ‘new’ (1983) conversion van we purchased that we have dubbed ‘The Desert Rat’. The slight wind rocks the Rat back and forth in timed undulations. I feel drugged.

Ibex on an eery night

Drudging up the courage, I slip out the covers, let the dogs out, and step outside. Bathed in a sheet of stars I stand there, taking in the façade of an alien world comprised of other-worldly rock formations & spires. We are in the middle of nowhere, with no signs of human life.

We are alone this night. As I stand here, tranced & chilled, my dream begins to slither back into my psyche, making all that I’m taking in seem even more unreal. For a second I cannot be sure if I am awake or still asleep – in this moment, there seems to be no difference between the two.

Lewis leading an unknown route in Ibex

In the dream I am wearing a harness on which quick draws are clipped and dangling. I am in a sterile desert: a white, spotless stage that stretches beyond the capability of my vision. I remember being hot – sweating with desire. There is nothing to see. White space with a white horizon – it is bright so I shade my eyes and look forward and backward. Desperately, I want to climb. Climb anything and I say so in a muted fashion: I want to climb.

I finger the draws and they clatter in a deafening sing-song-sing, as, from somewhere, a stale, whispering wind answers: you are climbing…

…The report of Messner’s bark, one of our dogs, shocks me out of a daze. I call to him, hearing my voice reverberate off the massive cliff walls and return to me; it feels as if I just yelled during a church service and I immediately feel embarrassed and guilty, despite being the only one around. As quietly as I can, I slide the side door of the Rat open and the dogs jump in. I follow, closing the door. Slipping back into bed next to haggle, my head now against a pillow, I begin to doze off; I do not fall asleep, but fall somewhere between the obscure – that line between waking and sleeping…

…I look down and I am no longer wearing a harness. My clothes are changing - disappearing and reappearing every few seconds. A suit and tie now. A work shirt, no shirt, shorts, pants, sandals, shoes – they do not flicker on and off but rather, bleed in and out slowly. I have a beard now. And now, I am as smooth as an infant. My comprehension cannot keep up with the pace of change and I become wildly frantic. Wildly discombobulated and anxious. All my possessions come & go. & so it seems, with them, my passions and desires as well.

Ibex

I take a deep breath, calm myself down, and allow it to happen. In a second, I become a thousand different version of me yet they are all the same in one way or another.

In my slumbered stupor something occurs to me: everything we have in this world is on loan to us. We own nothing. Our loved ones, our possessions, our health, strengths, dreams, will eventually go away; it is all a fleeting cup of coffee. This does not mean I should not enjoy and/or cherish what I have. I should & I do. I live a fortunate life – one filled with great love and great passion. But with this comes a responsibility to learn to let go. To form a non-attachment to those things which I love.

Ewe Betch Ewe, 5.12a - Route follows the shallow crack/seam on the right

In that moment, I let go of the reason for this trip (at least the reason that has formed in my mind).

Almost a year ago to the day, we had come to this exact spot, and I tried EWE BETCH EWE, 5.12a. I had failed miserably. A year later, stronger and more driven than ever, I was going to send the line. As I lay here thinking about all this, I give up and into the idea that it doesn’t matter whether I send or not. We are here, in this beautiful dreamscape with the ones I love the most. It was time to have fun once and for all and to experience what come what may.

With the decision made, a heaviness lifted off my breast, and I slid into a dreamless sleep…because I AM climbing…

(Author’s note & Description):

Lewis nearing the chains for his successful send of Ewe Betch Ewe 5.12a

EWE BETCH you, more than any other route I have been on, has 3 or 4 boulder problems in a row separated by an immensely secure no-hands rest. If begun from the direct start, it certainly has one 12a move to a short section of juggy 5.9, where if you don’t feel secure you can place a #2 cam between the 1^st and 2^nd bolt, but it is hardly necessary. From there you move through a boulder problem of v2/3 involving a core-tightening Gaston, get a quick shake and enter another strengthy insecure v3 move to gain a slopey top out involving a mantel to where you find yourself run out, gunning for the no hands rest. It is here that I attempted to compose myself, trying to control my breathing for 3 or 4 minutes. I wanted to send. No way in hell I was going to do the bottom section again, it was either this, or I pack up and go home. Send send send, was all that I was thinking as I craned my neck to see the last section of the route, and from my memory, realized it was probably the hardest section on the entire line. Ready, calmed, breathing steadily, yet still thinking of the send, I launched into it: a undercling match, a cross over with the left to a sharp little edge and right hand up to what appeared to be a good side pull. It wasn’t. Panic set it. I tried to pull off the side pull, but could feel myself slipping. ‘Fuck!’ I desperately grunted. I was slipping. In my mind, I had already come off, now I was just waiting for time to catch up to the inevitable. But, I managed to reverse my movements, my feet getting placed exactly in the order in which they had come up, but this time, down. I re-reached the good rest ledge.

My breathing was frantic like a horse’s. My skin was hot and sticky with sweat, my feet ached. ‘Dammit!’ I said under my breath. I could vaguely hear my brother, who was belaying, saying something like, ‘calm down, you got this. You can do it.’ But I had just done the moves. No, I couldn’t do it. Shit, just take and lower, let someone else climb. It sounded like a good idea, and I was about to succumb to the desire. Then the previous night’s cognition dawned on me. Let it go. Who cares? If I was going to fail, well, hell, why not fail having fun? Do the moves for the moves’ sake. Fluid. Somewhere along the line, I gave up on the send, Forgot about the desire to finish the climb; I just wanted to climb, and that was what I was doing. With a clear mind bereft of insight of success, I launched back into the final crux: undercling match, cross over left to sharp, small edge, right hand up to terrible side-pull, and this time, scare-the-pants-off-you high feet, off and to the right. I was slipping, but still feeling strong. Sure I was going to peel off, I resigned myself to the fall, so went for it anyway. What I went to was nothing. I slapped left then right then middle, still nothing except slopey mind-fuck-you goodness. With no other options, I shifted my weight down low, and made a series of traverse movements out left……. I was clipping the chains. Smiling. Clipping the chains… with the newly formed non-attachment to the climb, I ended up sending it on my first attempt… Somehow, in some way, those routes you send that you have learned to let go of come in a sweet euphoric dream. They are the best sends of all: The least expected ones.)

IN THE BEGINNING (are you smiling?)

2014-03-20T20:53:00.002-06:00

It is seemingly universal across the board that once someone starts climbing, the psyche sets in immediately, & with all the media coverage of all the ‘young guns’ sending harder and harder rigs almost every month, being witness to a 12 year old warming up on your project in the gym, the desire to climb at/and up your personal best wells up violently. We all want to climb hard, whatever that means; The definition of that various from individual to individual. From 5.10 to 5.14 and beyond, when broken down (regardless of what you hear via the interweb chatter and personalities) doesn’t matter one bit.

Lewis still having fun on lowly 'Mr. Slopey Washcloth' 5.8, Ophir Canyon

Simply stated, what is hard for one person is easy for another and visa versa. What matters is what YOU think. What matters is how you feel after clipping the chains on a route(s). When you are being lowered, are you smiling? Are you at peace? This, and only this, is what you should strive for.

Over the course of the next few months, as a matter of practicing & habitualizing my writing, I will be posting writings that are specific to my daily thinking. Training ideas, thoughts, mental practice on how to become a better person and climber; how to find the zenetopia that, in my belief, is inherently present in all of us.

Lewis after sending one of his projects at Choss Cave, 'Not the Warm Up', 5.12b

I am not a training guru; I have no background in physiology, or sports medicine, and my approach to training is hardly scientific. In-fact, my approach borders more on the spiritual side of mind, body, and soul. All I have are my experiences, & perhaps to some, I hold a great deal of naivety because of this. But it seems to work for me. I will never be sponsored. I will never be on the cover of some climbing rag, and perhaps, all my accomplishments can be read as ‘easy’ to others. Who cares? I can say one thing for sure: that since my release from a rather strict and serious rehab (subsequent to 12 years of heavy heavy drug and alcohol use) I have progressed leaps and bounds, both physically and mentally. And because of my approach (I, like everyone else, slip. More than I would like to admit I will find myself frustrated, disgusted, at odds with the way I am internally over my inability to send a route), I am always smiling after clipping the chains to a route I climbed well and in accordance to my own personal ethics & style.

Get out there and climb! But never forget to smile after clipping the chains… even on a 5.7.

CONDOR & THE WINGS OF ANOTHER DAY

2012-07-19T21:57:00.001-06:00

A.M:

Before a climb, especially before a Redpoint attempt, I get curiously nervous. Today is no different.

I awake w/ a knot in my stomach the size & weight of a wedding ring. It sits unflinchingly in my gut like something dead. I don’t feel like eating. Nothing sounds palletable enuf for the energy it is going to require to prepare something this early in the mourning. It is 4 am. Sloggishly, I throw my feet over the edge of the bed & onto the floor. I turn slightly & stare at Haggle still fast sleeping in reverence & perfection. Her demeanor is what I wish upon myself, but I know that is as much as an impossibility as meeting my deadline for Project 31: it just won’t happen. I give a little sigh, arise, grab my robe, & wobblingly march to the porch for a cigarette.

The air is cool. Much cooler then it has been. It is comfortably cold. My eyes are heavy & pull down…open…down. My head bobbing about as if on a broken spindle. I begin to remember a particular night in rehab, sitting out by the pool, much later then I was allowed to be out of my room, sitting in shadows, unseen; It was comfortably cold that night as well, much like this mourning, when a familiar voice breaks my train of reverie.

Ferguson Canyon, Condor 5.12a

“Condor? I’ve climbed that. Fun route, but I wouldn’t really call it a .12” I know the voice, but can’t put a name to it. This voice had said this earlier in the week while I was at the gym. Well, I had said, smirking a little at what I truly wanted to say, it is a .12 in the guide, so I’ll take it.

I speculate as to why this statement was bothering me so much. Was it as simple as the annoyance of un-wanted beta spewing? Could I chalk it up that perhaps, somewhere w/in me, I agreed & didn’t want to yield to that disheartening possible fact? Or was it something else?

W/ my cigarette smoldering between index & middle, an awareness flashes before me, not so un-like all the sententious cognitions of the past whilst writing poetry, painting, high on lines & lines of Cocaine & rivers of Booze w/ one difference: this was a shot-blast of clairty. An awakening of the senses.

This statement wasn’t bothering me for any of the reasons I initially thought (patience should be practiced by listening to anyone’s beta, what if it wasn’t a .12, or even, a soft .12? So what. Who cares?), it has its barbs in me because I am afraid of failure. This, it occurrs, is also the cause of my nervousness. Not because the route(s) is too hard for me, but because I’ve yet to learn to master the reality & art of failure. I don’t want to fail…soberly.

I snub out my cigarette, stand up & give a good yawning stretch.

The lump in my stomach has dwindled to a pebble. I figure that the only way to learn & grow, is to accept failure for what it is, & what it is, is everyday. It is as much of ourselves as success. It is, in fact, the machine that lays the groundwork for our future successes & who we will be at any given Present.

If addiction is a disease, so is the innability to accept failure proudly…

P.M:

The Great Salt Lake, view from Ferguson Canyon

The sky is ignited into a glowing stretch of magenta devilry: Fingers aflame by the descent of the sun. Dusk is upon us. The brilliance of the colours create a hushed pastoral; we are driving home from Ferguson canyon in a comfortable silence. Haggle, tired from a hard day at work, exhausted by hunger, languidly stares out the window. As for myself, well, something else is bothering me, & as I navigate the vehicle onto 2-15, I struggle w/ what that something actually is.

