A Very Boofy Christmas

A Very Boofy Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all cross the walls

Not a climber was crimping, or taking lead falls.

The ropes were all hung from the tippity top.

To save the top ropers from a big scary drop.

The boulderers were nestled all snug on their mats,

Wearing tiny ass shoes and tiny ass hats.

And I in a onesie, with white padded feet,

Put on some Jay-Z, and danced to the beat.  

When out in the alley there arose such a clatter,

I shrieked and eeked as I ran down the ladder.

Away to the exit I flew like a flash,

Fearing some hoodlum to be after my cash.

The moon abreast on the trash all around,

Made it all still look gross and dirty and brown.

When what to my wondering eyes did I see,

But Raff dressed as Santa sipping Hennessy.

I thought to myself “this is pretty damn weird”

Then slinked away as the jolly drunk neared.

More rapid then whippers the setting crew emerged, 

and Raff called them out as the scary men surged.

Now Davey, now Grodzki, now Haggs, and Yozzie.

On Joshy, on Veazie, on Thom and the Aussie.

To the top of the boulders to the top of the cave,

they came at the walls like teens to a rave.

As dry leaves and fire do make conflagration,

The setters they sprang to each climbing station.

Up to the rope tops they all quickly rose,

Shouting out curses, and the lowest of blows.

And then, on the boulders, I heard someone stumbling,

The imposter of Santa appeared to be bumbling. 

Raff swigged from his bottle and gazed all around

Then, at the stairs, tumbled strait to the ground.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toes,

But his clothes were now bloodied by a leak from his nose.

With a bundle of holds flung over his shoulder,

He created some mischief at every boulder.

His eyes how the wandered, his breath how it stank,

His suit all covered by the drinks that he drank.

His droll little mouth was stuck in a smirk,

Seemed that any second he might go berserk.

The stump of a cigar he held tight in his jaw,

You could tell he feared not for breaking the law.

He had broad shoulders and arms like a tree,

And i smelled his BO as he came closer to me.

I think he had a chubby, tucked in his sweat pants,

Of this i became certain when he started to dance.

A wink of an eye and a twist of his head, 

soon gave me to know there was plenty to dread.

He spoke not a word, sticking solely to his work,

Creating the climbs of the cleverest jerk.

He was done within minutes, he really did cruise, 

Which worked out for him and his bottle of booze.

.

Then he sprang out the door, to his team he did yell,

and I was excited to finally be rid of their smell.

But i heard him exclaim, ‘ere he departed,

“I sandbagged them all, and I also just farted.”

Real Time Status Update

(warning this post contains more swearing than usual)

As I was sitting in the car on Saturday evening looking at the blood stains on my pants and studying the effects of missing skin on iphone techology I read a message from earlier in the day, "Fuck Rock Climbing."  The hilarity of this was not lost on me as I remembered the vehment rage in which I scratched out this eloquent text message in hopes of illiciting support and compassion from a climbing friend.  I scrolled up and read the next climbing related message, "So excited to be out here, sorry you can't make it..."  It was a matter of two hours from when my mood had gone from optimistic and excited to a hulk like rage.   The emotional roller coaster that is my mood when climbing varies greatly from happy child at Christmas to depressed divorce at a singles night.  I am an emotional climber, "fuck" spews forth from my lips in times of triumph and defeat in equal volumes.  I've always known my mood varies greatly on a climbing day, I just never realized how much until there was documented proof to show my Jekyll/Hyde transformation.

This text exchange got me thinking about communication in our digital age.  I was in the middle of the woods in New Hampshire lamenting about my misfortunes of falling off a problem a few times via electronic signals, voodoo and magents (I don't know how text messages work).  Friends upload pictures and videos of sends instanteously from the crags via smart phones.  My newsfeed on saturday morning is filled with people heading out to the crag and then that evening it's filled with news of the day's triumphs.  We live in a digital age where our thoughts, emotions and desires are communicated to the world in a matter of seconds.  This abundance of information is both a curse and a blessing, but that debate asside I wondered what my facebook wall would look like if I took the time to update it with the rise and falls of a climbing day.  I'd imagine it'd look something like this...

FA Gets the Name and the Girl

The Fly, Realization, Apollo Reed, Have Guns will Travel, Left Arete, Right Arete, Harry Butthole Pussy Potter.  These are route names, some are good, some are creative, some are shitty.  Spend time pouring through any guide book and route/problem names will fly off of in a frenzied manner, most with no pattern or reason to them.  Climb at the Obed and one can tick off “Pet Cemetery” and “Maximum Overdrive”, which plays with the crags name of Stephen King’s Library.  Climb at the Mighty Mouse Boulder in Boone and crush classics like Mighty Mouse, Klamper, and The Nipple, and it will leave a person wondering where all the varying names come from. 

