For the first time in 18 months I don't have any serious injuries, and I'm loving it! Yeah, I still hobble a little on my left knee, but I'm climbing full-speed for the first time in a very long time. Pumped silly, hanging on by single cuticle and doing my absolute best to succeed without even knowing that I am until I either get to the top or don't. Only climbing gives me that feeling, and I am damn happy to have it back in my life. Everything else in life works better when I'm climbing enough.
Rules
Climbing has a whole slew of rules. The rules used to be quite simple: "Thou shalt not fall" covered most situations. Then the rules got more and more explicit. "Thou shalt not hang on the rope and call it a free ascent. Except when you're working the route to get a free ascent." The rules today are more nuanced and fine than ever, and as a result people are arguing more and more about what constitutes a flash or an onsight or even an ascent. Sometimes the "infractions" are blatantly obvious; there are at least two Everest "climbers" who claim summits they likely never set foot on. This has of course been going on for a long time, but I've seen some examples at the crag where a "bend" in the rules is becoming a common tactic.
I'd like to think we all, in our hearts, know when what we've done matches up to the "rules" of whatever game we're playing. The dissonance comes when any climber claims to have done something by a certain set of rules when he or she didn't. Or changed the rules in a subtle way. Sport climbing, which I've been doing a lot of lately, has lots of rules, and I've seen a lot of rule "bending." In one way this doesn't bother me at all--nothing anyone is doing is hurting the rock beyond what any other ascent does, so why care? But this summer I've seen a lot of rule-bending and it does grate on me. Why? I don't have a clear answer to this question, and the lack of an answer bothers me. It's just intellectually lazy to be bothered by something and not be able to figure out why.
So here are some situations I've seen at the crag of late:
Adding long draws to the anchor to skip moves. The anchor was put in a certain place to clip; the route ends when you clip that anchor. Occasionally a hold will break or the anchor is put into some sort of retarded place, but if a route has been climbed for 10 years with the same holds then there's no reason to remove a move or two, especially if the last move is the crux. I have fallen off dozens of routes while staring at the anchor. If I could have clipped one move lower I would have done 'em...
Clipping the third or higher bolt. Climbing is not meant to be totally risk-free, but it's also not meant to be ridiculously dangerous. I will stick-clip high if the fall is horrible, and if I know I'm not strong enough to try the route safely. Some routes are designed to be done with the third bolt clipped, but most are not. I would not call an ascent where I started with the third draw clipped a "redpoint" in general, and specifically not if the first 50 ascents of the route didn't clip the third draw from the ground on a six-bolt route. Action Direct might be a little easier if you just stick-clipped that tricky clip from the ground...
Having the rope stop a serious swing and still claiming a redpoint. Sometimes this doesn't matter at all (you've got a handlebar in both hands and the belayer shortropes you a bit, so what). But often it makes all the difference in the world. I once watched a very good climber get short roped on a swing and continue to the top. The route was at his limit, and at the time it was among the world's hardest. He came down, pulled the rope and tried another few times before giving up for the day. I respect that, and his eventual send all the more knowing that a slight cheat many people would be happy with wasn't good enough for him. He did his best. I shortroped a friend the other day, he just jumped off. My error, respect to him.
Finally, claiming to have climbed at a certain grade when you haven't. Many years ago I once put on a resume that I could climb, "Up to 5.14." I had climbed a route rated 13d (it was feather-bed soft for the grade and obscure, but it said 13d in the guide...), so in a way I'd climbed "up to" but not 5.14, yeah? Wrong. It was lame. I still haven't climbed a 5.14, or even "up to" one... I've come pretty close (an extendo draw might have helped), but a little word dance using the words "up to" was just that. I changed my resume to reflect reality and not my ego, but I hear a lot of, "I've climbed X route" when in fact the person never did without hanging on the rope. Wait, I have climbed 5.14, that was just a few moments on the rope... My face is still red from the slap my hand just gave it. So far I haven't slapped anyone else, but I've considered it.
So why I do I care? If I'm going to be happy with what I've done then I need to play by the rules I've set out for myself. These rules generally have some sort of historic precedent, or make me feel like I've done my best. I know when I haven't given my best even if my ego sometimes gets in the way. I'm still annoyed at myself for "doing" Genesis (Eldo canyon) when I actually fell off the crux, went back to the no-hands rest at the mid-point lower off anchor and then sent it. It would have been a finer effort to go from the ground to the top, even though others have claimed ascents of Genesis with this rules bend. I never did. Well, maybe once. And that weakness is what bothers me; I hate it in myself. It's like the old battle with annoying friends; generally the characteristics we dislike in them are the same as those that we dislike in ourselves. When I see climbers celebrating after climbing on a route with the third bolt clipped, a swing stopped at the crux and an extendo draw on the anchor I think they have short-changed their success and their integrity. And when I do that it really bothers me... It's unsporting, it's dishonest and it's weak--or at least it is for me in my climbing.
If I have invested meaning to the rules and others don't see that meaning then does that mean my rules are meaningless, or that I don't have to keep them quite so strict? Why not just extend that draw 20M from the anchor and clip it from the ground? Which shouldn't matter in some ways as all climbing is meaningless by any objective measure, but is that really an ascent? Which leaves me right back where I started this commentary from. I either have to get some longer draws to get rid of the last move on a few routes I can't do, or not care when someone else does. Anything else is just pissing into the wind. And I would rather climb 'cause, even if I may disagree with some people about what a send is, I'd still much rather be out there with them and having some fun together than not. I do reserve the old-timer's right to heckle.
So there's my answer: Pull down, shut up, do your best. Or don't, but only the climber really knows what that means in the end. And, like my "ascent" of Genesis 20+ years ago, the truth is always with us even if we don't want to admit it at the time. Looks like I'm going to have to go climb Genesis (not again, but really climb it for the first time) to get that monkey out of my mind. I'll take any motivation I can find to train.
WG
PS-To quote Robert Frost, ""Poetry without rhyme is like tennis without a net" Is climbing without rules like tennis without a net? Wait, I've read some damn good poetry that didn't rhyme... Frost was a wuss anyhow, he should have started bushwhacking when the two roads diverged in a yellow wood. There are fewer rules out there.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Kootenay Flying
On Sunday we drove from Chelan, WA to the Nelson area. The sky was perfect the whole way, just insane! I so wanted to get into the air, but we needed to work it home to stay on the schedule. We hooked up with some friends in Winlaw Sunday night, and after checking the weather and winds forecasts I had to change the schedule, Monday just looked too epic to miss...
Thanks to Jason at Kootenay paragliding for the information on the Slocan Ridge, which is a hang gliding site basically just above Winlaw. He warned me to get off early because of strong conditions in mid-day, but due to some 4wd escapades we didn't make it to launch until about 1:30. Then the problems started--launch was a flat patch of dirt in front of a radio tower with a steep hillside to fall down after the dirt patch ended. The lines on my comp glider are so long that with my feet only a few feet from the edge my glider was right up against the shed/tower, which put the glider firmly into the rotor. I can't drag my comp lines through the rocks like I could with a lower-performance glider, it has to come up sorta clean or the lines will just break. I tried for an hour, then finally moved down the hillside to a snag-infested little hummock. I'd almost given up getting off the hill when the perfect cycle came through, and with some Santacroce-inspired glider dancing I was able to lift the wing out of the junk without snapping any lines and get into the air. Despite the strong cycles I sunk down about 1,000 feet before getting absolutely beamed out in a solid 6m/s climb to base. Yeah!
I flew toward the Valhallas just 'cause they looked so cool. Spires everywhere! I gotta go climbing there! The Slocan ridge was pumping to the end and even out over the valley so just kept flying toward the Valhallas. Eventually I got a great view of these amazing granite faces from the next ridge to the north (west?). I considered flying right into the Vallhallas, but there was about 20K of headwind, I didn't want to beat into that anymore. I ran back to the Slocan Ridge, and got just beamed back out to base again. I love XC flying in new areas--it's a real test to figure out what's going to work where, and it's a joy to plan the game and have it work cleanly.
I wanted to tour the whole Nelson area, and from 3500M the options were pretty wide open. I flew out toward Castlegar for a bit until I could see it clearly and check that area out, then headed back toward Nelson over Bluet (sp). It was about 4:30 by this time and and the sky was starting to dry up a bit as a new airmass moved in, but the lee thermals were still working well. Just bomb it into a logging cut, "BOOM" back up, mega fun flying. The Kootenays are in general pretty "round" mountains; it would be hard to glide out from several of the summits, the small valleys don't slope enough. There's usually a logging cut down there somewhere, but some caution is in order. I got a little concerned about the glide when I was deep in the mountains southwest of Nelson, gliding out into the wind could have been challenging. But it was working really well, just glide downwind of the sunny windward slopes and latch a rowdy lee climb out. It seemed a bit odd that the climbs were so far downwind of their sources given that the wind was only about 20K, but that's how it was.
I kept it pretty deep and headed up toward Ymir and Salmo. I'm not at all familiar with this area (I couldn't find the road to Ymir until I got low enough to see some pavement, figured that valley had to to go to Ymir and Salmo--but which town was first in the valley exactly? No map...), cool to be just making it up. The sky seemed to so expansive and the possibilities endless; it suddenly hit me that this was what I loved about flying, the sheer unconstrained sense of openness and possibility. I could see literally dozens of potential launches, hundreds of things to climb, about a dozen rivers worth paddling, and so many little nooks and crannies that really ought to be explored... My friends from Winlaw loved being up at launch; it was the first time they really figured out how their valley doglegged, and where the drainages were. I hope to take them flying sometime there; it's just fantastic to tie all the ground-based features together into a coherent whole. Anyhow, it sure was fun to see Nelson (stayed well out of the way due to air traffic concerns) and all the valleys spread out.
I worked up the west side of the Nelson/Ymir valley with adequate but not exactly endless landing possibilities until I could see a small town below me, and then suddenly two gliders popped out of a mining/logging cut. Yeah! I figured this was likely to be Ymir, home to Kootenay paragliding. That's right, a full-fledged school and tandem operation! I still wasn't totally sure if this was Ymir (no GPS with a map in it, no map), and headed farther along the valley toward the next town to be sure. Eventually I was able to recognize Salmo from the small ski hill I'd driven by ten days earlier on the way to Chelan, and headed back to Ymir. The ridge was still working, so I did a few more climb and glides in the late afternoon light before setting up for a pretty tight landing along the river. Whatever doubt I had about where I had flown to was quickly dispelled by the sign on the building 50 feet in front of my wing: Ymir Hotel. There is a more wide-open LZ, but it had gone into shade and I didn't want to be trying to find powerlines and such in it, better to land in the sun where I could see everything.
Jason, from Kootenay Paragliding, came out and let me use his phone to call the crew back in Winlaw (no cell), and then his student, Douglas, gave me a lift back into Nelson. The ride was surprisingly long--from the air everything around Nelson looks pretty close, but the valleys curve and meander so much that it takes a relatively long time to drive anywhere. I could probably fly from the Slocan Ridge to Ymir in lesss time than it would take to drive if I went at it.
This was my first flight in the Nelson area, and all I've got say is, "MORE!!!" There are so many potential launches, so many great flights to do, it's just wide open to exploration and adventure flying. Apparently the season hasn't been great this year, but the forecast for the next week is epic, I might have to go back. If you're ever in the area it's well worth a stop. I'd recommend some other launch than the Slocan Ridge if you're on a PG, it's gnarly, but there have got to be better launches elsewhere. And when I was climbing out from the Slocan Ridge I saw some small meadows basically straight down from launch that looked really nice.
There are six pilots in Ymir and another dozen or so in Nelson; given the size of these towns (Ymir must be under 1,000 people?) this is just incredible. But I can see the Nelson area becoming one of the epicentres of flying in Canada, the potential just so obviously excellent. I often check the winds aloft for most of western Canada, and they are usually much lighter in the Nelson area than in the Rockies. The weather probably isn't as good on average, but I'll bet that in a given season you can do a lot more flying in Nelson than in Golden, and have a lot more choice for wind direction. I'm contemplating a move west--climb in the Valhallas, ski, paddle, so much to do!
Thanks to Kim, Warren and Margo for the ride to launch and patience.
Thanks to Jason at Kootenay paragliding for the information on the Slocan Ridge, which is a hang gliding site basically just above Winlaw. He warned me to get off early because of strong conditions in mid-day, but due to some 4wd escapades we didn't make it to launch until about 1:30. Then the problems started--launch was a flat patch of dirt in front of a radio tower with a steep hillside to fall down after the dirt patch ended. The lines on my comp glider are so long that with my feet only a few feet from the edge my glider was right up against the shed/tower, which put the glider firmly into the rotor. I can't drag my comp lines through the rocks like I could with a lower-performance glider, it has to come up sorta clean or the lines will just break. I tried for an hour, then finally moved down the hillside to a snag-infested little hummock. I'd almost given up getting off the hill when the perfect cycle came through, and with some Santacroce-inspired glider dancing I was able to lift the wing out of the junk without snapping any lines and get into the air. Despite the strong cycles I sunk down about 1,000 feet before getting absolutely beamed out in a solid 6m/s climb to base. Yeah!
I flew toward the Valhallas just 'cause they looked so cool. Spires everywhere! I gotta go climbing there! The Slocan ridge was pumping to the end and even out over the valley so just kept flying toward the Valhallas. Eventually I got a great view of these amazing granite faces from the next ridge to the north (west?). I considered flying right into the Vallhallas, but there was about 20K of headwind, I didn't want to beat into that anymore. I ran back to the Slocan Ridge, and got just beamed back out to base again. I love XC flying in new areas--it's a real test to figure out what's going to work where, and it's a joy to plan the game and have it work cleanly.
I wanted to tour the whole Nelson area, and from 3500M the options were pretty wide open. I flew out toward Castlegar for a bit until I could see it clearly and check that area out, then headed back toward Nelson over Bluet (sp). It was about 4:30 by this time and and the sky was starting to dry up a bit as a new airmass moved in, but the lee thermals were still working well. Just bomb it into a logging cut, "BOOM" back up, mega fun flying. The Kootenays are in general pretty "round" mountains; it would be hard to glide out from several of the summits, the small valleys don't slope enough. There's usually a logging cut down there somewhere, but some caution is in order. I got a little concerned about the glide when I was deep in the mountains southwest of Nelson, gliding out into the wind could have been challenging. But it was working really well, just glide downwind of the sunny windward slopes and latch a rowdy lee climb out. It seemed a bit odd that the climbs were so far downwind of their sources given that the wind was only about 20K, but that's how it was.
I kept it pretty deep and headed up toward Ymir and Salmo. I'm not at all familiar with this area (I couldn't find the road to Ymir until I got low enough to see some pavement, figured that valley had to to go to Ymir and Salmo--but which town was first in the valley exactly? No map...), cool to be just making it up. The sky seemed to so expansive and the possibilities endless; it suddenly hit me that this was what I loved about flying, the sheer unconstrained sense of openness and possibility. I could see literally dozens of potential launches, hundreds of things to climb, about a dozen rivers worth paddling, and so many little nooks and crannies that really ought to be explored... My friends from Winlaw loved being up at launch; it was the first time they really figured out how their valley doglegged, and where the drainages were. I hope to take them flying sometime there; it's just fantastic to tie all the ground-based features together into a coherent whole. Anyhow, it sure was fun to see Nelson (stayed well out of the way due to air traffic concerns) and all the valleys spread out.
I worked up the west side of the Nelson/Ymir valley with adequate but not exactly endless landing possibilities until I could see a small town below me, and then suddenly two gliders popped out of a mining/logging cut. Yeah! I figured this was likely to be Ymir, home to Kootenay paragliding. That's right, a full-fledged school and tandem operation! I still wasn't totally sure if this was Ymir (no GPS with a map in it, no map), and headed farther along the valley toward the next town to be sure. Eventually I was able to recognize Salmo from the small ski hill I'd driven by ten days earlier on the way to Chelan, and headed back to Ymir. The ridge was still working, so I did a few more climb and glides in the late afternoon light before setting up for a pretty tight landing along the river. Whatever doubt I had about where I had flown to was quickly dispelled by the sign on the building 50 feet in front of my wing: Ymir Hotel. There is a more wide-open LZ, but it had gone into shade and I didn't want to be trying to find powerlines and such in it, better to land in the sun where I could see everything.
