Anyone who’s wasted time reading this blog knows that I’m proud of one thing, something I do exceptionally well, that one specialty in life: drinking margaritas. But it recently hit me that I’ve got another talent: rehab. Call me multi-talented. I’m good at going from a fucked-up state to moderately functional again – talking physical recovery here. Not from too many margaritas.

Now, for my next trick, I will set the world on fire and be hot.

I love PT (Physical Therapy). Have another appointment in a few hours. Speaking from personal experience with my various trainwrecks, getting a good physical therapist is crucial. As with surgeons, they’re not all the same. My recovery from my horror-show broken spine (I’ve seen a lot of spinals, dude, this guys walks! OK, sorry, I’ll try to stop with the Lebowski lines), and much simpler knee surgery, both in 2005, only reinforced it all. The surgeon is crucial. But you can’t stop there. Yeah, it’s a pain sometimes, sometimes literally, and it takes time, but what else are you going to do? Let it go to hell and accept the (sub-optimal) results? No, I went out and achieved anyway! (Sorry.) I know I might not return to 100%, but who among us is? It’s part of life. Pick up, get better, work hard, and return.

Sure, it takes some motivation. But Jesus H Christ on a mechanical bull, how can you not be motivated to get better? I suppose I shouldn’t be so harsh – motivation varies. Apparently some people need generic cheesedick motivational posters on the wall – like these two I saw at a big corporate-owned health club last week. Who comes up with these things? If something is blatantly unrealistic, it doesn’t work for me. Are people so dumbed-down that their bullshit sensors don’t go off? Maybe I’ll get me a wife-beater tank, add a little muscle-fat, puff-out my chest (and gut) and make my own, realistic, motivational posters. Actually, a company named despair.com already makes awesome, realistic de-motivational paraphernalia. Which of the below provides better motivation? If motivation has to do with reality, I’ve got the answer…

Click to enlarge, read the bottom.

Much better; more realistic.

While rehabbing my spine five years ago, my PT kept telling me to back off, to not overdo it. OK (I listened.) “Man, I don’t mean to discourage you, Kelly – this is great, really it is. We have to beg most people to do just five minutes a day,” he said. I looked at him like he’d just told me that 2+2=5. It’s the sort of thing that makes me twitch and stutter, “N-n-no. No! That’s not it!” What the fuck? Don’t people want to get better??! I simply do not get it. Everyone says they don’t have time, and people definitely get busy, people have full-time-plus jobs and families and all that. But also, anybody who watches TV recreationally can’t claim they don’t have time. That means that 99%+ of Americans cannot say they don’t have time to do their PT (so says Officer Cordes). I still do ongoing back rehab – “pre-hab” I like to call it now, to prevent, or at least delay, future problems – and it’s like a part-time job, but I prefer it to the alternatives. And hell, ya can do your PT while watching the idiot box. What’s the average daily brain-rot, like three or four hours? Crazy. Much as I like Cops and big-time rasslin’, once the novelty stage wears off, I swear I can literally feel my brain turning to mush. Quite simply, that is something I cannot afford.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I lucked out in getting a longtime, experienced and active climber who specializes in orthopedic injuries and soft tissue mobility – Jeff Giddings, of Adams & Giddings Physical Therapy in Ft. Collins. Dr. Desai took care of the bones, and my future mobility increasingly depends on how the scarring and joint surfaces heal, and that’s where ongoing rehab comes into play. Jeff impressed me big-time at my first appointment last week. He got my ankle moving, thought it looked good, manually worked out some of the lymph and scar tissue, gave me instructions on doing the same at home, did some evaluations, gave me a bunch of exercises, specific things important to my specific injury, mobility exercises and stretches and ways to dissolve the scarring inside the joint that I’d have never, ever known on my own. It’s not like going to the gym and hiring some dude to go “C’mon, Champ, you can do it! One more rep!” or to have muscle-fat “Get Tough” guy mouthbreathing over my shoulder. No, not like that. I don’t need that bullshit.

It’s still a long road and plenty remains to be seen – no crystal ball, but things look good. I’m only going once a week because I can do the exercises and progression on my own – been doing them three-to-four times a day, and working mobility while sitting at my desk with my leg up. I don’t make excuses or get lazy about it (hate to break tradition by avoiding laziness, but miracles do happen).

OK, it’s almost time to, you know, put on my tank top, regain my edge, get tough, fear nothing and be invincible.

Damn, been busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. Er, that hits a little close to home in my gimped-up state. I’m far more PC than that, as some people do have only one leg – well, like me for example. Maybe the guys I’m trying to hunt down to wrap-up the Alaska section of the next AAJ will read this and have sympathy on me. Why the hell can’t they answer my emails within, like, a day or two? Oh, wait, maybe they aren’t sitting in front of a computer and are actually out

Alaska's Ruth Gorge, from atop the Moose's Tooth, 1999.

climbing. Bastards. I’m even trying to make it super easy on them, having gathered info on their routes, and sending photos with what I think are their lines drawn in, with options labeled A, B, C at various junctions. They can just email me back – whenever they’re done wasting their lives going climbing, of course – and tell me where their climb went. I feel like Walter Sobchek in the Big Lebowski, when he and the Dude go to Little Larry’s house (flunkin’ social studies, little brat), and Walter presents this school assignment he found in Dude’s car and asks: “Is this your homework, Larry? Is this your homework, Larry?”

Is this your route, guys? Is this your route?

Granted, it doesn’t matter, since climbing doesn’t really matter, and thus – “Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski” – in an attempt to diversify myself, a couple weekends ago I made an about-face from my pathetically one-dimensional life and went to Lebowski Fest in L.A. (the city of angels, though I didn’t find it to be that exactly). It was me, my brother-in-law, Phil, a few of his friends, and a couple thousand other losers fellow connoisseurs of artistry through cinema.