The excitement of the day, the build up of the possibility of another Redpoint success for Project 31 (Condor, 5.12a) quickly gave way to a tickle of a worry as we pulled into the parking area for Ferguson Canyon hours earlier. All the parking stalls were full. Haggle looked at me as we managed to park & jokingly asked, ‘it’s a Wensday afternoon, right? Jesus!’

Mark was there already, waiting for our arrival. ‘We might not be able to get on the climbs we came here to do,’ he said. Staying optimistic, I responded by saying I have never seen anyone on the routes we came to do, & that I thought we would be just fine. I was wrong.

Hiking into Ferguson Canyon

The hike in was as pleasant as always. It is enough of an approach to get your heart rate up, but pretty enuf to make you forget about it. As we drew closer & closer to The Watchtowers, it audibly became apparent we would be sharing the area w/ quite a few climbers. As we arrived, the apparent of the situation solidified itself. Climbers littered the area. Most of whom were much too rowdy in the noise pollution arena then any one of us enjoyed. Also becoming apparent was the lack of prowess most of these climbers possessed. A feeling of imminent disaster washed over me. Almost as a precursor or psychic sign, we had to step over & then under a rope belonging to the first group we came upon, like entering a gate into a hellish, mistake ridden realm. There was a guy, scraggled beard & all, guitar in his lap, eying us suspiciously as we past, making sure we didn’t step on their life line, as if it were our fault their gear had exploded all over the middle of the trail. From then on it only got more & more foreboding & more & more noisy. A group above us, hooting & hollering, constantly let fly rocks down the steep trail, at one point one bouncing & hopping down only to slam into a dog resting near her masters. She learned quickly & painfully & sought out shelter underneath some brush. The group climbing next to us, obviously new to the game, dropped one of their climbers a good 15-20 ft while lowering, their saving grace was the grigri auto locking when the belayer didn’t know what to do & let go of the device. It would have been much worse had she been using an ATC. Far too often had Mark, Haggle, & I been present at certain crags (most oft times being anywhere low in Big Cottonwood) where climbers w/ little know how practiced their craft of nearly dropping someone, tieing their knots wrongly, figuring out the belays for the first time. Like the time we all were up for a quick climb at The Challenge Buttress climbing next to a man & woman, the woman belaying, the man leading. Finishing the climb, the man yelled, “Ok, you got me?” “I don’t know,” responded the woman. Mark & I looked over at her. Around her feet coiled a tangled mess of rope. My sight went from the coil on up to her belay device. The man hadn’t been on belay the entire climb! ‘Jesus,’ Mark said, ‘Lewi, help her out! Now!’ I ran over to the woman, Yelled up to her partner, do not lean back! You are NOT on belay! I unhooked her belay device, re-threaded the rope & clipped it back onto her harness, where I belayed off her from behind, teaching her how as we lowered the man down. Something he should have done before taking her to the crag. The man’s hubris was appalling to us. He thanked us as if nothing out of the norm had happened, packed up their rope, & sauntered off. Such people are destined for Darwin’s demise. Today had that same feel of foreboding imminence.

Lewis 3/4 of the way up Grommet 5.11-

Right off we could see that the two routes (Uncensored Society, 5.10a & Condor, 5.12a – they share anchors) that we had come to do were taken. There were draws on the first route, & the group was ‘climbing’ Condor, altho it was evident they couldn’t do but one, maybe two moves at a time. They spent time swinging back & forth, laughing, obviously oblivious to anyone but themselves. I knew this would make Mark angry, sensitive he is to such callous insensitivity. What is this route? I asked quickly, attempting to distract his acrimonious glower, pointing to a line right in front of us, already unpacking the rope. Let’s do it. It was the first route we came upon. I didn’t want to waste day light scouting for other routes.

Lewis leading Grommet 5.11-

Grommet, 5.11- & Total Ramon, 5.11c, were the lines we ended up doing. It wasn’t ideal by far, so high were my hopes for leading Condor, but I tried, over & over, to tell myself, it is what it is. Take advantage of it!. Grommet, a cool line, w/ a great crux was a fun lead. I ended up taking a few times due to my natural fears I have a hard time controlling. I ended up redpointing it, which made me feel a little better. Mark, at the anchors of Grommet, traversed right to reach the Anchors of Total Ramon so we could TR it. No amount of prodding could instill desire in me enuf to lead the R (should be X) rated route. Haggle, who climbed it twice, TR’ed it beautifully. Mark stated it perfectly: ‘while we monkeyed up it, Haggle climbed it.’ & it was true. She climbed w/ the flow of herself. It made me proud to watch her elegant movements, & her deciphering of the crux - bouldery moves which proved too difficult for Mark or me to piece together correctly. While she watered over & thru the crux, I struggled. Finally, while gripping crimps & thinking desperately, I asked for a little slack in the rope, steadied myself & launched into a dyno. Sticking it, I effectively bypassed the section she so easily & beautifully climbed.

Haggle flowing up Total Ramon 5.11c

In a sense, I think as we pull into our driveway, the night was a failure. In another, it was the complete opposite. I have a decision to make. Let a failure completely out of my control bring me down, or rise to it, & take it for what it is & learn from it? & what did I learn, I ask myself?

Lewis sticking a dyno on Total Ramon 5.11c

That by being open to all possibilities, to any & all out comes, you are sure never to miss the importance of every second, every minute. Each moment can become an eternal moment in our finite lives never to be forgotten. Condor, or any of my other projects, will be there tomorrow, & the next & the next. Watching Haggle or Mark climb a specific route in a specific time, however, will not be, unless I choose the eternal nature of the present in the present.

Maple Sings

2012-06-20T17:35:00.000-06:00

Haggle & Lewis - Camp 5, Maple Canyon

Exhaustion steals thru my body like a criminal blatantly criss-crossing store to store in broad day light. As the small fire grows, the light of the day diminishes. This is the exact definition of dusk, I think to myself. Maple Canyon has a distinct echo. It plays tricks on you; each echo seems to be right next to wherever you are. The lengthening shadows of the night makes this trickery more tangible, more authentic. I light a cigarette & listen to the other campers & climbers settling in for the night. Either preparing dinner, readying themselves for a small party, or simply chatting, laughing.

Right Fork - Maple Canyon

The one constant, regardless of the different on-goings of all the different individuals sharing this canyon tonight, we are glad for one thing: we are out, allocating time in Maple. Tonight is our fourth night, Haggle’s & mine. The lassitude of my body has made me sharp. My senses are tense & listening. Haggle walks about the camp in what seems a happy stupor: a zombie gorged on the flesh of exercise, nature, & climbing to one’s limit & beyond. We had traveled down here for a specific reason: to complete 24 pitches for Haggle’s 24^th birthday, in a day. It is Monday, June 11^th, 2012. Only about ½ hour ago we staggered back into camp, after 10 hours of straight climbing, w/ that specific reason now a realization. We did it. Haggle leading & onsighting all but 6 of the 24 routes. We are tired. Extremely content at accomplishing such a hard (for us) task. Niether of us hithertofore had ever done such a thing. Now we had. Yet that wasn’t the only summit point of gratification of the trip. Sitting around the fire, too tired for much conversation, it is hard not to ruminate, ponder. There is something about being fatigued that I believe brings out the philosopher in us all, & being a ponderer by nature anyway, it becomes doubly so for me. In my chair, I begin to doze off, yet I am so far away from anything resembling sleep…

FRIDAY 6/8/12

Maple Canyon, seen from the top of The Great Chasm, 5.7

We transitioned from the asphalt to the dirt road that winds up & thru the canyon. Two months of planning & waiting; we had arrived. Haggle reached over, patted my leg & then shot her hand over to the radio knob, turning it off & rolling down the window. ‘We’re home,’ she said w/ a giggle. Indeed, I was thinking the same thing. Pulling into a canyon, any canyon, has a sense of home, excitement. But Pulling into Maple, for whatever reason, for me, has always had a redoubled sense of ‘coming’ home. I have no reason for this feeling. Certainly I have spent far more time in others, but Maple Canyon… well, it’s home.

We quickly found our campsite, parked & exited the vehicle. The weather was warm, tepid really. Perfection seemed to be rearing its head at us in an exalted salutation. As we finished unpacking, our campsite fitting our ‘this is our home MO’ as of late, satisfyingly, we racked & packed our packs, intent on getting a few climbs in before the sun went down. Niether of us had climbed in the Pipeline. We warmed up on Poop Chute, an easy 5.10d & then, leaving the draws on the anchors, scooted left to Waterworks, an even easier 5.11a before our stomachs began to rumble & protest. Walking back to camp in the coming dusk, wondering who (for we had made plans w/ friends to meet up w/ us & share our site) would be the first to show up…

Lewis - Rappelling the 3rd pitch of The Great Chasm

…The stare & glare of the fire has me in a trance. Holds me fixed, if not fixated, on the last few hours & beyond; the entire trip seems to play before & in me in a crisp & clear footage. The sound track of the documentary audibly accosts me in snippets & arcs: Mark yelling up to me while reaching the end of the rope during rappel, while I stand there during our multi pitch, summit climb (first ever successful attempt together), 60 meters up tied into anchors, how the rope isn’t long enough, & he’s not sure what to do. Me, waiting for Haggle to finish the fourth to last rap of the day on The Red Dog Wall, saying we need to change plans & crags, lest we be eaten alive by the awakening mosquitoes. Lyle constantly prophesying how drunk &/or tipsy he is. All this is alive cleanly & clearly, pounding between my tired ears. A smile creeps on my face, one of which I am barely aware of. ‘What are you smiling at, Stinky?’ Haggle asks me. I sigh, flick my cigarette into the fire & say, nothing. Everything. What a great trip…

SATURDAY 6/9/12

We awoke fresh. Brimming w/ excitement w/ caged-like energy, we quickly brewed coffee & waited for the others to wake up (The night previous, friends Lyle, Tami, & strong climbers, Matt Garvin & Katie showed up – we were still waiting for my brother, Mark, & good friend, Pia to show).We slung our packs over our shoulders & made off, intending to warm up on the Engagement Alcove…

Lewis updating the 'pitch book'

As Haggle tiredly prepares dinner (too fatigued to prepare anything fancy tonight – a hearty steak & potatoes) I am writing, updating the ‘pitch book’. Memory serves me well & as I list which climbs we completed (giving no care to Onsights or Redpoints – altho I make a note of which ones, & who, redpoints & onsights what – the list is simply for Haggle & me, to record how many pitches completed in any style in the 2012 season). This trip has turned out to be a productive one. 38 routes in all. Saturday was filled w/ a relaxed nature.

Pia - providing the comedy & music

No goals, no expectations, nothing but the fluid style of having fun, connecting w/ the canyon, friends, & ourselves. We worked mostly the Pipeline, all 11’s & up. Fourth route of the day was Honey Bucket, 5.12a. After Matt Garvin led it beautifully (I graciously thank him for hanging the draws), his wife, Katie, gave it a strong go, using her own beta to complete the fun, intensive line; it was my turn to attempt a lead. W/ no thought of Project 31 in mind, as far off into my mind’s horizon as it had been in a long time, I tied in, saying, let’s see if I can struggle up this thing. Matt turned to me & said w/ a crooked smile, ‘you’ll flash it, man.’ I laughed. Never before have I been able to flash a .12. The climbing was fluid; move after short move (Katie’s beta seemed to make more sense to me. I tried w/out thinking, to mimic her style), higher & higher, & before I knew it, I was clipping the anchors. It didn’t really occur to me that I had just Flashed a 5.12 until Haggle lowered me to the deck, & was thus, one climb closer to accomplishing my 31 goal. No euphoric feeling flooded my existence, as it did when I Redpointed The Blight. I contribute this to the fact that my entire being was already steeped like strong tea in euphoria. Being w/ Haggle on her birthday, being in Maple, & doing what a whole lot of us forget all too often: climbing to climb. Too often do we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the End, usually blanketed in trite ethical rules, (which in my mind usually has nothing to do w/ the actual meaning & word, ‘Ethical’), forgetting & pushing aside the Means.