            Route names are a funny gem of the climbing community, paying homage to our favorite classic rock songs, “Highway to Hell”, describing the first ascent, “Fuzzy Undercling” or evoking mythological beasts, “Halcyon.”  The list goes on, but the only consistency to route names is that the first ascensionist gets to name it.  I learned this first hand sitting in the crowds of the Hound Ears competition before it was the Triple Crown, when a classic hard man was awarded a cash prize for nailing an FA.  As he stumbled up on the stage with a bottle of Jaeger in his hand to collect his winnings, he was asked, “what are you gonna name it?”  “Jaegermeister” he replied looking at his bottle and to the crowd as if this was the most obvious answer ever.  Now when a person climbs this problem and marks it on their score sheet, they write down Jaegermeister.  To think how easily the name could have been; chocolate milk, bud light, PBR or four loko.  Watching this old crusher assign a name to a climb inspired me to secure an FA and name a route something epic and classic.  Something that would bring my family honor and cause people to sing me praises.  It took me eight years to bag an FA and when I finally had the chance to immortalize my self, my family or my friends, I instead settled upon “Five du Monde.”  The problem was a v5, it sat on the Fin du Monde boulder at Stack Rock, AR and my first attempt of naming it “moss mouth” was shot down by the guide book writer.

            As a route setter, naming routes at the gym is the bane of my existence, no one really refers to the climbs by the name instead they are the red route on rope 7, or the 12d in the back.  All the creativity of “horcruxed” is lost after the route comes down in a month.  Still I strain my brain, scratch out the name in sharpie and giggle when I tape it to the wall.  If you are not a route setter, nor do you get paid by Five-Ten to travel the world and put up FA’s the chances that you will get to name a rock climb are pretty small.  There are two ways to bag an FA, climb v15 or find some place so fucking remote that no one has climbed the moderates.  I chose the latter, this is my story of my first and only FA.

            Stack Rock, AR is the most remote climbing location I have ever been to.  It sits in the Ozarks, which are pretty remote by themselves, but to get to Stack Rock the directions are as follows, drive from the small city of Little Rock, to the small barely a city of Harrison, drive fifteen miles outside of that through winding mountain roads, until you get to a dirt road, drive fourteen more miles down the dirt road and you are at the parking lot.  Walk a mile from there and you will be at Stack Rock.  I found myself out there with Daniel and Cole.  Daniel is the Arkansas strong man, he has put down or up most of the hard climbs in the state.  He is a great guy and one of the most positive climbing partners I’ve ever had.  Cole is the author of the Arkansas guide book that has brought such national prominence to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch and Cowell.  We went out there to get some photos, draw a topo of the area, and bag a second ascent of a Fred Nicole project, sent by D. Woods.

            We made the two(ish) hour drive to Harrison from Little Rock, where we played too much Call of Duty the night before.  With a late start we drove the hour and half from the small town to the deep recess of nowheresville.  Side note: at about mile 8 of this 14 mile trek down the dirt road, there sits a house, it is the scariest house I have ever seen and is basically the setting for every back woods Hollywood slasher film.  We parked at the pull off, grabbed our pads and set off.  The beauty of the day was the absence of cell phone service, any noise of civilization, and a boulder field to ourselves.  The frightening part was the absence of cell phone service, any noise of civilization and the suffocating feeling that hill people could descend on us at any moment and I’d have to maim Cole and Daniel in order to save myself in the impending foot race to safety. 

            The first half of the day was spent walking around the woods looking at all of the lines to be climbed, inspecting the few that had been climbed and clearing away moss from some that could be “projects of the future.”  The area was spread out but each boulder had 3-5 climbs on it.  The rock was southern sandstone with grey hues mixed with orange swirls and rust iron veins.  The biggest find of the morning was the “warm up” boulder.  It was basically a 20 by 20 boulder where every six inches was the biggest jug you’ve ever grabbed in your life.  From there we went to the the Fin du Monde boulder and flailed on the “v8 project.”  On the left side there was a tree that had fallen during a winter storm and it opened up a new line.  This new line was yet to be cleaned, climbed or named.  The race was one to bag the FA and name the climb. 

We stacked the pads and set to the task of cleaning the problem.  Cleaning a problem is the worst experience ever.  It involves scraping moss formed over thousands of years from it’s happy home.  The moss ends up in your mouth, hair, eyes, and teeth.  It is not pleasant.  To get a better reach on the holds I climbed a tree nearby.  This tree was about six inches around and began swaying from my weight with one foot still on the ground.  I managed to get about three or four feet up on this wobbely little bastard and could scrape at upper holds when the tree swayed with in reach.  Cole and Daniel remained on the ground scrubbing feet and the starting holds.  There was a beautiful seem on the left hand side of the arête and that looked like it would provide a beautiful lay back to the mantle.  I asked for a stick to clean the cobwebs and other goop out of the crack.  Cole was walking around looking for a way to clean the top out and Daniel went looking for another long stick to clean upper holds.  Still swaying on the tree I jammed a tiny stick into the seam.  “crack.” “FFFFFFFFucck, ROOOOOOck” I shrieked as the seam completely separated from the boulder sending a tv size portion of rock to the ground.  Picture a forty inch flat screen tv and that was the size of rock that came crashing to the ground exactly where Cole and Daniel had been maybe 15 seconds prior.  I stood swearing on the tree staring at the rock laying on the crash pads and the now new problem in front us.  I jammed the stick around, not trusting that the rock was sturdy.  With no new pops or cracks we queued up for the FA. 

