Yes, another autobiographical post. I know, it’s all about me. But this is a blog, after all, so what did you expect?

Friends are coming back from Alaska, some are still up there, we’re about to send the AAJ to print (and I’ll resume writing more, especially since I’ve got some cool projects upcoming — more soon), it’s that time of year that makes me think of big alpine trips, makes me long for them. Something about the whole experience, the travel, the high mountain air, otherworldly exposure and the greatest friendships. Thinking back to the 15 or so such trips I’ve done around the world, those things stand out. Summits don’t. As I type this and scan my memory, I can recall some of the climbing, and I’m happy to have been to some amazing summits, but, holy shit, it’s about so much more.

At least it is to me. Not everybody gets it, though. Including this guy. [Story written after my 2003 Alaska trip with Jonny Copp.]

Loser

He glanced at the mountaineering display, then started stabbing questions at the ranger on duty. How many summit? How many die? How many try? He’d seen Vertical Limit.

Jonny Copp, skiing out of the East Fork the day after our route, "Going Monk."

I could hear him careen around the ranger’s station as I sat peacefully in a chair looking through topos. From the corner of my eye I saw him scan the room herky-jerky style. He had no time to waste in Talkeetna, Alaska, population 300 and hot stop on the summer tour bus tour. I felt his eyes zero in on me. I buried my head farther into the topos, but those heavy breaths were soon bearing down on me like a steam train.

I must not look intimidating enough.

He stood way too close to my chair, catching his wind. No introduction, nothing but those two words, question mark-slash-exclamation point. His cheeks flushed so red they looked as if they could explode; his gut pushed so hard on his shirt I feared it might burst through and crush me.

“You summit?” he blurted between breaths.

Goddamnit, three weeks in my happy place and now this….What he meant, of course, was had I summited “Mt. McKinley,” obviously the only mountain in the Alaska Range. Jonny and I had summitted, via a new route on a peak we’d never even heard of in the East Fork; we’d skied in 10 miles, climbed 4,300 vertical feet of technical climbing, tagged the top in a whiteout storm that lasted through the descent, I plunged into a crevasse when skiing away afterward, returned to our tent cold and soaked and trembling in fear, when Jonny handed me a PBR that he’d packed in and hidden in the snow for our return. But none of this was what the guy wanted to hear.

He panted as though he’d just run a marathon. He needed my reply now.

I thought for a second about what to say, then looked up.

“Nope,” I said.

His head lurched backward a bit, and the corner of his mouth dipped in synchronicity with his brow. He’d been rooked: he’d come all this way to see a real climber, and this was all he got.

“Pthhhh,” he snorted and waddled away.

By now we all know that my truest talent is goofing off. They say you should do what you do best, and along those lines a friend keeps urging me to return the Bossman (Boss McGillicutty, for those who might remember…as soon as I can figure out the technology, I’ll post the article), but as a Mexican version. Like Nacho Libre meets The Boss? But I just can’t do it. Besides, the Boss was my life’s pinnacle work-wise, and I’m all for quitting while I’m ahead. That’s my positivity coming through – trying to top a good effort only sets one’s self up for failure. Best to not even try. No Bosso Libre.

Good times in Patagonia with Ben Gilmore, Freddie Wilkinson, Colin Haley (not a NE'er), and Peter Kamitses.

I love busting the balls of my New Hampshire friends, especially Freddie Wilkinson. The guy is a classic, one of those timeless characters who grace the climbing world, and a great writer and great climber to boot. I’ve got a bunch of friends back there – Ben Gilmore and Kevin Mahoney, for example, both terrific people and such hard men that I bow down, Wayne’s World style, “I’m not worthy.” Jim Shimberg rules, Bayard and the young crew keep getting’ after it big-time, and the list goes on — the place has such strong tradition.

And the full-time NH guys are sooooo proud of it, even their shitty three-season weather: rain season, mud season, and black fly season. Oh yeah, and winter. It’s ball-freezing cold one week, then pissing rain the next. I still crack-up thinking of a time there, during Ice Fest, with my good friend Jack Tackle, when Jack stepped off the sidewalk on our way to dinner, crossing the street, and plunged mid-calf into a puddle of icewater. In the interest of decency, I cannot even attempt to replicate the litany of foulness that exploded from his mouth. But it started with “GodFuckingDamnit! This fucking place, how the FUCK does anyone live in this fucking piece-of-shit motherfu…” you get the point.

But, as Freddie is sure to note…it makes for fantastic ice and mixed climbing. And here, despite my love of bantering about the ‘Rado (just because it’s so damned obnoxious – “DudeBrah, I’m just out here putting the rad in Colorado…”), I admit that, indeed, New England has a disproportionate number of hardmen and hardwomen, and IMO the North Conway area is one of the country’s great climbing epicenters. Especially impressive when you consider that they don’t have shit for vertical relief. Instead, they have bad weather, bold routes, and a great community that breeds talented and tough-as-nails climbers. They’re a bit like the Brits. Badass.

One thing that cracks me up even more than that weird-assed accent those guys have, though, is every New Englander’s love affair for the Black Dike and John Bouchard (Jaaaahwwwwn Bouwchaaaawwwd, gweatest cwimber who evewr lived!). No doubt the guy was super badass.

“Yeah, I think that route could go with a couple of bolts,” says the visiting climber.