Mark - 2nd belay station, The Great Chasm

As I put down my book & throw one of our last remaining logs onto the fire, I realize that myself, & all those that I climb w/, share something: Altho goals are important – they create drive, strengthen Wills – they are not The Purpose. We are not ‘Summiteers’, but rather, ‘Mountaineers’ (Flashing Honey Bucket, to be sure, was great, but pales in comparison to what Mark, my brother, said to me after an ordeal we had on Sunday during the descent of a 5.8 multi-pitch route. ‘Thanks for keeping me safe’.). The Experience itself shines in our lives as a great, & soulful beacon. & I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Haggle is slipping into the tent for a good night’s rest. She has earned it. She deserves it. I stand up & scrape at the fire w/ a small shovel. I am excited to lay down next to her; joining her in the Elysian fields of dreams. As I cover the last of the smoldering ashes, I catch myself thinking of tomorrow. The packing up, the returning to ‘normal’ life, but I arrest my introspective ruminations of the inevitable. For what good is NOW if you worry only about tomorrow? & it hits me: I can only practice & live in the Zenetopia if I am connected to it every single moment. Address it for what it is, now, not later, & keep myself liberated from the chains that are linked together by ‘human intellectuality’. I let it go & walk slowly to the tent. Taking in all the smells, all the noises, that seem to be much sharper then they were just an hour ago.

Temporarily licked by an Eternal Tongue

2012-05-29T10:46:00.002-06:00

The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali, 1931

I am buried beneath a heavy avalanche of numbers: I am 30 years old w/ a project of 31 (now 30) 5.12 redpoint climbs before I turn 31 on September 6th, 2012. That deadline is on a one-way fast track, barreling toward its infinite finality. It will be here in 112 total days. Which divides into 16 weeks & 16 weekends; I have just 2,688 hours left, which breaks down into 161,280 minutes or 9,676,800 seconds. In short, I have 31% of my season left to realize the short-ordered dead-line I have set for myself.

There are three possible indisputable facts that I must now consider seriously: 1) I have underestimated the difficulty & doability (for me) of this project. 2) I have grossly overestimated my abilities. 3) The deadline has now reached a critical mass of limited possibility. As of now, all three of these, I feel, must be honestly looked at, mulled over & considered. But it is the 3rd one which interests me most on this rainy depressing mourning.

I have 16 weekend days left (Saturdays & Sundays). In order for me to see the Project completed by said deadline I would have to do no less then get a 5.12 redpoint every 322,560 seconds, or one every 5,376 minutes. I would need to get an RP every 89.6 hours. Not considering personal commitments, work, sickness, rest days, not thinking of all those little things that life slips into your pockets that make you grind your teeth just a little, I would need to get a RP every 3.7 days. Considering the trouble I have been having, despite getting the rope up every climb I attempt, the fact remains that I am screwing up on all of my redpoint attempts, w/ the exception of one, which took 12 attempts in all. I believe it would be fool-hearty, disingenuous to say meeting this deadline is still a very real possibility. & now, underneath the weight of infallible numbers, consideration of a reality not much cared for, has become my reality & my consideration. Isn't this, this torturous condition, part of the project? Hasn't it been from its inception? Isn't the idea of failure made real part of the path? The voice locks into my mind, biting down. It isn't my voice, yet...it is. There is something familiar to it. It's tone. It's vernacular. But I still feel myself fighting against it. The idea of failure made real...the path...

In my short 30 years on this earth (12 of which exist in a hazy Dream of memory bathed in rivers of golden honeyed addiction – all but lost) I have learned much. One of which being we are not entirely in control of everything (altho I am a firm believer of those things we do not control still falls squarely upon the shoulders of the individual's responsibility: 'I could have trained more. Eaten better. I could have been more focused, determined, I could have given more of myself'...but for what price?) & that it is a futile practice to lament & scourge oneself over the fact that not everything is w/in the manipulation of our dexterous fingers. It is good to have this knowledge, to know it, but to accept it is something else entirely. I ask myself, what are you willing or able to accept? To which I have no utterance of an answer...

...After a rare, mid-day nap, awaking to the drum & thrum of thunder & the pour of rain – melancholy hanging in the air like strategically placed décor, the same questions hover above my person, a thick curtain of concentration & indecisiveness: Do I admit defeat & scrap the deadline? Or do I continue on my current path, knowing all the while that such as the deadline is, is an impossible at-this-point goal? As my options snake into my being, I sigh. Silence quilts around me chokingly; it is the only answer that comes.

Getting over the Hill & see... there will come a time...

2012-05-08T19:22:00.000-06:00

Lewis, working the routes in American Fork

Jesus christ. I am staring at the computer screen in disbelief…almost. Something, somewhere deep down, is telling me that I had expected something was wrong. ‘When do you ever send a route in 2 attempts?’ It is asking. I am grumbling. I check & re-check the picture that is on the screen. As I get up, I suddenly don’t feel like climbing today. Rather, sleep sounds like a much better option. I walk out of the writing room & into the adjacent one. I can hear Haggle getting out of bed. The familiar sounds of clinking glasses & cupboards opening & shutting seem theatrically & comically loud. She is getting coffee. I grab my American Fork Guide & return to my desk, sitting back down in front of the computer. That picture is staring at me. I sense it smiling. Laughing. I flip the guide to the appropriate page. Check it against the displayed photograph w/ lines drawn in to show the particular routes. Check & re-check again. Between the two of them, there isn’t an agreement. This upsets me. This pisses me off. It’s your fault, I tell myself. I decide not to get too up-in-arms over anything until I check w/ Haggle… I grab the guide, marking the page that I have so quickly come to hate, & walk upstairs to tell her what I think I have found…

Isolation Wall topo, 1. Siberia 5.12c/d,
2. Isolation 5.12b/c, 3. Wilderness 5.12a/b, 4. Unknown
Photo by John Ross

...I am sitting here now - almost two days after I found out that the route I red-pointed on 4/22/12, thinking it was Wilderness, 5.12a/b, was, in-fact, not Wilderness at all, but an 'Unknown' route that isn't in the AF guide; altho the route was fun, I would say it is nothing more then .11b, possibly .11c – trying to figure out how to write about this massively disappointing (for me) revelation of this moronic mistake, & what to do w/ it. & how to feel about being set back. My ticks during this Project certainly aren't suppose to grow. They are suppose to diminish. I never prepared myself for the former even tho it is starting to feel as if I haven't readied myself for the latter. So where to go, & how to get there? Sunday, Haggle & I, after learning of this slip up, decided to go back to Isolation Wall, to make sure w/ our own eyes, & if the mistake proved to be a reality, well, then, we would give the real Wilderness a go, get the red-point, & never look back. No big deal. The problem turned out to be this: Sure, I got the rope up, but couldn't figure out smoothly, the crux. Couldn't, trying to push the lingering confidence up & over the rim of myself, get the route on red-point. The confidence had started to evaporate. Condensing in sorrowful droplets on the walls of my glass psyche....

...W/ the window down the wind blasts thru as we drive back into the SLC via I-15. Another return from another unsuccessful day from American Fork. Another cigarette. More thoughts. More substantial silence. Haggle stares dreamily ahead. I wonder what she is thinking. W/ each weekend that comes & goes, increasingly my guilt is becoming tangible. I wonder if she can feel this. Sense this. I feel guilty for all the failed attempts of my routes. I take a heavy drag on my cigarette, hold it...& release. I know I shouldn't feel guilty. Or bad, but I do. Perhaps I bit off more then I can chew. Maybe it was fool hearty of me to put into place such an out of reach goal when obviously my strength is not enuf. More constantly I am finding myself embarrassed. I sigh. Turn up the music that hitherto fore was feathering itself about the vehicle & flick my cigarette arcingly out the window...

...I realize that there are times when the poetics of a sentence just won't do. Just won't work. I realize there are times when all you can do is get over the hill & see what is to be seen...whatever that may be. I realize that the mind is much bigger then the body. I realize the gutter of this life is filled w/ self-imposed garbage strewn by frightened hands. I realize the negative heart. I realize the turmoil of a habitual life breaking open into a starry atmosphere repudiating the past. & I realize that all this rests squarely & comfortably & solely upon my shoulders. I realize that success is but a single path of a thousand failures waiting for two feet to take to travel...

A Maple Saturday & a Brief Sunday Relief

2012-04-25T16:25:00.003-06:00

Haggle, napping on the drive

Haggle is asleep in the back. Cat-like, she draws in her legs up to her belly, curling, somehow comfortably on the small bench-seat in the back of Mark's Eurovan. The vehicle rattles its way forward at 70mph – at times, violently. So much so, I shift side to side, not in an attempt to palliate my stiffening legs, but to thwart the journey my heart is now taking into my throat. Despite the jovially & constant conversation between Mark & I, I can tell he is tired. He has had a long day; he has climbed much harder then he is used to, much more then he is used to, we all have, & it shows. We are tired. Content. Glad to be going home, but I can't shake the desire to tell Mark to, turn around. Let's go back, camp for the night. Get some more pitches done in the mourning. But I hold my tongue, wanting also, the creature comfort of domesticated positive stimulus & riches: I want my bed. For the moment, Mark is stymied in his conversation & he stares on, the Driver's dead-stare curse; Haggle is fast sleeping in dreams. I look back at her & in her hypnoid, she is smiling. I laconically spy the passing scenery from the passenger's side. It moves slowly, like my thoughts. We haven't yet reached that point in a drive home where the picture of life materializes back into existence, where things once again become real, & the Dream fades slowly into memory. We are all still luridly locked w/in the somber jaws of euphoria that an exhausting day creates. A perfect day, a perfect canyon, remains jetting thru our blood like an addictive poison...

Maple Canyon

As we entered the Canyon, I stared out the window – Mark was saying something but it sounded as if a crooning voice echoing off cotton walls – looking at the cobbled-craggy-beauty. It never surprises me whenever I go to Maple how transfixed I get. I gazed & gazed. Something marvelous exists here, Something transcendental, & each time is as if the first time. This feels like home. Coming home. The last time I was here, it was the first climbing ‘trip’ I went on right out of rehab. Before that, nearly 12 years prior. I could feel myself smiling. It was a true facial gesture, the kind one can't help but hold back, one that states emphatically, ‘I’ve arrived!’ Parking the Eurovan, Haggle out of her slumber, Mark exited the vehicle, as did I, opening the sliding passenger door for her. The air smelled of camp fire, bacon, Climbers, crisp mourning weather w/ a promise of on coming warmth: a mixing boiling pot of ethereal madness that you quickly grow to love the more you get out. It becomes some what of a spiritual addiction. I stood next to the van simply taking it all in, but not on a conscious level, more of a primal one. One that exists somewhere deep w/in the crevasse of existence; a mystery. A puzzle. Something I’ve yet to figure out wholly, but something I am wholly apprised of, & welcoming of its sporadic arrival. It was chilly, for we had gotten an early start.