Honestly, I worried that going to the Fest might ruin it for me. Kind of like returning to a route you already onsighted – why wreck it? I’m all about enabling success through lowered expectations.

So with caution I crutched toward Lebowski Fest, feeling shy and even reclusive. And thus it came as a marvelous surprise when, at dinner beforehand with Phil and his friends, his buddy’s wife, M, showered me with praise after Phil mentioned something about my climbing. Shit, my best friends don’t even care about what I climbed, I thought to myself, This is pretty sweet. She’d seen me gimp-in with my Jimmy crutches – yes, I’ve been called “Jimmy,” the character from South Park (friends like these, huh Gary?) – and she figured I had a real handicap. And I climbed mountains.

“You’re sooo brave,” she said, softly. I glanced over my shoulder, puzzled. Only the five-foot-tall waitress – we were at a Korean BBQ – stood behind me. So I went with it. A guy like me doesn’t get this everyday.

“Yeah,” I said, feigning nonchalance, reclining and refilling my beer. “Pretty much.”

“What you do is nothing short of inspiring!” M said. Phil looked at me, back at her, at me again and snorted.

“Well,” I continued, furrowing my brow, looking side-to-side and then leaning forward, “I think that if you aren’t living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.”

“Wow.”

An hour and multiple beers – oat sodas – later, we headed for the actual Fest, and, while crutching along, I heard M giving Phil shit. Turns out she hadn’t seen my cast when I gimped-in, just my Jimmy crutches, and now realized that I wasn’t disabled at all (apparently nothing else in my personality tipped her off), but just some climbing bum who’d fucked himself up. And, somehow, this was Phil’s fault.

“Well what did you think when I was calling him a cripple earlier, then?” Phil asked back, laughing.

“I thought you were just being an asshole, like you usually are,” she said.

Inside the theater, where a bunch of people in costumes reciting movie lines in unison didn’t ruin anything at all for me, we took our seats. Phil got up and brought me back a drink – “Here ya go, cripple.” M shot me a sideways glance like I wasn’t anything inspirational at all, just some goldbricker, a deadbeat climbing bum. Oh well, fair enough. It was good while it lasted. I leaned back, sipped my white Russian and waited for the movie to start.

Goldbricker Marg

gold brick (informal), noun: a thing that looks valuable, but is in fact worthless.

• (also goldbrick or goldbricker) a lazy person : [as adj. ] hardworking Amos and goldbrick Andy.

verb (usu. goldbrick) [ intrans. ]

invent excuses to avoid a task; shirk : he wasn’t goldbricking; he was really sick.

Tequila

Galindo Añejo. What, an añejo for me? Well, añejo means gold – just without the brick. I provided that when I made my sister, Jill, buy the tequila. Actually, she’d texted me before my flight out, asking what tequila to buy. I explained that if they wanted something really good, like for top-shelf margs and sipping after I leave, get Herradura Reposado – but I know it’s pricey, I’ve only received it as gifts myself – and so I continued, explaining that the standard Hornitos would be just fine. Only she didn’t get to the second half of my text, flying into a frenzy at the first half. She called Phil and went off, “He used to live in a fucking chicken coop and he wants us to buy him a $55 bottle of tequila?! No fucking way! That deadbeat!”

At the liquor store, they gently pointed her to a fine alternative – a lesser-known, smaller brand, that they insisted was comparable and far less expensive: Galindo. Absolutely superb, made some of the best margs I’ve had. I hope I can find it around here. The añejo ran about $40, which still puts it generally out of my price range, but it was damn good stuff and, well, if, like, you know, like, you aren’t buying, man, you can still be pivy to the good shit…

Mix

Since this is good stuff, you know this by now: fresh-squeezed limes and simple syrup. For each part of lime juice, do maybe ¾ part simple syrup. You make simple syrup by mixing one part water with one part sugar, stirring and heating gently until dissolved. Don’t boil it. Then put the heated pot inside a larger pot of cold water, to cool it down while you squeeze the limes.

The Marg

No triple sec. Don’t need it or want it with the good stuff. About half the marg is the Galindo, the other half mix. Add a splash of OJ. Shaken, not stirred, on the rocks, with salt. The dude abides.

More tech geek stuff on waterproof/breathable shells. Non tech geeks might just skip down to the micro-rant, or read a real rant. One of the comments to my last post on w/b shells got me thinking about definitions – what’s the difference between the w/b shell types we hear about: 2-layer, 2.5-layer, 3-layer? Well, it’s a construction thing. Specifically, the construction as it relates to the interior layer of the garment. Each type of w/b laminate shell construction has pluses and minuses, which can help determine which best suits your needs.

First, I should mention that un-laminated waterproof shells, like raincoats, exist. I believe the standard raincoat is made of rubber or polyurethane-coated nylon. I don’t know. They’re heavy, don’t breathe at all, and, so far as I’ve seen, not cut for athletic movement or featured for technical use. Single-layer fabrics can be treated with waterproof coatings, but they wear off, just like a DWR coating will wear off over time. So, as per current technology, the only way to achieve true, lasting, waterproof/breathable protection is with these laminated fabrics. And you still have to keep up with the DWR coating, to keep the face fabric from getting saturated. Once that face fabric gets saturated, you have no effective vapor pressure gradient between your moisture on the inside, and the saturated fabric on the outside – and thus, no breathability. Some companies claim theirs will still breathe due to the temperature difference driving

Ol' Jim Turner climbing in his favorite 3L shell in Silverton. Good thing he also has a rope.

breathability – and temperature does drive vapor pressure – but with a physical barrier like a laminate already there, this claim is bullshit. They can “prove” this breathability claim in a lab, yeah, but anyone who’s ever worn a laminate in the field, when the DWR has worn off and the face fabric is saturated, knows it’s bullshit.

Side note: you might not need a waterproof shell that’s also breathable. Sometimes you just want what amounts to an emergency rain smock. Will present some ideas on that another time.