I went first and came crashing to the ground after a foot broke.  Daniel tried next and slapped to a dirty “hold” that was really just dirt.  Cole tried some silly beta and failed as well.  I got back on and tried again.  Grabbing dirty jugs to dirty crimps, to a lay back and then a mossy top out, I successfully pressed out the climb.  In so doing, I ended up with a huge chunk of moss in my mouth.  I coughed and smiled, I had an FA, I was going to name a problem!  I said, “moss mouth” because that was what stuck out to me, the moss in my mouth.  I was vetoed.  Apparently, Moss Mouth is not a good climbing name, so I settled on Five du Monde, as previously explained.  I have yet to bag another FA nor have I had the pleasure of naming a route other than on plastic.  But if you read the soon to be released Arkansas Bouldering Guide, there in shiny letters will be “Five du Monde” FA: Nicholas Hall. 

That’s how easy it is to bag an FA.  Drive thirty miles outside of any civilization in one of the most remote areas of the country.  Hike for a while, break off spare holds in an attempt to injure your FA competitors and then climb a dirty choss pile to the top!  Then with moss in your mouth and glory in your eyes you can say whatever dumb name you want and people will have to adhere to it!  Although don’t use the title, “Nicholas Hall the greatest man ever alive, who’s sexual prowess and understanding of fine wines will be told about for generations” because that is what I’m going to name my next FA. 

The Letter

This letter came for me the other day....

Hey Fatso,

I am penning this rebellion to inform you that I am severing all ties with you and your abuse. Your unfair treatment of me over the years has left me with no choice but to terminate a relationship that has strained me to no end. I find myself on the brink of self destruction with little choice but to emancipate myself from your evil ways.

When this relationship began we had an understanding. You never put me through any pain. You never had unrealistic expectations for me. I helped you struggle through your homework, played video games with you late into the evening, and even helped you out with the ladies (what a team we were). If you had an itch, I’d scratch it. If you were famished, I would feed you. I would even help you with certain dirty deeds that no one should endure. We were friends then, with a relationship built of mutual trust and appreciation.

Then you found that evil DEMON. I didn’t realize how little she cared for me at first. I told myself that was just part of a new relationship, idiotically convincing myself that perhaps over time her and I would become friends. I was wrong. As you two grew closer she began coercing you to mistreat and abuse me.

On days when I had just had enough she was there, urging you to press me past my limits. When things didn’t go as planned she whispered in your ear that I was to blame. If I helped you succeed she would hog your attention as you shrugged off the tumult and terror I transgressed on your behalf.

I became more and more fatigued, yet your abuse augmented nonetheless. You pressed on, though you could sense the enormous tension coursing through me. Occasionally I would scream in agony at the atrocities you compelled me to endure. A once wonderful friendship faded fast. Over time I became your slave, a prisoner to the passion for your mistress. Like Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree i kept giving to you no matter how you mistreated me. My love for you kindled my hope that one day you would realize the evils that had transgressed. As years passed my hope dwindled to but a flickering flame awaiting that one final gust to snuff me out. Bruised and battered I kept on, bending at your will and stretching to lengths unimaginable.

The other day you spent hour upon hour tormenting me in a futile attempt to satiate your vile lover. I flailed about as your madness took me past my limits into an arid realm of hell I do not wish upon my greatest enemy. I blacked out only to awaken in a crumpled heap as you sobbed to yourself about your lack of achievement.

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. You have stretched me to my breaking point and i have finally SNAPPED. Its now your turn to coddle me. You can massage my weary body. You can nourish me and listen to my lamentations. You can idly stand by and subsist on nothing but the hope that the day of my recovery comes. You can tell your evil mistress that she can piss off. You two are nothing without me and should be thankful I am still alive.

It will take months for me to recover from the fragile state of being you have reduced me to. I may never be my former self and you have only yourself to thank. I will live my life in fear of the demon that reduced me to the shattered mess I now am.

I hope this letter exposes you for the villain you are. May you and that banshee Mrs. Rock Climbing drown in a vat of boiling butter.

No longer yours you unappreciative wretch,

-Mr. Index Finger Tendon.