Haggle & Lewis, brewing coffee

Desiring coffee, I pulled the Coleman stove out & set it up on the first table behind the restrooms adjacent to the main parking area. Haggle comforted herself on the table, dog & people watching, some climbers, others obviously not (both people & k9's). As the percolator did what it does, the good energy of the day made itself known. We stood around the table, drinking coffee, chatting about how earth shatteringly good it would be if we only had strips of bacon, snapped silly photos, & joked. A greater start to a day I cannot remember. & it would only get better. This I knew as I sat sipping my cup-of-Joe, watching the smiles on Mark & haggle’s facade grow & grow, as the temps warmed & warmed…

...Sitting here now, in my basement writing this, pondering back to Saturday, skipping to Sunday, meddling into Monday, Haggle upstairs asleep, exhausted from three days of climbing, I am hard pressed to describe perfectly that which I need to describe. I can feel it. I know it. I understand it. But the writer's gift fails me on this Tuesday night. Perhaps in-the-moment emotions fog that which I replay over & over in my mind, like watching a movie in a bright & direct sun-light: it's there, you can hear it, & even watch it to a degree, but the full effect is much lost...for now.

Lewis & Haggle, getting ready for another climb

I consider Saturday as one of the greatest days I will remember. How quietly concerned I was to climb well; I made a decision to let go of the concern, to fall freely into myself & let whatever may come, come.

Lewis - making the clip on Minister, 5.11b

We enjoyed multiple moderates – almost all of which I on-sighted. Something I've never done so much of in my entire climbing life. Haggle climbed more astonishingly then I have ever seen, & I believe she surprised herself – opening, for her & by her, a great expansive future. It seemed to revitalize something w/in her. What a great gift it was to bear witness to that. Mark, always a go-getter, & happy to just be out, climbed wonderfully as well. Not desirous to lead really, Mark top-roped every route we did. It was fantastic to watch him push push push (sometimes that is all we can do to stay sane in this world: to remember to push push push our own individual limits). He had an unexpected great time, & those are always the unsurpassed moments of our momentaneous lives. It is a day that will live eternally. Thru me & by me. & even if I can never make this day fully visual, or never be able to construct the picture of words that reel thru my mind onto the page, it is there. & always will be, for me...& anyone who asks.

Author's Note (a quick update): Embrace the unexpected. It will lead you to fathoms & depths unknown & will inform you of the potency of yourself to yourself. On Sunday, April 22, I red-pointed my 2nd route for Project 31: Wilderness, 5.12a/b, Isolation Wall, American Fork, Utah.

Haggle - leading World Class Tuna 5.10a

Mark, belaying Haggle on World Class Tuna

Lewis, leading World Class Tuna 5.10a

Mark, top-roping (Viva la top-rope!) Tuna Direct 5.9

Haggle, leading Tuna Direct 5.9

Haggle, leading Tuna Direct

Lewis, getting ready to do some belaying

Haggle, crash-padding it

Lewis, rapping up the day on Minister 5.11b

Return From Hell

2012-04-19T23:31:00.000-06:00

American Fork, Hell Cave

When Haggle & I first started climbing together a rule was established: that route was terrible, she or I would say. To which the other retorts, “what did you like about the route?” We started forcing ourselves to find something, anything we could muster, beautiful, fun, different, exciting, anything positive about an otherwise subpar (or terrible & negative) line. A great example of this can be found on Bad Faith, 5.9, in AF, Utah, A Bill Boyle FA, w/ terrible (w/ the exception of 1 or 2) moves. Bolts that follow no flow of rock or line, & anchors horrendously placed, leaving one clipping w/ frightened reaching & heavy breathing. After a long while setting up a rappel & cleaning the horrid route, I descended back down to Haggle, cursing & complaining about everything under the hidden sun. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘what did you like about the route?’ I thought hard & earnestly about her question, having difficulty in coming up w/ something. It could have been a lot better, I said, but I guess, between the 3rd & 4th bolt, there is 2 consecutive moves that were brilliant. I lost myself while making them. I stopped & took stalk in what I had just said, & realized that it was true. I had fully lost myself in a couple of moves, & that they were enuf to make me forget about the dirt-worth of the rest of the climb. I’m happy we did this one, just for those two moves, I told her w/ a smile. I was being honest. The idea was (& is) to find peace & contentment wherever you find yourself. To be happy w/ where you are, not where you want to be. To accept that which is – the present & the unfixable. It has been a ‘rule’ that has been floating about my existence ever since; one that has taught me great things & more importantly, one that continues to teach me great things…

Half Acre 5.12a

…Monday, April 16, Mark & I step out of his Eurovan. Fucking great weather, I exclaim excitedly. ‘Yeah. It’s fabulous.’ The sun is out, burning wildly, & despite the early hour of the day, it feels warmer then it probably is, & can only get warmer. It is a day I have been waiting for. Seemingly perfect weather promises help on another attempt on a .12 for Project 31. I shoulder my pack, & wait for Mark. Despite having had a slow prior week – slothful training, & even a more indolent diet, I am feeling strong, confident. Today is going to be the day I finally get to have a crack at Half Acre. It’s been a long time coming, each former ‘attempt’ has ended in no attempt at all, due to the wetness of the route. Today is going to unfold exactly how I want it. I can feel it…

…The problem that arises from the constant desire to be somewhere else, to be doing something other then what you are doing presently, to attempt to fulfill a present hole by perpetually striving for whatever the future may hold, is a rapaciousness that becomes a habitual bite – jaws that won't unlock until you're shaken out of your mortal skin. It teaches a running complacency, & the wanted destination gets farther & farther until finally you forget in what direction you were even headed initially & it becomes a mirage of a pin-point somewhere out on the curving horizon; you begin to wander endlessly to & fro, thirsty for that oasis, passing by all the little streams trickling easily under foot... Rehab is such a desert. A dry, almost lifeless desert – devoid of anything you could ever want, if you choose it to be such a place. Which most do. Including myself, until that day where realization quite accidentally cratered the soil of my earth...

I am already pointing out the wet holds – streaks of water here & there – on Half Acre as Mark catches up to me, shedding his pack, letting it off gently as if it were a child. Dammit, I say. 'That last storm must have precipitated a lot here the other day.' Mark points out. He walks up to the route, eyeing it closely. 'The spots that are wet, are they crucial holds?” He asks me. I don't know, I've never been on it, but probably. I say this while pantomiming clipping imaginary draws, dictating each hold from which I would clip. Dammit! As soon as I say this, I feel the frustration slick off me, something feathering the discomfited dust from off my being.

Half Acre, seeping water

I take off my sunglasses & ask: well, what are our other doable options? We talk about the other routes on my list. Liquid Oxygen is mentioned (going to be in the shade until about what? 2 or 3? The rock will still be plenty cold, &, if this is wet, it too will be wet, just like last time.), Struggling Man (no, not again, not so soon. Not today.), Jitterbug boy (for some reason, I have a bad feeling about that one.). You know, I say, maybe I feel like knock knock knocking on Hell's door. I am smiling. 'Gateway, again?' I know I can get it, man, I tell him. Let's walk up & hang the draws...if you're fine w/ that. 'Yeah, of course,' Mark says, already digging into his pack for his harness. I am already deep into mine, pulling out the rack of clips & such. I know I can get it...today. Feeling good about it. 'Good deal,' he agrees, 'let's get it done.' We start scrambling our way up to the top of the crag to set a rappel, both of us feeling good about our decision. Both of us smiling in the shinning sun & taking the change of plans in stride...

California, in January, is oft times wet, cold, & miserable. The rain doesn’t PLUNK down in dewy drops, but rather razors itself down upon you in stinging torrents. It was like this both when I was there in my late teens for Marine Corps boot camp, & most of the time I was in Rehab. Albert C. & I were standing underneath an awning next to our room, smoking one of the innumerable cigarettes of the day. It was late. We stood there, watching the downpour in a thick air of gloominess. ‘This fucking sucks, man,’ Albert C. said. I knew he wasn’t talking about the weather. I knew also, where this was going. ‘How long have we been here now? 31/2 months? 4? Fucking 5? Hell I don’t even know anymore. I want to go home. I have things to do! Christ, I just want my life back!’ Sick to my stomach w/ all of it, w/ him, w/ the place & situation, w/ myself. I told him to stop fucking complaining. What is it going to get you? Is it going to get you home faster? No, I answered for him. Besides, Albert, I said, flicking my half-smoked cigarette up & out, you did this to yourself. You did! No one else! How about you start, for once in your life, taking responsibility for yourself. You’ll find that shit will start working out for you if you start doing that. Grow up! I walked into our room & slammed the door, & like a mighty tree, felled myself upon the bed, feeling exhausted. In my slumber, as soon as my head touched pillow, I realized what I had said wasn’t directed toward Albert C. That it was myself talking to myself as if in front of a mirror. Such sudden insights are rarely poetic. Mostly, they are ugly, self effacing, paralyzing, because they are always an atomic truth igniting your ego into hot licking flames of fury…

Lewis rapping off the Gateway 5.12a

…As I thread the rope thru the chains, readying myself for the rappel, thoughts of failure (yet again) race thru my mind, but it is just that: simple, fleeting thoughts. It doesn’t bother me. For now, it is unchangeable. It is there & now it is gone. I get onto rappel & slowly begin to lower myself, cleaning Gateway once more. Dangling in space, the day over (I can see Mark shivering from here), I come to terms w/ the fact that another weekend has passed w/out a redpoint & that I am the only one to blame for this. True, time is running out…but…I stare off into the distance, hanging there for but a second & take in the beauty American Fork has to offer me. It is becoming a second home to me. Being out, trying my hardest, finding my personal limits & telling myself the ‘limit’ of me is a state of mind, is becoming second nature. I have made headway today tho, obliterating my initial crux into submission (only to gain another one higher up). Each step, each attempt is a day not wasted. I touch down, smile at Mark, & say, let’s go home. ‘It’s been a good day. It will come together for you. You did great today.’ Yes, I think, let’s go home. As I am packing all the gear back into my pack, I take one last glance around. A swirling memory of someone I used to know, wavers in my mind, almost as if a hologram of myself, out in the distance & it is waving goodbye. I smile once again, & mentally wave back, silently wishing the figure well, but glad to finally see him leaving. Mark & I walk down the trail in silent serenity toward another time, another day, another life.