“Hey Maaawwwrty! This guy sez he’s gownna put some bowlts in! Must be fwom Cowowado!” says NH climber #1.

“Hey, I mean, this ain’t Cowowado, you gowtta CWIMB up hewe. There ain’t bowlts evewy thwee feet. And don’t forwget Mt. Washington – worst weather evewr wecorwded on earth!” his partner adds.

“Uh, OK, I guess maybe I’ll just go climb the Black Dike or whatever,” visitor says. [Note: yes, I’ve climbed it, excellent route, sure, but c’mon, it’s not that great. Ohdeargod, what have I just said…]

“Oh yeah? Goowd luck, Cowowado boy. Der ain’t no bowlts on da Dike! Evewr heawr of a little someone called….Jaaahhhwn Bouwchaaawwd?”

“Gweatest climber who evewr lived. Bwack Dike, solo, first ascent, 1923, naked, no tools or nuthin’. He muthafuckin’ LEVITATED up that cwimb, Mawwrty!”

With all that in mind, and for those still tuning in to my senseless and good-natured babble (please don’t flog me to death with your Supergaiters), it leads to the below. 

What makes a good troll? I dunno, I guess it has to be somewhat believable, enough for the gullible to bite. Talking not only content, but details. It must contain the requisite spelling errors and bad grammar. The appropriate level of douchebagginess in tone and cutesy/stupid/offensive phrases. Emoticons help. It’s more art than science.

But I don’t think it should be mean-spirited. Fine line, for sure. I don’t think it’s fair pick on the downtrodden, or do that bullshit second-guessing that every brave soul does after every climbing death or accident. I suppose I’ve most enjoyed luring-in the self-serious. Or just having fun. Right, anyway, yeah, so that’s like a trolling code of honor.

Here, I come clean – I was the illustrious ShredDawg, posting on NEIce.com a couple of years back about his desire to ski (shred) the Black Dike:

“Hey Bros! I got this idea to do a qwest where I climb up and then shred the raddest unskied lines that are also climbs…I’ve honed my skills out there in the ‘Rado and I guess you could say I shred the gnar, but I don’t like to brag. I’m just in it for the fun and for the kids.”

Something like 80 replies (can’t remember, the thread is no longer active). Some “bit,” for sure, and even got genuinely pissed at da Dawg. Screen shot below (click to enlarge), of the original post. Alas, I was gimped-up and now it’s too late – mud season, I believe – my ski descent of the Dike must wait (nevermind that I’m a terrible skier). But it was one of my better works, and my last troll. I’m far too busy – and mature – for such foolishness these days. Besides, it’s good to go out on top.

What does boxing have to do with climbing? A lot, actually. Or at least I think so.

I try to explain while weaving together a couple of stories in a new Dirtbag Diaries episode, The Pugilist (free download from the site, also free on iTunes). As I’ve written before, I love podcasts, and regularly download them onto my mp3 player and listen when I’m driving, or when I’m out for a gimp (I have a hard time just sitting at my desk and listening). Essentially, this episode is about fear. Being scared comes behind only failure and margaritas on my list of specialties. But I’m not alone. Everybody gets scared, and I don’t believe any climber – or any fighter – who claims they don’t. You should be scared. Fear comes in different forms – sometimes it’s more anxiety, like fear of failure without real consequences; other times it’s legitimate fear because the consequences are very real. We need fear, it’s important because it keeps us alive, keeps us alert, and, I believe, dealing with it challenges us and helps us grow.

The Pugilist is the most I’ve ever written or told, publicly anyway, about my past life as a boxer. I started boxing in high school and continued in college; it was huge to me then, everything, the way climbing is to me now. College boxing isn’t a big deal, though. It’s the same style as in the Olympics, but nobody in college boxing is good enough for the Olympics – for the most part, the top amateur boxers aren’t college kids. One thing that remains universal, though, much as with climbers at different levels, is the need to deal with fear and intimidation. I swear, the “ring walk” must be the most intimidating moment in all of sports. In many ways it feels similar to walking to the base of a huge alpine climb.

Sometimes little things help you deal when you’re teetering between a lack of motivation or debilitating fear – maybe breathing exercises, self-talk, humor, or, my specialty, just turning off my brain (seems I overdo it daily, though).

So, here’s the big spray part. I got this awesome email the other day, from a guy named Eric whom I’ve never met. He had a climbing trip planned to Mt. Kenya, leaving in a week. Didn’t look like it was gonna happen: “My partner was wavering, filled with fear. Today he sent me your podcast for the Pugilist. He is in.”

Hell yeah! Wow, how awesome. I’ve long thought inspiration is one of the coolest things around, and I get it from soooo many sources. It’s nice to return the favor on occasion. Now, granted, I know – before I get too full of myself, it might be pathetic and sad when a short gimpy guy can provide inspiration, but what the hell, I’ll take it.

This post reminds me of a guy who walked into a Catholic confession booth.

“Father, forgive me.” – have I told this one already? Not sure. Anyway:

“Yes, my son, what have you done?”

“Well, there were these two beautiful blonde sisters, and I slept with them. Both. At the same time.”

“You have sinned. Say 20 Hail Marys.”

“No way,” the guy replies, “I’m Jewish.”

“Well what are you telling me for?” the priest says.

“Oh, I’m tellin’ everyone!”