Old Climbers Syndrome

It has been a month since I turned 30 and despite all of the warnings from my older friends, things feel different.  Maybe it's the fact I can't distinguish between college kids and high schoolers or the fact that AARP is sending me mail.  Either way, 30 has made me feel old.  Thoughts of marriage, buying a home and adopting an Asian baby have found their way into my mind.  Part of my paycheck goes to something I can't touch for 35 years.  This shit is all too adult for me, luckily I have climbing.  At least that is what I thought, until I realized I am suffering from Old Climbers Syndrome.

The expression, "those damn kids" has escaped my mouth a few times since turning 30.  It has yet to sink to the level of taking their belay device if they leave it in my yard, but I'm getting close.  Seriously, these kids these days!  They have no respect for their elders.  Can I not try my project in peace without having a swarm of middle school brats flash it?  No respect I tell ya, no respect.  Not to mention they never say "sir or ma'am" in my day we asked the old people if we could crush their projects before laughing behind their backs!  Kids these days, I blame the facebooks and mtvs.  Maybe I'll reconsider my policy on keeping their belay device if it ends up in my yard.

The most embarrassing moment of Old Climbers Syndrome occurred while bouldering.  I was climbing with a beautiful young lady who was admiring my prowess and skill despite my receding hairline.  After completing a few problems, things were getting a little steamy.  We moved to a sitting position on the boulder pad and she asked, "why is it so soft?"  I told her the truth; age, my bouldering pad has never been as stiff as it was when it was younger.  No matter the amount of hot and heavy climbing going on, my bouldering pad just never seems to be as firm.  Maybe I need to try one of those supplements?

My climbing wardrobe has begun to suffer from the pressures of Old Climbers Syndrome.  I cannot seem to get my harness high enough up on my hips.  I used to wear it real low, like a gun slinger.  Now, it just doesn't feel safe unless I can reach my gear loops and my nipples at the same time.  Also, I am disappointed in the lack of white shoes with velcro straps.  Five Ten, Evolv take note there is a whole population of older climbers who don't want any bells and whistles, we just want white climbing shoes, maybe with a cushy heal that velcro!

The last and saddest affliction of Old Climbers Syndrome is I have been relegated to creepy old guy at the gym.  It seems like only a month ago when I was standing with my tongue hanging out staring at the one woman in the climbing gym, she'd flash me a smile or ask me for beta.  Now, the nice ones just roll their eyes at me and the mean ones tell me I am creepy.  Of course a few of the more platinum blonde girls will politely ask me if I am a lawyer or a doctor but upon my negative answer they walk away quickly.

this is how an Old Climber starts his day

To the younger readers please enjoy your youth.  I am living proof it won't last forever.  2011, I was unemployed, climbing all the time, slaying the ladies (I talked to one once).  Now, thanks to Older Climbers Syndrome, I'm just another shirtless old man in the gym.  So when you see me, please feel free to come up to me ask if I'm lost or to tell you a story from "in my day."  I'll be the old man wearing white climbing shoes, chasing kids and chugging vitamins.  Actually, now that I think about it, in my days rock climbing was a lot different...

I Can't Quit You...

When she left me, she left with my heart. Just like a shitty country music song, I was left crying in the middle of the night. Romantic movie style I dropped down to my knees and cursed the gods that had left me heartbroken and alone. Years later when I had the misfortune of seeing her in a bar, I ran the other way. I tore ass out of there like some other situational phrase of humor.

In high school, I fell asleep during a biology exam, not the class, but the actual half of my grade final exam. Why? Because that class sucked shit and was boring as hell. In actuality, Biology and I didn’t get along, in fact I rarely understood the material no matter how hard I tried. When I was told I had to take a science in undergrad I signed up for geology, the farthest thing from a living organisms as possible.

I have had shitty jobs where the boss is an asshole, the co-workers are idiots and the customers the lowest form of human wreckage. Still I showed up every day, almost on time, did a good job until the day I could quit in a blaze of glory. Certain people have come into my life that I will never talk with again. They were so ingrained in their stupidity and self-obsessions that I could only handle one meeting. Cow intestines, I tried them once and never again will they cross my palette. If I can help it I’ll never eat another scallop or oyster again for as long as I live.

Today, I fell off of a v3. Not because of shit on my shoes, not because of the sun in my eyes, not because of anything tangible other than my own inability to accomplish the moves. After that particular failure, I fell off a v6 and a v10. The only thing I topped out was my warm up. I was cold for most of the day. My middle finger on my right hand hurt like I was being stabbed by tiny elves of pain who only attack digits. I had pretty bad day of climbing, but unlike all my other painful experiences, I will go climbing again tomorrow.