By the way, any shell labeled “waterproof/breathable” by a reputable company will be seam-sealed. Either stitched seams with seam tape, or welded seams.

2-layer

The w/b part is just the outer two layers – the face or shell fabric, bonded to the w/b laminate. Since the w/b laminate is fairly fragile, and thus needs protection, a hanging liner gets added to the inside of the garment. Doesn’t this make it three layers? Kind of, but the hanging liner doesn’t “count” in this type of math. The hanging liner helps wick moisture, and feels soft and comfortable, especially since they’re often made with brushed poly, soft mesh, or microfleece. Doesn’t usually feel like a garbage bag next to skin. But doing it this way adds considerable weight and bulk. They’re usually quieter, not as crinkly sounding or feeling. Sounds nice, but they’re heavy and bulky. Though I’m probably wrong here, I don’t think anyone makes a technical, climbing, w/b shell in 2-layer construction anymore. Since that hanging liner isn’t glued/bonded to the w/b barrier, it can actually make for pretty good breathability, but it’s hard to compare straight-up breathabilitiy across the garment construction categories; as I understand it, it’s a mixed bag, a can of worms, and goes above my pay grade – too many factors with construction, whether it’s bonded with glue or lasers and stuff, the distance from the heat/moisture source (your body) to the w/b barrier, and so on. 2-layer garments aren’t very compressible due to the hanging liner, which can also get bunchy over layers. These things best make for an around-town jacket, or maybe resort skiing, things like that. Usually good price-point pieces, not as expensive, not very technical.

2.5-layer

The interior of a 2.5L (left; the Patagonia Spectre p/o, unfortunately no longer made), and a 3L (right; the Patagonia M10).

These have a bonded inner liner (not hanging), but it’s not a full liner – hence the “half” part of 2.5. It’s like elevated specs, or parts of a bonded liner, sticking up off the w/b laminate, often in a dot or cool little printed interior pattern. Thus, there’s less bonded liner material on there. This decreases durability, and can allow contamination of the w/b laminate, because it’s partially exposed. It also makes it more susceptible to mechanically breaking down over time, thus reducing the shell’s effective life. But it does make for superb compressibility and the lightest weight. Smooth layering, too. Depending on construction, these can be super technical, stretchy, good features, good breathability, all that – or made as an emergency-only shell. Naturally, price therefore varies. You can get some good 2.5L shells for pretty cheap, and they aren’t necessarily bad. These emergency-type shells have some merit, particularly for summer alpine rock, like a “If you’re in the Park and hell unleashes with afternoon thunderstorms and it dumps for two hours emergency shell.”

3-layer

A complete bonded liner is laminated to the inside. Thus, the w/b film is completely sandwiched between the inner scrim and the outer shell fabric. The scrim does a number of things well: it disperses water vapor (which helps keep it from becoming actual moisture) along the inside, to enhance breathability and keep you dry from the inside. Also has a much better next-to-skin feel than a 2.5L, like if you’re wearing it over a short-sleeved T (I find this of very rare value,though, at least with climbing – if I’m concerned enough to bringing a w/b shell, I’m usually up someplace where I’m wearing long sleeves, even in summer). Significantly, that bonded liner on the inside protects the w/b barrier (which, as we know, is prone to contamination), making for longer life (of the shell, that is) and, typically, better performance over the course of the shell’s life. A 3L fabric package also has greater tear strength and abrasion resistance. It usually has a softer feel than a 2.5L, but is usually heavier and less compressible (though Patagonia’s M10 – yes, I’m biased – does a remarkable job of being light & compressible for a 3L). Those who favor 3L shells tend to wear a hard shell for regular, dedicated use, and thus want something with a good feel and durable, solid performance day-in, day-out. But 3L shells are usually the most expensive – especially if they’re also technically dialed and honed-in enough to also be lightweight, maybe have some stretch, etc.

—

Again, all of this is if you’re going with, or need, a hard shell vs. a soft shell, which is a different topic – soft shells are great for many uses. An aside about definitions: there are no stone-set standards for what constitutes a hard vs. soft shell, but — ah, hell, time for a side rant.

Side Rant on Definitions:

My understanding, and one embraced by most in the outdoor industry, is that hard shells are waterproof, while soft shells are not. Since a laminate, or waterproof barrier, sandwiched into the garment makes these shells waterproof, all that sandwiching makes them feel “harder.” Soft shells, without that barrier, have a much softer hand. This definition makes sense, at least as I understand things in relation to the origins of soft shells. I think the concept really grabbed hold with winter climbing in Scotland, when people started realizing that their “waterproof” shells were leaving them soaked anyway, just from the inside. So, somewhat counter-intuitive as it may seem, some climbers started wearing jackets that were non-waterproof, but significantly more breathable. The jackets just resisted exterior moisture, slowing it down, but meaning that, in those nasty Scottish conditions, they’d allow some moisture to penetrate the shell fabric. But with such a breathable shell, and layered underneath with directional pile to help channel their own outward-driving heat, their own body heat would help keep them dry and combat the moisture that tried to enter. The shell and pile feel soft, and have no laminate barrier or stiff polyurethane coating. This “modern soft shell concept” works when you’re generating your own heat – it won’t work for watching Tiger Woods in the Kentucky Derby or whatever it is (obviously, I’m not a golfer), in a pouring rain. Though it might work for him, as apparently he generates plenty of heat.

Anyway, I’ve occasionally heard companies market something like a “waterproof soft shell,” which is a contradiction of accepted terminology. In that case, you’re just making up definitions however you want, aside from any semblance of reason. They might say “well, it doesn’t feel hard” (is that what…oh, nevermind) or claim it has a soft feel, but, fuck, ya can say that about anything, it’s wildly subjective. The claim of “waterproof” isn’t an exact science, either, but at least it’s some sort of standard. There are rules here Smokey, this is not ‘Nam. (OK, there really aren’t rules, but that doesn’t mean I’m over the line.)