Return to Hell

2012-04-16T10:09:00.003-06:00

Lewis & Deuce writing their next post

It is a fire & brimstone desire; a naked Idol that stands in the forefront of my beleaguered cognition casting a ballooning shadow across the field of obsession. Half Acre,5.12a, perhaps to most, is not the most aesthetic line, the most difficult in the area – easy, perhaps, to most even, but to me it has been a tick burrowed deeply into my skin which itches furiously, & in my constant scratching, I see something most beautiful in it; there is something about this particular line that has been yodeling to me ever since the completion of my 'list' to give it a go, to hop on the thing & find something unknown - about it, about myself. Perhaps I will find nothing at all, but somewhere in that finding of nothing is a treasure of knowledge to be had, uncovering possibly everything. If one doesn't follow that undefined feeling which grows like lamenting demons inexplicably w/in, then what itinerary do we know to follow? How then, does one know the compass is correctly pointing... in any direction? It is early in the mourning, again, for much trouble I have sleeping in on the weekends even if the days' weather is the climbable sort or the reverse, which today, is the latter; nothing revs the mind's engine like early mourning dusk-light, a cup of coffee to combat a basement-chill, & pathetic self examination. W/ Half Acre marathoning thru my mind in large sweeping strides, the mourning's oppressive nature blanketing the plane of my existence, I lean back in my chair, tilting it on two legs, resting the back of it against the wall, unable to write that which I feel needs written. I stare at the screen & wonder what the real point of all of this is. That who would possibly want to read the thought-meanderings of a philosophical Drunk gone sober? That who would possibly be able to stay excited whilst belaying for hours someone struggling up routes week after week, legs burning & numb by the harness' dulling bite, in the name of pushing personal limits? Failure is nothing new to me. It has been a constant companion, a constant foe. A presence. But hitherto fore, failure has been mine solely to deal w/, to construct, deconstruct, & mold. But now it is somehow, different. Changed. Evolved into a Karmic Cocoon, even if such an evolution has taken place only w/in my imagination. I take a sip of tepid coffee, remove the glasses from off my face, & guide the heels of my palms across my eyes, back & forth... light begins to filter thru the window; a shadowed, subdued light, like crystal eyes casting furtive glances here & there. I let go the thoughts of Rehab snaking up my person & clamp down onto my lack of training this past week. It has been a long, slow one for me, filled to capacity w/ paralyzing lethargy & doubt. I decline the chair, toss my glasses aside, & think of what Churchill had said. “If you're going through hell, keep going.” Hell is a self imposed destination; a destination easily taken from place to place, point to point, eternity to & thru eternity, if you let it. Whether I am ready or not for Hell, I am ready for it. No one can truly be ready for anything, really. I am no different. The only thing you can do, is keep on going, & be ready for not being ready.

Minding the faulted mind & Pressing On The Gas

2012-04-10T22:07:00.001-06:00

The word ‘HOME’ was sloppily & childishly scrawled upon a sandstone rock which was propped up on our mat in front of our tent’s door. I stood there looking at it, arms full of needed gadgets: hatchet, a shovel, & a bag that we had labeled ‘bouldering’ which contained our climbing shoes, chalk bags, a guide, & two extra blocks of chalk. I was entranced looking at this piece of décor which Haggle had made. Silly & fittingly, it…fit. Something about it warmed the corridors of my heart. What’s more, was the thought that she had had the mind to do such a thing. Before, to create a comfortable energy of familiarity, I had started hanging prayer flags from our tent, or stringing them up between trees at whatever campsite we found ourselves, but alas, failing, I had forgot to bring them along.

Lewis, Duece & Haggle - Usual camp setup

Perhaps this is why Haggle added something personal to this particular site, but nevertheless, it worked. Substitution to that which I forgot. It seemed hard for me to move. To rent myself from my enraptured stare. Perhaps I was finding too much meaning where meaning wasn’t to be had (but the mind works best, & meaning is most found, when you turn it over & down upon itself, dissecting those ordinary thoughts that exist in the mind already – it is the watering of a flower in a desert heat), but Haggle unknowingly taught me something great from such a simple action: Enjoy where you are, not where you aren’t. I believed in a moment’s snap that wherever I was, was home. W/ Haggle & Deuce present, her smiles, his constant digging & contented demeanor, I could find home wherever I wished to look, & it would be there – no longer a mirage, a transient ghosting sense of something real, but a reality. Something as tangible as those things which I was holding in my arms. Even surrounded by the clay-like sheer cliffs of the south, beautiful, hold-less, perfect walls, climbing escaped my mind. I un-packed calmly. Deliberately. Slowly. Glad to be out at least…Enjoying exactly where I was, for I was home…

Near Green River, Utah

...US 6 is a stretch of lonely road that seemingly elastics on for eternity; after every hill Eternity once again smiles its ugly, snide grin, daring you to contemplate its longevity. & that is exactly what you do. W/ Haggle asleep next to me, the stereo lightly coursing its tune, the hum of the tires jazzing it up in musical-tranced perfection, its all I can do but let the thoughts of my up-coming climbs criminal back into my head – apparently the weekend of contentment over, & back to the project I drive, back to the very real beast of failure I spin, & a sheath of futility paints over me in an awesome stroke. It is this futile emotion that grows w/in me as I gas the car forward (ever forward! Does this road ever end!) that spurs me on. So many years of such feelings, giving into them, forgetting & lamenting, cursing & spitting, but to what end? I glance over at Haggle. She looks peaceful in her car induced slumber, at home w/ herself & for a minute wish it was I who was the one fastly asleep, unaware of all that is. Solitude creates wishing. Wishing creates doubt. Doubt creates a loathsome concoction of ever stirring misery & pain induced longing. I cease to take notice of all that is passing by. The Southern Mountains dull in their natural gleam, the sky blue is just another expanse of nothing. I sigh soggily, arching my aching back; my knee, a torturous flame combusting from the inside out. Yes, the echo of US 6 creates something w/in me that resembles doubt. Mirrors that which I've left behind a long time ago. It aches & screams like my aeonian lust for the contents of a bottle. It's there, all of it, & should be acknowledged, & I do. I roll down the window, a gust of wonderfully warm air explodes into the car & onto my face, seemingly revitalizing something deep w/in my psyche. I step on the gas, marvel once again at what the mountains have to offer me, & say, fuck you, to US 6 & watch it recede into the rear view mirror.

2012-04-05T22:33:00.002-06:00

Haggle & Lewis

My knee is healing nicely; a bruise slowly fading into history. My mind is beginning to forget & turn toward the future. Tuesday or Wednesday of next week will, if all goes as planned of course, find me at Big In Japan, 5.12 b, located on Storm Mountain, in BCC. But first thing's first – sometimes we all need to step back from that which we dream, attempt, want, need - to renew a humble perspective. Haggle & I will be traveling down into Southern Utah, spending the Easter Holiday w/ her family, camping somewhere in Dry Valley Canyon, taking it easy & enjoying the sun & company... but first, we will spend Saturday in Big Bend , Moab – checking out the boulders for the first time.

The nemesis list doubles

2012-04-02T20:25:00.000-06:00

The dagger in my heart rents to & fro: a steely wrist manipulating it like an insidious marionette being performed in front of an aghast audience. In this case it is an audience of one. Me. I am hushed, watching the entertainment w/ breathe choking anticipation. Humor is on my side but it is an irreverent humor, comical only to the bottom of the spirit. It's an ironic laugh that escapes my parted lips...

American Fork Canyon

...The sky is crystal – a light blue spreads the Year's coming spring across the atmosphere like stretching extremities. The wind hasn't yet began to blow as predicted per all the weather forecasts; it is nice. Almost perfect. Haggle & I have decided to attempt another wall. The Hell Area, for now, has lost its allure & we long for different scenery. The Division Wall is decided upon. We had climbed here a few times last year, was in-fact, the wall were I took my first lead fall whilst she belayed. It is staggered w/ great looking moderate lines, most of which we haven't tried.

Division Wall - Liquid Oxygen

The two 12's I have planned (Liquid Oxygen 5.12a, Struggling Man, 5.12a) on red-pointing sit at the back of my mind, loitering like misfits. As we get out of the car, Mark pulls up behind us to our great surprise. He had told me he most likely wasn't going to make it, so indeed, it is a nice gift as he parks his jeep, smiling face & all, behind our vehicle. The Division Wall, still in shade, looks cold. We crane our necks up towards the sun, almost willing its arcing travel to travel faster, we want to be in the direct heat the day has to offer. We all have had enuf of climbing on cold rock, as it was, & switching things up seemed to be the wish for all. W/out unpacking the car, we walk over & up to the area, to check the digs out. I run thru the easier climbs for mark, pointing them out, from memory, & tell him where I think Liquid Oxygen is, & confirmation comes via another group of climbers; we are looking at the correct line. Partially wet, but not overly so, we hem & haw over what to do. Haggle, the whole time, pacing back & forth, a hungry lioness. 'Let's climb. Let's climb. Let's climb.' She whispers into my ear each time I get close to her. Soon, baby, soon. She is revved & ready to go go go. She is all smiles, & I tell Mark, let's warm up here, & we will decide afterward what to do. Done & done.

Haggle, Leading 'Physical Therapy'

Before I can even get my pack off, Haggle is unpacked, racking up, & digging her feet into her shoes. You leading this? I ask, smiling at her energy & compunction. “Yup, Yup, Yup.” Haggle leads her way up Physical Therapy, 5.9+, quickly & efficiently. Only stopping here & there, to complain about her fingers, how cold they are. Indeed, the rock is much colder then seemingly it should be. Mark makes his way up, top-roping, complaining about the cold rock, & I do the same as I top-rope the route. Brittle, finger-tip breaking cold. As I clean the anchors, & begin to set up a rappel, I have to stop multiple times to double & triple check everything. My fingers are w/out feeling. Finally, I lower down to the group. It has the makings of a great, golden-statue of a day...

My hand shakes lightly as I lift a cup of coffee to my lips. Sitting here, my left knee stretched uncomfortably straight – I cannot bend it properly – I am scratched & bothered by guilt. I play Saturday over & over in my mind, unable to shake its sneering grin; it seems to me, at this early hour, to be laughing maniacally. Giggling a torturous song that sirens between my ears deafeningly. I cannot escape it, & it is this inability to change my mind's point of view, this handicap that stops me in a corpse-lock of second guessing, that makes me feel out of control of myself, pointless, & a lottery wisher. How quickly things can fade for an individual. How quickly we can forget...

'I don't want to waste a lot of time trying to get a route. I mean, how many hours were we working on The Gateway? Times running out. I think we should hop on something here. Try to knock out as many as we can today. One or both of these .12's', Mark is saying. He is talking about Liquid Oxygen & Struggling man. Haggle & I are sitting at a picnic table, smoking. Bathing ourselves in the sun, glad to be out of the shaded wind for at least a time.

Division Wall - Struggling Man

W/ excitement building, I ask Haggle if she minds staying where we are, if she can take being cold for a little bit longer, that I think Mark is right...& that it shouldn't take too long anyway. Standing, discarding our cigarettes, she says, 'yeah, that's fine.' It shouldn't take too long, I tell her, I'll knock these two out quickly...

The mourning Sunday weather emulates my mood: dank. A suppressive layer that won't flake off the supreme of me – that which I've worked tirelessly to become, to show, to gleam from the inside out, all...withered & stamped. I get up & gumby myself up the stairs. My limp progresses me further down, & suddenly a cigarette doesn't seem to matter all that much. But I trek on anyway. As I light a cigarette & slowly ease myself into a chair, I drag deeply, tucking my chin down into my chest, shivering against the unseasonable cold encasing me w/in a depression w/ razored wings...

I am airborne. The ground falling toward me in an ever increasing speed. Pins & sharp needles stab my abdomen like sharp-toothed kisses. I have just enuf time to think, when am I going to stop? & then it's over. It happens in an instant...after the fact. I'm hanging there, wondering what went wrong. From below, I hear Mark, who is on belay, asking, 'you ok?' I take a quick mental note of all my extremities, yes, yes, I say. Hang on. & that's what I do, plan to do for the next few minutes. Hang on. Dangle on, is more like it. This is my third red-point attempt on Struggling Man. I'm below the 5th bolt. The last bolt before the chains. Fuck goddamn! My breathing is heavy. Labored. I know I can make these moves. This is what I'm telling myself. I believe it, I do. I'm done resting. Feel slightly better. I gear up. Climbing, I yell down to Mark, not caring if he is listening or not.