The differences in lifestyles across sub-sets of our culture sometimes leave me stupefied. Last December, while sitting at a gas mart in Thornton, a cookie-cutter suburb of Denver, waiting to meet Scotty D for a brief climbing road trip, I stared, mouth agape, at the six-deep line of cars and SUVs waiting to enter the automatic car wash.

Damnit, guys, I told you we should've washed the Jeep. (En route to Hushe, Pakistan.)

I’ve never once washed my car. Even if I cared, the rain does it for free. I can’t anymore imagine washing my car than I can imagine being one of those tea-party douchebags (call me un-‘Merican, but I believe that caring for our fellow human – even the less-fortunate, pathetic and slovenly as they are – should take priority over corporate profits). On my list of things I care about enough to spend even ten minutes of time, washing my car couldn’t be farther below the bottom of the list. I just don’t get it. Not that it matters if I get it, but this is my blog so I’m allowed to rant about random topics.

Climbing makes no sense, either. As least until you consider that challenging yourself on levels physical, psychological, and emotional — regardless of the vehicle (pardon the pun) – gives us depth and helps us grow in ways that most of us, myself certainly included, cannot adequately articulate. Simply put, though, it’s probably passion. Certainly passion can be used for evil, but well directed passion helps drive us (that pun thing again…am I on to something here? Are cars (well washed, of course) the solutions to the world’s problems? Uh, no).

Colin Haley is SO going shopping!

Why do so many people seem to wrap their identities in the hunk of metal that gets them from point A to point B? Does that count as a “passion”? It’s like the people who “love to shop” – seriously? Yuk. What a turn-off. There I go again, being un-‘Merican by bashing on unabashed materialism. But really, just buying tons of unnecessary crap that you don’t use for anything, for the sole sake of buying tons of unnecessary crap that you don’t use for anything? A passion? Really? I’ve already ranted on this, so I’ll spare you. I know, I’m a judgmental hypocrite like the rest of us. In contrast, I’ll concede that hand washing your car, like the auto buffs do with their collector’s editions (even if I don’t “get” the car thing), seems different. Just sitting in line to hit the auto-scrub seems purely superficial.

Keeping expectations low, gotta wash the car now.

Who am I kidding? I sound like an ass-hole. We all do all kinds of pointless things just to get by, things that somehow give us a shred of daily self-worth in a lost world, as silly as those things seem to others. Climbing, for example. And I have my favorite margarita glass and my favorite coffee mug. I don’t know why, I just like them. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I think about what I’m going to wear if I’m going out in public – even to the grocery store. Mock copy block time:

No Expectations Sweatpants. Dream low and plan to fail—nothing says “ambition” like a good pair of sweatpants and at age 37, still living in your parents’ basement, sleeping till noon and playing Doom all day, you need something as soft as you are. You’ll never get up the route anyway, so slide into these power-lounging sweats, expect the worst and you’ll get to be right or pleasantly surprised. Made from unwashed recycled pajamas.

In my trying-to-be-less-judgmental-but-not-quite-there-yet mind, I still shake my head at the inanity of giving a rat’s ass about having some dirt on your car. Let your car get too dirty, though, and you could end up with a rig like the Chief’s. And maybe those people simply like their cars without dirt. Just like I like my favorite marg glass. Just like I’m still not wearing sweatpants to the grocery story.

On Shi-Shi, Giri-Giri, and I-TO

Jumbo goes big. Again. And what impresses me about Katsutaka “Jumbo” Yokoyama isn’t just his mind-blowing climbing – if you’ve been paying attention, you know him as the de facto ring leader of the Japanese “Giri-Giri Boys,” who’ve been sending incredibly ambitious alpine routes around the world in recent years. No, it’s not just that. It’s his approach, his attitude, his kindness, and humility. I first met him in person last summer, when he, his girlfriend Chihiro, and I cragged and camped together for a couple of days at Wild Iris. I went in wondering “what in the world makes this guy tick?” Like it was some top-secret observation. I came away realizing that the always-smiling, polite nearly to a fault, kind and warm Japanese guy sending the biggest alpine routes in the world and .13+ sport routes alike, well, he loves to climb for the same reasons as most of us, and he tries damn hard. He has the physical tools, sure, but without his psychological willingness to learn, and to grow, and to experience life how he wants to live it, none of it would matter. I’d emailed with him for years, with our first correspondence coming after his and Fumitaka Ichimura’s new route on Mt. Huntington, followed by a rapid ascent of the massive, difficult Denali Diamond. They were college students, eager to learn about alpine climbing, and…and I read his report, including:

“This line might have already been climbed, due to its prominent location, but I couldn’t find any record in the literature. Or it may be a variation of the Phantom Wall route. Anyway, this line was so beautiful, and we enjoyed the climbing. We named the route Shi-Shi (1,800m, Alaska Grade 4, M5 AI5). Shi-Shi means a person who works to realize his worldly ambitions at the risk of his death, like a Samurai. Shi-Shi never regrets, even if his body is thrown in a ditch or a ravine after his cruel death. The person like Shi-Shi always must imagine his body lying in a ditch.”

Uhhhh, come again with that last part?