Need to get back to work. Coming soon, maybe next week – my ideas as to which end uses might steer you to a 2.5 vs. a 3-layer shell. The 2-layer ones are usually best for walking to coffee shops in the rain. Or watching the Tiger Driving Open Master’s Derby or whatever it is.

Over the line!

I’m excited. Big day for me – a key appointment with my surgeon, and, as six weeks have passed since my last surgery, two months since my accident, we should finally see bone growth, hopefully some notable healing, and remove the cast in favor of a boot. The view of the RMNP skyline, on the ride down from Estes this morning, made my heart dance. I miss it. It’ll still be awhile until I can learn to walk again, but my leg feels good, and I’ve tried to avoid thinking about the “what ifs.” What if it doesn’t heal right? What if we don’t see bone growth on the Xrays today? What if something goes wrong? There’s no guarantee that the bones will grow back together after being so pulverized.

My cousin asked me how I handle the uncertainty of it all. Truth is, I don’t know. It’s weird in a way – alpinism has everything to do with the unknown, and embracing uncertainty. There, I love it. I guess I’m used to it. But, come to think of it, the uncertainty of it used to terrify me. As it does now in other realms. It’s still a challenge. Life is a challenge – at least to live it in the way that feels right.

With my leg, some variables remain that are simply beyond my control. In life, other variables exist that are worse, and I can get crazy carried away sometimes, to where I feel like there’s a hornet’s nest inside my head. Some things can still reduce me to a crumpled mess. But with my leg, I’ve done great. Last summer gave me perspective. Sometimes I call upon the strength that gets me through difficult climbs, but that also sits right alongside my weaknesses, and transfer it into forcing the runway train to stop, to put up a barrier around my inner self that blocks the hornet’s nest. Breathe…Stop, focus on the moment, everything is OK right now.

Sometimes it works.

Climbing is easy.

Climbing is good. With my leg, maybe the truth is that I just can’t go there, into thinking that my active life could change so drastically. When I let my mind drift close to that edge it scares me too much, because while part of me knows I could probably adapt and live a meaningful life, as so many others have proven possible, part of me doesn’t know if I could. It’s an unknown that I don’t want to embrace. But I don’t need to, because right now, in this moment, everything is OK. And very soon, I’ll know whether or not that’s really true.

OK, I’m off to see the doc.

The importance of staying dry particularly resonates with me after fulfilling a lifelong goal Friday night by attending the famed Lebowski Fest, but that’s another story. I’d planned to write about what shell fabric is best for a belay parka (IMO, a non-waterproof shell is better for most belay parkas – will explain later). But then, aw heck, I got to rambling – too many White Russians and Oat Sodas still in my blood stream, I guess. So, well, you know, like, there’s a lot of ins, a lotta outs, a lot of what-have-yous here. Regarding shell materials, for now I’ll just do an overview of waterproof/breathable fabrics (aka “Hard Shells”), more geared toward understanding breathability as it

At least he didn't pee on it.

applies to field use. Maybe it’ll help understand things like which works better if Wu pees on your rug (and they pee on your fucking rug!).

Waterproof shells do, at least mostly, block incoming moisture (some leak sometimes). They do this by sandwiching a thin barrier, a film, also called a laminate, between the shell fabric and the lining. The laminate itself is too fragile to stand alone, and is super thin, this stretchy white thing that’s waterproof and breathable. So how come you sometimes feel wet when being active in a hard shell?

Most often, the problem comes from the moisture you produce, making you wet from the inside. When you move, you generate heat. Moisture comes with it – by-products of energy metabolism (higher work output = higher energy turnover, a.k.a. greater metabolic output), as we all recall from physiology class, include heat, H20 and CO2. The CO2 and H20 get released a couple of ways, primarily through the mouths of many – if you don’t believe me, just visit your local Wal-Mart. The mouthbreather species abounds everywhere, though, as I’m sadly reminded of when I get busted watching Cops reruns. But those are extreme examples to illustrate a point. Another way H20 gets released is through our skin – i.e. water vapor and sweat – even if we don’t visibly notice it, because at low work rates (and in dry environments, which greatly enhance evaporative rate) it evaporates before we feel damp. But as long as we’ve got a metabolism – as long as we’re alive – we’re releasing heat, H20 and CO2. Just at varying rates, depending on what we’re doing. The moisture has to escape to the outside environment or we get wet from the inside. You can test this by putting a non-breathable plastic bag over your head and going for a run. The inside of the bag will be warm and wet. Warm for awhile, anyway.

OK, so the flipside to waterproof shells is the “breathable” part – in quotes because it’s far from real-world effective. Companies all claim their fabrics breathe, and, sure, they breathe well at certain rates of output. It’s why the masses love them – riding a lift up, then skiing down, or walking to the coffee shop in the rain, simply does not push any realms of breathability. Cool. It works great for certain applications. But anybody working hard can quickly overwhelm the breathability limits of waterproof/breathable fabrics – in other words, your moisture output becomes too much for the fabric to keep pace – remember that H20 and CO2 are by-products of hard work (increased metabolism, or energy turnover). Then, the moisture can’t escape fast enough through the waterproof/breathable barrier, and the inside of your shell gets wet with sweat. Cute lab tests concocted to show breathability are cool (kewl if you’re cool, so I’m told…) and work great in a gear shop’s display or an exhibitor’s booth at a trade show. Simulclimbing like mad, or post-holing like an elk on an approach, though? Ha, breathability, right. (Ha, leads…)

The fact remains that with current technologies, making something fully impermeable from the outside also compromises its breathability from the inside – ya can’t have it both ways. Not yet. Some companies have made notable improvements, though, including some cool things I’ve tested, but that I can’t talk about yet lest I end up in Guantanamo Bay.