Jason, from Kootenay Paragliding, came out and let me use his phone to call the crew back in Winlaw (no cell), and then his student, Douglas, gave me a lift back into Nelson. The ride was surprisingly long--from the air everything around Nelson looks pretty close, but the valleys curve and meander so much that it takes a relatively long time to drive anywhere. I could probably fly from the Slocan Ridge to Ymir in lesss time than it would take to drive if I went at it.
This was my first flight in the Nelson area, and all I've got say is, "MORE!!!" There are so many potential launches, so many great flights to do, it's just wide open to exploration and adventure flying. Apparently the season hasn't been great this year, but the forecast for the next week is epic, I might have to go back. If you're ever in the area it's well worth a stop. I'd recommend some other launch than the Slocan Ridge if you're on a PG, it's gnarly, but there have got to be better launches elsewhere. And when I was climbing out from the Slocan Ridge I saw some small meadows basically straight down from launch that looked really nice.
There are six pilots in Ymir and another dozen or so in Nelson; given the size of these towns (Ymir must be under 1,000 people?) this is just incredible. But I can see the Nelson area becoming one of the epicentres of flying in Canada, the potential just so obviously excellent. I often check the winds aloft for most of western Canada, and they are usually much lighter in the Nelson area than in the Rockies. The weather probably isn't as good on average, but I'll bet that in a given season you can do a lot more flying in Nelson than in Golden, and have a lot more choice for wind direction. I'm contemplating a move west--climb in the Valhallas, ski, paddle, so much to do!
Thanks to Kim, Warren and Margo for the ride to launch and patience.
Last Chelan Task
The last two days of flying have been off the charts fun, just epic!
The last day of the Chelan comp was fantastic--a 120K triangle with absolutely rocking conditions. If there was wind I was planning to blow the task off and try my luck chasing down the Washington state record, but with minimal wind (maybe 10-20K) the task just looked like too much fun not to do... I went out hard and led to the first turnpoint, where I broke my speed bar. We were headed crosswind to the next turnpoint so a bar would be nice to have--I spent some time tying the bits back together as the lead gaggle caught me and then flew by while I tied knots, but I got back into the game to the second turnpoint until the cord broke again. I was having a bit of a hard time tying knots as I had forgotten my gloves on launch and had pretty cold hands, and the course was now taking us back into the headwind. The lead gaggle went right, I went left under some better clouds so I could try and glide straight while tying knots. Eventually I rigged up a full junk show system with my speed bar line coming straight out of my pod to the risers. This required holding the riser with one hand while pushing bar, but it worked enough to get moving again. I wasn't racing for any sort of lead in the comp as I had sucked the first two days, so I got stinking high and stayed there, just enjoying the conditions over the flats. As usual I flew almost the entire day on my own, I just like that better than gaggle flying. I like flying with my friends, but the gaggles just annoy the hell out of me, it doesn't feel "free." The smart "comp" thing to do was push it hard to goal, but I tanked up super high on the rim and flew over the goal on the moon so I could tag launch on top of Chelan Butte and close out the triangle totally. This added maybe 10K to the overall flight but was well worth it--so much fun to burn it back into launch after flying a big task!
I'm pretty sure I'm done with paragliding comps. I just do not make a good herd animal--I want to fly the air, not other gliders. There's too much waiting around on launch, too much circling, just too much in the way of FLYING for me. I like seeing friends and the whole scene, but the part of flying done in the air is for me fundamentally about the experience of the atmosphere and my very small slice of it. There's a joy in being all alone or with a couple of friends way out in the middle of nowhere that I just don't find in comps very often. It was great to see Bernard, Nate and some of my other friends out on course, but turning circles before the start with so many gliders just doesn't fill me with joy--in fact, it pisses me right off. That's not how I want to feel in the air. One of the hardest things in life to do is recognize when you have changed; I could keep going back to comps, which have taught me a lot over the years and I highly recommend for any pilot, or seek out what truly lights my mind up today: XC flying, preferably with a huge goal or in a new place where simple exploration makes me happy. I need equal measures of what I feel as meaning and uncertainty to truly get into flying; I love winning, but that doesn't pull as much as the thought of, "What's over that ridge over there?" Yeah! Paragliding is one fantastic sport with so many different possibilities, and a great community. If we could have a comp without the comp that would be great--fly with friends, come up with interesting goals and celebrate flight without having to mess about I'd be in.
Congratulations to Keith MacCullough, who defended his Canadian National Paragliding Champion title successfully. Keith has gone from a talented pilot who would generally do random things in about half the tasks to a focused competitor. He wants results in comps, and has matured enough to get 'em. Well done.
The last day of the Chelan comp was fantastic--a 120K triangle with absolutely rocking conditions. If there was wind I was planning to blow the task off and try my luck chasing down the Washington state record, but with minimal wind (maybe 10-20K) the task just looked like too much fun not to do... I went out hard and led to the first turnpoint, where I broke my speed bar. We were headed crosswind to the next turnpoint so a bar would be nice to have--I spent some time tying the bits back together as the lead gaggle caught me and then flew by while I tied knots, but I got back into the game to the second turnpoint until the cord broke again. I was having a bit of a hard time tying knots as I had forgotten my gloves on launch and had pretty cold hands, and the course was now taking us back into the headwind. The lead gaggle went right, I went left under some better clouds so I could try and glide straight while tying knots. Eventually I rigged up a full junk show system with my speed bar line coming straight out of my pod to the risers. This required holding the riser with one hand while pushing bar, but it worked enough to get moving again. I wasn't racing for any sort of lead in the comp as I had sucked the first two days, so I got stinking high and stayed there, just enjoying the conditions over the flats. As usual I flew almost the entire day on my own, I just like that better than gaggle flying. I like flying with my friends, but the gaggles just annoy the hell out of me, it doesn't feel "free." The smart "comp" thing to do was push it hard to goal, but I tanked up super high on the rim and flew over the goal on the moon so I could tag launch on top of Chelan Butte and close out the triangle totally. This added maybe 10K to the overall flight but was well worth it--so much fun to burn it back into launch after flying a big task!
I'm pretty sure I'm done with paragliding comps. I just do not make a good herd animal--I want to fly the air, not other gliders. There's too much waiting around on launch, too much circling, just too much in the way of FLYING for me. I like seeing friends and the whole scene, but the part of flying done in the air is for me fundamentally about the experience of the atmosphere and my very small slice of it. There's a joy in being all alone or with a couple of friends way out in the middle of nowhere that I just don't find in comps very often. It was great to see Bernard, Nate and some of my other friends out on course, but turning circles before the start with so many gliders just doesn't fill me with joy--in fact, it pisses me right off. That's not how I want to feel in the air. One of the hardest things in life to do is recognize when you have changed; I could keep going back to comps, which have taught me a lot over the years and I highly recommend for any pilot, or seek out what truly lights my mind up today: XC flying, preferably with a huge goal or in a new place where simple exploration makes me happy. I need equal measures of what I feel as meaning and uncertainty to truly get into flying; I love winning, but that doesn't pull as much as the thought of, "What's over that ridge over there?" Yeah! Paragliding is one fantastic sport with so many different possibilities, and a great community. If we could have a comp without the comp that would be great--fly with friends, come up with interesting goals and celebrate flight without having to mess about I'd be in.
Congratulations to Keith MacCullough, who defended his Canadian National Paragliding Champion title successfully. Keith has gone from a talented pilot who would generally do random things in about half the tasks to a focused competitor. He wants results in comps, and has matured enough to get 'em. Well done.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Chelan Ice Caves and Bouldering
Yesterday was blown out for flying so pilots started searching out other adventures. Mini-golf, mountain biking and "toasting" (Franglish for tanning) were all popular. James and Pam suggested that we check out some "ice caves" near Chelan. The problem was that the entrance to the caves was dynamited in the sixties because the local government figured they were a hazard. This is despite the fact that the the local fruit growers used to store their fruit over the summer in the caves. The caves were popular enough to have been a state park at one time... They must have been big, there is a lot of fruit around here. A local pilot, Brad, thought he might know where they were because every time he rides his motorcycle through a small canyon the air temperature drops very noticeably. Pam and James went to the Chelan museum, checked out Google Earth, and we were off. We found where the cave used to be--the air blowing out between the boulders was frigid. I went on a bit of a hike up the hill side (first one with my knee, feeling good!) in search of other entrances but couldn't find any unfortunately. But from my perch up on the hillside I could see what looked like a decent boulder field across the canyon. Our ice cave expedition turned into a boulder recon mission in short order.
I think somebody at some time must have climbed a little on these boulders as there were some rocks stacked up in strategic places, but there had been no cleaning, no chalk, just a collection of decent boulders. I did a half dozen good problems in my running shoes before the expedition was called due to hunger. It's not Bishop, but it's a worthwhile spot given that there doesn't seem to be much in the way of climbing close to Chelan. The wind finally died this morning so we might get to fly today, but if not I'm pretty fired up to go back and get amongst the Ice Cave boulders. Anyone who knows about these boulders might drop me a line, I'd be a curious on their history if any.
I think somebody at some time must have climbed a little on these boulders as there were some rocks stacked up in strategic places, but there had been no cleaning, no chalk, just a collection of decent boulders. I did a half dozen good problems in my running shoes before the expedition was called due to hunger. It's not Bishop, but it's a worthwhile spot given that there doesn't seem to be much in the way of climbing close to Chelan. The wind finally died this morning so we might get to fly today, but if not I'm pretty fired up to go back and get amongst the Ice Cave boulders. Anyone who knows about these boulders might drop me a line, I'd be a curious on their history if any.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Chelan
We've only had two days of flying at the Chelan XC open/Canadian Nationals. Both days have been relatively weak and low, with short tasks. Very challenging flying. I'm doing my usual thing, which is to head off on my own plan. This isn't working, but I dislike gaggle flying enough that I'm resigned to it. It's not the strategy to pull a result on weak days, but I'd rather finish last doing my own thing than gaggle fly for a place other than first. Right now I'm working on finishing last, grin... Keith is doing well for Team Canada, currently winning our Nationals and third overall, which if he can hold onto it will be his best finish in a major meet yet. Keep with it Keith!
Tomorrow looks OK, but if it's not on we're going to head north and check out the Nelson/Slocan area and do some flying there. The knee is feeling pretty healed despite falling off a bicycle a couple of nights ago when a little kid challenged me to do a wheelie. How can you resit, "Hey, old guy, can you do a wheelie? Just try!" I did and busted out a decent wheelie but came off the bike with less than perfect coordination. It was all worth it to hear the kid say with the supreme confidence of a ten-year old, "Hey, you got skills."
Time to hit the taco cart up in downtown Chelan. That cart is one of the very best things about Chelan.
Tomorrow looks OK, but if it's not on we're going to head north and check out the Nelson/Slocan area and do some flying there. The knee is feeling pretty healed despite falling off a bicycle a couple of nights ago when a little kid challenged me to do a wheelie. How can you resit, "Hey, old guy, can you do a wheelie? Just try!" I did and busted out a decent wheelie but came off the bike with less than perfect coordination. It was all worth it to hear the kid say with the supreme confidence of a ten-year old, "Hey, you got skills."
Time to hit the taco cart up in downtown Chelan. That cart is one of the very best things about Chelan.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Knee Surgery
When I was about 27 or so I jumped off a fence wearing a 50-pound paragliding bag. Yeah, real smart. My left knee hurt like hell for a month or so but got better, my right knee healed faster. In the last 13 years I've put more miles on my body than long distance trucker, and that knee never really felt great. I just dealt with it. Then last November I was kite skiing and ambitiously hucked a pretty good air that unfortunately greatly exceeded my ability to successfully land it... I was also on a frozen lake with less than 10cm of snow. That really hurt my knee, but I sucked it up, only pussies need knee surgery. I then tore my oblique after walking, or rather hobbling, into an ice climb. I had to "hip kip" every step to make my knee work, and the oblique was just worn out from the effort. The walk out sucked as the entire left side of my body was a mess. Anyhow, long story short, I finally got into have the meniscus sorted out.
6:00 a.m.: Arrive at the Banff Hospital without any coffee or other stimulants in my blood stream. A tremendous waste of a nice morning for sure, how does anyone live without caffeine?
6:30: Fill out all the paperwork. Get given a bed to wait on. Fall asleep.
8:30: Wake up, my room now has two other patients. They see me asleep in the bed and assume that I've already had surgery. I'm grumpy and surly due to the lack of morning java and feed them horror stories about it until I give in and admit I'm waiting too. We joke about it all but everyone is nervous. Someone is shortly going to stick huge tent stakes into our knees... I spend five minutes scrubbing my leg with a disinfectant sponge that smells like the stuff I used to put under my tape to make it stick better. I have flashbacks of climbing in Joshua Tree, all that morning coffee before we went out and cranked...
9:00 a.m. I'm on the table, and Dr. B and his team are attaching various monitors etc. The anesthesiologist asks if I want some happy juice in my IV before they stick a monster needle attached to roughly a can of Red Bull full of anesthetic into my knee. I decline, I want to watch this action and be fully with the program.
9:01 a.m. There's a med student sticking the needle in. She's looking worried. I try and get her psyched and relaxed by joking with her. She gets more nervous until I tell her I'm just joking, I won't yell if she does it wrong. The mood lightens up, and she does a great job. I want everyone in that room psyched and into working the game. I know I'll get better results if they see this all matters to me. It does.
9:15 The camera on the end of one tent stake shows the operating room, then dark redness, then it's exactly like watching one of those TV shows where the sub is thousands of meters below the surface and searching for some nightmarish creature. My femur, patella and various tree trunks of ligaments float by. It's surreal, almost like the old TV show where a bunch of people are miniaturized and dropped into someone's blood stream. Who knew there was a universe inside my knee?
9:16. Dr. B goes to work. The only thing that tells me that the image on the screen is inside my knee is that the various yanks and snaps correspond to movements I feel only as dull forces. It's dentistry meets carving a turkey in a tent at night. Dr. B. does an excellent job of telling me what he sees and is doing, and I'm glad I looked at a bunch of photos so I could follow along reasonably well
9:30 Dr. B finishes up with the medial meniscus and gives me a tour of the rest of my knee. I have to say that was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. It's also enjoyable because my ACL and the rest of the bits are in good shape considering how much I have abused them over the years. The tent stakes come out of my leg, the room relaxes, the team starts breaking down and I'm wheeled out. Very professional, very smooth, thanks.
9:45 Because I've refused the happy juice I go directly back to my earlier room and not the recovery room. I get handed the single worst turkey sandwich I've ever experienced in my life. What is it with hospital food???! I eat the first half of it anyhow 'cause I'm really hungry. The second half wins, and I back down.
10:30 I hobble out. My knee is still totally numb, but apparently this is OK. My ride shows, we head for coffee and painkillers immediately.
Monday Afternoon. My body knows something is really wrong, but can't figure out what. Amazingly, the anesthetic lasts until 2:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. I know it fully wore off at 2:18 a.m. 'cause that's when I woke up. My knee actually hurt less than it often did before the surgery, and I'm too lazy to get up and find the pain pills so I go back to sleep. I am pretty certain that I'm not going to be able to compete in the Canadian Paragliding Nationals, which start a week from today.
Tueday: Pretty much the same as Monday but now I can at least feel my knee. I didn't want to do much on Monday because I figured that I needed to be able to feel my knee to know if what I was doing was too much. I don't do much but ice and walk to the fridge for more food. Pain pills still not necessary.
Wed: Feel better. Walk slowly, get some work done, the meniscus actually doesn't hurt too much but my range of motion is pretty limited and slow to move through.
Thur: I feel pretty darn good until I walk more than 30m. The problem isn't the meniscus but all the supporting muscles firing in weird ways.