It’s easy to think that others are so different. Different culture, right? Sure. Or just maniacs? No way. As I worked with Jumbo on his feature article in last year’s AAJ, it became apparent that he has no death wish. He has a life wish. Just like most of us. It’s expressed differently, and he had difficulty explaining. I suspect there’s more to it than I understand, but I think I get the gist. From his article last year:

“We use Giri-Giri mostly in parody of a TV show about sexy Japanese girls. But literally, in Japanese Giri-Giri means “at the very limit of something.” We always seek to be on the edge in the mountains. This was our fourth consecutive season in the Alaska Range. Why Alaska? Simple: It has many attractive faces and offers low-budget expeditions from Japan. We have no money, because we spend everything climbing. Although the members vary from year-to-year, our most frequent trips are to Alaska, but we have also climbed in the Andes and the Himalaya. We have little experience and are immature in our climbing technique, but we are close friends.

Our Alaska trips began in 2005, when Itchy and I flew to the Tokositna Glacier, below Mt. Huntington. The first time we saw its southwest face, we saw a beautiful line. It started from a dangerous serac-lined basin—“Death Valley”—and ascended 1,800 meters to the summit. On that trip we read a novel by Ryotaro Shiba. The hero is Ryoma Sakamoto, a visionary Samurai who worked to free Japan from its feudal trappings and created a modern government in the early 1800s. He was the ultimate Shi-Shi. The first Shi means “ambitions” or “soul,” and the second Shi means “a man.” A Shi-Shi must be willing to accept his death as part of his desire to realize his ambitions. Death is never an acceptable ideal for a Japanese alpine climber, so we can’t literally live like a Shi-Shi. But the Shi-Shi way of life and spirit are always in our dreams. It is difficult to explain. Speaking for myself, life and climbing are not only about success or enjoyment, but about living true to one’s ambitions. I think that the line on Huntington was the first time I fully lived these feelings. Although our route was not so hard, it was important to us that we found the line by ourselves, not in a guidebook. We named it Shi-Shi.”

Chihiro and Jumbo at Wild Iris.

Oh, and the nickname? He’s about 5’9” 180 pounds of solid muscle, from Japan, where most people are about half his size. Over coffee at Wild Iris, they dug into the used van they bought in Anchorage, after their trip, and drove down to the Lower 48, scraping by the whole way in fine dirtbag form. Out came his coffee mug, like a miniature Japanese teacup with “JUMBO” written on the side.

His feature article was about his 2008 trip to Alaska, again, with his fellow Giri-Giri boys. They played “Pachinko” – a Japanese pinball-like game, only the mountain version is what we call an enchainment. Right, kind of like those link-up days we do at the crag…or not. After a huge new route on the Bear Tooth, he, Ichimura, and Yusuke Sato made an ascent of the 7,200-foot Isis Face, a still-coveted route put-up in 1982 by Jack Tackle and Dave Stutzman. The route climbs its own feature, a wall that tops out on a long flat part of the South Buttress a long ways from the summit. Tacking on the additional 4,000+ feet to the top has been a longstanding project. The Giri-Giri Pachinko way? Get this – instead of continuing along the easier and obvious South Buttress, they descended 4,300-feet into the East Fork of the Kahiltna, without a gear cache or refuel, and climbing out to the summit via the 9,000-foot Slovak Route, the hardest on Denali. Say what? I’ve done nine Alaskan climbing trips, friends countless more – literally hundreds of years of Alaska experience between friends and I – and been doing the Alaska section of the AAJ for 10 years, and I can say that nobody else even fucking dreamed of something that out there. So rad. Or, as Jumbo kept saying while sport climbing, “Ahhhh, so nice!”

As with so many things, there’s a lot more to the story, including the tragedy simultaneously playing out with their friends, who disappeared on their own Pachinko nearby.

There have been many like Jumbo over time, at various levels layered throughout climbing, as time progresses and we build on the shoulders of those who came before. We learn, and those with a sense of decency and respect give credit, remain humble, remain human. Especially because, remember, it’s just climbing and even if you climb well but are an asshole, well, you’re still an asshole.

I suppose one way to be an asshole is to disrespect those who came before you. Another is to disrespect those who surpass you. In doing so, when you think about it, you disrespect yourself. Nothing worse than a bitter old climber.

Me, Charlie, and Jack.

But nothing better than people like Jack Tackle. I’m starting to ramble, as usual, but let me say that, as I’ve gotten to know Jack over the years – from the time I got my courage up to talk to him after a slide show he gave in Missoula, when I was a young climber, and I still remember how big he made me feel – I know that there’s more to his story than a great climber who just walks in and sends big. In fact, he had to learn to walk again ten years ago, after being struck down by a bizarre neurological disease and nearly dying. After his grueling recovery, on his first big trip back to the mountains, with the wonderful Alaskan hardman Charlie Sassara, 2,000 feet up Mt. Augusta, rockfall nailed Jack and broke his neck and back. Charlie, a true hero, had to leave Jack, descend alone in terrible conditions, crawl across the glacier because he couldn’t see the crevasses in a zero-visibility whiteout, call for help, and one of the boldest rescues ever ensued. It’s been a long road for Jack. But last year, with Jay Smith, he had probably his best ever Alaska trip. So, how’s the saying go? 55 is the new 30, yes? Jack has a great feature article about the trip – and more – in the upcoming AAJ (which I’d better get back to).