It sounds like I’m bashing hard shells, but, actually, I use them a lot. On some climbs, protection is my paramount concern, and indeed hard shells offer superior protection. They’ve got some other advantages, too, which I’ll hit on soon, along with things to consider regarding making them work for you. As with so many things, it’s a balance – in this case, between which is more important for the situation, keeping dry from the outside, or from the inside?

Funny how pride messes with ya, even in little ways. Was feeling pretty good about myself in the airport yesterday, like suddenly I wasn’t a short guy with a low IQ and a gimp leg, as I maintained my longtime eschewing of escalators, instead booking down the stairs, and skipping the lazyman’s moving walkways, instead crutching along faster. Of course my gate was forever away. But that’s OK, because I’m clearly a better human being than those who use the walkways.

One-legged Stairmaster. Didn't work so well.

I’ve been starting to miss climbing. Physical activity – a 30-minute crutch session, or getting after it on my hangboard (I now have three in my tiny cabin) – helps, for sure. But damn, there’s nothing like climbing or just being in the mountains, and there’s most certainly nothing like climbing in the mountains. Damn. I can’t wait to come back.

I’ve also come to realize something that I guess I knew, but hadn’t confronted myself with in a little while: that I greatly rely on physical activity, especially in the mountains, and especially climbing, to cope. Here, of course, we find that damned “opportunity” thing. True, this is an opportunity, an opportunity for me to sit around and drink and watch pro wrestling learn healthy new ways to cope with life’s challenges, rather than just escape into my private, vertical world. I’m working on it. But some opportunities, I’d be just fine without. So it goes. I need to learn, and I’m trying to learn. A good friend even took me to a non-secular hippy Buddhist meditation thing last week, and don’t hold me to this but I’ll admit that I found it good, healthy, and I’ve been practicing some on my own (just in case it wasn’t obvious by now…).

Anyway, a silly dose of pride got me when I reached the gate just as they announced that my flight had been moved 25 gates away. Oh well. Just had to laugh at myself and spin a 180 on my gimp sticks, suddenly feeling a little less smug. Still no lazyman’s sidewalk, though – a little extra exercise won’t hurt me, and it put me in a better, more balanced mood. How ‘bout that. So, yeah, I don’t have that whole internal meditative thing dialed quite yet – though I’ll try to stare into a sunflower somewhere on this L.A. trip and find my inner calm, chi, or whatever the hell it is (namaste, motherfucker, NAMASTE!). In the meantime – just in case I don’t score my inner peace merit badge before the deadline – my sis bought me some good tequila, and my brother and law and I are heading to Lebowski Fest Friday night. Oh yeah, how ya like me now.

Today is Jonny Copp’s birthday. He would have been 36. I don’t know how to feel, how I should feel, how I actually feel – confused, sad, and grateful, I guess. Grateful daily, I think of him daily, even the day I sat broken in the snow in Hyalite I thought of him, thought of him with gratitude. Confused because death is such an enigma. We throw out clichés, about how the ones we lost wouldn’t want us to be sad, and in their memory we need to live to the fullest – true enough – but it also remains true that he’s gone and no rationalizing changes how much I miss him. Nothing will ever replace the sadness in his parents’ eyes, and the simple fact that they will never be the same.

Jonny on the FA of Going Monk, Mt. Andrews, AK.

And I’m confused, too, because they say time heals but it feels strange that I can now look at his picture, the one I put on my desk after the memorial but haven’t been able put away, and look at it without crying. I still pause and look into his eyes, eyes that burned with life, and still speak to him, but I don’t cry. Not as often, anyway. And I guess that means a day will come that I don’t pause and look in his eyes anymore, or speak to him, or feel indescribably moved when I look on my wall and see the painting of Jonny, as a young boy in India, that leaves me speechless. The night Kristo and I spent with his parents, John and Phyllis, in their home, looking through photo albums until the early morning hours, helped me better understand what made Jonny, Jonny, and to John and Phyllis we are forever grateful.

I want to always remember.

That’s good, because as long as I am alive, I don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s a present and it makes me smile. The people that come into our lives and have an influence, they change us. We are never the same.

Ahhh, that first time in the Black, me and Scotty, Choss Pit virgins, with him and Dylan, the morning rolls on, Jonny manning the chickeneggs and bacon (piggy, of course, always the piggy), me and Scott anxiously glancing at our watches, when suddenly Jonny leads the charge – like two speeds, baby, stop and go – and he and Dylan run from the campsite, gear clanking, Scotty and I drafting on enthusiasm, hooting and shouting bombing down the Cruise Gully, and before we know it we’re down, climb out, go down again and climb another before the buzz wears off and over beers at camp it hits us that we did more than we’d have thought on our own. And Chamonix for a month late winter, five of us piled into that tiny apartment, nonstop laughter, epics, sends, friendships, suffering through the north face of Les Droites way lost, and for some reason I most remember Jonny’s outrageous head bobs at 2 a.m. – standing on a ledge discussing where the hell to go when, his body taught to the anchor, his eyes flutter and his head and torso drift forward to chest height before rocketing back up, bolt upright, eyes wide like saucers and he busts into that laugh, which turns to a smile that stays put as his eyes close and he catches a moment’s sleep while drifting forward again, repeat, repeat, repeat… Upon arrival in Cham, the very next day we bumbled to the Frendo Spur mid-morning, climbed, raced, but missed the last tram down as Scotty D waved to us and atop the Midi station me and Jonny raided the French rescue crew’s kitchen, making cheesy

Next: Cheesy fries! And after that: uh-oh...dude, you hear footsteps? Busted!