Lewis - Struggling Man

I begin to climb. Making moves past my last protection. My right & left hand situated, the latter up in a side-pull two finger under-cling, the former on a crimp smaller then I want, feet snug, & throw to a smaller crimp. Left hand a two finger pocket, &...I'm off, airborne again. From the arcing I know I am swinging in. Going to hit. & then it happens, My knee impacts into the rock wall, hard enuf to elicit a cry of pain...from Mark. Lower me! I am saying, lower me, I'm going to fucking vomit! The decent is slow, painful. I feel like I'm going to pass out...

As I sit in my chair, on the porch, against the cold storm wind, I replay all of it, over & over. None of it makes sense to me. The training. The diets. The constant climbing. The worst thing that can happen to one, happens. Doubt in myself & abilities maturate deep inside me like a cancerous demon baby. I am at its mercy. Perhaps The Blight was a fortunate barb. A mistake that the universe corrected quickly. Project 31 is too much of a project. I can't do it. That much is obvious. I exhale a plume of blue smoke...

We are back at the car, standing around, talking. Mark is drinking a beer, Haggle a Pepsi. I have nothing, whilst here & there, taking glances back at The Division wall. 'Well you gave it some good goes. I think if you hadn't slammed your knee, twice in the same spot for chrissakes, you would've got it, for sure,' Mark is saying. Well, I did hurt my knee, that's the point. Haggle is listening to us talk. Don't know if I will be able to get any of these. Man, another day of humble reckoning, I say. My face contorted by the reverse of happiness. 'Let's say that you don't. You will, but let's just say. So what, right? Isn't that what this project is about anyway? Never giving up on impossible odds?'...

Lewis, in pain after two big falls

I get out of my chair & limp into the house. Aloud, I tell myself what I had told Mark in response to one of his questions ('What exactly is Project 31, anyway?'): “You can come up short, but never sell yourself short (Mark: 'Well, there you go. Perfect.'). That's what it is about.”

The Gym, a Memory, & myself go a rambling

2012-03-29T18:20:00.000-06:00

Kerouac Street - San Francisco

Inside the gym, sometimes, there is an energy which I cannot explain. It is oppressive. A stifling heat in an already stifled exhaust-spewing desert: my mind. Tonight is one of those sometimes. I am sitting inside the gym, arms pumped from a tedious traverse, watching hordes of climbers come & go, some climbing sloppily, some not, no matter, I fail to find the dance, the poetry I usually find in watching anyone struggle, or climbing fluidly, or just...living. & I begin to think of what climbing must have been like before my time, or even, back when I started climbing in the 90's(have I missed out?). Was it always like this? I can't say for sure. I don't remember. Can't remember. My mind has been trained to forget, & even in sobriety, it stays that way. In that sense, the damage has been done: I loose keys which I hold in my hand; forget to lock the door only to return to the house to realize that I had, in-fact, already locked it. Today, the gym sends me into a spit-fire depression that swirls & masticates my energy. I loose myself & walking out to the car wonder if I will find myself yet again, or be lost in plain sight, but I worry that I won't remember to look. I can't find peace. I am on edge, & can't say for sure if it is because I was shut down by The Gateway & am now worrying about my abilities as a climber, or my determination to complete Project 31 or if it is...something else. Something ghosting under the nostrils of my spirit, my being. I start the car, & breathe deeply, trying to smell whatever it may be, but all I can smell is the tangible odor of confusion. It is choking thick. Pungent & sour. My body constricts over a craving for Whisky. I sigh heavily, lite a cigarette & begin my drive home in a starry eyed, pensive daze...

Albert C. is a 19 year old musician, who just so happens to be a Junky. He is from Las Vegas, Altho he looks as if he should probably be from Beverly Hills. He has long, raven hair, a cherub face, & the most perfect teeth I have ever seen. He dresses like a Kurt Cobain applicant, which surprises me. Never have I met someone of his age that was such a fan of Cobain. Different generations, different times – to each their own I guess – but at least, I think to myself, I'm sharing a room w/ someone who has taste & intelligence wrapped in a neat little drug packaged mess. Albert C. is funny in the way an annoying pre-teen boy is funny: you can't help but smile at the antics of someone lacking the maturity of whatever age they are supposed to be. Again, to each their own. He & I are lucky. We share the only room in this rehab that has two beds & two beds only, the rest boasting up to 8 & 9 bunks, stacked like dead fish. But that is exactly what we are, Dead fish.

Lewis - Pre-rehab

At the moment Albert C. is complaining about something but I can't say about what for sure, I'm not listening. I met Albert C. up in the withdrawal cabin where I spent the entire 4 or 5 days sitting out on the porch smoking cigarette after cigarette, arguing w/ the staff about this or that. Anything I could think of, really. Their philosophy was off, it really was, so I did them a favor by pointing it out, but they weren't listening. To each their own. Out of boredom, when Albert C. would come out & sit on the porch, I would ask him questions. He was quite open for a junky kid from a shitty town, so I began supplying him w/ cigarettes so I had someone to smoke w/. But this act of charity, I assure you, is pure selfishness. I needed something. Someone, lest I go raving mad. “Are you listening?” Albert C. Asks. I raise my head from off the pillow, tilt my head in his direction & say, yes, I heard every word you said. I put my head back deep into my pillow, it is late, & some sleep I desperately want to get. “And?” He says, sitting up in his own bed. What did you say again? Sorry, I forget easily, I tell him, my voice muffled by my pillow...

As I enter the freeway, wanting to get home as quickly as possible, I am remembering the way my room in rehab smelled that night, Albert C.'s voice as he asked if I felt as if I've failed at everything in life, how he thought he had & he wanted to know if he was the only one that felt this way. I am remembering how he looked when he smiled out of anger because he knew I had heard him yet told him otherwise & eventually feigned sleep to exorcise myself of that particular conversation, or how he would say, rather simply, “you are such an asshole, it's awesome!” It's hard for me to remember , but easy for me to relive many different lives, to conjure a feeling felt days, or weeks, or years ago; I can succumb to memory's laundry list of emotions as if they are occurring for the very first time. Confusion. Anger. Embarrassment. Disappointment. These all consume me every day. A fist to the sky consumption that burns me wildly into a frenzy of displacement...

I pull into my driveway & place the Buddha Beast in park, & sit there for just a minute. Staring. If I so easily forget that which spurs my spirit on & up, yet remember that which drags it into the murky depths, I have lost already.

Lewis - Contemplating the Gateway .12a

I tell myself all this occurs because I didn't send The Gateway, & disappointment has settled in. This is partially true, but inherently false, an excuse. It occurs from the false pretense we have about failure. It occurs when I find myself thirsting for the juice that stirs weakness w/in me. It occurs because of guilt & karmic debt yet paid. I should have told Albert C. the Truth. That yes, for 30 years I have failed. Perhaps it would have eased him, if just for a night, to know I knew exactly how he felt. But...to each their own, I guess. . I get out of my vehicle, take a breath & go inside, thinking, at least I failed trying...this time.

“Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.” - Marilyn Vos Servant.

A Successful Failure

2012-03-26T13:46:00.000-06:00

Saturday, March 24^th

Lewis & Haggle - American Fork Canyon, Hell Wall

The mourning came quick & wonderfully. My eyes opened, & out of bed I was at 4:30 am, full of revitalized energy; all of the week's doubts & insecurities seemingly swept clean by a few hours of sweeping solid sleep. I had decided the night before to let it all go, to stop expending precious energies on that which I was forcing upon myself. To unleash the BLANK, relinquishing all else...it worked. & I was ready to attack Half Acre, knock it out of the way & move on...

We pulled over into the pull-out for The Hell Area, & unpacked the car & let Deuce, our dog, out & threw a leash around his neck. The weather was overcast, an illusion of a sun trying desperately to make itself a reality, light translucently & weakly burning thru thin clouds. We both looked up & both hoped it would succeed.

Lewis & Haggle - American Fork, unloading the Buddha Beast

It wasn't cold, by any stretch of the imagination. It was warm. Much warmer then we were used to. Just after 9, the gauge in the Buddha Beast was reading 53. Wonderfully warm climbing temps. As we walked down the road, Haggle w/ her pack on her back walking next to & holding Deuce.

Haggle & Lewis - American Fork, Hell Wall, Romeo's Bleeding 11.b

Me, trailing, shouldering a heavy pack & holding the crash pad, ('are we taking that?' Haggle asked me earlier. Yes, I replied. 'Why?' So we can relax on it if we want...& the second clip on Half Acre is a hard one, I told her matter-of-factly...Haggle ended up taking a small little nap on it...lucky for her), craning my head back to watch for on coming cars. The closer we got, the more excited I became. The weather was churning something w/in me. Far better weather today, then the day of The Blight, I told myself. I could feel a smile creeping across my face, & for the first time in a long time, I didn't try to hide it, or hold it in. I let it take responsibility over my entire facade....

We had talked, on the drive down, about starting out on two very easy looking routes we had spied on our way out the last time we were here. The promise (not of doing easy routes) but of doing routes we had never done before along w/ the fact that they aren't in the guide, tickled our fancy. Un-shouldering our packs underneath the first climb, I said (looking up), looks maybe like 5.6. 'Easier then that,' Haggle snorted. I asked her to get things ready if she didn't mind. I wanted to run up & take look at Half Acre, my route of the day. I speedily walked up the trail, & stopped dead as it came into view. Spreading like two massive fingers, were streaks of still-wet, still drippings stains of water. They criss-crossed over the second & third bolts. For the first time of the day, disappointment settled like a lazy dog into an unfamiliar cozy bed, sure & concrete in its resolve to take a nap. Staying positive I returned to Haggle, telling her that it might not be a go, & gave her the reasons. 'Well, the sun should be coming out in about an hour... I bet it dries out.' So we goofily made out way up the first '5.6' route, theatrically grunting & cursing , laughing at one another, & moved on to the next route directly to the right. Earlier, after coming to terms w/ the fact that Half Acre might not be climbable today, I ran over to The Hell Wall, thinking we might instead make our way up Reaching For Razors, a 5.11d. It too was wet half way up. Switching plans yet again, I settled on Romeo's Bleeding, 5.11b. A long(ish) route, that had always caught my eye. It looked interesting & contorting. Somewhere during the day, I unconsciously let Half Acre (or any of my other 5.12 climbs) go. Project 31 slipped from my mind...We ended up climbing Romeo's Bleeding & Reaching For Razors. More simply put then any writer would care to, we had fun. & that was the lesson of the day, for me. A big, Arching lesson that I am undeniably grateful for...

Sunday, March 25^th

Lewis - American Fork river

Driving home after a long day of climbing is always serene, quiet, & a little more then perfect. There exists a spiritual overtone that seems to saturate everything, & anybody who finds themselves in its wake falls victim to the enticing spell. There is always conversation, but usually it is hushed, as if the voices speaking & the ears listening are ensconced between pillows of cotton; you don't mean to, but you end up speaking as if in great museum or church. Rarely do I have these moments in the 'outside' world, sometimes it occurs just after waking from a potent dream, sometimes when writing, but always, always w/out a flinch, it occurs driving home after an interminable day of climbing.

Lewis - American Fork, El Diablo Wall, Gateway 5.12a

It unearths thoughts past, hopes of near or far future; it paints a wild array of imaginary possibilities – it makes you feel the humble energy of the earth , or creates a demonic narcissist w/ grandiose abilities. Either way, this serene energy of depleted vigor accomplishes one thing: it makes you feel. & inward you turn, for thru the depletion of your body's resources, a strength of curiosity froths up & roils undeniably up to the crust of your surface...