Anyway, so Jumbo was wrapping up his year in the U.S. and Canada with a trip to the massive, unclimbed, south face of Mt. Logan. It’s one of those remaining gems. And damned hard to nail – steep climbing, huge, and horrible weather. Jack had been there twice, making probably the only real attempts to date. Sure, Jack’s done a ton, but it’s not about collecting, it’s about something deeper. He still wanted it, it was his remaining gem. Jack knows the face better than anyone, and Jumbo asked him about it. What to do? We all have projects we guard, and nobody can blame you for keeping your info to yourself. It’s also a fact of life that, as we age, maybe we can’t pull off everything we wanted for ourselves, and so to share becomes maybe not just the next best thing, but the best thing. At least at that time and place, and with the right people. How could you not want to help Jumbo?

Just the other day, Jumbo and Yasushi Okada sent the coveted south face of Mt. Logan. The route was 2,500m tall and went at WI5 M6, in perfect alpine style. Jumbo told me it was the best climbing he’s ever done, and, of course, he graciously thanked Jack for the honor of his help, and the connection they share. Jumbo and Yasushi named the route I-TO, which means “thread, line, relationship.”

Jumbo and Yasushi's new route on the south face of Mt. Logan. photo: Jack Tackle

My friends have no shame. Or, at least, no sympathy. It’s like that old saying, “No friends on a powder day.” Except that powder is full on, indisputable, Type I fun. G-climbing in the Park? (G is for Grovel, as if you didn’t know.) Fully Type II, sometimes Type III.

“Hey, want to take the tools for a walk?” – you normally just carry your pack in the wind and horrific conditions in the Park come winter and spring. But, knowing how I sort of enjoy such things, even though I really don’t, you’d think that my friends might show some restraint. Twice the other day I got emails that went like this (this one from my friend Ben, and the other wasn’t much different): “I know this is a mean thing to ask you in your current state but have you heard anything through the grapevine about RMNP ice? The usual, Vanquished, Womb with a View, etc.?”

On phenomenal melt-freeze alpine ice, and below the final sketchy stretch of the route, I took a break from giggling to snap a photo of a smiling Steve Su and the “too good to be true” climbing below.

Seriously, I’d be happy to help. But I know nothing. And you have to believe me this time, because I’ve got nothing to hide. Here, I’ll come clean and admit that, in the past, on occasion, I’ve lied. Flat out. As in, “Nah, man, don’t know anything, but with recent weather I doubt if anything’s in,” as I pack-up for the next morning’s outing, based on the day’s recon mission. What, like I’m going to broadcast what’s formed so that I can compete with all of Boulder in the Park the next day? Ha, right. I’m not as dumb as I look. These things take effort, the G-climbing gems, and, unlike powder days when everyone knows it’s a powder day, not everyone knows when the G-climbs are in. It takes a shitload of either dumb work – at which I seem(ed) to excel, putting in the hours and miles to do the recon missions – or just lots of dumb luck. Which, obviously, I’ve been short on lately.

And so, no, I don’t always give out the secrets. But I would now because if I can’t be out there doing it, hard though it seems to believe, I’d love for others to enjoy themselves. Just like the spring two years ago that the Secret Asian Man, Steve Su, and I had in the Park. Story posted below, with photos – this first ran on Patagonia’s awesome blog, thecleanestline.com. If you haven’t noticed, I’m doing some reposts lately, just because I’m too buried in AAJ work right now to come up with much original content. The above rambles notwithstanding, of course.

Oh – and I’ve got eight inches of new snow on my porch here in Estes. Mid-May. If you know anything, you’ll be sharpening your tools for the next sunny spell with cold nights, so that you can take your tools for a walk.

Vanquished

[from June 2008]

Since moving to Estes Park eight years ago, I, like every ice and alpine climber around, have fantasized about a route called Vanquished. Every fall and every spring, Rocky Mountain National Park climbers whisper about fleeting smears of ice and patterns of precipitation, temps, wind and sun. Ice will form and disappear within 24 hours. Rumors and notions circulate like conspiracy theories. The Chase begins.

My theories rarely pan out, no matter how hard I try to convince myself. At best I calculate about a 4:1 ratio of “taking the gear for a walk” to succeeding on the Park’s alpine treasures, but I’ve emptied my abacus on Vanquished.

For me it starts with low-investment, “just a little exercise,” trail runs and ski tours – but always with my binoculars and with ulterior motives. If I see something, I call a friend and ask, “Hey, wanna carry packs full of climbing gear around the Park?”

More than anything, you just have to go.

I love the process. Vanquished isn’t cutting-edge or even that big – probably 700 feet of climbing to the top of the route, and at least double that to the summit or summit ridge. But local gems sometimes carry such mythical status, and you invest so much, that you don’t really care.

Steve Su (a.k.a. A Boy Named… and Secret Asian Man for his being a humble, low-key hardman) and I had done a couple of alpine mixed routes in the Park in the last half of May, when Vanquished wasn’t there. And then everything seemed to melt out and everyone went rock climbing. Still we wondered, maybe Vanquished will form…

Steve hiking to the base after we killed an hour in the rocks below, waiting for sunrise.

On Sunday, June 1, in a short-sleeved T-shirt I alternately skied, carried my skis, and postholed (ahhh, the joys of Spring) to Sky Pond and glassed the route. Small snowpatches fed the scooped-out shaded face. Remnants of ice clung to the upper half, and water ran down the bottom. Damn, missed it again.

Two days later, the 12,000-foot forecast called for a brief snap of snow and nighttime lows below 30. Ahhh, the joys of Spring.