fries, emptying their fridge, making it ours until busted and banished to the bathroom bivy. Learning to go for it with him in Alaska a month later – what the hell, made the plans at the end of Cham, why not – when I’d have been content to sit around – weather isn’t perfect, I don’t know… the Brits aghast at our trainwreck, “Look at that camp and tent! The squalor!” and we’d just laugh – and the indecisive Kahiltna hang with everyone else, except you just don’t get away with that with Jonny Copp, and somehow you don’t want to get away with that with Jonny Copp, and so we went between – and partially through – storms, we went monk – I gotta dig down, I gotta go monk (after watching Zoolander on near-constant loop in Cham, Jonny and I could communicate in Zoolander dialogue – Wharton: “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ve been around you two together – it’s really annoying, actually”). Thanks to Jonny, we milked everything out of the trip. Later that summer, the Triple Lindy in RMNP – The Triple Lindy, but that’s impossible! The summer before he left, descending in the Park after a glorious day, talking about his Sara and my Jenna, and just how god-damned lucky and happy we were, and…

Shit. I guess I’m rambling. Even if time heals, healing brings mixed emotions. I don’t want to forget. And I sit here realizing that, well, I guess I’m not quite over the crying yet. But it’s OK. As long as I am alive, I won’t forget Jonny Copp. I couldn’t, even if I tried.

***

The Jonny Marg

I think it’s fair to say that Jonny wouldn’t be above our drinking damn near anything to celebrate – he just wasn’t that uptight. After all, he came to the white trash party in Estes, sampled my nasty powdered-sours-mix-with-swill-tequila-marg in Alaska, we swilled wine in France, Tecate in the Black, PBR on the Kahiltna – and he’d carried one, hidden from me, all the way in to our no-sleeping-bag bivy in the East Fork, and, after Going Monk – after we descended in a whiteout and I plunged into a crevasse and he pulled me out, trembling and terrified, and we returned to the tent cold, wet, and scared, but I was happy to be there with him – he dug into the snow and handed me the best tasting PBR of my life. I think anything to celebrate Jonny will work. Maybe another way to put it is that it’s not the drink that matters, it’s who you have it with.

Mix

Fresh squeezed limes, let’s do it right. Roll them on the countertop, under your palm, softening their skins and making the juices fluid. Roll the ends, too. Squeeze with a juicer – not an automatic one, but do it by hand, it’s better that way. A good lime will yield about two ounces of juice. So, get plenty of limes.

Make simple syrup – the sweetness makes a perfect yin to the lime’s yang – with one part sugar, one part water. Maybe one cup of each, that way you have enough for a few margs. Heat gradually, stirring, but don’t boil. Cool the pot by setting it inside a pot of cold water. Do this first, so it cools while you squeeze the limes.

About one part lime juice, ¾ or so simple syrup – adjust to taste. Add a splash of OJ.

Tequila

Go for the good stuff. I’m saying Herradura Reposado here. Herradura makes terrific tequila, and the reposado picks up flavors from the wood barrels where it ages, blending with the wildness of agave flavor. Real stuff, a great, honest tequila. Refined and aged, but not too much. Still has its youth, but some maturity, like it has been around and seen some things and grown stronger through experience. I also love blancos, or jovens, love their rawness. Anejos are terrific, too, like an old man sitting in a rocking chair after a wonderful life. But tonight I’m going with the reposado.

Marg

Mix equal parts mix and tequila – keep it strong. No triple sec needed here, it just detracts from the simplicity and purity of the ingredients. When it’s this good, there’s no reason to mess with it.

This is a damn fine marg. My personal favorite. But, really, it doesn’t matter. Mix this, or this, the standard, even the beergarita. Even a PBR. If you don’t drink, toast a glass of water. That part doesn’t matter. But maybe it’s a good day to remember what does matter, and to appreciate the people you love. For having them in your lives, you’ll never be the same.

Only 6,500 feet to go. Me feeling a little lighter, a few pitches after dropping part of the rack. Josh Wharton photo

Six years ago this summer, midway up the second pitch of a route, I felt these things hitting my thigh. I looked down to see half our rack sliding off the come-undone gear sling, hitting my leg and bouncing into space. Josh Wharton and I had just started up the unclimbed southwest ridge on Great Trango Tower, in Pakistan, probably the biggest chunk of rock in the world, rising 7,400 vertical feet from base to summit. Uh, shit. What now?

About ten years back Tommy Caldwell, whom I didn’t know at the time but has since become one of my best friends – giving me not only the benefit of osmosis (pretty amazing, really – I can just sit on his porch drinking margs and I get stronger), but a glimpse into his amazingly driven, yet amazingly human, mindset – cut off his finger with a table saw. A rock climber with nine fingers? Right, he’s done.

When our gear sling came open (which was Josh’s fault, I swear…), I reached down and caught a handful of the cams, and the nuts (which I needed in lieu of my own – biggest route I’d been on), and since I had already placed a bunch of gear in the pitch, we lost only five cams or so – about a quarter of our rack. The weather was good so we keep going – what the hell, we were almost there anyway, right? You can do things like that when climbing with someone as good as Josh, I figured.

A recent hangboard session, instructions: "hang on your middle three fingers." For TC, make that middle two.

Tommy has since told me how he’s learned to use his hand in different ways, and how, actually, it forced him to become a better climber because he couldn’t just rely on pure “pulling” all the time.

We all know the stories from there – I’ve sprayed enough about how Josh and I continued and climbed the route, calling it the Azeem Ridge, in four and a half days. It’s hands-down the greatest climb I’ve ever done. Sometimes we needed that missing gear, just like we needed another fuel canister, just like Tommy needed his finger. Or maybe not. You learn things as you go, and most important is the mentality, the willingness to try, and to continually adapt. Without that, you might as well stay on the couch. As for Tommy, we also know that he only got better, becoming the undisputed master of big-wall free-climbing, and pulling off repeated Olympic-caliber performances. Enough to where I get this goofy idea every time I pick up a power tool…

I’ve got to remember the mindset. People do it every day – from inspiring stories about everyday people battling with more than most of us ever have to face, to climbers who remind me to never again make an excuse for myself.