Today: I'm packing for the Canadian Nationals as I can walk more or less normally if not fast. Flying seems like the logical thing to do because I can't really walk, can't ride a bike, can't kayak (water in wound not good), can't climb, can't even go swimming. I might have to get my friends to help me get off the hill, but that will be pretty funny too. My knee didn't hurt at all last night for the first time in about four months. Amazing. I haven't taken any of the big pain pills as it simply hurts less than it often did over the last couple of months. I don't know if this means if the pain isn't too bad or that I have adapted to a lot of pain in my knee. In either case I have a nice big bottle of industrial pain kills to stick in the first aid kit.
Thanks to Dr. B and the team at the Banff hospital, I really hope the rest of this goes as well as it has for the first five days.
See ya in Chelan!
WG
6:00 a.m.: Arrive at the Banff Hospital without any coffee or other stimulants in my blood stream. A tremendous waste of a nice morning for sure, how does anyone live without caffeine?
6:30: Fill out all the paperwork. Get given a bed to wait on. Fall asleep.
8:30: Wake up, my room now has two other patients. They see me asleep in the bed and assume that I've already had surgery. I'm grumpy and surly due to the lack of morning java and feed them horror stories about it until I give in and admit I'm waiting too. We joke about it all but everyone is nervous. Someone is shortly going to stick huge tent stakes into our knees... I spend five minutes scrubbing my leg with a disinfectant sponge that smells like the stuff I used to put under my tape to make it stick better. I have flashbacks of climbing in Joshua Tree, all that morning coffee before we went out and cranked...
9:00 a.m. I'm on the table, and Dr. B and his team are attaching various monitors etc. The anesthesiologist asks if I want some happy juice in my IV before they stick a monster needle attached to roughly a can of Red Bull full of anesthetic into my knee. I decline, I want to watch this action and be fully with the program.
9:01 a.m. There's a med student sticking the needle in. She's looking worried. I try and get her psyched and relaxed by joking with her. She gets more nervous until I tell her I'm just joking, I won't yell if she does it wrong. The mood lightens up, and she does a great job. I want everyone in that room psyched and into working the game. I know I'll get better results if they see this all matters to me. It does.
9:15 The camera on the end of one tent stake shows the operating room, then dark redness, then it's exactly like watching one of those TV shows where the sub is thousands of meters below the surface and searching for some nightmarish creature. My femur, patella and various tree trunks of ligaments float by. It's surreal, almost like the old TV show where a bunch of people are miniaturized and dropped into someone's blood stream. Who knew there was a universe inside my knee?
9:16. Dr. B goes to work. The only thing that tells me that the image on the screen is inside my knee is that the various yanks and snaps correspond to movements I feel only as dull forces. It's dentistry meets carving a turkey in a tent at night. Dr. B. does an excellent job of telling me what he sees and is doing, and I'm glad I looked at a bunch of photos so I could follow along reasonably well
9:30 Dr. B finishes up with the medial meniscus and gives me a tour of the rest of my knee. I have to say that was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. It's also enjoyable because my ACL and the rest of the bits are in good shape considering how much I have abused them over the years. The tent stakes come out of my leg, the room relaxes, the team starts breaking down and I'm wheeled out. Very professional, very smooth, thanks.
9:45 Because I've refused the happy juice I go directly back to my earlier room and not the recovery room. I get handed the single worst turkey sandwich I've ever experienced in my life. What is it with hospital food???! I eat the first half of it anyhow 'cause I'm really hungry. The second half wins, and I back down.
10:30 I hobble out. My knee is still totally numb, but apparently this is OK. My ride shows, we head for coffee and painkillers immediately.
Monday Afternoon. My body knows something is really wrong, but can't figure out what. Amazingly, the anesthetic lasts until 2:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. I know it fully wore off at 2:18 a.m. 'cause that's when I woke up. My knee actually hurt less than it often did before the surgery, and I'm too lazy to get up and find the pain pills so I go back to sleep. I am pretty certain that I'm not going to be able to compete in the Canadian Paragliding Nationals, which start a week from today.
Tueday: Pretty much the same as Monday but now I can at least feel my knee. I didn't want to do much on Monday because I figured that I needed to be able to feel my knee to know if what I was doing was too much. I don't do much but ice and walk to the fridge for more food. Pain pills still not necessary.
Wed: Feel better. Walk slowly, get some work done, the meniscus actually doesn't hurt too much but my range of motion is pretty limited and slow to move through.
Thur: I feel pretty darn good until I walk more than 30m. The problem isn't the meniscus but all the supporting muscles firing in weird ways.
Today: I'm packing for the Canadian Nationals as I can walk more or less normally if not fast. Flying seems like the logical thing to do because I can't really walk, can't ride a bike, can't kayak (water in wound not good), can't climb, can't even go swimming. I might have to get my friends to help me get off the hill, but that will be pretty funny too. My knee didn't hurt at all last night for the first time in about four months. Amazing. I haven't taken any of the big pain pills as it simply hurts less than it often did over the last couple of months. I don't know if this means if the pain isn't too bad or that I have adapted to a lot of pain in my knee. In either case I have a nice big bottle of industrial pain kills to stick in the first aid kit.
Thanks to Dr. B and the team at the Banff hospital, I really hope the rest of this goes as well as it has for the first five days.
See ya in Chelan!
WG
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
17,990 feet Over Boulder: Serious hypoxia and?
A few weeks ago I had the good fortune to enjoy some truly epic flying conditions off of Lookout Mountain, near Golden, Colorado. Those conditions took me to 14,500 feet. I've flown off of Lookout hundreds of times, but only reached that altitude maybe a half-dozen times. Today I flew at over 16,000 feet for far too long, and hit the FAA ceiling of 18,000 feet. This was an interesting experience, one of the top three "weird" things I've ever had happen on a paraglider. Here's the story, pounded out fast about July 15th but forgot to post it up.
The morning started out with a nice hike up Green Mountain. Despite a meniscus tear I can still hike on trails, I just can't walk around Home Depot on the cement floors for more than 15 minutes without starting to hobble like, well, a guy with a torn meniscus. At 10:00 in the morning the temperature was already hot, and the morning thermal cycles were strong enough to move the trees around on top of Green. All other plans were canceled, time to go fly.
By about 1:00 I was on launch in Golden with MR and a few other pilots. It was great to see MR and Rusty were still at it! But conditions seemed rather weak, with a few pilots sinking out. For whatever reason the day just wasn't on there yet. Eventually MR and I launched, and climbed out slowly out to about 9500 feet (my vario is in meters so feet are an approximation). The rest of the pilots soon joined in, and we bounced of the inversion for a while. There was a guy on a yellow Advance already heading north, but the Boom 5 with bar made catching up pretty simple. I passed under him and headed on before hitting a 5m/s thermal, which was about double what we had gotten so far. BOOM! Soon I was climbing through 15,000 feet, a new record for flying over the Front Range for me, and I decided to start gliding north as 15,000 feet is, ah, plenty high. Yeah!
That's when the first jet went by overhead. Not super close, but close enough to have a good look. My heart rate went up a little, but the sky is big. It's not uncommon to have jets fly overheard, that one was just a little bit closer than I like. I'd like to know what the guy on the yellow Advance got up to--the last time I saw him he was many thousands of feet below me and still heading north. (Edit--you can read Sam's account and see his excellent photos here, what a day! Glad Sam took some photos 'cause I didn't.)
Denver International Airport is about 30 miles east of Lookout, and it's normal for the jets heading west to overfly us as we head north to Boulder. No big deal, I continued gliding north. Strangely, I was still climbing despite having some bar on and flying straight. 16,000 feet is when I started to get pretty excited and notice the symptoms of hypoxia (slow thinking, less than prompt reactions, the usual). But a perfect cloud street was popping in front of me toward Boulder, and I wanted to be out of the area where the jets were so I stayed on bar, and kept slowly climbing.
At about 16,500 I hit the west winds and started to drift east a bit, but made sure to crab so that I was nowhere near DIA airspace (I stayed west of the Boulder-Golden road to be sure). 17,000 feet is when I pulled big ears, and the second and third jets went by. Again, not close enough to file an incident report, but a jet looks pretty big when you're a butterfly. My heart rate accelerated dramatically.
By this time I was high enough to have a clear visual on DIA, and I kept a very sharp eye to the east. I didn't want to fly back through the lift I'd just been in as that would have put me above 18,000 for sure (base looked to be about 20,000), and the clouds to my west looked even harder. Clouds with flat hard bases mean stronger lift, something I did not need. I couldn't really go east as that would put me more toward DIA. I pondered spiral diving, but would that put me back into the altitude range of the jets coming out of DIA?
So I kept heading north. By now I was well north of DIA and right at the FAA ceiling for hang and paragliders, 18,000 feet. I let myself drift a bit farther east, still cautious of the Denver airspace, and flew east of Boulder. There's a very active drop zone in Boulder, I didn't want any part of that. Then another jet flew right under me, and my heart rate really went ballistic. I also noticed that I couldn't relax my hands anymore, my lips were tingling and my thinking process very, very slow. I was also frozen--I'd launched expecting to maybe hit 10,000, now I was near 18,000 and cold.
There was a perfect line of clouds heading east, but I was feeling pretty concerned about the air traffic, was noticeably hypoxic and had generally had enough. I flew north toward a big blue hole, which normally means sinking air. At this point my hands and forearms were cramped clubs. I was not losing altitude, clouds kept popping above me... Normally when you get beamed to 17,000 feet plus you fly out of the lift and plummet back to a much more reasonable altitude where it's possible to recover from the oxygen deprivation. I'd now been above 15,000 feet for close to an hour, and decided that I would just glide until I was below 9,000. The ground out north of Longmont is probably at about 5,000, so if I felt like continuing I could from that altitude. But I still wasn't losing altitude. I'd been watching the sky carefully for signs of serious over development (or jets) and there just weren't any so I wasn't concerned about that, but my body was in full revolt. I was as near puking as I've ever been in the air, and had all the fun symptoms of both normal old paragliding hypoxia and also the ever-fun altitude sickness more familiar from climbing too high too fast on mountains. As hypoxic as I was, I didn't want to start spiral diving to lose altitude and add more stress to my body, but with non-functional hands and a seriously messed up mind the situation was not what I like when flying. If I continued to gain altitude I would be in controlled airspace. But that might be the least of the immediate problems--what if this got so bad that I blacked out? I've been to near 20,000 feet+ over Telluride and about 18,000 feet a lot in Aspen, but I was well-acclimated at the time. At a site where 11,000 feet is considered high I'd just flown high enough for long enough to encounter a new physiological wall, something I'd never experienced anywhere else in flying.
I mulled the options in my mind while sucking huge lung fulls of air in. I know from being high in the mountains that even while at relative rest my pulse and respiration often at least doubles, but this was much, much more intense. I wasn't panicked, but I was sure as hell stressed out. Jets, altitude, something was really going wrong...
I literally could not open my hands, and my glider inputs were reduced to moving my arms with my biceps and lats. I fly like that a lot when cold, but I just wasn't that cold... As my vision narrowed I decided I was extremely hypoxic and near systems shut down. I contemplated throwing my reserve, but throwing my reserve at just under 18,000 feet didn't seem like a good idea. I figured that if I were to pass out I would likely wake up before I hit the ground as I was at least two miles above it, plus I wasn't sure if I could make my hands work well enough to throw the reserve anyhow. Like I said, new physiological and mental ground... I focused intensely on staying with the program and continuing to breathe as more and more of my body cramped up. I have never had anything like this happen in flying, it was kinda traumatic.
Eventually the sink alarm went off, and feeling started to return to my arms and face as I continued to glide northeast. By the time I was down to 10,000 feet I felt pretty good, but went through the most excruciating "screaming barfies" I've had in years as I windmilled my arms to pump blood back through them. I don't think the barfies were just from the cold as I was reasonably warm, it was the cramps that kept my blood from circulating. I flew straight through some decent lift while sorting my hands out, I just didn't want to take it high again.
By 8,000 feet I realized I'd flown myself into a large shaded area, and there was likely no getting back up. This really didn't both me too much. The west winds had pushed me well north and east toward Greeley, not sure where exactly as I didn't bother to put a waypoint into my GPS for launch. Eventually the west winds turned to east winds and I landed smoothly next to a gigantic green lawn perfect for folding my glider up on. The lawn's owner came up, real friendly guy, and we talked as I folded. I still had my balaclava on, which must have seemed a bit odd in the heat (102 according to my host), but he rolled with it. A liter of water and some food put the situation more or less right, but in retrospect I find it somewhere between humorous and frightening that I forgot to ask Mr. Lawn where I was--and that I didn’t think to take my balaclava off... My mind still wasn't all there. I knew I had to go east and south to get my truck back at launch, and my host told me it was about 50 or 60 miles away as the crow flies. Not an epic flight in terms of distance, but epic in lots of other ways.
The hitchhiking went pretty well; a solid guy named Jim picked me up and drove me into Longmont, where we did a friendly cash deal that found me back at my truck in reasonably short order. As always, I enjoyed the ride and talking to a random guy about life, politics and whatever else was going on. If Jim finds this scribble, thanks for the ride, absolutely worth it in many ways, hope to hear from you in the future!
Tonight I started to research the effects of hypoxia to try and understand my experience. Hypoxia/altitude sickness certainly explains the muddled mind, urge to vomit and so on, but cramped hands and tingling are not the usual course of the experience, at least according to the ten minutes I spent on the web tonight. Those symptoms fit much better with hyperventilation, where the calcium levels in your body can get seriously whacked. I had consciously been breathing deeply and smoothly while high, I've found that really helps me with altitude while climbing. Had I done too much of it? Had the stress from the jets sent me over the edge? Does hyperventilation cause cramps and tingling faster at high altitude de to some combination of lower partial pressures and oxygen saturation? Who knows, I'll do some more research and find somebody who does, 'cause that was an experience I don't want to repeat. Lookout mountain sure delivered the goods...
July 23rd note: I'm more certain now that, while I was certainly hypoxic, the situation was likely compounded through hyperventilation-induced problems.
I've also checked a sectional for the airspace rules around DIA, I was not in controlled airspace at any point. It's just that neither were the jets, and they move a lot faster than I do. I would suggest staying below 15,000 feet anywhere along the Front Range, I did not enjoy the experience of so much air traffic even if it was relatively far away. It's not something to gamble with in my opinion.
The morning started out with a nice hike up Green Mountain. Despite a meniscus tear I can still hike on trails, I just can't walk around Home Depot on the cement floors for more than 15 minutes without starting to hobble like, well, a guy with a torn meniscus. At 10:00 in the morning the temperature was already hot, and the morning thermal cycles were strong enough to move the trees around on top of Green. All other plans were canceled, time to go fly.
By about 1:00 I was on launch in Golden with MR and a few other pilots. It was great to see MR and Rusty were still at it! But conditions seemed rather weak, with a few pilots sinking out. For whatever reason the day just wasn't on there yet. Eventually MR and I launched, and climbed out slowly out to about 9500 feet (my vario is in meters so feet are an approximation). The rest of the pilots soon joined in, and we bounced of the inversion for a while. There was a guy on a yellow Advance already heading north, but the Boom 5 with bar made catching up pretty simple. I passed under him and headed on before hitting a 5m/s thermal, which was about double what we had gotten so far. BOOM! Soon I was climbing through 15,000 feet, a new record for flying over the Front Range for me, and I decided to start gliding north as 15,000 feet is, ah, plenty high. Yeah!
That's when the first jet went by overhead. Not super close, but close enough to have a good look. My heart rate went up a little, but the sky is big. It's not uncommon to have jets fly overheard, that one was just a little bit closer than I like. I'd like to know what the guy on the yellow Advance got up to--the last time I saw him he was many thousands of feet below me and still heading north. (Edit--you can read Sam's account and see his excellent photos here, what a day! Glad Sam took some photos 'cause I didn't.)
Denver International Airport is about 30 miles east of Lookout, and it's normal for the jets heading west to overfly us as we head north to Boulder. No big deal, I continued gliding north. Strangely, I was still climbing despite having some bar on and flying straight. 16,000 feet is when I started to get pretty excited and notice the symptoms of hypoxia (slow thinking, less than prompt reactions, the usual). But a perfect cloud street was popping in front of me toward Boulder, and I wanted to be out of the area where the jets were so I stayed on bar, and kept slowly climbing.