I studied my photos again, called Steve and agonized over what day would be best – too early and it’s not there, too late and it’s gone. It’s a three-hour approach, I was under deadlines and shouldn’t be missing even an hour of work, and Steve works, goes to grad school and has a family.

So I called the master. Duncan Ferguson, who develops Alpine products for Patagonia, knows more about melt-freeze mixed climbing in the Park than anybody. In the 70s and 80s he was one of Colorado’s most prolific all-around climbers and a true maestro of ephemeral ice and mixed. Even today, when locals find some smear in the Park, the saying goes, with a respectful smile and a shrug, “Duncan probably did it.” Through the phone I read him the weather forecast, asked his advice and took notes.

June 7 was our day. But the afternoon would get warm so we had to be fast. And early. I utterly despise early starts. I skipped my nightly margarita ritual, got a 40-minute nap before rising at 12:10 a.m., meeting Steve at 1, hiking at 1:45, reaching the base three hours later and killing an hour waiting for sunlight. It’s a rare and notable day that my lazy ass gets to a route too early, but there’s a first time for everything and I’d chased Vanquished for eight years. We didn’t want to miss it.

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Here’s a short piece I wrote for the Patagonia catalog two or three years ago — we titled it Into the Rime, but I think I like The Broom of God or La Escoba de Dios better. No matter — I’m buried in AAJ deadlines for the next month, and short on time but long on daydreams. It’s so cool reading about the great adventures everyone had last year, and a bunch of my friends are in Alaska now or will be soon. Woohoo, get after it!

***

La Escoba de Dios

Colin on the Torre Glacier, with Cerro Torre trying to emerge.

Nearly a mile up Cerro Torre, Colin Haley disappears into a world of white. I’d worried about this, the penultimate pitch on Patagonia’s space needle. I sit alone at an exposed perch as wind blasts and howls through natural organ pipes – otherworldly mazes of overhanging snow mushrooms, gargoyles and tunnels – making haunting, beautiful music. Everywhere I turn the world looks different, immaculate. But we can’t stay here, and this pitch has shut down better climbers than us, sent them packing down to the remote ice cap. Since we hadn’t come up from the ice-cap side, and since we have no bivy gear or contingency thoughts for this brilliant scheme, we might have a problem.

Our Cerro Torre plan sounded good. Start from camp on the comparably cozy east side, boogie on a one-way ticket up serac-threatened smears so ephemeral they’d be gone the next day, don’t get caught, hit the wild West Face where it wraps around, hope for good conditions and continue to the summit. Rap back down the east side, bam, a nice little tour. It started well enough: We made good time, suffered a little overnight huddling together without sleeping bags in a snow hole, but it was just one night. Shiver until sunrise, tie in, keep trying.

So this was it, one desperate pitch before easier ground to the summit. I buried my axe and carved out a nice little seat in the snow – textbook belay – so Colin could have all four of our pickets. He launched up a wind-carved vertical halfpipe of horrendous sugar snow, where he could chimney and grovel using every technique not found in any book – arms, elbows, shoulders, knees, back, feet, grunt, curse – that led to a perfect, fully enclosed natural tunnel 100 feet above. Gaining the tunnel would unlock the route, as the tunnels, created and hardened by intense miniature tornadoes, always had good ice. But the half-pipe didn’t, and Colin dug and dug in desperation, trying for purchase until he disappeared, burrowing horizontally into the snow mushroom.

“Lookin’ good, man, you got this!” I cheer, though I can’t see him and the rope hasn’t moved in a long time. Translation: Dude, if we get shut down here, we’re gonna run out of food and water bumbling for days out on the ice cap trying to circumnavigate the massif back to our camp, miss our flights home, and have the mother of all epics.

“C’mon, Colin! Wooohoooo! You’re doing great!”

The surrounding view, terrifying or magnificent, relieves my anxiety. To the east rises the massive Fitz Roy group, obscuring the comforts of town so near – sort of – and continuing into the barren and timeless landscape that, just south, then breaks into fjords that become the Pacific Ocean – or, here at the southern tip of the hemisphere, is it the Atlantic? Immediately below and north, Torre Egger’s summit looks like whipped cream and somehow it makes me chuckle. Then I turn westward and gaze in awe at the mind-blowing ice cap, a different planet altogether from where infinite molecules of supercooled moist air from the Pacific smash into the Torres, carried uninterrupted across the ice by a wind so ferocious, so violent, that locals call it La Escoba de Dios – The Broom of God.

The rope moves a little and I look up, cocking my head in curiosity toward the mushroom where I last saw Colin. Nothing. Just overhanging rime-snow-ice-sugar-junk, the consistency of aerated salt, held together in overhanging formation.

Suddenly, something flies from the mushroom overhead and instinctively I duck. In that split second I’m confused, afraid the mushroom is collapsing or Colin is falling out, but like a door opening wide it’s a chunk of rime ice that sheds off above where Colin disappeared. The chunk hovers for a moment and then sails horizontally, wind outdoing gravity, whoosh, gone. Colin’s axe flails through the opening and his bomber-goggled head pokes out from his homemade wormhole, just below the key upper tunnel. He looks around, then down at me. I let out a whoop ’cause now I know we’re in there, but my voice quickly dissolves into nothingness and everything, blending into the universe, carried away by the Broom of God.