At the BRC yesterday, I saw Chris Klinga – one of the people who recommended me to Dr. Desai, and who was wrecked beyond all imagination, and is now fully back. It got me thinking of his drive. While still in a wheelchair, he rationalized that the pressure he put on his legs when switching from his chair to his bed or whatever was pretty much the same as what you’d put on a foot while riding a bike, so… “Wait, Chris, you mean like a stationary bike?” No, he actually got out and rode a bicycle. “Yeah, you just don’t want to fall,” he said with a chuckle. Hmmm.

A friend in Alaska, who ripped off his foot in a horrific climbing accident, and continues to put-up new routes in the Hayes Range every year, told me that bicycling and cross-country skiing were great recovery activities. You mean like a stationary bike and the Nordic Trak, right? Nope.

“Biking with one leg is actually really easy. The broken leg (as long as the knee is unrestricted) will simply track. … the hard part is getting on and off the bike. Put the seat lower than standard and mount the broken leg side first. Make sure ya ready. Wait why am telling an injured guy how to…oh because it is good for ya, make sure ya are ready to peddle like mad at first — no soft ground or uphill starts.

You can even have someone assist ya, or get on by leaning against a tree or what have you. Oh, and the most critical, when you fall, which you will, fall onto the good leg (duh). Oh, and don’t use bike shoes.

Skiing is more straight-forward. But involves being close to weight bearing. Basically ya put all your weight on one ski, and double pole like a Norwegian.

I’d give it a few weeks if ya can…”

Uh, yeah, I think I’ll give it at least a few weeks. Wackos. But, actually, this reminded me of my own recoveries from past injuries, my absurdly short memory, and that innate human ability to rationalize damn near anything. When I had knee surgery a couple of months after spinal surgery (with the mess that is private health insurance, once you hit that sky-high deductible it’s time for the 60,000-mile full-tune-up), after awhile I was allowed to hike. Well, hiking is pretty much the same thing as scrambling, which is pretty much the same as… One day I found myself a couple hundred feet up the super-easy (5.5) Rock One at Lumpy Ridge, unable to fully flex my knee but reinforcing to myself that I was only hiking, when suddenly struck with the notion that I’m going to feel really stupid if I fall and bite it soloing Rock One.

I’m working on staying smart this time. Still on the stationary bike. No skiing with one leg. But truly, I think a balance exists between what the docs tell you – after all, the average person probably isn’t as driven as most of us are, and not so fit, and the docs don’t want to get sued – and being careful to do no harm. It’s a fine line.

I titled this post “Adapt and Deal,” but a crucial third word comes to mind, one that drives the willingness to adapt, and puts the fire in dealing: determination. An unwillingness to simply fold, to quit.

Marko Prezelj at home.

Another friend, Marko Prezelj, the Slovenian super badass and one of my climbing heroes, surely the greatest living alpinist on the planet (here’s where the 8,000-meter peak-bagging crowd goes “Uh, who? What’s his Sherpa guide’s name?”), wrote me the other day with some encouraging words. Marko’s intense, for sure, but still I don’t know how he does it – 44 years old, been at the cutting edge forever, no signs of slowing, sooo motivated, and with a brilliant eye for art – he sees things with his photography that the rest of us would otherwise miss – has a family, and holds great insights to life. Sorry, I know, enough of the man-crush on Marko already.

So let me just end by saying I love the way the guy signs some of his emails. I think he’s on to something.

Like Marko says: Keep Fighting.

Pre-ramble: I want to branch-out with my storytelling, go beyond the climbing world and into more mainstream markets. I think I could touch more people that way. As with my last post, for example. And I’ve been dabbling with filmmaking, although my latest offering didn’t make it into Sundance. I had my all-black outfit and hipster haircut ready, and practiced wearing my sunglasses inside after dark, but they never called (whatever, their loss). It makes me realize that working in steps – mainstream sports first, perhaps – might be a wise strategy. As such, unveiling a solution to a serious problem could propel me to the next level. I think the college football season just ended, and though I didn’t hear of any controversy this year, in general their Bowl Championship Series sucks. Even I know that. But unlike all those sportswriter pundits, I have a solution. I’m coming for their jobs – unless Sundance calls me first.

“We made a mistake,” Mike Tranghese told an Associated Press writer a few years ago. Tranghese, then the Big East conference commissioner, was that year’s—I can’t remember which, but pick a year—head of college football’s Bowl Championship Series. The system was designed to ensure an undisputed champion while maintaining the tradition-steeped post-season bowl-game system, but it repeatedly fails, leaving fans and hard-working athletes who also go to college toiling with the unknown until the next year when, maybe, the BCS will work.

The solution, however, is so obvious that I’m surprised nobody’s thought of it sooner. Everyone knows that the real way to determine a true champion is through a playoff system, like college basketball does with their 64-team championship tournament (I think it starts soon). But in football, colleges fear damage to tradition, the bowl game folks fear the loss of money, and there is, of course, the issue of football’s physicality. Following the regular season—which can not and should not be eliminated because of economic stimulus to the towns hosting the games and the need to keep college athletes in classes all fall—an 8- or 16-team playoff would drag on far too long, naysayers say, because players need at least a week to recover between the physically punishing games. But a 64-team playoff tournament, if approached properly, would juke all of these issues and, finally, give us an undisputed champion.

Simple: flag football.

"It's so simple! That Cordes kid really knows his stuff," said college football coaching legend Joe Paterno. "Can't believe I didn't think of that."

For one, a full-contact regular season followed by a flag football post-season would introduce an exciting new strategic element for coaching staffs. Once a team knows they’ll receive a playoff invitation they might opt to pull some of their best players, to keep them fresh and injury free for the Flag Season (which the playoffs will certainly, eventually, be called).