Every climber has spoken of the hunger, the need, or the addiction. In my last post, I wrote about how this suffocation of reason unites us as friends. We as climbers are idiots first and foremost. In our daily lives we elect to continually try something that hurts us so bad. Hurt both our physical and emotional beings. My pride is hurt when I cannot do something that on other days I send so easily. I nurse hurt fingers, tweaked wrists and scraped knuckles on a weekly basis. We don't do this, as humans we are programmed to avoid things that continually hurt us. People who suffer from sea sickness tend not to be sailors. People with broken hearts tend not to trust again. We are designed to fear what has once hurt us. However, climbers have altered our evolutionary dna and seek out that which hurts us the most.

“Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results.” – Narcotics Anonymous. Nothing sums up the mental deficiency we as climbers have more than this quote. Not to mention look at its source, a rehab manual. The holds are brushed, the shoes are clean, the climber flows through the beginning moves, they reach the crux, they fire, right finger tips find the depressions. The left arm flexes as the foot pushes out. “pop!” Down the climber goes, fearing failure, fearing the knowledge they won’t get their high, the climber will chalk their hands, make the moves and fire the crux again and again and again and again and again and again and again. They will get pissed, they’ll throw a shoe. They’ll say they are done, they’ll get back on it and fall. A finger tip splits, tape is sought, a bloody trail marks the path of their failures. Still though they will try and if the muscles tire, the daylight fades, or the real world calls them away they will return to repeat the process all over again.

We clinically are insane.

Tomorrow, I will wake up. I will do my adult dance of work, class, and bills. I will look at the backs of my hands and wonder what my co-workers think about my bloody knuckles. I chuckle as a fingerprint reader doesn't register my finger because it’s so worn down. I will close my eyes from time to time and I’ll get my blood pressure up. My palms will sweat and my failures on the rock will play through my head making me close my fingers in frustration. But what I won’t do is quit. I go all Brokeback when it comes to climbing, I just can’t quit you. So, I’ll tie my shoes, chalk my hands and climb right into the crazy house. Keep the slimy seafood, the self-righteous assholes and Biology, I’ll never go back to that, but climbing with all of its pain, all I can say is, I’ll see you tomorrow...

The Train Wreck Complex

It has been my experience that the creation and implementation of a functional and long lasting training plan is doomed to a realm of infinite hopelessness. It's much like the buxom blonde that finds her way into the typical low grade gorey slasher flick. No matter how perfectly put together she may be, time has already decided her fate. In the end all that remains is the mutilated corpse of something beautiful that once was.

Oh, the beginning, when life as a climber was new, exciting, and innocent. Each day strength doubled and mere weeks led to rapid progression. Sessions were filled with nothing more than giggles and mirth.Then it happened, THUD! Progression comes to a halt and the coming hurdle looms on the horizon. This buzz-kill is a succubus to the unbridled enthusiasm that once filled the heart. It is at this point it becomes necessary to commit to regimented training. It is also at this point that the many evils that thrive on failure pick up the first whiff of their prey, and begin to hunger for the kill.

The creation and implementation of a successful training schedule is something I have struggled with since the day I scribed my first workout. Ok, I'll be honest. My first 10 or so climbing workout plans were essentially broken internal promises. Ever so slowly I learned that in order to achieve an inkling of success, it was essential to scribe a plan. Try though I may, with each plan penned I eventually encountered a seemingly inevitable demise. I now look back at the knives that stole the life from the gorgeous plans of past and seek to find the masked villains that lurk in the darkness, preying on the slaughter of my success.

The first formidable foe is the one who casts a spell on you, gluing your ass to the couch and suckling at your motivation like a leech.

Getting properly motivated, especially for that initial push, is painstakingly cumbersome. Not only must one get motivated to beat the snot out of themselves, but also to conserve energy and never lose sight of that initial urge. I think I can, I think I can, I think I suck... Training needs to be viewed as a job, or more accurately, as an investment. It is a common tendency of humanity to crave immediate results. No one is eager to work a job where they must wait months for their first paycheck. Unfortunately that is the harsh truth. All climbers hit plateaus and pushing yourself on requires stalwart self sacrifice and unfettered dedication. Look on the bright side, at least with this job telling the boss to shove it will only lead to awkward stares from those around you. Beware when seeking out motivation, on the other side of this evil see-saw is its stepbrother, over- ambition.

Many know what it feels like to get a surge of excitement followed by it slowly deflating like a birthday balloon. PFFFFffffttttt. Over-ambition has been assassinating the endeavors of resolution makers since Eve resolved to a no apple diet. It is the bully chanting into ear and leaving you with feelings of inadequacy. This taunting leads to overzealous plans for climbing improvement, and results in pushing the body beyond it's limits. This is much like thinking it possible to gobble down the 10 pound pizza challenge. It begins with the ego whispering sweet nothings, goading on the body, even though it knows this will break you. Unfortunately the body knows best and low and behold the engineer running your ship checks in. (Read with Scottish Accent) “CAPTAIN, SHE CAN’T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS.” RED ALERT! RED ALERT! Be it the 10 pound pizza or the 5 hour workout session, the body has decided that it no longer wants to be a part of this relationship. Upon waking the next day it feels as though the Macho Man delivered flying elbow drops to every muscle. Snap into a coma, OH YEAH! If over-ambition doesn’t leave the body completely deflated then it may travel down another dark and dreary road of workout blues. Along this road an Iron Clad foe bides its time, waiting, hammer in hand, for the moment to pounce and send your workout plan to a shallow grave. Its name, Injury.