At about 16,500 I hit the west winds and started to drift east a bit, but made sure to crab so that I was nowhere near DIA airspace (I stayed west of the Boulder-Golden road to be sure). 17,000 feet is when I pulled big ears, and the second and third jets went by. Again, not close enough to file an incident report, but a jet looks pretty big when you're a butterfly. My heart rate accelerated dramatically.
By this time I was high enough to have a clear visual on DIA, and I kept a very sharp eye to the east. I didn't want to fly back through the lift I'd just been in as that would have put me above 18,000 for sure (base looked to be about 20,000), and the clouds to my west looked even harder. Clouds with flat hard bases mean stronger lift, something I did not need. I couldn't really go east as that would put me more toward DIA. I pondered spiral diving, but would that put me back into the altitude range of the jets coming out of DIA?
So I kept heading north. By now I was well north of DIA and right at the FAA ceiling for hang and paragliders, 18,000 feet. I let myself drift a bit farther east, still cautious of the Denver airspace, and flew east of Boulder. There's a very active drop zone in Boulder, I didn't want any part of that. Then another jet flew right under me, and my heart rate really went ballistic. I also noticed that I couldn't relax my hands anymore, my lips were tingling and my thinking process very, very slow. I was also frozen--I'd launched expecting to maybe hit 10,000, now I was near 18,000 and cold.
There was a perfect line of clouds heading east, but I was feeling pretty concerned about the air traffic, was noticeably hypoxic and had generally had enough. I flew north toward a big blue hole, which normally means sinking air. At this point my hands and forearms were cramped clubs. I was not losing altitude, clouds kept popping above me... Normally when you get beamed to 17,000 feet plus you fly out of the lift and plummet back to a much more reasonable altitude where it's possible to recover from the oxygen deprivation. I'd now been above 15,000 feet for close to an hour, and decided that I would just glide until I was below 9,000. The ground out north of Longmont is probably at about 5,000, so if I felt like continuing I could from that altitude. But I still wasn't losing altitude. I'd been watching the sky carefully for signs of serious over development (or jets) and there just weren't any so I wasn't concerned about that, but my body was in full revolt. I was as near puking as I've ever been in the air, and had all the fun symptoms of both normal old paragliding hypoxia and also the ever-fun altitude sickness more familiar from climbing too high too fast on mountains. As hypoxic as I was, I didn't want to start spiral diving to lose altitude and add more stress to my body, but with non-functional hands and a seriously messed up mind the situation was not what I like when flying. If I continued to gain altitude I would be in controlled airspace. But that might be the least of the immediate problems--what if this got so bad that I blacked out? I've been to near 20,000 feet+ over Telluride and about 18,000 feet a lot in Aspen, but I was well-acclimated at the time. At a site where 11,000 feet is considered high I'd just flown high enough for long enough to encounter a new physiological wall, something I'd never experienced anywhere else in flying.
I mulled the options in my mind while sucking huge lung fulls of air in. I know from being high in the mountains that even while at relative rest my pulse and respiration often at least doubles, but this was much, much more intense. I wasn't panicked, but I was sure as hell stressed out. Jets, altitude, something was really going wrong...
I literally could not open my hands, and my glider inputs were reduced to moving my arms with my biceps and lats. I fly like that a lot when cold, but I just wasn't that cold... As my vision narrowed I decided I was extremely hypoxic and near systems shut down. I contemplated throwing my reserve, but throwing my reserve at just under 18,000 feet didn't seem like a good idea. I figured that if I were to pass out I would likely wake up before I hit the ground as I was at least two miles above it, plus I wasn't sure if I could make my hands work well enough to throw the reserve anyhow. Like I said, new physiological and mental ground... I focused intensely on staying with the program and continuing to breathe as more and more of my body cramped up. I have never had anything like this happen in flying, it was kinda traumatic.
Eventually the sink alarm went off, and feeling started to return to my arms and face as I continued to glide northeast. By the time I was down to 10,000 feet I felt pretty good, but went through the most excruciating "screaming barfies" I've had in years as I windmilled my arms to pump blood back through them. I don't think the barfies were just from the cold as I was reasonably warm, it was the cramps that kept my blood from circulating. I flew straight through some decent lift while sorting my hands out, I just didn't want to take it high again.
By 8,000 feet I realized I'd flown myself into a large shaded area, and there was likely no getting back up. This really didn't both me too much. The west winds had pushed me well north and east toward Greeley, not sure where exactly as I didn't bother to put a waypoint into my GPS for launch. Eventually the west winds turned to east winds and I landed smoothly next to a gigantic green lawn perfect for folding my glider up on. The lawn's owner came up, real friendly guy, and we talked as I folded. I still had my balaclava on, which must have seemed a bit odd in the heat (102 according to my host), but he rolled with it. A liter of water and some food put the situation more or less right, but in retrospect I find it somewhere between humorous and frightening that I forgot to ask Mr. Lawn where I was--and that I didn’t think to take my balaclava off... My mind still wasn't all there. I knew I had to go east and south to get my truck back at launch, and my host told me it was about 50 or 60 miles away as the crow flies. Not an epic flight in terms of distance, but epic in lots of other ways.
The hitchhiking went pretty well; a solid guy named Jim picked me up and drove me into Longmont, where we did a friendly cash deal that found me back at my truck in reasonably short order. As always, I enjoyed the ride and talking to a random guy about life, politics and whatever else was going on. If Jim finds this scribble, thanks for the ride, absolutely worth it in many ways, hope to hear from you in the future!
Tonight I started to research the effects of hypoxia to try and understand my experience. Hypoxia/altitude sickness certainly explains the muddled mind, urge to vomit and so on, but cramped hands and tingling are not the usual course of the experience, at least according to the ten minutes I spent on the web tonight. Those symptoms fit much better with hyperventilation, where the calcium levels in your body can get seriously whacked. I had consciously been breathing deeply and smoothly while high, I've found that really helps me with altitude while climbing. Had I done too much of it? Had the stress from the jets sent me over the edge? Does hyperventilation cause cramps and tingling faster at high altitude de to some combination of lower partial pressures and oxygen saturation? Who knows, I'll do some more research and find somebody who does, 'cause that was an experience I don't want to repeat. Lookout mountain sure delivered the goods...
July 23rd note: I'm more certain now that, while I was certainly hypoxic, the situation was likely compounded through hyperventilation-induced problems.
I've also checked a sectional for the airspace rules around DIA, I was not in controlled airspace at any point. It's just that neither were the jets, and they move a lot faster than I do. I would suggest staying below 15,000 feet anywhere along the Front Range, I did not enjoy the experience of so much air traffic even if it was relatively far away. It's not something to gamble with in my opinion.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tour de France
I've been writing about movement, flying and of course training some, but with another rider busted in the Tour de France today my thoughts are on that event.
I used to really like watching the Tour de France. When Floyd Landis was busted for doping in the Tour I was pissed at Floyd. I had reveled in his stunning comeback, his guts, and his general down-home attitude. Then it turned out that he had doped (no real surprise for any Tour rider), and I felt betrayed despite feeling I should have known better. I followed Floyd's appeals and legal maneuvering as the case went through the courts, and at one point I became convinced that he hadn't been busted so much as framed by bad evidence. Then I read some more, and the reality is that nobody but Floyd will ever know exactly what happened. I expect that maybe in ten or 20 years the "real" evidence will come out as it often does. This year I followed the Tour a bit, but it's the same old game of doping violations. I've now just lost interest in the Tour; what does it mean to win an event that's so obviously drug-fueled? What it really boils down to for me is that the Tour is simply nothing more than a bad joke no matter what happened with Floyd and others. Either Floyd is lying like mad or the Tour is incompetent at drug testing. Either way my response is the same: I'm not interested anymore. My opinion matters little, but I suspect there are a lot of people out there who feel the same. Maybe drug testing is a dead end for athletics, maybe there are ways to test effectively, but the real problem is that high-end aerobic and strength events have big stakes, and someone will always try to cheat in that environment. It's human nature.
I've lived and worked with amateur and professional bike racers over the years and deeply respect the dedication and effort they put into their sport, but I can't respect the Tour as an event, nor can I find the confidence to trust any of the athletic performances I see on that asphalt stage. Football, baseball, hockey, any "huge" event has basically the same set of temptations and will likely produce the same behavior.
I do not know of one climber, kayaker or paraglider pilot who has ever doped to win a contest of any kind. I've heard vague accusations, but despite being involved in the high end of those sports at various points I have no solid, factual information that anyone has doped to perform at a higher level than any other competitor in any event. And even if someone had then I seriously doubt the podium reflected the doping effort; it's seldom the strongest who wins in any the sports I compete in. When someone wins a climbing or paragliding comp I can see the training, see the effort, and balance those factors against the luck everyone needs occasionally. I've had luck when I needed it and not had it when I would have liked some. I've seen competitors screwed by the "rules," and also given a break by the officials, but that's competing. Perhaps there just aren't enough rewards in my sports to inspire serious doping? That's OK with me, and I can look at the accomplishments of my friends and know that the results came from them, and not from who could avoid the drug tests the best.
I used to really like watching the Tour de France. When Floyd Landis was busted for doping in the Tour I was pissed at Floyd. I had reveled in his stunning comeback, his guts, and his general down-home attitude. Then it turned out that he had doped (no real surprise for any Tour rider), and I felt betrayed despite feeling I should have known better. I followed Floyd's appeals and legal maneuvering as the case went through the courts, and at one point I became convinced that he hadn't been busted so much as framed by bad evidence. Then I read some more, and the reality is that nobody but Floyd will ever know exactly what happened. I expect that maybe in ten or 20 years the "real" evidence will come out as it often does. This year I followed the Tour a bit, but it's the same old game of doping violations. I've now just lost interest in the Tour; what does it mean to win an event that's so obviously drug-fueled? What it really boils down to for me is that the Tour is simply nothing more than a bad joke no matter what happened with Floyd and others. Either Floyd is lying like mad or the Tour is incompetent at drug testing. Either way my response is the same: I'm not interested anymore. My opinion matters little, but I suspect there are a lot of people out there who feel the same. Maybe drug testing is a dead end for athletics, maybe there are ways to test effectively, but the real problem is that high-end aerobic and strength events have big stakes, and someone will always try to cheat in that environment. It's human nature.
I've lived and worked with amateur and professional bike racers over the years and deeply respect the dedication and effort they put into their sport, but I can't respect the Tour as an event, nor can I find the confidence to trust any of the athletic performances I see on that asphalt stage. Football, baseball, hockey, any "huge" event has basically the same set of temptations and will likely produce the same behavior.
I do not know of one climber, kayaker or paraglider pilot who has ever doped to win a contest of any kind. I've heard vague accusations, but despite being involved in the high end of those sports at various points I have no solid, factual information that anyone has doped to perform at a higher level than any other competitor in any event. And even if someone had then I seriously doubt the podium reflected the doping effort; it's seldom the strongest who wins in any the sports I compete in. When someone wins a climbing or paragliding comp I can see the training, see the effort, and balance those factors against the luck everyone needs occasionally. I've had luck when I needed it and not had it when I would have liked some. I've seen competitors screwed by the "rules," and also given a break by the officials, but that's competing. Perhaps there just aren't enough rewards in my sports to inspire serious doping? That's OK with me, and I can look at the accomplishments of my friends and know that the results came from them, and not from who could avoid the drug tests the best.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Walking
I clearly remember the first time I saw someone who could truly walk well in the mountains. I was in Mexico, basically lost deep in Copper Canyon. A friend and I were carrying our kayaks on our heads and staggering around the trail like a couple of drunks in search of a bar. We never did find the river, but we did find a bar eventually, but that's another story. The locals in Copper Canyon are the Tarahumara indians. Being kinda ignorant (hence not finding the river) we didn't know much about these people, and my first sight of one came when an older woman with a huge stack of stuff floated past me up the trail. I can still remember the way her feet flowed around and through the rocks and mud, and the supple ease she displayed despite both her age, load and the tough going. It was as impressive to me at the time as watching Sharma boulder when I saw that for the first time many years later. She just knew how to move on a trail.
Over the years I've spent a lot of time beating around in the mountains while climbing, kayaking and paragliding. Often the walk to the "sport" takes far more time than the sport, and the success of many days in the mountains has often hinged more on the success of the approach and descent than the climbing or whatever. Some of my partners are very fast in all kinds of terrain, others slower despite being much stronger aerobically or physically. Of course, some people just plain kick my ass in terms of speed on about any type of terrain, I'm not claiming mastery here, just that I've put some time in and seen enough people in enough terrain to notice the differences in skills. Even those who have spent a fair amount of time on trails often fall apart when traversing some rubble fest on the side of a peak, and even fewer can move smoothly up a river bed or over a talus field. Given the importance of being able to walk well in the mountains no matter what our choice of sport in the mountains is, how do the people who do it well approach the movements, and what do they do that others don't?
Some time ago I wrote a short piece for a running magazine about how to trail run, and while that piece is still relevant to running I've had the chance to think more about moving well in the mountains over the years. I've also had a few situations in the last month that have really prompted me to think about moving in mountain terrain, so of course I'm now going to write about it 'cause that's what I do when I want to figure something out. If you have to teach something you have to understand it. So take the following posts on here as my attempt to understand something we all see as "basic," but that in my opinion isn't. I'm going to divide this writing up into three broad sections: Trails, Drainages/Talus and Steep Rubble. Look for the "trails" effort shortly, I'm pounding on it now. I'll welcome people's thoughts on the rough drafts about whether this makes sense or not, the final drafts of this writing will be used for a couple of projects I'm involved with, thanks.
WG
Over the years I've spent a lot of time beating around in the mountains while climbing, kayaking and paragliding. Often the walk to the "sport" takes far more time than the sport, and the success of many days in the mountains has often hinged more on the success of the approach and descent than the climbing or whatever. Some of my partners are very fast in all kinds of terrain, others slower despite being much stronger aerobically or physically. Of course, some people just plain kick my ass in terms of speed on about any type of terrain, I'm not claiming mastery here, just that I've put some time in and seen enough people in enough terrain to notice the differences in skills. Even those who have spent a fair amount of time on trails often fall apart when traversing some rubble fest on the side of a peak, and even fewer can move smoothly up a river bed or over a talus field. Given the importance of being able to walk well in the mountains no matter what our choice of sport in the mountains is, how do the people who do it well approach the movements, and what do they do that others don't?
Some time ago I wrote a short piece for a running magazine about how to trail run, and while that piece is still relevant to running I've had the chance to think more about moving well in the mountains over the years. I've also had a few situations in the last month that have really prompted me to think about moving in mountain terrain, so of course I'm now going to write about it 'cause that's what I do when I want to figure something out. If you have to teach something you have to understand it. So take the following posts on here as my attempt to understand something we all see as "basic," but that in my opinion isn't. I'm going to divide this writing up into three broad sections: Trails, Drainages/Talus and Steep Rubble. Look for the "trails" effort shortly, I'm pounding on it now. I'll welcome people's thoughts on the rough drafts about whether this makes sense or not, the final drafts of this writing will be used for a couple of projects I'm involved with, thanks.
WG
Friday, June 27, 2008
Eldo
I keep having these Boulder flashbacks... Over 20 years ago I drove an ancient, even for then, van into the Eldorado parking lot for the first time. I was blown away by the rock walls, and the climbing beat the hell out of me. I've climbed in Eldo hundreds of days since then, the place always fires me up despite it's "old school" vibe. A roaring river, epic quantities of rock, yeah!
One of the first routes I did (or tried?) back then was T2, a six or so pitch 5.9 that starts with an overhanging, poorly protected 5.11 high-ball boulder problem with a really bad landing. I remember my 18-year old hands sweaty hands sketching on the holds as my partner decided spotting was a waste of time and ran away before I could fall on him. Smart move.