It’ll also help solve our country’s growing obesity problem. Currently, most football fans are clearly overweight. But what are they to do? Nobody could expect them to go out and actually play football because, without the expensive pads, they would get hurt. Health experts say that “lifetime activities”—games or sports in which people can participate throughout their lifespan—are crucial in the obesity war. The flag football players would be tremendous role models, spokesmen for lifetime physical activity. After a hearty session of cheering, the fans would imitate their on-field heroes and play their own games of flag rather than dive into alcohol- and food-binge depression (when their team loses) or alcohol- and food-binge celebrations (when their team wins).

Though politicians and Real ‘Mericans alike would surely admonish the lack of violence as a means of settling disputes, we might find solace in kinder and gentler ways. Replace the post-hit smack talking: “Take that bitch, booyaaa!” with a perky, “Got your flag!”

The flag solution is also non-discriminatory, a big bonus in these politically correct times. Size discrimination has long run rampant in football, and eliminating post-season tackling helps level the playing field. Only the most talented athletes, free from sizism’s bias, would emerge victorious.

Finally, the economic impact—because it’s all about the economy, stupid. Flag Season could return our economy to the PBD (Pre-Bush-Disaster) years. It would create additional jobs for commoners selling peanuts, beer, and chamomile tea during the games, and help justify tax cuts for billionaire stadium owners—a true bipartisan solution. Equipment manufacturers would still get their money from the regular season, as would medical providers and insurance jackals. Factories in Asia would sew the flag belts, therefore bringing money to impoverished nations and instilling a valuable work ethic in their youth.

The 63 games wouldn’t take long because, as we remember from high school gym class and college intramurals, you can play a couple of flag football games in a single day. No “week off” sissification necessary. Greater productivity. The games could be hosted by the current 34 (or whatever it’s up to now) bowl games, keeping them happy, while creating opportunities for 29 new bowl games. Again, good for the economy.

The harshest critics, the fundamentalists, surely think such a proposal absurd because, they’ll say, you gotta have tackling to have real football. But there’s no tackling allowed in basketball, and their playoff works fine.

Note: This post has absolutely nothing to do with climbing and is filled with bad words. Lots of f-bombs, but nothing like the 292 in The Big Lebowski. If you’re having a cheery day and want something upbeat, click here instead.

All the dude wanted was his rug back. And all Phil, my brother-in-law, and I want to do is go to the Lebowski Fest, pathetic and sad as that may be, in a couple of weeks, in Los Angeles, the city of angels – though I haven’t found it to be quite that exactly. Phil’s definitely a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever (yes, yes, and proud I am of him). A few years back he and some friends, visiting from Iceland, rented an RV and drove from NYC to a Lebowski Fest in Kentucky. He is a very busy man.

So this morning I called in sick — what day is this? — and went online to buy tickets, run by Ticketmaster, those greedy rotten scumbags. “Convenience Charge”? WTF is that? Says right here that the ticket costs $19.99. But a $9 fee on top of it, and you’ve got the fucking nerve to call it a “Convenience Charge?” So, let me get this right, choada boy, you’re charging me 50% of the ticket price for the great honor, nay, the convenience!, of buying a ticket from you? When some dude from the ‘hood does it outside a stadium, he risks arrest under the charge of ticket scalping. Oh, but that’s different? Like hell it is. Piss off. Assholes. Only, what else am I to do? (Besides, of course, getting a life and not going to Lebowski Fest…)

If you’re going to scalp tickets, just tell me the god-damned price. You aren’t fooling anyone. Don’t do this insulting bullshit where you kick me in the nuts and then ask me to thank you for the convenience.

They’re like the airlines. And don’t even get me started on banks, the finance world swindlers, and “health” insurance companies. These companies all do this bullshit where they go “Well, we wish we didn’t have to charge such fees and institute such policies…” WTF do you mean you don’t have a choice, you douchebag? Oh yes, you have a choice there, slick, you’re just choosing to long-dick us, hoping to make everything look better than it is. You could, for example, choose to not put profiteering above honest presentation, or choose not to pay your CEO a $40 million dollar bonus for his brilliance in contributing to the economic melt-down (btw, what’s up with the slime at big banks and Wall Street saying they have to pay such bonuses to attract the top talent? You mean like the talent that got us into this mess? Are you fucking serious? I think Joe the Plumber could do better).

Here’s a novel concept – just quit the deceptive pricing (“19.99 ticket price” x 2 tickets = $57.98 on my card…I’m no Aristotle, but that doesn’t add up…) and corporate-speak bullshit, along with the add-ons, and grow a pair, tell me up front, like a real human being, how much the god-damned thing costs. If you can’t bear to do it – I know, it’s asking a lot – then just call it “our profiteering fee.” At least I’d have a shred of respect for your being honest, for once. As un-American-businesslike as it seems. Bunch of fucking amateurs.

This aggression will not stand, man. So in the interest of all the commoners out there, I’m left with no choice but to hereby challenge the owner/CEO of Ticketmaster to a duel. Not golf or lawn darts, Sally-boy. (Obviously, I’m not a golfer…) But a boxing match. Him and all 140 pounds of me (actually less right now), in the ring, once my leg is better. Or a free-solo to the death if he prefers. Hell, I’ll do that with one leg. By 3 o’clock. With fucking nail polish. His call. I’m serious. If I win, they start doing honest business and the price is the price. He wins, I return to my cave and shut my cake-hole.

These guys really pissed on my rug. But I’ll go out and achieve, anyway.

Tonight’s marg recipe isn’t a marg. It’s a White Russian. Fuck it dude, let’s go bowling.

—

White Russian (aka “A Caucasian”)

2 parts Vodka

1 part Kahlúa

1 part cream or milk

Get cheap Vodka. I’m not much of a Vodka drinker, but I know it’s a fairly neutral spirit to begin with – unlike tequila – and so I never bought into the Grey Gaylord hipster designer bottle crap to begin with, especially since several blind taste tests found that nobody could tell the difference between that overpriced swill and Smirnoff.

Put the booze in a glass and stir. Add the cream/milk. On ice. Just like the Dude.