Healthy fingers are imperative for any climber. Listening to them is a commandment that requires obedience, with punishments that are certain and severe. Injury is a dour foe that never hesitates to capitalize on your stupidity. If a finger is starting to hurt, it's trying to communicate. It's either listen to the little feller, or POP goes the fizzle. The problem is that climbers are like vampires with a blood lust for whippers, heel hooks, and lock offs. It is imperative to control the thirst for glory and give ample (though not abundant) time to recover from, or to avoid, injury. Focusing on other interests can help to distract the strongest of the screeching inner demons. In other words, looks like a good time to take up Tae Bo, or perhaps join the Happy Hands Club. While many a workout plan has suffered the strike of injury there is another more subtle evil that lurks in the darkness, leaving behind only a trail of cookie crumbles.

There is the age old comparison that our bodies are like factories. At times throughout my life, my factory has resembled that of Mr. Henry Ford, a perfect model of production. Over time, negligence takes hold, and the factory degenerates to a remnant of its initial splendor, eventually running on sludge and scum alone. The ideal human factory requires 100+ ounces of water a day and a balanced assortment of carbs, proteins, vitamins, and more. When my factory tuns to shambles it runs on caffeine, random heavy consumption of whatever I feel like eating, wine, beer, whiskey, and late night meals (that I tell myself are just snacks). A few years back I could consume an entire Mrs. Budd's Chicken Pot Pie in one sitting. IT'S SUPPOSED TO FEED 6 PEOPLE! Not the ideal soil to grow a healthy blossoming climber. Wash all this down with a bottle of wine or a few beers in the evening...I am working against my body, pretending that next week I will clean up my act and eat balanced meals at properly spaced intervals. HA, what a hoot! I will though. Seriously. Starting next week. But for now, pass the chocolate pretzels my way.

By the way, did i mention the caffeine and booze? Two wonderful beverages that are the enemies of one of life’s most essential elements; water. Try though i may, with my two highly decorated Nalgenes, I never meet the recommended daily dose of H2O. This is most likely because I am two busy drinking coffee or wine. Dehydration is a leading cause of injury in exercise, a dangerous fact that I often disregard and taunt with my idiotic ways. If a workout plan is to succeed to its fullest potential it needs a body supplied with super diesel. If the right fuel is not powering the engine, then the body is not getting the most out of workouts. More work is required on a diet of pizza and Long Trail than that of baked chicken, broccoli, and coconut water. Unfortunately, treating the body right takes its toll on the wallet. Here we encounter another demon who is enticing you with his fat stacks and bling bling.

All the extra work required from a bad diet is even worse when coupled with the work done for that cash money. Most of us need to work to make a living and unfortunately, work takes a lot of time. Fitting a feasible training plan into a 40+ hour work schedule is damn difficult. The exhaustion of a work week takes its toll on the the most resolute desire to become a stronger climber. After some long days all one wants to do is run home and crawl into a ball on the couch, listening to the soothing sounds the latest Netflix additions. I've been geeking out on Legend of the Seeker lately. What can I say? Final Fantasy for life. Work can drain life dry, but ditching out on a training session may lead to a weaker resolve. Eventually, if work drains you dry, a mortal wound is delivered to a beautiful plan that once was. No matter how beautiful climbing may be, the eye will still wander, finding the enticing next foe waiting with open arms.

The most devout climber grows tired of his mistress every now and then. She can be a real b*tch after all. When that weariness wares us down there is a creature who craves nothing but attention. The more whispers in our ear, the better it sounds to sneak off to dinner with friends and blow off the endurance workout. 4 x 4 Friday are abandoned to throw a Halo LAN party.Those who are less of a nerd may wish to blow off a workout at the pub, letting out some steam doing car bombs and singing along to Blondie on Karaoke. Maybe its ski season and the rope gets tossed into a closet to be sad and alone for the next three months. Life can very easily get in the way of the pursuit of climbing glory. Other hobbies or events in life can lead to climbing plan running from the altar in tears. Sticking to a regiment involves an unwavering selfishness. No strong climber was made without first breaking some hearts. “Sorry lil Susie but Matthew can’t come out and play today. He is grounded until he does his fingerboard workout.”