Yesterday I was back early in the morning with an old friend, and despite the hour my hands were sweating on the first holds. It is possible to stick-clip a pin to protect the boulder start, but shit, a stick clip in Eldo is just wrong if you're from my generation of climbers. I could vividly remember my feet blowing, the resulting endless swing and time-creeping battle to hang on years ago, but if 20 years of climbing hasn't made me any smarter it has at least made me slightly stronger, and it all flowed. The rest of the route did too, setting belays, cruising, watching the birds circle in the morning thermals, Eldo is, to use the phrase from back in the day, "Mega!" We were back at our shoes in under two hours, about the same time it took me to lead the first pitch over 20 years ago, but just as happy to have had a great time of it.
We even had the obligatory, "I think the easy way to solo off the last bit is just over here" experience at the top to keep it spicy, but it sure is nice to climb rock that is generally solid instead of my normal Canadian Rockies diet that's generally not anywhere near solid, and even the solid bits are best treated with suspicion bordering on hostility as they often aren't solidly attached to the earth (at least on the trad routes in the Rockies, we do have some super solid sport climbing).
If you haven't done T2 you gotta go do it! Maybe bring a stick clip if you're not burdened by history... Thanks to the Punter for a good day of it.
One of the first routes I did (or tried?) back then was T2, a six or so pitch 5.9 that starts with an overhanging, poorly protected 5.11 high-ball boulder problem with a really bad landing. I remember my 18-year old hands sweaty hands sketching on the holds as my partner decided spotting was a waste of time and ran away before I could fall on him. Smart move.
Yesterday I was back early in the morning with an old friend, and despite the hour my hands were sweating on the first holds. It is possible to stick-clip a pin to protect the boulder start, but shit, a stick clip in Eldo is just wrong if you're from my generation of climbers. I could vividly remember my feet blowing, the resulting endless swing and time-creeping battle to hang on years ago, but if 20 years of climbing hasn't made me any smarter it has at least made me slightly stronger, and it all flowed. The rest of the route did too, setting belays, cruising, watching the birds circle in the morning thermals, Eldo is, to use the phrase from back in the day, "Mega!" We were back at our shoes in under two hours, about the same time it took me to lead the first pitch over 20 years ago, but just as happy to have had a great time of it.
We even had the obligatory, "I think the easy way to solo off the last bit is just over here" experience at the top to keep it spicy, but it sure is nice to climb rock that is generally solid instead of my normal Canadian Rockies diet that's generally not anywhere near solid, and even the solid bits are best treated with suspicion bordering on hostility as they often aren't solidly attached to the earth (at least on the trad routes in the Rockies, we do have some super solid sport climbing).
If you haven't done T2 you gotta go do it! Maybe bring a stick clip if you're not burdened by history... Thanks to the Punter for a good day of it.
Monday, June 23, 2008
14,000 feet in Boulder
Edit--thanks to Chris Webster for the photo, taken shortly after launch at Lookout. That's the Coors plant and the source of the beer thermals directly "under" me in the photo.
I started flying about 15 years ago in response to a serious case of climbing burnout. I was sick of being cloistered in a small cave hanging by my fingers; I wanted the big picture, to feel something so totally new and fresh that it fired me up the way climbing used to. In retrospect, I should have just gone into a different form of climbing, but I didn't think of that and flying was everything I wanted it to be and then some. Hanging high in space and truly seeing the geography of the land at a bird's pace (well, a really slow bird) is about as good as it gets. After doing nothing but flying for a year I got back into climbing, and balancing the two sports since then has been a constant battle of love.
On Saturday I'd made plans to go climbing, but all of a sudden these perfect clouds started forming and I flaked to head for Golden, Colorado. I learned to fly in both Golden, Colorado, and Golden, BC. Both are great sites, but totally different. Golden BC is a big-air, big glide, big place to fly. Golden, Colorado (also called Lookout) is a little site with a big attitude. When I started learning to fly at Lookout the landing zone had a powerline across half of it; it's still one of the trickiest places I know to land in. But the flying is worse--you're flying on the wrong side of the Rocky Mountains so you're always in the lee. The mountains heat up and draw the air west onto the east-facing slopes, but the entire front side of the Rockies is generally a mass of down-flowing air. There is also always a sheer layer somewhere between the top of the hill and the clouds that will toss your glider around in an engaging manner, and all you have to do is make one little mistake and you're on the ground. But it's kind of like learning to ski at an area with really bad snow; if you can survive your local skiing disaster then you can likely ski anywhere. When I got to launch on Saturday there were only a few pilots left, everybody else had headed off on about a 40K task to North Boulder. Conditions were a bit strong, but not too bad, and I got into the air uneventfully off of the Lookout launch for the first time in almost a decade.
I found my first real thermal by following the classic Lookout rule--if it starts smelling like beer in the air turn and follow the smell! The Coors plant is upwind of the hill, and the yeasty-smelling"beer thermals" are a great indicator of rising air. I had a huge smell-induced memory and was turning to core the brewery lift before I even realized it. Thanks Coors!
I first went south about 10K, and remembered all the "fun" that Lookout has to offer. Scrappy thermals that move in random directions at different altitudes, climbs that go from 1 to 5 and back on the vario with no notice, and glides that were atrocious. I loved it, it was a ten-year old flashback. Little-remembered skills kicked in almost sub-consciously; move with the thermals even if the direction seems "wrong," never leave any shitty lift, conserve every foot of altitude with a passion bordering on neurotic... Then I headed back north to try and intersect any pilots coming south from Boulder, but didn't see many. The strong east wind down low soon turned northeast, and I found myself going only 25K an hour on glide, but the sink was even worse. Normally paragliders sink at a meter or two a second on glide in air between thermals, but not at Lookout. I was hitting 5 and 6 meter sink consistently, with thermals only in the 2-4 range. Ah, Lookout! I was only hitting about 2900M for the first hour, but about 20K north the magic happened and I was suddenly at 4300M, or over 14,000 feet. I've only been at this altitude maybe ten times in hundreds of flights from Lookout, it was a sweet moment to look west and see the snowy peaks of the divide, south all the way to Pike's Peak and out onto the flat plains extending seemingly forever. I really like that combination, few sites I've flown offer it.
I was due back home to kid-sit early that evening and didn't want to have an epic with getting my truck back at launch, so just short of Eldorado Canyon I turned and ran back south to launch and my vehicle. Flying my Boomerang 5 at Lookout felt like cheating compared to the old days; with half bar I was going 65K, and was able to fly well out over the town of Golden, tour the Coors plant and still have more than enough altitude to make it back to launch, all on one glide. My mind remembered fighting to glide even a few K, but the new gear makes things so very nice!
I'm hoping for some more good days at Lookout while here in Boulder, it's the best lousy site I've ever flown. I hope to see some more pilots from back in the day while I'm launch or in the air too. The local crew at Lookout likely saved me from killing myself several times, often with very direct and effective commentary such as, "Well, shit, that was about the dumbest thing I've ever seen anyone do--if you want to crash why not just fly straight at the hill and crash closer to the road so the rescue will be easier? Do that again and you'll likely end up dead, can't believe you haven't killed yourself yet. Can I have your truck when you die?" It was all meant in the best way, and the ideas behind the words absolutely stuck with me over the years. A good local crew is as important as the school lessons for a pilot, maybe more. Thanks to the Lookout crew of all those years ago, and thanks to Lookout for the stellar flight on Saturday, yeah!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Boulder
I'm in Boulder, Colorado. Just mention the name and most people have an idea of the place and the societal meaning. Hippies, athletes, the University, lots of tech, and of course the odd bit of climbing. No, make that a whole lot of climbing and even more climbers. Boulder is one of the world centres for climbers, right up there with Yosemite or Sheffield; the number of climbers here is just insane compared to any other place in North America, and maybe the world. The variety of climbers is also astounding; trad, seven bumpers, sport, boulderers, ethical satirists, ethical hard-liners, poets and of course an unlimited supply of posers, which, come to think of it, covers pretty much all of us who call ourselves climbers. But the climbers are relatively tame in their posing compared to some of the other athlete groups in Boulder. The cyclists are the most obvious; is it really necessary to walk around the mall in a Lycra outfit with your cleated cycling shoes on? I had to buy a new battery for my computer the other day and was surrounded by the click-click of cleats in the computer shop. My chalked hands couldn't compete.
It's hot here, which for me is like Kryptonite to my climbing. So I've been going to the gym and jumping in the river in my boat, and getting little morning boulder sessions on before the temperature dial goes to "pasty white guy can't hang onto a pull-up bar anymore." I have spent hundres of hours in the gyms of Boulder, and for me it's like going back to an old local crag. The Spot has savage bouldering, and the Boulder Rock Club still has the best route-setting of any gym I've ever climbed in (Thanks Chris). What amazed me were how many of the same people I used to train with were still in the gym. We're all ten years older, but it was great to see so many of the old faces pulling harder than ever and loving it. Boulder has a lot of "lifers,' my favorite kind of climber because they will be pulling until they simply can't reach the holds anymore. That's what it's all about.
Stay cool.
One Truth: Skin is temporary, climbing is forever.
It's hot here, which for me is like Kryptonite to my climbing. So I've been going to the gym and jumping in the river in my boat, and getting little morning boulder sessions on before the temperature dial goes to "pasty white guy can't hang onto a pull-up bar anymore." I have spent hundres of hours in the gyms of Boulder, and for me it's like going back to an old local crag. The Spot has savage bouldering, and the Boulder Rock Club still has the best route-setting of any gym I've ever climbed in (Thanks Chris). What amazed me were how many of the same people I used to train with were still in the gym. We're all ten years older, but it was great to see so many of the old faces pulling harder than ever and loving it. Boulder has a lot of "lifers,' my favorite kind of climber because they will be pulling until they simply can't reach the holds anymore. That's what it's all about.
Stay cool.
One Truth: Skin is temporary, climbing is forever.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
A good send in Scotland
My bud Sonnie Trotter finally sent Rhapsody (edit, brain junk), which is a really hard trad (meaning no bolts) line over in Scotland. If you haven't been following his blog I'd really recommend checking it out. He did some fine writing about trying to climb something really hard--the mental ups and downs, and finally success. Good stuff, a big group of both friends and people who were reading his blog were really hoping he'd get the job done. We went so far as to offer $ to help him change his ticket (which he politely declined, but he won't be buying beer for a bit I'm sure), post rants on his blog and just generally let him know we were pulling for him. It was fun to push some energy across the Atlantic. Sonnie's writing and climbing got me fired up to train harder and go at it with more intensity, thanks to Sonnie for that. I heard that our cluster of attempted support actually might have helped Sonnie make the decision to stay, which was all he really needed to climb the rig so I'm super psyched to have been a very small part of his send along with everyone else who was pulling for the kid to get 'er done. Yeah! Now the question is: Sonnie, what the hell took ya so long? Grin...
Cory Richards (the friend I finally got Yamabushi down with a couple of years ago) is over there with Sonnie and also having at a very hard route. He and Sonnie have already changed their tickets twice, time is ticking, get 'er done Cory!
Training Notes:
I'm just giving it at the moment and loving it! The weather sucks, I've got tweaky elbows, tweaky fingers, a torqued knee and some other issues but damn is it fun to be putting it all into climbing right now. Some days I make big leaps in progress and feel my old limits disappearing, other days I'm back to where I was four months ago, but that's how it works. You just gotta show up, do your best to train and climb well, and the curve slowly keeps going up. I know I can't hold this training and performance level for long, but I've got some ideas that are important to me, hopefully the lines of performance and my objectives will cross at the right time.
Cory Richards (the friend I finally got Yamabushi down with a couple of years ago) is over there with Sonnie and also having at a very hard route. He and Sonnie have already changed their tickets twice, time is ticking, get 'er done Cory!
Training Notes:
I'm just giving it at the moment and loving it! The weather sucks, I've got tweaky elbows, tweaky fingers, a torqued knee and some other issues but damn is it fun to be putting it all into climbing right now. Some days I make big leaps in progress and feel my old limits disappearing, other days I'm back to where I was four months ago, but that's how it works. You just gotta show up, do your best to train and climb well, and the curve slowly keeps going up. I know I can't hold this training and performance level for long, but I've got some ideas that are important to me, hopefully the lines of performance and my objectives will cross at the right time.
Monday, June 02, 2008
One Truth: #1
Title a blog entry, "One Truth," and readers will likely be expecting something monumental. After all, successful religions have been started with far less. I often read corporate mission statements that involve the words such as "Truth" and "Honesty." Given the prevalence of the word "Truth" in all kinds of settings that have very little to do with anything approaching reality, I've started to think the idea of Truth is over-rated. The more a group or person claims to have the "Truth" about anything the more likely it is that he or she is either lying or insane, often both. Just think about the doomsday cults, government leaders, statistical junk shows in politics or real estate, etc. etc. I was going to get all sarcastic about the "Truth" in mountain sports, especially given the rather easy pickings in the mountain press, but then thought that would be just too easy. Instead I'm going to present some "Truths" I've learned over the years doing various mountain sports. I'm going to call these mini-commentaries, "One Truth," and endeavor to capture something useful in one line or less. Sort of koans for myself. This is pretentious, but this is a blog, home of the pretentious, and I aim to live up to my pretentious potential as I usually do when given a decent shot at it. So it's off the races.
Truth #1: It's always better to go and do something, anything, than not.
This evening my family and I hiked up Cougar Creek in the misty rain. We walked for a grand total of 30 minutes, and the piglet laughed a lot about the various dogs, people and other things I didn't quite get but she sure found entertaining. We didn't get our heart rates above about 70, and we almost didn't go because it was raining. But I'm glad we did, it was lot better than not. Mountains have a soft beauty in the rain and mist that they lack in sunshine.
Climbing: Been doing a lot of that, sure is fun. Climbing your way back into good shape is a rollercoaster of up days and down days, but my body is holding together well enough, and rock never feels better than when you haven't had enough of it. Blown skin, pumped arms, tweaked muscles, it's all so right. I hobble a bit going to the crag, but get 'er done once I'm tied in and pointed up. Or don't. Today was 4X4 day in the climbing gym, an old-school but potent workout that always feels nasty in a liberating sort of way. I've set some goals for myself that are lofty and will require hundreds if not thousands of layers of skin and effort. Bring it.
Truth #1: It's always better to go and do something, anything, than not.
This evening my family and I hiked up Cougar Creek in the misty rain. We walked for a grand total of 30 minutes, and the piglet laughed a lot about the various dogs, people and other things I didn't quite get but she sure found entertaining. We didn't get our heart rates above about 70, and we almost didn't go because it was raining. But I'm glad we did, it was lot better than not. Mountains have a soft beauty in the rain and mist that they lack in sunshine.
Climbing: Been doing a lot of that, sure is fun. Climbing your way back into good shape is a rollercoaster of up days and down days, but my body is holding together well enough, and rock never feels better than when you haven't had enough of it. Blown skin, pumped arms, tweaked muscles, it's all so right. I hobble a bit going to the crag, but get 'er done once I'm tied in and pointed up. Or don't. Today was 4X4 day in the climbing gym, an old-school but potent workout that always feels nasty in a liberating sort of way. I've set some goals for myself that are lofty and will require hundreds if not thousands of layers of skin and effort. Bring it.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Bouldering and Home Renos
Who knew that home renos and climbing go together so well? I've been bouldering a ton lately, as the weather is junk and my project route is likely underwater to the second or third draw. That would make it a bit easier if I could get to it in a kayak or something. Bouldering doesn't take long, which has left me some time to session on a wood stove project reno. Here are a few of the fun things I've managed to discover about home renos and bouldering.
-A chop saw will chop its own cord if you set it up just right. Fortunately I've done this before and had electrical tape and connector bits, only took ten minutes to fix, getting faster on the sequence.
-No matter how strong you think you are getting, there are always people who are way stronger. If some of them would come help me move my wood stove that would be cool.
-Drywalling sucks. How can I manage to create four feet of just beautiful inside corner joint and four feet that looks like it was done by a crack addict in withdrawal? In the same corner, alternating every foot like I meant to do it that way?
-Gear Tip: Everybody should buy a Makita hammer driver drill thing. It can sink a six-inch deck screw through four inches of seasoned fir and into my vapour barrier, wind up at least ten meters of insulation fiber on the screw, and continue to sink the screw head another two inches into the wood, right to the chuck (which means that screw will NEVER come out, even though it's not exactly where I wanted it) and still have power to burn. Sick, truly the finest power tool I've ever bought. I'm really wondering if it would work in rock.