Big Daddy Cordes would like to thank all the little people out there like his trainer Jeff Giddings and his doctor Bharat Desai, his friends Wayne Crill and Chris Klinga who put him in touch with the good doc, his sister Jill and her husband Phil and baby Fia, and all my baby’s mommas out there – yo Latisha! – and the good lord above for giving me the talent and determination, the margarita drive, and all the agave farmers in Mexico who make that magic mystery potion so revelant – er, excuse me, relevant – to my recovery, and to Big Daddy’s good friends who give him da potions, and to his lovely Jenna as she put up wit me day in day out I love you baby!, and to my sponsors and the agave farmers in Mexico, and, last but most definitely not least, to the Jesus and the Baby Jesus.

Er, sorry. Got a little excited and thought I was a professional boxer in a post-fight interview, or a rapper. Will go back to referring to myself in first-person and rambling slightly less than normal. But first, for the record, I’m sure that lots of 140-pound white guys go by “Big Daddy.”

The cane is just the first step in my makeover.

So, a few days ago, Tuesday, April 27, after consult with my doc, and upon Jeff’s (my awesome Physical Therapist) evaluation of my progress, Jeff sent me this email:

“Don’t overdo it and use a crutch/cane if you’re having pain, otherwise, start walking like a real person.”

Like someone who’d been touched by the hand of a TV evangelist, I stood up out of my chair and I fucking walked. Hell yeah. Can I get an Amen?

Five steps. Or maybe four. I don’t know, but I walked. My first unaided steps since February 1. Less than three months from “vaporizing” my ankle and lower leg, as someone aptly put it, to walking – even just a little. Not bad, I’m psyched. But I’ve still got a huge road ahead. It’s not like I suddenly jump up and am all better – remember that scene in the Big Lebowski, when Walter convinces himself that The Millionaire Lebowski (not the Deadbeat Lebowski), is “A goldbricker, a fuckin’ phony, this guy walks! I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life!” And he suddenly picks him up out of his wheelchair and Mr. Lebowski crumples to the ground. Horrible scene, in a way, only funny because Walter’s such an asshole. Well, that’d be me if I tried to do too much. So, progress, slowly, surely I hope, and, yeah, it hurts and it’s sore and stiff, but I’m working at it and I’m getting better.

I’m working on proving Walter right about one thing: This guy walks.

When it comes to training, I can get obsessive. The mentality helps even now – especially now – because I want to recover my leg, and also because I have an opportunity to get stronger fingers. Pathetic, I know, but it’s good to focus, even on little things. It helps, and not just for climbing. After never doing much dedicated hangboard training, I now have one in all three rooms of my cabin – three hangboards in 580 square feet. Must be some kind of record. I use my two Metolius boards regularly – the guys there are awesome, they’re all climbers, they make great gear and have supported me for a long time. Also, after my accident Josh sent me a Moon Board with a “Get well soon, and get strong” note. How cool. It’s nice to have some variety in my training apparatuses (apparati? Nope.). There are two sets of holds on the Moon that are tiny. Like half of a finger pad deep. In their numbering scheme, which makes recording your workouts convenient, these are holds #4 and #3. #4 is just ridiculous. I’ve been working to stick #3 – “sticking it” meaning hanging unassisted, with both hands (fingertips), for six seconds – in a three-finger open grip. I can do it in full four-finger crimp, but it’s super tweaky on my tendons. My hard-rock climbing buddies all say the open grip is the ticket, as do most training sites. So, I’d been taking weight off for progress with open three-finger #3, since I can’t do it. I use a pulley system to make me lighter – minus 15 pounds for awhile as my times went up, then minus 7.5 pounds, then, viola! Hung it the other day, at full body weight, for 5.8 seconds.

Balls! Only 0.2 off, aaaaarrrggg! So close. Funny how something so short can be such a battle. Of course we could rationalize, “What’s 0.2 seconds, anyway?” True. But fuck that. Nobody who gets top results out of their training thinks that way.

Concrete, quantifiable goals can be good. Often this means using numbers. Alpinism is typically the complete opposite – conditions vary dramatically, ratings aren’t solidified, you’re often on unclimbed terrain anyway, the crap you’re climbing feels un-ratable, and so many factors vary so greatly that it doesn’t allow for objective comparison. Fine by me. I like making up my own rules. I can convince myself that I’m not so bad. But in training, quantifiable measurements – so long as you don’t get too attached to them, and remember that pushing yourself is the real key to improvement – can help drive you. I use numbers in training to prepare for the times when numbers mean nothing.

As with most things in life, I find that a balance works well. Sometimes numbers, sometimes not.

For example, I have a training book/file (more scraps of paper than anything organized, but I’m working on it…) in which I record some of my times on the trail, and various solos, etc. One-hour 52 minutes, trailhead to summit, North Ridge of Spearhead. Five minutes from my shoe-up-spot to top-out on White Whale; 29-something road bike time trail from the end of my driveway to Deer Junction, a lung-busting uphill (I forgot my exact time after Tommy, that bastard, beat me, and so I took my ball and went home). Each time I go out, I can measure myself against my time. I’ll have to adjust now, and will likely never be that fast on the trail again due to my ankle/leg. Some of these things are obviously just personal trials (uh, where’s the end of your driveway, dude?), and some of these things would be a cruise for some people, more difficult for others. That doesn’t matter, and would miss the point: the numbers give me a quantifiable way to push myself. The watch doesn’t lie, and lets me know if I’m progressing or I’m lame.