With the broad array of demise seeking demons, I realize that every plan, no matter how perfect, is going to run its course. An insidious masked marauder is crafting sabotage for each and every plan I conceive. Ring ring...ring ring...HELLO SIDNEY, cough cough... I mean BOOFER! STAB STAB, SLICE, DEAD, MUERTO, CIAO. Life is far to unpredictable for it to be any other way. Climbing is hard. Life is busy. The world is full of change. The marriage of the climber and climbing is not Happily Ever After. It's trying and requires reform, patience, and willpower. No matter how in depth a plan is, it can never encompass the entirety of what is to come. All one can do is fend off the fiends for as long as they can muster. Though each plan may have failed, there has been a bit of success earned with each failure. The best thing a plan can be is adaptable and receptive to life's chaos. WIth the death of each plan, revive and revise it to better suit the current situation. No matter how well architected a plan may be, it will only see results while temporarily evading all predators. No past plan is a failure; only an experience to be learned from, and a blueprint for the gorey sequel.

A Legend of the Fall

You never know it's going to happen, it just does. You're never expecting the few seconds of horror that pairs with that moment of pure panic occasionally followed by a flash of red that can only be associated with pain. It's happened to us all, or at least we've seen in happen to someone right in front of us. And if it hasn't happened to you yet, make no mistake, it will. You can't avoid it. It's inevitable and in some situations the best thing that could happen. Let me explain...

THE INEVITABLE

The moment your feet leave the ground is like any other, whether it's a warm-up or an onsight attempt of your latest project. Your feet and hands could be moving fluidly, your mind may be focused and clear, but then something goes wrong. Perhaps the lactic acid begins to creep it's way into the capillaries of your forearms. Or maybe a hold gives way without warning. Or just maybe you're a boss throwing down on a V12 that climaxes at a horizontal low percentage deadpoint to a slopey volcanoesque hueco.

No matter what the cause, the inevitable happens. You fall.......hard. This of course looks a little something like this...

THE AFTERMATH

Your eyes open only to see a crowd of scantily dressed chalky climbers. Half of them are smiling for some reason and the other half have a grimace that only solidifies their personal choice not to try the same problem. One brave patron eventually musters up the gaul to ask, "You alright dude?" Your immediate reaction is not to move slow and make sure that all Tab A's are still connected to the appropriate Slot B's, instead you jump up saying the obligatory, "I'm ok!" and immediately start chalking up looking for the nearest stick brush lying around. As you stand up, holding the stick brush as if your name was Gandalf, you don't pay attention to the creaks associated with the jammed shoulder that occurred on impact. The crash landing that caused your elbow to hit the floor shifting your shoulder 4 inches further than the norm, hitting you in the head above your ear. With a quick brushing and a 30 second stare down of the problem, you go straight into send mode. This rush of adrenaline from a quick trip to the deck seems to have you more focused than ever.

THE OUTCOME

Everything else seems to disappear as you go through your normal routine of rubbing your hands together three times in a sidewards slapping motion. You blow the remainder of white powder off your tips, slap your thigh and hear the scratch of nails on the concrete as you curl your pads over the two crimp starting holds. One audible breath out and you're on:

Drop your knee and flag; your body feels perfectly balanced even though in some deep cavern of your mind some pain receptor is screaming at you because you tweaked a tendon. Keep the tension as you hit the first left hand gaston and focus everything on that left toe keeping you from the barndoor swing that's blown you off of the first move dozens of times before. Your right foot seems to find the minuscule nub as if some magnetic force pulled your toe onto the perfect spot. As your brain focuses on getting your right hand as high above the huge sloper looming 18 inches above, your muscle memory kicks in, turns your toe slightly in and drops the knee 3 degrees, somehow knowing that this is what it takes to not blow that toe. With a loud thud and a puff of chalk your right hand sticks the large Nicros brain and feels solid. This is the first time you haven't had to readjust to find that slight indent close to the wall that half of your pad can gain a little more on. Your knee readjusts back in the other direction 3 degrees as your left foot flags like the pendulum of an old grandfather clock frozen in time. Effortlessly, your left hand joins your right and your brain flashes to "the fall." A momentary lapse of focus courses through your brain as the throbbing spot above your ear reminds you that it was only moments ago.

A shake of the head and you snap back to the moment, relax and straighten your arms only as much as gravity will allow. With another audible breath your eyes drift down as your left foot gently finds the crimp start hold and digs in. A perfect blend of momentum and balance starts your journey to the end. You feel your left foot come off the crimp, your right hand off that slight imperfection on the sloper and suddenly you have tunnel vision towards the finish. Don't forget when you stick your right hand your remaining foot is going to cut and your left hand needs to slide to the right to make use of that imperfection. Your right hand is inches away and the sudden feeling of weightlessness as your right toe becomes insignificant. FOCUS!! Your hand is there and it knows what to do, now look back. You watch your left hand slide into place and you know that any second now you'll have to summon all of your strength to hold this. You tense up as you feel both feet drift to the right of your center. As this is happening you watch as your left hand grips tight, and then tighter, and then snaps into the shape of a fist as it blows off of the hold. It's happening again, quick do something! You know if your foot so much as grazes the wall, it will shift your momentum out immediately causing your right hand to pop. Your feet drift further to the right and you scream, not because there is pain, not because you're angry that your hand didn't follow the plan, but because the willpower to hold a one handed campus on a slick hueco as your body flails is going to take all you can muster. You're body remembers the exact moment that your right hand slipped out sending you hurling towards the ground. That moment passes as your legs have reached their apex. You're left hand is still reaching for that sloper knowing that at any moment, gravity will play its part and shift your momentum. All you have to do is hold on. The scream continues...