-Climbing and renos often start alike. "I'll just have a look." Months later, with a badly dinged bank account and some weird memories, it's hard to believe it all started with just one move. I swung a hammer into drywall, I gripped warm spring stone, it's just gone sideways since then. Perfect.
-You just never know about renos or bouldering. For instance, I sent a problem that was hard for me yesterday in the gym even though my skin was blown, it was too warm, and some other excuses. And today I turned on the power to some pot lights I'd just put in, and despite fully guessing at times about which wire went where the lights came on without any of those cool blue flashes I'm kinda familiar with. You just gotta try.
The weather is biblical here in Canmore at the moment, four days of pretty much solid rain. I was getting depressed about this until I remembered that I could be in Vancouver or Seattle, which Canmore is starting to resemble. I even saw people running and riding in the rain today, a sure sign of depression and angst. May it break soon!
Not very seriously,
WG
-A chop saw will chop its own cord if you set it up just right. Fortunately I've done this before and had electrical tape and connector bits, only took ten minutes to fix, getting faster on the sequence.
-No matter how strong you think you are getting, there are always people who are way stronger. If some of them would come help me move my wood stove that would be cool.
-Drywalling sucks. How can I manage to create four feet of just beautiful inside corner joint and four feet that looks like it was done by a crack addict in withdrawal? In the same corner, alternating every foot like I meant to do it that way?
-Gear Tip: Everybody should buy a Makita hammer driver drill thing. It can sink a six-inch deck screw through four inches of seasoned fir and into my vapour barrier, wind up at least ten meters of insulation fiber on the screw, and continue to sink the screw head another two inches into the wood, right to the chuck (which means that screw will NEVER come out, even though it's not exactly where I wanted it) and still have power to burn. Sick, truly the finest power tool I've ever bought. I'm really wondering if it would work in rock.
-Climbing and renos often start alike. "I'll just have a look." Months later, with a badly dinged bank account and some weird memories, it's hard to believe it all started with just one move. I swung a hammer into drywall, I gripped warm spring stone, it's just gone sideways since then. Perfect.
-You just never know about renos or bouldering. For instance, I sent a problem that was hard for me yesterday in the gym even though my skin was blown, it was too warm, and some other excuses. And today I turned on the power to some pot lights I'd just put in, and despite fully guessing at times about which wire went where the lights came on without any of those cool blue flashes I'm kinda familiar with. You just gotta try.
The weather is biblical here in Canmore at the moment, four days of pretty much solid rain. I was getting depressed about this until I remembered that I could be in Vancouver or Seattle, which Canmore is starting to resemble. I even saw people running and riding in the rain today, a sure sign of depression and angst. May it break soon!
Not very seriously,
WG
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Some very cool photos
A friend of mine, John Harlin, sent me a link today that is just great--stellar aerial photos of Mt. Robson taken just a few days ago by John Scurlock. Spend 10 minutes checking them out, well worth it, sounds like Scurlock is an interesting guy.
WG
Edit--as Anon noted, the name is "Scurlock," not Spurlock. Fixed, sorry about that.
WG
Edit--as Anon noted, the name is "Scurlock," not Spurlock. Fixed, sorry about that.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Spring Snow, knee
I've been outside climbing a bunch--perfect spring days, nice temps, loving it. And then it started to rain on Tuesday or so, still OK just not great conditions. Yesterday I woke up to a couple of inches of snow, no big deal, but climbing plans went indoors. Around 2:00 I shoveled things out, about a foot of snow on the ground, and I figured the storm was done. It started snowing again in the late afternoon. By the time I'd done the gym session and hit the grocery store the snow was so deep that I had a hard time opening the car door in my already-shoveled driveway. I took the photo last night late just because the snow was so cool to see, this spring storms are just wild.
Last Tuesday I managed to get in and see an orthopod about the MRI of my knee. It's been really bothering me for about six months, but I kept thinking I could fix it... Finally gave up on that idea, it's FUBAR, torn meniscus, so off to surgery sometime later this summer. I intend to rock climb, kayak, mountain bike and fly my brains out until then, I just can't walk really far or run. Not a big deal really, just switch the games up and get after it in a new way. But nice to know what's wrong and how to hopefully FIX it. The rest of my body feels great, getting stronger and loving it!
happy spring!
WG
Sunday, May 04, 2008
How many times?
How many times have I worried about whether to go climbing or not because of some seemingly important event that somehow meant I maybe shouldn't go climbing?
And how many times has that event felt even half as important on the drive home after climbing? I can't remember one, that's how many.
How many times have I tied into a rope?
As many time as I've untied. Except five or six times when I was too pumped to untie and somebody did it for me while both of us laughed.
How many times have I tried to climb something I didn't think I had it in me to climb that day--and then somehow made it to the top? More times than I've fallen off when I was sure I wasn't going to.
How many times have I had a hard time turning the key in the ignition after a day's climbing? Enough to recognize that peculiar feeling and smile with recognition, like tasting something from childhood that I'd totally forgotten about.
How many times have I gone climbing with someone and had a really good time? So many that I've forgotten half their names but none of the feelings.
How many times have I gotten so excited to see someone else send something hard for them that I completely forgot everything else? More times than I've watched someone stroll up something hard for me and felt bitter about it.
How many times has it been hard to put my hands into hot water? More times than the scars I wear with pride.
How many times have I seen some pathetic punk curse as he falls off a hard route or boulder problem? Enough to recognize that punk as myself on a bad day.
How many people have I seen give their absolute best while climbing and their absolute worst on the ground? Enough to know that climbing brings out the best in us.
How many times have I swung an ice tool and waited to hear its sound? Enough to know that it's still important, each and every time.
How many times have I stopped climbing for months at a time? Enough to know that it always feels good when I start up again.
How many times have I chosen to stuff my feet into how many pairs of rock shoes and go through how many barrels of chalk just to get to the top of a rock I could have walked around to the back side of? Enough to know I'll keep doing it for as long as I live.
How many times? Who cares, better go climbing.
And how many times has that event felt even half as important on the drive home after climbing? I can't remember one, that's how many.
How many times have I tied into a rope?
As many time as I've untied. Except five or six times when I was too pumped to untie and somebody did it for me while both of us laughed.
How many times have I tried to climb something I didn't think I had it in me to climb that day--and then somehow made it to the top? More times than I've fallen off when I was sure I wasn't going to.
How many times have I had a hard time turning the key in the ignition after a day's climbing? Enough to recognize that peculiar feeling and smile with recognition, like tasting something from childhood that I'd totally forgotten about.
How many times have I gone climbing with someone and had a really good time? So many that I've forgotten half their names but none of the feelings.
How many times have I gotten so excited to see someone else send something hard for them that I completely forgot everything else? More times than I've watched someone stroll up something hard for me and felt bitter about it.
How many times has it been hard to put my hands into hot water? More times than the scars I wear with pride.
How many times have I seen some pathetic punk curse as he falls off a hard route or boulder problem? Enough to recognize that punk as myself on a bad day.
How many people have I seen give their absolute best while climbing and their absolute worst on the ground? Enough to know that climbing brings out the best in us.
How many times have I swung an ice tool and waited to hear its sound? Enough to know that it's still important, each and every time.
How many times have I stopped climbing for months at a time? Enough to know that it always feels good when I start up again.
How many times have I chosen to stuff my feet into how many pairs of rock shoes and go through how many barrels of chalk just to get to the top of a rock I could have walked around to the back side of? Enough to know I'll keep doing it for as long as I live.
How many times? Who cares, better go climbing.
Monday, April 28, 2008
North Face of Tang Keng Poche goes down
This spring two of my buds went over to Nepal to climb a new line on the south face of Annapurna, and decided to warm up with a quick trip up the North Face of Teng Kang Poche. I was over there a few years ago trying that face, we were rejected due to poor ice, danger and perhaps a lack of understanding about how the Himalaya worked. Make that a definite lack of understanding about the biggest mountain range in the world.
Ueli Steck just emailed me--he and Simon Anthamatten sent the face in three days, alpine style. A PROUD send and likely one of the bigger hard routes in the Himalaya. Congratulations to both of them!
Now I don't feel obligated to one day go back. It's a weird sense of relief mixed with respect and pride for my friends, and a bit of, "Dang, wish I'd done that!" They did the line in the very best possible style, something we didn't think we could do in the conditions we had. More likely, we lacked the commitment to gamble as hard as Ueli and Simon, as well as the outrageous fitness the Swiss are running (I saw that fitness last fall when they were living in my basement for a few weeks, yeah!).
There are moments in life when things are right for going big, and I'll always feel a little regret that I couldn't create such a moment with my team in Nepal. On the other hand we didn't die on the face, and it's a beautiful spring day here in Canmore. These are the things we balance as climbers, and I firmly believe it's better to run away and keep climbing for a long time than to push when the vibe isn't there. It does make my decision from years ago feel "right" when Simon and Ueli do such a good job, somehow this just makes sense to me. The line has been tried a lot with all kinds of tactics, to see it get done in the best possible style is very cool. It also confirms that my initial dream of going at it fast and light was possible; I started to think of other alternatives given the dangers we saw, so better for it to be done well the first time in my mind.
Now go big on Annapurna Team Swiss, but always leave a little room so you can come back to Canmore and beat around here with the old guy one day in the future.
Best,
WG
Ueli Steck just emailed me--he and Simon Anthamatten sent the face in three days, alpine style. A PROUD send and likely one of the bigger hard routes in the Himalaya. Congratulations to both of them!
Now I don't feel obligated to one day go back. It's a weird sense of relief mixed with respect and pride for my friends, and a bit of, "Dang, wish I'd done that!" They did the line in the very best possible style, something we didn't think we could do in the conditions we had. More likely, we lacked the commitment to gamble as hard as Ueli and Simon, as well as the outrageous fitness the Swiss are running (I saw that fitness last fall when they were living in my basement for a few weeks, yeah!).
There are moments in life when things are right for going big, and I'll always feel a little regret that I couldn't create such a moment with my team in Nepal. On the other hand we didn't die on the face, and it's a beautiful spring day here in Canmore. These are the things we balance as climbers, and I firmly believe it's better to run away and keep climbing for a long time than to push when the vibe isn't there. It does make my decision from years ago feel "right" when Simon and Ueli do such a good job, somehow this just makes sense to me. The line has been tried a lot with all kinds of tactics, to see it get done in the best possible style is very cool. It also confirms that my initial dream of going at it fast and light was possible; I started to think of other alternatives given the dangers we saw, so better for it to be done well the first time in my mind.
Now go big on Annapurna Team Swiss, but always leave a little room so you can come back to Canmore and beat around here with the old guy one day in the future.
Best,
WG
Monday, April 21, 2008
Climbing area review
I am so psyched to climb that I can barely stand it. My knee is totally jacked (meniscus tear) which makes it a little more difficult, but the rest of my body is good so I've been out on the ice a bit (yep, it's still ice time here in the Rockies!) but mainly hitting various climbing gyms around North America as I've had to travel a bunch lately for paragliding clinics, speaking, a TV show and some other stuff. I look forward to climbing in new gyms almost as much as new crags. Here are some "mini" reviews of a few of the gyms I've been into lately:
Joe Rockhead's, Toronto:
I first climbed here almost 20 years ago with the owners, the Bergman's, and it's gotten better since then for sure. I was in town for a TV show (CBC's "Test the Nation," which was a bit weird), and ended up taking two fellow contestants, both Olympic medalists, along with me for the pump. The curler did slightly better than the speed skater (his legs were a definite disadvantage!), but both had talent and had a great time. Introducing people to climbing is just fun. Anyhow, Rockhead's has good bouldering, good lead climbing, good lighting, decent ventilation. A good spread of problems, and good training facilities for any level of climber. Nice to see Brian still at after all these years, yeah! My only complaint with this gym involved the front desk staff; maybe it's a Toronto thing, but surly staff seemed the norm around the city. The guys working in the gym were great, and I ended up doing a demo climb for a local high school group. How cool is it have a high school PE class in the climbing gym?!
Portland Rock Gym, Portland:
I used to hang a bit with the owner way back in the day, and ended up getting a savage pump with Gary. For some reason I'm always psyched to see other "lifers" still at the climbing game with the same level of enthusiasm as we had 20 years ago. I was flying in and out of Portland for about ten days (family in Hood River and speaking/clinics elsewhere), so I hit the gym up about four times while heading to and from the airport. This gym had the best bouldering of any gym I've been in recently, lots of variety in the problems and excellent modern route setting. There's a good lead scene too, but I never tied into a rope, the bouldering was just too much fun! You can tell there are some seriously strong climbers setting problems here, but even the "V0" problems were well-set in general. I especially liked the mantle problem--it starts with a big dyno, and I thought I was done when I hit the rail finally. Then a local helpfully pointed out that it kept going with a clean mantle onto the rail... Doh! Super good scene, motivated but not pretentious, I often wound up bouldering with a new crew of friendly locals. The natural and electric lights are really nice, this is just a first-class operation.
Vertical World and Stone Gardens, Seattle:
I was teaching a paragliding clinic in Seattle and wound up staying for a couple of extra days so I got to climb in both of Seattle's major gyms. They are very different; Vertical World (VW) is focused primarily on lead climbing, while Stone Gardens has OK roped climbing but the bouldering is definitely better. I found the lead route-setting at Vertical World to be fully retro; part of it is that most of the holds were new in about 1995 or so, but the movement tended to be jerky with minimal footholds--classic "early 90s" setting. One of the fastest ways to tell what era a gym is setting in is to look at the number of footholds compared to the number of handholds; a good setter will often use about twice as many small footholds as handholds. I think the person who really figured this out was Mike Pont, head setter at Paradise in Denver in the 90s. His routes really flowed and often felt like real rock. The grades at Vertical World also redefine "sandbag;" I have fun doing a psychological profile of route setters based on their routes, and I got the sense that the route setters were super strong and younger but likely hadn't been climbing for more than a half decade, and that there wasn't a strong "knowledge transfer/training" program for the setters. I told my profile to my partner, and she said that was about right. One 11c was much closer to 12c. Grades shouldn't matter (it's plastic, right?) but they do. Most of the climbers in Vertical World also tended to be older and primarily interested in training for "outside" climbing. Temperatures were also tropical, but you can't take your shirt off. I don't take my shirt off to expose my fish-belly body to other climbers, I take it off 'cause it's HOT. I considered getting a sports bra and a thong to meet the dress code, but Christian Griffith couldn't hit Fedex in time for me to have some fun with the dress code.
Stone Gardens: This place rocks. Tons of well-set problems on an excellent variety of angles, with some longer traverses and highballs that kept the game interesting. I climbed here twice and met locals both times, there was always a nice "Give 'er!!!" psyche with no attitude. SG definitely has really good bouldering structures; the more I climb in gyms the more I think terrain is at least as important as setting. Without both the gym won't be "great." Gym design has come a long way in the last 15 years, a well-designed bouldering area would look a lot like SG's. But without modern setting and holds even good terrain won't make for a good bouldering experience. You can take your shirt off in SG too. I had two psycho bouldering sessions here, the kind where you walk out with your skin blown and your head hanging loosely 'cause you're too pounded to hold it up. If I lived in Seattle I'd be pretty happy with this gym.
I'm finally back home, and went out to Marble Canyon yesterday. I did a nice long mixed pitch that started with a few bolts of overhanging grunting before a run-out thin ice section into some really cool pillars. It was brutal to pull so hard while cold, and I had the usual "This is NEVER going to work" feeling as I pulled off the ground on the mixed start. But I had some power from the month's bouldering and locked off, reached a few times and then got a super cool stick into the side of a two-inch thick "pipe" of ice. I love that sort of thin ice move, and it was reasonably safe. The next 15 feet of thin ice might have had bolts hidden under the ice but I couldn't see them, it was suddenly pretty real and I was pumped. Tick, tick, gentle, smooth, and that first full-depth "Thunk!" stick, loved it. Wicked! EJ stayed calm on the belay, and the rest of the route was just super fun. EJ did his first grade 5 lead which was super fun to watch, and it was an all-around fine day of climbing. Now I'm gonna say something "stupid:" I've had as much fun climbing in the gyms as that day in Marble. I love fighting through the, "I can't do that!" feeling whether it's on a plastic mantle or a run-out thin ice section, it's all the same game and I love it. I have no good reason for why I'm still fired up to climb rock, ice, plastic or whatever, I just like going up. May your spring involve going UP!