...it's been a day since being released from medical withdrawal & I have been allowed to enter the Gen-Pop of this place...this Rehab compound. & that is exactly how it feels. A compound. It is getting late in the day, where sun begins to wan & give way to the oncoming dark of night. As I stand here, atop a hill that over looks Monterrey Bay, 2 miles away, & straight out more into the pacific, I can watch the sun descending slowly toward the curving horizon. It has been a long time since I've seen the curvature of the earth; it has me hypnotized. I stare & stare, no particular thought going thru my head. I am not well. Feel alone utterly, discombobulated, twirling out of control – a feeling of falling overtakes me, & I have to sit down. There is something off. Something not right, & I have a hard time placing what it is. Pressure begins to build in my eyes as I continue to stare off into the ocean. I blink, feeling moisture. I hold back, hard, not wanting to let fly a tearful, streaming river of salt. 'How's it going, lewi?' The voice comes from Phillip. I've dubbed him Philly Phil. He was a drug runner from Philadelphia. A gangster of Italian decent in every definition. We had been together thru Medical, & subsequently bunked together in the Withdrawal Cabin, located miles up & away from the Gen-Pop campus we now found ourselves. Nothing, I said. I don't know, everything, man. All fucked up right now, & can't place it. Philly Phil laughed a little, waving his hands at our surroundings. 'Maybe this has something to do w/ it. It's not prison, but might as well be.' No, I came back, it isn't THIS, per say, but... It hit me, & nothing I could do would hold back the tears. They began to flow. I stood, & walked to the outer edge of the hill on which we were standing. I arced my hand, pantomiming the curvature of the world, the outer most edge of the ocean. This, I said, I feel naked. 'What the fuck are you talking about, man? You high?' I smiled at his inability to think about things in a different manner, outside that which he had been taught. All Philly Phil knew was the street, albeit smart & cunning – we were just different souls caught up in the same shit – I didn't feel like explaining... wasn't sure if I could if I wanted to. Look around you, I said, what is missing? (I didn't wait for him to answer.) We are screamingly naked in this place, no sense of real direction. I'm used to feeling closed in, womb-like. Where I am from, I am constantly surrounded, hugged... I've forsaken that which I love most & that which has always given me a sense of peace & safety. There are no mountains here man... I walked away from him. He stood there, looking out into the great expanse of ocean. Perhaps pondering what I had just said, perhaps not. It didn't matter. For the first time in a long time I had hit the nail on the head, as it were. I now had a small, beginning sense of direction on how to fix all that was wrong in my life. I knew I never wanted to feel naked again...

Lewis - The Gateway, 5.12a

They look so fake, so beautiful. Other worldly, really, I say to Haggle as we drive down I-15 back toward the city. The mountains slowly passing by us on our right illumined in Alpine Glow. The Dream state wrapped around me stays. I feel revitalized. Renewed. I know I am on the right path, for me. & I have someone to share that w/. Unaccustomed am I to such a feeling of....'correctness' that I have a difficult time accepting it even as it flows thru my spirit, my existence. It doesn't matter, tho. It exists, & for now that is enuf. So much so, that I let my failure of the weekend to redpoint any 5.12's on my list, slide on by me. Half Acre, still wet on what looked to be crucial holds was a no go.We set up on another .12, The Gateway.Gave it some great meaningful goes, climbed it 3 times but was unable to get out of my own head & send it on Redpoint – loosing the sequential dance needed to get over the crux between the 3^rd & 4^th bolt. It wasn't for lack of trying tho, & for that I am proud. Failure is the best thing in one's life when one fails after giving it their all...failure before trying is the worst imaginable sort of practice. One that will cut you down, & suck the spirit & soul out of possibility. I lay down into bed, my fingers feeling like rusty pitons, proud to have failed.

The Crew, wrapping up the climbing day - American Fork Canyon

Monday, March 26^th

Lewis - At the anchors on 'Gateway', disappointed it wasn't a redpoint completion

The weather has turned considerably worse. Temps have dropped, winds have picked up. Climbing is most surely out of the question today. Brief thoughts of time ticking away linger on the out skirts of my consciousness. W/ Half Acre yet attempted, & Gateway cutting me down to humble size, I can begin again to focus on the training of the coming week. Pin-pointed focus on contact strength & durability. Good eating, & good living.

Have not decided if I will give Gateway another go, or move on to something else. As they say, time will tell. I believe in Time. I learn from it. It is steadfast & snails on, no matter what, second by second, minute by minute. Such is a lesson I am learning more & more each day.

Fists of Fury

2012-03-23T20:38:00.002-06:00

Lewis

It's been a week-long chore staying calm. My nerves feel like they've been exposed to ice. Self-expectation pulling & stretching them taunt, creating a brittle sensation. On Wednesday, I wrote in my journal: 'suffered massively by panic attacks, jolts of nervousness thru-out the day. It was all I could do to choke them back into a semblance of calm & control.' There were times where this nervousness felt like withdrawal, a feeling I remember well. That which is almost stronger then your entire being is unforgettable. Such feelings bring about a sharp edged melancholy that permeates every...single...fiber...

of your being. It brings on THE THIRST of old. My tongue wriggles its way across the dry deserts of my mouth, wanting, thirsting for that Amber river; That liquid heaven that so readily thru me into the yawning mouth of a burning Hell. The sodden yarn of anxiety balled heavily in my stomach won't dissipate. I'm thirsty. My body wants to scream ire into the void, but my tongue ties itself. I've become good at holding such things in, wanting to have the patience of a flower. I need the crag. Need to fall into to the zenetopia that only I can create for myself. I need the blank that exists w/in the shadows of our everyday thoughts...

...The week's distress culminates into this. Into...this night. & then tomorrow. This weekend will include 3 full days of climbing. I will be attempting to tick off as many routes as I possibly can. Whether it is only 1 route, or 2, or 3, I cannot say. My brain is muddled at the moment. Struggling I am to come to terms w/ this project, this...goal. 31 is quickly becoming about quittance. About paying a Karmic debt that is deeper than any ocean, more expansive than any stretch of space, more important than I could have imagined. It has become repayment to the wrongs I've beckoned forth to my brother, to all those whom I don't even know, to a humanity I feel indebted to from my actions, a silly thought, perhaps, but a serious one; it has become about proving myself to Haggle. To show her my inherent worth. & to myself. To display to myself what lies w/in. To realize that the word POSSIBILITY doesn't just have to be a word, but rather an action...

...All this circus thinking has me clouded. Brightening a dull light of fear. Rheinhold Messner wrote: 'Fear is like a clenched fist. Only an open hand needs no energy.'

I look down upon my hands. They are fists of fury. Knuckles white & stone-like. I breath & relax my focused energy. My fingers slowly spread out, limp at the tips, palms down, & I stare. For the moment I let go. Release myself to that which simply is. I breath. Tomorrow will be what tomorrow will be, & this action, this thought, slides thru me easily, & I am eased enuf to hit the 'ENTER' button & ….

Lewis

4 days & reckoning

2012-03-20T11:17:00.005-06:00

Lewis - Pre-Rehab, smokin' & drinkin' up the night

I awoke last night in a sweat. Covered actually. Cold & trembling, I looked about the room for inconsistencies, something off, but all, of course, was normal. I tried to recall the dream, any dream, but could only come away w/ a sense of falling. Falling off what? I couldn’t say for sure. It couldn’t have been a climb (could it?), for I rarely dream about climbing, & when I do, they are usually glorious, sending dreams. Not like this. Not this one. This one had the consistency of rotten chicken skin, bumped over & grimy; a foreboding plastic of masks floating irreverently in a child’s closet. I got out of bed & stumbled to the bathroom. De JA vu hit me forcefully – god I’ve done this before. This feeling so familiar, so natural, so…awful…

…I stumble to the bathroom disoriented. Sick. Only slightly – in a hushed way- do I know where I am. I know I’m not home. The word ‘Rehab’ materializes in the forefront of my mind. I look about in the dark. I’m in a small cabin type building. To my left, before reaching the bathroom, is a small wood burning stove, crackling wood as fire licks the room warm. Next to that is a sliding glass door, out from which, I can see nothing. It is late, or early – I have no sense of time. On the other side of the room, sitting at a wooden circular table, a man. He looks younger then me. I have never seen this young man before. He stands, eyeing me with what I feel is suspicion. ‘Lewis,’ he says, ‘I’m Josh. How are you feeling?’ It takes me a minute to comprehend his question. I don’t care how I am feeling, & care even less about his concern w/ how I am feeling. I want a Drink. I want a Drink, I say. I don’t look at him, & say nothing more. Walking into the bathroom, I slam the door & take a piss. I am shaking. My skin feels like it is melting by the burn of my hot sweat. I am dizzy. For a minute, I stare tranced, into the toilet, thinking I can dive into it, disappear from this place, drown in a silent echo, atleast I’ll be able to quench this thirst. I come to. The dizziness dissipates, for now, & I walked out of the bathroom. Josh is standing there. Waiting. ‘Anything I can get you?’ He asks. I stare, & stare, &… No, I just want to go to bed. Thinking I might fall, he walks over to me & slings his hands around the bottom of my arm. I shrug him off, & slowly return the way I came, guessing the direct route. I walk into a small room, emanating sounds of sleeping bodies coupled w/ smells of unwell men -–vomit, stained urine, the ubiquitous odor of sickness. Stacked & packed, bunk beds, all full, judging by the shadow outlines of large lumps underneath thin blankets. It’s cold. All I want now is to get warm, to stop shivering. I collapse on a bottom bunk, the only empty one I can see in the dark, & quickly fall into the thin space between waking & sleeping...

Lewis - Pre-Rehab, Considering potential moves in every sense

…I shut the lights off in the bathroom & get back into bed w/ Haggle. My sweating has stopped, the nightmarish feeling gone. I lay there in the dark. Her breathing, rhythmic. It calms me & I start to get sleepy & begin to doze off. My thoughts are fleeting & are about dreams & their meaning. A conclusion I cannot come to. But realize it doesn’t matter. That dreams are a sure-fire way of keeping me on my toes, a way to remember. Some say that history repeats itself. I say history doesn’t repeat itself because history never stops. It is always w/ you. & should be. Remembrance is the lance that pierces your every action. W/out it, you are walking dead.

Lewis - Pre-Rehab, working on his Story

W/ 4 days until my next climb, I remember where I was & where I am headed. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow, just now. Today. W/ this, I fall asleep, thinking of Half Acre, which, yes, is 4 days from today, but exists for me now, the way Rehab exists for me now, & always will. There is moving on, & then there is forgetting. To forget is to deny that which you are, ensuring the repeat of a history that is no history at all, but rather a story: your story…my story.
　

NEW WALL: EL DIABLO BECKONS ONCE MORE

2012-03-17T19:59:00.003-06:00

The Crew, Saint Patty's - Aiden, Lewis, Haggle, Jaime, Mark

Months ago, Haggle & I were in AF, on our way out after a long day of climbing when we decided to stop & check out The Hell Area. Arriving, the wall coming rudely into view, I remember being astonished. Out of breath, really (I am sure that sometime in my life I had seen this area before, but years of inebriation turns realities into fantasies & fantasies into realities, you get into a place where you are never sure of what is real, mixed up on the happenings of each given day – they become head scratchers & brow furrowers, leaving one guessing & picking what has actually happened). It was the first time I had seen this clearly & wonderfully, for me, the me of now at least. I don’t know if it was because of the concentration of hard climbs, the beauty of this particular area, or if I was simply moved by the want of being able to climb in such areas & feel comfortable as a climber, but regardless, I loved it instantly….