On other things, we set more general goals. Jonny Copp and I did this thing in RMNP that we called the Triple Lindy, in a little under 23 hours – we just wanted to do it, hopefully in a day. A couple of months earlier, we’d done a new route in Alaska, and though I remember the approximate times, the goal was to do the damn thing in good style. Period.

As for comparing yourself to others, I suppose that can be good and bad. All high on my improving hangboard strength (now, if I can only learn to use my feet and move my body correctly, I might climb well), the other day I got to surfing the web. It started with reading Will Gadd’s blog, which has lots of training thoughts, and which I always enjoy. I can get to geeking out on this stuff, and I ended up on “Beast Skills: Old School Bodyweight Strength.” In one of the guy’s posts, he had this great line: “Injuries are great. Every time I get injured I learn something.” Amen, brother.

Burly! From beastskills.com.

Then I realized how weak I am. Holy cow check out this pic that I lifted from their site (sorry guys, don’t squash my head like an eggplant in your hand), of a dude doing a “plate grab.” Sweetbabyjesus, man! I’d drop that freakin’ plate so fast my toes would be like my leg. Pretty cool. The super musclehead strongman guys all, apparently, train grip strength. “There has never been a strong man with weak hands,” they say, and I imagine it’s true – it’s gotta be the weak link when you can lift a tractor but you have to grab it first. I want to lift a tractor. I’d heard of these feats where dudes can fold a penny between their fingers, and we see them on TV pulling monster trucks with their teeth and stuff. Not the same specific thing we train on a hangboard, but pretty wild, and no less stupid than climbing. It’s fun how you can get into something.

While reading that Beast page, I regained some self-given manly points after watching people doing muscle-ups by relying on this huge swing – OK, nevermind that the vids were of people getting their first muscle-ups (congrats guys!), and I guess the swing is a good way to learn ‘em. I don’t know, I just tried them a few times a few years back until I could do them. Regardless, I can’t do a plate grab but I think I got ‘em here. Even with crutches, in a cast (video below). When you’re a gimp, you take the little victories when you can. At the BRC, about a month after surgery, I got seven in a row (probably because I lost weight after surgery). I rarely do them, but should, because I want to get 10. Ten’s a good number. Not important, not essential to my climbing, but sometimes the little things drive the bigger things, and numbers can help.

Like gaining that additional 0.2 seconds on hold #3, damn it. OK, time to start my warm-up.

A comment on my last post got me thinking – how do I motivate to keep up on rehab, especially once I’m mostly better and I need to do the easy-to-ignore maintenance work?

Part of it is fear. I know, we’re supposed to be all good here, brah, all love and happiness, and fear is a negative emotion. So then, would that make us synonymous with the douchebags who strut around in “No Fear” T-shirts? Except Urijah Faber, who’s super badass (though he’s got a helluva tough fight tonight in Jose Aldo), and if No Fear wanted to pay me to wear their stupid shirts, I would, too, and I’d laugh all the way to the bank. But wait! Maybe Faber realized the above, as it appears he’s no longer got No Fear. Jose Aldo will do that to a guy. Besides, I’m sure “Amp” is way cooler. OK, then.

Walking with my back brace, 2005. (c) Dan Gambino, http://www.dangpix.com

So, about fear. Does fear motivate me, or do I solely motivate with positive emotions? Heh. Of course I want to live my life with love. All bullshit aside, that is one of my ultimate goals. And hell yeah, fear motivates me. I’m terrified of losing the ability to do what I love.

When it comes to maintenance phase work – like with my back, for me – if I’m not keeping up, then my body sends me signals, like pain. This happens with any body-part tweaks, no? It’s like an alarm clock sounds and reminds me it’s time to keep up. With my back it’s constant, to the point where I know how I’m going to feel if I don’t keep up, and I don’t like that feeling. It’s harder to play catch-up, too, similar to falling behind on the pain curve – and, yes, I’ve learned the hard way. But proving that I’m smarter than I look, I’ve learned that keeping up puts me into a positive feedback loop, and so with my back I (mostly) stay ahead of the game.

My full spinal routine takes me 45 minutes to an hour, and I’ll usually do that a few times a week. It sucks time, sure, but it’s worth it to me. I can do much shorter versions, though, and still benefit, especially when I do them daily. When super busy or super lazy, I sometimes break the various routines into very small chunks and try to do a few of them each day – two or three minutes of back exercises are better than none, and a handful of very short sessions seem so much more digestible when I’m busy.

Can’t even do that? Well, here’s an insider secret – sometimes a little self-loathing and taunting goes a long way. Go ahead, wound your inner child. If you can’t toughen-the-fuck up and do the very basic things that keep you mobile – and for me that means keeping myself happy – then reaffirming your laziness with a chocolate milkshake and a hug sure as hell isn’t going to do the trick, either. I’m currently booking slots for my motivational speaking tour, by the way – big banks, youth groups, old folks’ homes – call my agent.

If you’re having trouble motivating, try this. Seriously. Adapt as needed:

“Kelly, you piece of shit, you really mean you can’t do three minutes of back exercises right now? Really? So, you’d rather deal with the downward spiral and be hurting and unable to do what you love to do? Now get your ass down on the floor and do your exercises.”

Works every time, brah.

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The video below kind of sucks, but it’s one of the best SNL skits ever. “Go For It,” Motivational Speaker Matt Foley. For a better version of this classic, click here ( I couldn’t figure out how to embed it).