WG
Joe Rockhead's, Toronto:
I first climbed here almost 20 years ago with the owners, the Bergman's, and it's gotten better since then for sure. I was in town for a TV show (CBC's "Test the Nation," which was a bit weird), and ended up taking two fellow contestants, both Olympic medalists, along with me for the pump. The curler did slightly better than the speed skater (his legs were a definite disadvantage!), but both had talent and had a great time. Introducing people to climbing is just fun. Anyhow, Rockhead's has good bouldering, good lead climbing, good lighting, decent ventilation. A good spread of problems, and good training facilities for any level of climber. Nice to see Brian still at after all these years, yeah! My only complaint with this gym involved the front desk staff; maybe it's a Toronto thing, but surly staff seemed the norm around the city. The guys working in the gym were great, and I ended up doing a demo climb for a local high school group. How cool is it have a high school PE class in the climbing gym?!
Portland Rock Gym, Portland:
I used to hang a bit with the owner way back in the day, and ended up getting a savage pump with Gary. For some reason I'm always psyched to see other "lifers" still at the climbing game with the same level of enthusiasm as we had 20 years ago. I was flying in and out of Portland for about ten days (family in Hood River and speaking/clinics elsewhere), so I hit the gym up about four times while heading to and from the airport. This gym had the best bouldering of any gym I've been in recently, lots of variety in the problems and excellent modern route setting. There's a good lead scene too, but I never tied into a rope, the bouldering was just too much fun! You can tell there are some seriously strong climbers setting problems here, but even the "V0" problems were well-set in general. I especially liked the mantle problem--it starts with a big dyno, and I thought I was done when I hit the rail finally. Then a local helpfully pointed out that it kept going with a clean mantle onto the rail... Doh! Super good scene, motivated but not pretentious, I often wound up bouldering with a new crew of friendly locals. The natural and electric lights are really nice, this is just a first-class operation.
Vertical World and Stone Gardens, Seattle:
I was teaching a paragliding clinic in Seattle and wound up staying for a couple of extra days so I got to climb in both of Seattle's major gyms. They are very different; Vertical World (VW) is focused primarily on lead climbing, while Stone Gardens has OK roped climbing but the bouldering is definitely better. I found the lead route-setting at Vertical World to be fully retro; part of it is that most of the holds were new in about 1995 or so, but the movement tended to be jerky with minimal footholds--classic "early 90s" setting. One of the fastest ways to tell what era a gym is setting in is to look at the number of footholds compared to the number of handholds; a good setter will often use about twice as many small footholds as handholds. I think the person who really figured this out was Mike Pont, head setter at Paradise in Denver in the 90s. His routes really flowed and often felt like real rock. The grades at Vertical World also redefine "sandbag;" I have fun doing a psychological profile of route setters based on their routes, and I got the sense that the route setters were super strong and younger but likely hadn't been climbing for more than a half decade, and that there wasn't a strong "knowledge transfer/training" program for the setters. I told my profile to my partner, and she said that was about right. One 11c was much closer to 12c. Grades shouldn't matter (it's plastic, right?) but they do. Most of the climbers in Vertical World also tended to be older and primarily interested in training for "outside" climbing. Temperatures were also tropical, but you can't take your shirt off. I don't take my shirt off to expose my fish-belly body to other climbers, I take it off 'cause it's HOT. I considered getting a sports bra and a thong to meet the dress code, but Christian Griffith couldn't hit Fedex in time for me to have some fun with the dress code.
Stone Gardens: This place rocks. Tons of well-set problems on an excellent variety of angles, with some longer traverses and highballs that kept the game interesting. I climbed here twice and met locals both times, there was always a nice "Give 'er!!!" psyche with no attitude. SG definitely has really good bouldering structures; the more I climb in gyms the more I think terrain is at least as important as setting. Without both the gym won't be "great." Gym design has come a long way in the last 15 years, a well-designed bouldering area would look a lot like SG's. But without modern setting and holds even good terrain won't make for a good bouldering experience. You can take your shirt off in SG too. I had two psycho bouldering sessions here, the kind where you walk out with your skin blown and your head hanging loosely 'cause you're too pounded to hold it up. If I lived in Seattle I'd be pretty happy with this gym.
I'm finally back home, and went out to Marble Canyon yesterday. I did a nice long mixed pitch that started with a few bolts of overhanging grunting before a run-out thin ice section into some really cool pillars. It was brutal to pull so hard while cold, and I had the usual "This is NEVER going to work" feeling as I pulled off the ground on the mixed start. But I had some power from the month's bouldering and locked off, reached a few times and then got a super cool stick into the side of a two-inch thick "pipe" of ice. I love that sort of thin ice move, and it was reasonably safe. The next 15 feet of thin ice might have had bolts hidden under the ice but I couldn't see them, it was suddenly pretty real and I was pumped. Tick, tick, gentle, smooth, and that first full-depth "Thunk!" stick, loved it. Wicked! EJ stayed calm on the belay, and the rest of the route was just super fun. EJ did his first grade 5 lead which was super fun to watch, and it was an all-around fine day of climbing. Now I'm gonna say something "stupid:" I've had as much fun climbing in the gyms as that day in Marble. I love fighting through the, "I can't do that!" feeling whether it's on a plastic mantle or a run-out thin ice section, it's all the same game and I love it. I have no good reason for why I'm still fired up to climb rock, ice, plastic or whatever, I just like going up. May your spring involve going UP!
WG
Monday, March 10, 2008
Wapta in a day: chasing the "A.M.s"
I first went up onto the Wapta Icefields when I was 12 or so. It was a powerful experience; big terrain, cold, warm huts, good people, all the things I like. I've been back up there a half-dozen times over the years and always enjoyed it. For those who aren't familiar with the Wapta Icefields, it's a huge area of connected glaciers just north of Lake Louise. A mega-classic ski tour crosses the Wapta via four nicely spaced huts; most people spend somewhere between three and five days skiing the roughly 55km trip. This is a fairly relaxed pace, and allows time for forays up various peaks and some nice skiing without a pack. The Wapta is one of the reasons I like living in Canada; it's a wild, remote area with burly peaks and fierce weather. I've seen it go from sunny and pleasant to the proverbial "inside of a ping pong ball" in under an hour. If the weather goes sideways route-finding can involve throwing a colored string on the snow in front of you to see the terrain in addition to the usual compass/GPS work. But on a fine day there is no more scenic and stellar place to be than high on the Wapta.
A couple of years ago Josh, Darryl and I skied the whole traverse from Peyto Lake to West Louise in a day. We choose to use light NNN gear we rented from Gear Up; heavy AT or Telemark gear seemed too slow to really move on. We left the car very early in the morning in late March or so and did the traverse in just under 11 hours. We were pretty tired , but I'd been doing a lot of long days in the mountains that year and felt pretty good on the whole traverse, just idling along without pushing too much. Watching that much great snow and scenery go by was fantastic; peaks just visible in the distance are suddenly off your shoulder, and new vistas are always just over the next roll of snow or pass.
Last week I saw my friend Phil in downtown Cannmore. Phil is a certified "AM," or aerobic monster; ex-Canadian Nordic team, regular winner of psycho trail running races, that kind of guy. He also wants to do more mountain sports action, and a plan was hatched to do the Wapta in a day but try to go a little faster. Phil spends a lot of his winter on nordic skis, and I've been out about ten times this season so I was feeling pretty solid on 'em. In retrospect, ten or so trips out on the skis with my kid on my back does not a nordic season make. Another friend, Graham, also wound up on the trip. He's done the Wapta a few times, and is also an aerobic monster. He was one of Canada's top Nordic guys when younger, but opted out of the racing scene. He now works as a ski tech for the Canadian National Nordic team and skis a lot all winter long in addition just generally giving it. So I had two aerobic monsters lined up; I was sure records were going to fall, the AMs would break trail and I'd cruise along in back swigging Red Bulls and enjoying the scenery. Ignorance is bliss.
We left the car at 9:30 and dealt with the initial cruise down and across Peyto Lake. This is when I realized I was in trouble; the two Aerobic Monsters took off like scalded cats with perfect Nordic technique. I chased 'em with less than perfect technique. We were all using gear from Phil's collection of light back country gear (Phil also runs X-C.com, a nordic demo and race team so he has stacks of good light gear), and the waxless system wasn't gripping too much. No worries, breathe, up the moraine, down onto the glacier, wax the waxless skis (don't argue with the Canadian Team tech about what wax is best for waxless skis, it's blue over purple over fish scales of course) past the Peyto hut, across glacier, over the col, down to Balfour hut. No real stops, going for me pretty hard the whole time while chasing the AMs... A cutting wind from the right blew enough snow to reduce visibility and cause a frosty right cheek but nothing serious. I grooved on the teamwork and blue glaciers and peaks, that's why I do this sort of thing. It was the pace that was killing me!
At Balfour hut we met up with Josh, who I had done the tour with two years earlier and was up on the Wapta training for his ski guide's exam with a bud. Josh had some water sorted for us, thanks! We stopped just long enough to refuel and jury rig some ancient skins to the skis for the climb up to Balfour col. I had a whole box of narrow skins left over from back in the day when I used to tele ski; with some tape they fit perfectly. We'd now been out at it for about five hours, and I was suffering hard on the 2,000 foot climb up to Balfour col. The wind was blowing, and some clouds were moving in. The light went flat enough that the skis glowed against the snow, which was at times about all we could see. But there were remnants of old tracks, and Graham punched it to the top of the col to get a bearing toward the Scott Duncan before the weather totally imploded. I gasped upwards and arrived there a few minutes after Phil and Graham, not so bad considering my leg flexors were screaming and I was upchucking regularly... Luckily the weather relented, and we had a good cruise down to the Scott Duncan hut. By cruise I mean double-poling, kicking, and generally not allowing anything as restful as simply sliding along down the gentle downhill grade...
From the Scot Duncan hut we had a short section of uphill (no reason to slow down any for that though), chase the AMs some more, then finally some serious downhill to Sherbrook lake. The skiing was pretty industrial on a sun-baked breakable crust, but the light gear worked surprisingly well. You can ski just fine on really light gear if you tele and don't mind falling down occasionally. Then it was a pinball-style careen down the creek and onto the obnoxiously flat lake. I sorta thought we might start just cruising as we were no longer in danger of the weather shutting us down and we were relatively close the car, but no, the AMs kicked it up a gear and I chased. Right on the nose of eight hours after leaving the car we were back at Phil's truck. I was crushed physically but stoked on the trip--even though I spent a lot of the time gasping it's still a fine memory of a huge amount of terrain in such a short period of time. I would NEVER have moved that well without Phil and Graham setting the pace out front. It was nice to see they were also at least tired--and even talking about taking a rest day. Just to put things in perspective, Phil did a race and then skied an additional 30 or so K the day before we did the Wapta, and Graham ran up Lady Mac (about 1,000M) and back down. There is "fit" and then there is Fit.
There's a rumour that the Wapta has been skated in under seven hours at night; that would be a cool way to do it. We still had full winter conditions with some light trailbreaking and generally fluffy snow, but maybe if I train a ton for the next month and the AMs are up for it...
I did learn a few things on this trip that I'm looking forward to applying in the future. First, super light gear is the way to go. When I was a kid that's what I skied on, and it always worked just fine. We passed several parties slogging with AT gear, the difference between a light NNN or equivalent setup and that is night and day for really moving. Maybe super-light AT race gear would also work, but that gear isn't double-cambered and doesn't kick as well in general. Second, I'm never using waxless skis again, they don't glide or stick as well. I've tried three different brands, the waxless idea is nice but it just isn't as good as wax and skis for the steep bits. I think we could have cut 20 minutes or more off our time with waxable skis. I'm going looking for the ultimate light backcountry setup. It's temping to use full classic race gear, but the descents would be pretty tough on that with the breakable crust. You could do it, but I'd worry about breaking the skis--or myself. Second, we did not have ideal conditions but still sent the trip in eight hours. What's possible in 24? The possibilities are cool! I can see a reincarnation of an old sport somewhere here. Right now most people are either using super light gear on the tracks, or relatively heavy AT gear. There's a slot in there for moving well over big distances in the backcountry, perhaps much as those who did the original big Rockies ski traverses used. Light is still right.
Thanks to Phil and Graham for a wicked day of it! And I'm going to train some more...
Phil put his version of the trip up here, cool to read it from another perspective.
March 11 note: I wrote the above while still in some sort of aerobic deficit; I maybe should have mentioned that the Wapta is a pretty serious place in general. I live in the Rockies and the power of the Wapta is well-known around here, but for people not from this area the serious nature of travel on the Wapta is maybe not so obvious from my post. The traverse involves a tremendous amount of travel through tricky glacial terrain (think big holes under the snow--walking on the Wapta in the summer can be frightening when those holes are visible!). We choose a day with a good forecast, and we were fully prepared to retreat quickly if the weather wasn't reasonable. We still carried enough gear (shovels, down jackets, food) that if we were benighted by bad weather or something as simple as a twisted ankle we would have been OK if not exactly comfortable. There have been several deaths and a LOT of stressful epics over the years on the Wapta, it's a full-on place that my post above didn't really do justice to. The only place in the world I've ever frostbitten anything was on the Wapta, and the only time I've ever fallen over while standing still (sober ) due to complete disorientation was in a Wapta whiteout. A GPS, map, compass and some common sense are critical items, as is the knowledge to use them.
A couple of years ago Josh, Darryl and I skied the whole traverse from Peyto Lake to West Louise in a day. We choose to use light NNN gear we rented from Gear Up; heavy AT or Telemark gear seemed too slow to really move on. We left the car very early in the morning in late March or so and did the traverse in just under 11 hours. We were pretty tired , but I'd been doing a lot of long days in the mountains that year and felt pretty good on the whole traverse, just idling along without pushing too much. Watching that much great snow and scenery go by was fantastic; peaks just visible in the distance are suddenly off your shoulder, and new vistas are always just over the next roll of snow or pass.
Last week I saw my friend Phil in downtown Cannmore. Phil is a certified "AM," or aerobic monster; ex-Canadian Nordic team, regular winner of psycho trail running races, that kind of guy. He also wants to do more mountain sports action, and a plan was hatched to do the Wapta in a day but try to go a little faster. Phil spends a lot of his winter on nordic skis, and I've been out about ten times this season so I was feeling pretty solid on 'em. In retrospect, ten or so trips out on the skis with my kid on my back does not a nordic season make. Another friend, Graham, also wound up on the trip. He's done the Wapta a few times, and is also an aerobic monster. He was one of Canada's top Nordic guys when younger, but opted out of the racing scene. He now works as a ski tech for the Canadian National Nordic team and skis a lot all winter long in addition just generally giving it. So I had two aerobic monsters lined up; I was sure records were going to fall, the AMs would break trail and I'd cruise along in back swigging Red Bulls and enjoying the scenery. Ignorance is bliss.
We left the car at 9:30 and dealt with the initial cruise down and across Peyto Lake. This is when I realized I was in trouble; the two Aerobic Monsters took off like scalded cats with perfect Nordic technique. I chased 'em with less than perfect technique. We were all using gear from Phil's collection of light back country gear (Phil also runs X-C.com, a nordic demo and race team so he has stacks of good light gear), and the waxless system wasn't gripping too much. No worries, breathe, up the moraine, down onto the glacier, wax the waxless skis (don't argue with the Canadian Team tech about what wax is best for waxless skis, it's blue over purple over fish scales of course) past the Peyto hut, across glacier, over the col, down to Balfour hut. No real stops, going for me pretty hard the whole time while chasing the AMs... A cutting wind from the right blew enough snow to reduce visibility and cause a frosty right cheek but nothing serious. I grooved on the teamwork and blue glaciers and peaks, that's why I do this sort of thing. It was the pace that was killing me!