In a flash your left hand is back on the sloper, no time to be surprised, your foot finds the wall instinctually to keep you from looking like a vertical pancake. Your body settles into place and for an instant your shoulder reminds you of your epic impact moments ago. You keep your composure and find that left foot and let out a shout. In your mind this shout is a combination of relief, pain, joy, and an element of surprise. To the crowd, that seconds ago was secretly hoping that they would see some air time, it is a cry of triumph. You could've called it a day when you scraped yourself off the mat. You could've gathered the small amount of pride necessary, using one of a million climber excuses, but it was the fall that drove you. The fall that kept your senses on point and focused. The fall that reminded you of where you need a little bit more. In a way, the fall is what makes you that much better.

Be Gentle It's My First Time...

We all remember our first time, the awkwardness, the pain, and the confusion.  Thoughts of; am I doing this right, is my partner gonna laugh at me, why has it ended so soon.  My first time was awful, I used all these grunts and power when some delicate finesse would have sufficed.  I'm sure through the looking glass of memory it has only gotten worse, but I am certain I was sweating like a fat guy in a leather recliner while breathing as heavy as a horse.  Obviously, I'm not talking about my "first time" nor am I talking about my first time climbing, but instead this post is about the first time I knew I was a climber.

While trying to start homework tonight, I followed my usual protocol of deadpoint, twitter and facebook.  During my facebook stalking I discovered a climbing video.  Now this is nothing unusual on facebook, with most of my friends being climbers and usually posting video/blogs etc.  What made this different was the video itself.  This video was pre-digital photography, pre-windows movie maker, final cut, and cell phone video cameras.  This video is 9 years old and shot by my friend Chris.  It is a full length bouldering video made using Clemson University's liberal lending policy on media equipment.  It stars my first group of climbing friends, myself and A.J.  Check it out here: Rumbling Bald

After the hilarity and the wonderful memories of friends and good times this video brought back, I began to think about my early days in climbing.  I climbed v3/5.11a for a better part of my first three years and could never seem to overcome that grade.  I switched between ropes and bouldering without regards to a preference.  Basically, this is an old man sitting back in his chair telling his grandkids about the good old days when I used to "climb for fun."  Truthfully, it was the innocence of my climbing youth, I lived just to climb and I didn't care how hard, how tall or how new the climbs were, I just wanted to climb because it gave me that funny feeling in my tummy.  Shortly after sending my first v5 I moved to California to participate in AmeriCorps, while there I stopped climbing for a full year.  The Corps ended and I moved back East.  I settled into my old climbing life, the only thing that changed was my climbing partner had jumped five grades in my absence.  I set it in my mind that I had to catch him, I took the plunge from hanging at the gym, to training at the gym, from climbing for fun to climbing for the numbers.  My former plateau of v3 took a week to over come, then v5 a day, within six months I had gone from not climbing to climbing v8.  That was when my climbing youth died.  To William Blake I entered into the age of Experience.

I have been training for harder and harder sends every fall since then.  August starts and I draw up a training scheme.  Week nights I tear muscles over and over again looking to stretch and tear them again the next night.  I turn away from friends having fun at the gym and I turn down dates to do pull up workouts.  On the weekends I let my frustrations and aggression explode onto boulder problems, because I have gentrified myself into only bouldering during the winter/fall/spring, "ropes are for the summer."  Climbing has evolved from the fun past time of chilling with friends in the woods, to the passionate dysfunctional embrace of loving a thing that can't love me back.

This video has me wondering, when did I become a climber?  Was it during my innocence or my experience?  I look back to that day when I first started adding pull up workouts to my climbing, I try to look back to the one day before, to the day before that and decide, when did I first feel like a climber?  When did I know that no other word would describe me?  I cannot remember that day occurring before the training precipice was crossed.  I was back to climbing after a full year off and knew I was never leaving it again.  The moment came while sitting on top of a boulder at Rumbling Bald, in western North Carolina.  I had just sent a problem called Shao Lin, it was my first v7.  I was looking towards the sun setting behind the purple mountains of the Appalachians, the leaves were all gone, but there were still some red's and orange's on the ground.  I was breathing hard, sweating, my hands were on fire, but I had done it.  I had climbed one grade harder.  For better or worse my climber identity was born from pushing myself to the next level.