As we meandered back & forth, spying each line, barely able to contain our excitement, I withdrew from my normal self, my MO, as it were, & walked up to a group of climbers working a line located on what I was about to find out to be El Diablo wall. W/ that information now stored, we were free to gather our bearings more accurately. God, it’s just damn amazing, I love it, I spewed to the climber who straightened our bearings for us. ‘Yeah, pretty cool, eh?’ he said. ‘Something to aspire to, for sure!’ Yeah, man, no kidding, I lamented, maybe next season, I laughed…maybe, & chuckled once more…I thanked him & we were on our way. I talked about the area & climbing there the entire way home. Haggle listened politely, adding every now & again a ‘yeah’ & ‘that’d be sweet’ & something I remember w/ a crystal tink, ‘we’ll get there. We could climb there now, you just have to realize it. But…’ she added, ‘WE’LL get there. We’ll get there.’…

It wasn’t lost on me that she had emphasized WE so blaringly. It had made me smile (& smiling I am, right now as I write this early in the mourning, realizing that what she actually meant was not that we would get to any particular place, but would continue to search the path, struggle & relax, fight against the concrete of the self, PUSH against the HARD we encounter everyday, w/in all the different realities folded around us, and that WE would do it together…)…

Call me a bleeding heart…it’s ok, because it’s true. It’s one of the few things I’m not ashamed of, one of the few things I believe is not fully under my control, & I’ve learned to embrace that which you can’t control. To accept those things that swirl about in an existential arc, using it to the advantage of yourself & those around you, for the greater good. & thus is how I came to the decision of my next line. The next climb, mounting for me right at this moment, as a very important one, if not solely for it’s idealistic tone & measure, but also to lend weight to the memory I have of the place. Haggle & mine’s ‘exploration’ of the area, & the blissful energy that snaked thru our veins as we quite literally viewed & knew the future.

Half Acre, 5.12a, a Boone Speed route, reads from out the guide: “there are many acres of slopers on this bulging plot.”

The decision made, laid down before me as a solid one, gives me wriggle room to enjoy the rest of the weekend waiting out the bad weather to relax & focus on more important things, for the moment (enticing also is the promise to have multiple burns on something other then crimps…my fingers will be please).

atmospheric conditions & then…?

2012-03-16T10:08:00.002-06:00

Lewis & Haggle in their Subaru 'Buddha Beast'

W/ The Blight behind me, the euphoric sense that has been w/ me has dwindled & dried & thoughts of the future have returned. What to do next? has become a daily question for me. Already, nervousness & antsy-ness have filled me once more as if this next climb will be my first. It occurs to me tho, that perhaps this is how I should attack each subsequent climb, as if it is my first. This ensures a heightened sense of awareness. A Sensitivity of my abilities & drive; a pin-prick of fear has never hurt anyone, in-fact, it can only help.

As I peruse my list of climbs, I settle on 2. Both in the same area. Separate walls. Both the same grade: 5.12a. Both, judging by the descriptions, equally unsettle my stomach W/ lines such as "a tricky heel hook gets you out onto the scary slab" (god…slab climbing). I chalk this up to ‘1^st time jitters’. No worries.

So I settle on 2, but the onslaught of inclement weather this weekend gives me a cushion, a break of sorts. Allowing me to meditate just a little longer before I have to break down & name the climb.

Until then, it is easy street, as it were. Who among us doesn’t enjoy, every once & awhile, house work & a weekend lunch of PHO w/ the person you love?

The Blight 5.12a

2012-03-15T10:53:00.002-06:00

Lewis - The Blight

3-11-12
The day had finally arrived. I awoke anxious at 4 AM, unable to sleep. Haggle (Whitney Redd, my beloved girlfriend & climbing partner) soundly sleeping next to me. Our dog, Duece, snoring just as soundly, totally unaware of what the day meant for me (I could learn a lesson from his carefree demeanor). W/ the lights off, the dark edges of the world being my world, I muttered about the house, going hither & thither, checking, re-checking my pack & packed gear (months earlier Haggle & I went out for a fun day of climbing, only to hike to & arrive to, the crag, only to realize I hadn’t packed my harness, a magoo mistake I’ve yet to live down). Satisfied (momentarily), I brewed coffee, & relocated to the porch & started smoking a cigarette. The air was warm, overly so for 4:30 in the mourning, & as I smoked I tranced out, thinking of all that was, & all that had been. What had gotten me here? Where had I been? A melancholic air settling awesomely over me…

For the past 10 years, I had been stuck deep inside the cracks of addiction; a hazy life of imbibing & snorting; of lies & deceit. A life meaningless. Cruelty. Mistakes. My mind settled on my uncle, who taught me to climb (he died in an avalanche in 2003) & what he would of thought of my life hithertofore. I feel shame. Guilt. I puff on my cigarette, transitioning my thought. A year ago to the day, I was stuck in a rehab, emaciated, frail, as close to being on a death bed as one can get w/out slipping over to the other side (whatever that other side may be). Months ago, days after release from the rehab, I found myself at a climbing gym, struggling, huffing & puffing up a V2…but now…but now….

All these thoughts raced thru lightening quick. They felt like a movie turned speedily up. Before I knew it, I was holding a smoldering butt, coffee gone cold. The melancholic wave lifted. I felt light. Today was today, & that was all that mattered. The now. I walked quietly back in the house, & into the bedroom. There Haggle was, still sleeping. I watched her for a moment, welcoming her beauty in sleep & the beauty she has brought into my life & climbing. Instantly I knew I wouldn’t be able to do any of this w/out her…

Previously, thru out the week, I had been checking the weather w/ the determination of a crack addict obsessed. It looked promising, warm, & more importantly, crystalline.

Packing up the car, back & forth, back & forth, checking & re-checking everything (the climber’s plight), Haggle stopped me & asked, ‘you nervous?’ no, I told her, calm as hell in winter. It was a lie. Nervous I was. All the what-if's cascading all around me like a colossal avalanche. I had climbed The Blight before, twice, but never cleanly, falling twice at the same clip, & once toward the chains, pumped out & breathless. I knew the sequence of the line, knew it well, but was worried I would some how fuck it up. Sensing this, she said as I pulled the Buddha Beast out of the driveway, ‘it’s just another climb. You got this.’ She was both right & wrong. Right, being that it was just another climb. A wise angle to take. Just another climb. Just another climb, I told myself as we drove toward AF (American Fork). Wrong, in the sense that I had been working so tirelessly for this. That this climb was the gateway & realization of the doability of this goal. A culmination & redemption, for myself. A climb that was to be proof-positive that mentally I could over come anything…or nothing….

The snow pack was low, unlike the previous week. After a short hike, Haggle, Mark, Aiden, & myself arrived at AF’s Hell Wall. The Blight, the line, My Line, was in the sun, dry, & beckoning. Perfect weather. I was racked w/ both blissful fury & mounting trepidation. It wouldn’t get any better then this.

After a brief warm-up, I tied in, Haggle on belay, Mark going thru the sequence w/ me as I narrated them to him, Aiden filming. My first burn was lackluster, falling, yet again, at the second clip. & then there was a 2^nd, a 3^rd, a 4^th, on & on. Falling on each attempt at different places; places that I had worked out, & knew well. It was sloppy climbing, that’s all, & I had nothing or anyone to blame but myself. On my 9^th fall, rage boiled up & out, & out came a loud, ‘FUUUUCK!’ Haggle lowered me. I expressed my doubts. My will was broken. I was humbled greatly. Un-tieing, Haggle told me to rest. ‘Let’s eat lunch.’ In the sun, basking & eating a sandwich, no talk of the climb ensued. Haggle & I enjoyed each other's company w/ contented silence, served w/ the occasional joke. It dawned on me then: So what? What more do you want? It is beautiful out, w/ people you love, & at least you aren’t pulling plastic in the gym. Ah, so what if I don’t get it, I told Haggle, if not today, tomorrow, or next week, right? ‘Yes. You’re right. But you will get it, right now.’…

Lewis - The Blight

I stayed calm as I tied in, telling Mark, who was now on belay, giving Haggle a rest, I don’t think I can do this bottom section much more. This may be my last burn. I told him this matter-of-factly, w/out emotion. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘guess you better get it right this time.’ He was right, although I put it out of my head. Restating the mantra of the day to myself. ‘It’s only a climb. It’s only a climb.’ From the get go, this burn felt different. I moved fluidly. Over & thru the rock. The calls & ‘good jobs’ from Haggle & Mark where mere whispers, barely audible for me. I could sense them, but that was it. My own breathing seemed to echo off cosmic canyons, loud & resolute. Each clip came & went w/out notice. As I reached my rest, I shook out for what seemed to be an eternity. & it was then that I realized I was almost done. Almost there. But as soon as that realization hit me, it left me, & the world went black. It was only what I was doing at that very moment, as if every thought, every move was eternity. A snapshot of time lasting, all the usual distractions gone. I snapped a biner, & the world flooded back into me. I had clipped the chains! The hooting & hollering from below broke thru my reverie, concreting for me the fact that I had just redpointed The Blight. I hung there, snug in my harness. ‘Hang for a bit man! Soak it in!’ Mark yelled from below. & I did just that. Never before have I felt such a feeling of accomplishment. I have always known the idea of it, but have never truly experienced it. I soaked it in. Breathed…

For me that climb was the only climb. The only one I cared about. As I was being lowered the other 30 climbs snaked into my mind, but I coiled against it, pushing it back out to the edges of my consciousness. It wasn’t until I was on the ground, packing up, that I allowed thoughts of climbing 30 more in 6 months to enter my train of thought, but even then, it didn’t matter. I now knew that it was possible. That w/ blood, sweat, & tears, it was possible. I felt like giggling. Possibility. It was all possible! I took credence in this fact. For the first time in a long long time, I felt a sense of pride. Humble Pride. On the drive home, a voice from somewhere deep inside me, stated a loud, & emphatic, ‘here we go!’

Indeed.

Why

2012-03-14T10:19:00.000-06:00

Lewis exploring Triassic, San Rafael Swell, Homestead area

I’ve been asked countless times (most w/ oozing enthusiam at least) why such a lofty, ‘probably won’t go’ goal? To which I answer, why not?

In a world that has succumbed to instant gratification, easy fixes, & labor-less intensive, driven hopes & dreams, I see no other choice, atleast for myself. For the past 30 years I’ve lived such a life.

Dreamed such dreams, & have only failed; failed by never truly failing due to lack of drive, guts, & fear encompassing the unknown. Ask honestly, ‘who are you?’ The answer takes much more audacity then the question itself, for the answer is rarely what we want, & skews directly against that which we thought & percieve. The answer then becomes the question.

Success is but a dream. A frivilous destination. It is failure that is Reality. The Path.

I am done declining all that there is, & am ready to accept all that is.

So…Why not? It is high time I get to know myself thouroughly.

31 5.12 redpoints before 31

2011-12-26T13:17:00.001-07:00

Morning of 'The Blight' - American Fork Canyon, Hell Wall

i have been training for app. 1 solid month now. Have not felt a growth in strength, courage, or determination. It is becoming a heavy, sordid thing, shadowed w/ obsession. It is all i am beginning to be able to think about. As i sit here writing all this, i wonder why such a lofty goal? Why do i continue to train, despite my hatred for gym climbing, diets, the sore fingers & tendons? Why continue to fight when failure is so frightfully colored? A quote comes to mind: "Every society colours its own decline with illusions." Illusions to what? Perhaps the finality of it all...It all comes eventually to the same sum. What am i looking for, & what or to whom am i driven to prove? Are all these nothing but the human drive to create purpose by weaving illusion all about our constant, inevitable decline?