At Balfour hut we met up with Josh, who I had done the tour with two years earlier and was up on the Wapta training for his ski guide's exam with a bud. Josh had some water sorted for us, thanks! We stopped just long enough to refuel and jury rig some ancient skins to the skis for the climb up to Balfour col. I had a whole box of narrow skins left over from back in the day when I used to tele ski; with some tape they fit perfectly. We'd now been out at it for about five hours, and I was suffering hard on the 2,000 foot climb up to Balfour col. The wind was blowing, and some clouds were moving in. The light went flat enough that the skis glowed against the snow, which was at times about all we could see. But there were remnants of old tracks, and Graham punched it to the top of the col to get a bearing toward the Scott Duncan before the weather totally imploded. I gasped upwards and arrived there a few minutes after Phil and Graham, not so bad considering my leg flexors were screaming and I was upchucking regularly... Luckily the weather relented, and we had a good cruise down to the Scott Duncan hut. By cruise I mean double-poling, kicking, and generally not allowing anything as restful as simply sliding along down the gentle downhill grade...
From the Scot Duncan hut we had a short section of uphill (no reason to slow down any for that though), chase the AMs some more, then finally some serious downhill to Sherbrook lake. The skiing was pretty industrial on a sun-baked breakable crust, but the light gear worked surprisingly well. You can ski just fine on really light gear if you tele and don't mind falling down occasionally. Then it was a pinball-style careen down the creek and onto the obnoxiously flat lake. I sorta thought we might start just cruising as we were no longer in danger of the weather shutting us down and we were relatively close the car, but no, the AMs kicked it up a gear and I chased. Right on the nose of eight hours after leaving the car we were back at Phil's truck. I was crushed physically but stoked on the trip--even though I spent a lot of the time gasping it's still a fine memory of a huge amount of terrain in such a short period of time. I would NEVER have moved that well without Phil and Graham setting the pace out front. It was nice to see they were also at least tired--and even talking about taking a rest day. Just to put things in perspective, Phil did a race and then skied an additional 30 or so K the day before we did the Wapta, and Graham ran up Lady Mac (about 1,000M) and back down. There is "fit" and then there is Fit.
There's a rumour that the Wapta has been skated in under seven hours at night; that would be a cool way to do it. We still had full winter conditions with some light trailbreaking and generally fluffy snow, but maybe if I train a ton for the next month and the AMs are up for it...
I did learn a few things on this trip that I'm looking forward to applying in the future. First, super light gear is the way to go. When I was a kid that's what I skied on, and it always worked just fine. We passed several parties slogging with AT gear, the difference between a light NNN or equivalent setup and that is night and day for really moving. Maybe super-light AT race gear would also work, but that gear isn't double-cambered and doesn't kick as well in general. Second, I'm never using waxless skis again, they don't glide or stick as well. I've tried three different brands, the waxless idea is nice but it just isn't as good as wax and skis for the steep bits. I think we could have cut 20 minutes or more off our time with waxable skis. I'm going looking for the ultimate light backcountry setup. It's temping to use full classic race gear, but the descents would be pretty tough on that with the breakable crust. You could do it, but I'd worry about breaking the skis--or myself. Second, we did not have ideal conditions but still sent the trip in eight hours. What's possible in 24? The possibilities are cool! I can see a reincarnation of an old sport somewhere here. Right now most people are either using super light gear on the tracks, or relatively heavy AT gear. There's a slot in there for moving well over big distances in the backcountry, perhaps much as those who did the original big Rockies ski traverses used. Light is still right.
Thanks to Phil and Graham for a wicked day of it! And I'm going to train some more...
Phil put his version of the trip up here, cool to read it from another perspective.
March 11 note: I wrote the above while still in some sort of aerobic deficit; I maybe should have mentioned that the Wapta is a pretty serious place in general. I live in the Rockies and the power of the Wapta is well-known around here, but for people not from this area the serious nature of travel on the Wapta is maybe not so obvious from my post. The traverse involves a tremendous amount of travel through tricky glacial terrain (think big holes under the snow--walking on the Wapta in the summer can be frightening when those holes are visible!). We choose a day with a good forecast, and we were fully prepared to retreat quickly if the weather wasn't reasonable. We still carried enough gear (shovels, down jackets, food) that if we were benighted by bad weather or something as simple as a twisted ankle we would have been OK if not exactly comfortable. There have been several deaths and a LOT of stressful epics over the years on the Wapta, it's a full-on place that my post above didn't really do justice to. The only place in the world I've ever frostbitten anything was on the Wapta, and the only time I've ever fallen over while standing still (sober ) due to complete disorientation was in a Wapta whiteout. A GPS, map, compass and some common sense are critical items, as is the knowledge to use them.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Fearless Planet Shows
It's my week to spray about stuff I've done I guess... I've had a bunch of emails (well, mostly from people like my parents) asking where they can get DVDs of the Fearless Planet shows I did last fall for the Discovery Channel. They're finally for sale here. The show has run all over the world--except Canada. I guess we can't handle it or something? But now we can at least get the DVDs here, which is somehting. It's odd to do media with Asia one night and then have to say to a Canadian reporter, "Sorry, you can't see the show in Canada unless you have some sort of super satellite system..." I actually didn't see all the shows myself until last week!
The shows aren't perfect, but after actually watching them all I'm pretty happy with them. When I do my own shows I have a lot of control over everything from cameramen to locations (mostly I do my shows to have some fun in a cool place), but for a big series like this I was "just" the talent. I learned more about production and myself doing these shows than I have in years, it was intense. There's always a story behind every TV show; what you see on the screen is just the end product of a lot of tough decisions and bartering between the production company, the channel, the writers, the editors, producers, etc. Everybody I worked with on those shows from Impossible Pictures to the geologists to the heli pilots was a solid professional I'd happily work with again, and you can't always say that. The other night Peter Hausseler, the geologist I worked with in Alaska, was through town and we hooked up to go speed skating on the Calgary Oval. He's a dedicated speed skater who competes internationally in addition to being a bad-ass geologist; I'd never been on speed skates before. I was sore, but that's the sort of person involved in the show, and I'm proud to have worked him and everyone else.
And I'm continuing to climb and ski, it feels like the start of the season after so much time down with injuries, yeah! I hope everyone is getting out lots.
The shows aren't perfect, but after actually watching them all I'm pretty happy with them. When I do my own shows I have a lot of control over everything from cameramen to locations (mostly I do my shows to have some fun in a cool place), but for a big series like this I was "just" the talent. I learned more about production and myself doing these shows than I have in years, it was intense. There's always a story behind every TV show; what you see on the screen is just the end product of a lot of tough decisions and bartering between the production company, the channel, the writers, the editors, producers, etc. Everybody I worked with on those shows from Impossible Pictures to the geologists to the heli pilots was a solid professional I'd happily work with again, and you can't always say that. The other night Peter Hausseler, the geologist I worked with in Alaska, was through town and we hooked up to go speed skating on the Calgary Oval. He's a dedicated speed skater who competes internationally in addition to being a bad-ass geologist; I'd never been on speed skates before. I was sore, but that's the sort of person involved in the show, and I'm proud to have worked him and everyone else.
And I'm continuing to climb and ski, it feels like the start of the season after so much time down with injuries, yeah! I hope everyone is getting out lots.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Cross-Country Paragliding Clinics in March, April and July
The schedule is coming together for a bit of a spring tour on the West coast. I've been teaching cross-country paragliding clinics for about ten years, it's a lot of fun and I always leave the courses excited to fly. I think I've become a far better pilot through these clinics; if you want to really understand something just try teaching it.
The clinics are two-day events, with a "get fired up to fly" show on the night of the first day. Each day starts with about two hours of discussion, then we go fly, then debrief in the evening. Just about anyone with the minimum of a basic PG license will get a lot out of the clinics. I help each participant develop a better "mental model" in his or her head for flying XC. The ideal mental model gives the longest possible flight on a given day with the least amount of unplanned risk. I start each clinic with a general overview of how the sky works, and how to stay in it, and then move to narrower and narrower topics until we're finally talking about how to modulate glider pressure on glide with the bar . I know these clinics work from the emails I receive from past participants--even years later. And I know they work because I'm a better pilot after every clinic too. Each clinic is planned around the people in the clinic; if one group wants more information on flight planning and one wants more on competing then I'll shift the focus around as desired.
I often get asked, "So when are you doing XC clinics? And how come I don't know about them?"
Here's the answer, hope to see a few people there! Please contact the schools directly to book a place in the clinics, I don't do the bookings. Do feel free to email me with any questions about course content or whatever, thanks.
April 5th-8th: two sessions with Jeff Greenbaum through Airtime. Clinics to be held toward Fresno. Contact info:
April 12-14: One session with Seattle's top school, Seattle Paragliding. Contact Info:
End of July: XC Clinic with Muller Windsports, Contact Info.
Fly safe enough,
WG
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
An interesting read on risk
Check it out.
I don't completely agree with the author's take on why young men (and I think he dismisses the risk taking of young women far too quickly) engage in risky behaviour, but I enjoyed his perspective. Thanks to Rob Crowley on the PG Forum for the link.
I don't completely agree with the author's take on why young men (and I think he dismisses the risk taking of young women far too quickly) engage in risky behaviour, but I enjoyed his perspective. Thanks to Rob Crowley on the PG Forum for the link.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Ice Mines Wins at Vancouver Festival
Last year Andreas Spak, Daniel Karlsson and a crew of characters went and climbed underground ice in Sweden. It was an insane trip for many reasons but also totally rewarding. We made a few cuts of the film for various TV programs (NBC, Discovery, Rush HD), but I was most happy with the film festival cut--that's the one we made for our friends in the outdoor world. I just received an email from the Vancouver Mountain Film Festival, that film fest cut for "Best Canadian Mountaineering Film," yeah! Nice to see the hard work from Dave Brown, Ben Pritchard, Christian Pondella, Emerge Media (editing, graphics and general Gadd-wrangling as usual) and other friends recognized, especially here in Canada. So nice work team underground!
For those who haven't seen the film, we basically found the largest concentration of insane ice I've ever seen anywhere. Unfortunately, it's underground, dangerous to access/climb and in Sweden. But the future of ice climbing in a warming world is for sure dark!
WG
For those who haven't seen the film, we basically found the largest concentration of insane ice I've ever seen anywhere. Unfortunately, it's underground, dangerous to access/climb and in Sweden. But the future of ice climbing in a warming world is for sure dark!
WG
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Climbing, Performance
After a long absence due to various injuries, I finally got out climbing on Sunday. We wanted to keep it simple, so we hiked from my house up Cougar Creek to the mixed area there. That's one of the things I feel I've done right in life (lots wrong too)--to live someplace where I can walk to winter and summer climbing. It's not "stellar," but it is climbing, and there's something satisfying about putting my boots on in my house and then walking to climbing. No big deal maybe, but I feel pretty lucky about that.
Anyhow, it was just nice to be out crunching through the snow with an armed pack on my back. SS and I have climbed together for years, and generally have if not fun at least some sort of rewarding experience when we go out. Actually, I can't think of one outing that wasn't fun. At the crag it was surprisingly cold--we were all excited about the supposed above-freezing temps, but it was windy and definitely tip-of-nose cold at the crag. The last time I'd climbed at this crag I'd been in really good shape; now I'm in decent all-around shape but not very good climbing shape. Scot led; I wanted to see how my collarbone and other injuries would do under load on a top-rope. He had a bit of a battle due to the cold. I definitely think we adapt to the cold; we were both laughing about how cold it felt and how "numb" we were. By the 10th trip or so of the winter I can deal with cold temps easily, but those first couple of trips are rough, and this was my first time out in the cold since Ouray, which wasn't cold...
I followed the pitch and was so awkward at first, moving like a dog on a skating rink. Then it started to flow a bit as I relaxed. I have a hard time rolling my shoulder from extended to locked off, but other than that it wasn't too bad. I got pumped stupid on a route I'd hiked on the on-sight last time, but the layers of cotton wool in my mind were almost gone by the top of the pitch, and I started to forget the nerves and just move (except when my shoulder creaked, that little bone is still moving around a bit). I was still cold and awkward, but there was a glimmer of climbing and not just scrabbling.
The sun finally came out, and suddenly we were moving more fluidly, warm, comfortable and just enjoying the day. That's what's so cool about climbing--it can go from absolutely brutal to sheer fun in moments, as well as the other way. We didn't climb all that much, but it sure was fun to be outside swinging and hooking tools, feeling the mountains, and doing what I really love to do. Yeah! May everyone get outside!
Performance:
I've been thinking a lot about what performance means, and come to the conclusion that a "good performance" in most outdoor sports means two things: First, a feeling you are doing the sport well for you. To put it another way, the act of doing the sport feels relatively inhibition free. You just do it. When you start and finish a section or an entire route and then suddenly remember that there's something else in life than what you're doing at the moment. This is internal. Second, there's the external measuring stick of time, grades, distance, what I call the "numeric" side of performance. When these two things are both "successful" then you're operating at a high performance level for you. If you do your local run in the evening and it feels really smooth and like you haven't had to try that hard but your time is two minutes faster then you've nailed it. If you go for a run and fight for every hill and your time is two minutes slower then you've had a low-performance day.
The final part of performance for me is then measuring my "numeric" performance with others. This is where it gets weird. If you're climbing 5.10 and then hike a 5.11 that's been giving you grief then you're a rock star in your own athletic world, and you've had a great performance. Drink a beer! But compared to Sonnie Trotter, well, you suck. Or do you? I suspect that if Sonnie were to have a battle on a 13a he would feel like he hadn't performed that well (or he'd laugh about it then send a 14a, he's Sonnie). Or maybe if a climber of Sonnie's caliber battled on an "easy" 14a redpoint he would be performing at a level that was incredibly high for most of the world, but might not be satisfying from a sheer performance perspective for him. But if he sends the hardest crack in the world his feelings about his performance might not be all that different from buddy who sent the 11a... There have been a few times where I've done something at the edge of the numeric envelope at the time. I had to try really hard, but when I did it I felt like it wasn't so hard. I had a good performance.
I think that we all mostly know when we've had a great performance, and when we haven't. I saw a great performance in Ouray when Will Mayo dropped one tool in the comp and then kept climbing for move after move. The crowd knew that it was a great performance. Same with Rich Marshall (I think Rich performed about the best of anyone in the comp--he doesn't have the power of the Euros, but he was performing very well). We've all been in the gym when some young kid or old punter does something that's clearly very cool--you can feel the psyche of a great performance, even if it's a V4 used as an easy warm up by the bad-asses.
It's something to think about--I often hear climbers (including me) bitch themselves out when they can't do a "lowly plastic V4! Damn, I suck!" No, they don't have the skills, or they aren't performing well at all. The more useful mental trick is to think, "Yep, my performance sucked. Why?" I've also seen climbers have magnificent performances and then deride the fact it took them so long or whatever. This strikes me as self-defeating and just wrong. They are letting an exterior numeric system define their performance, instead of looking at their own performance honestly. I think that, for me, the goal is to perform the best I can at whatever I'm doing. On good days when I'm well-trained that may be pretty high against the sport's numeric standards. But I actually performed pretty well in Cougar Creek by redpointing an m8 I'd onsighted easily... I'm not arguing for accepting lower standards, but for a realism in accepting and analyzing personal performance. If you're a world-class athlete like Sonnie, then focusing on your best personal performance may mean a new numeric standard. If you're a 5.9 climber who sends a multi-pitch 5.10 with no falls then that's every bit as cool as Sonnie's efforts, right on. If you're a 5.9 climber who falls off a 5.8 'cause you forgot to look at your feet then your performance sucked... Bottom line, if you want to get better or something then you've got to set higher performance standards and go after them. But I feel like I need to focus on the quality of my performance first, and the improvements will come as I get better at performing... There's the psychological idea of "dissonance," where your view of how the world should be doesn't meet what you're actually experiencing. If you really analyze and honestly figure out where your own performance is and was then there's less dissonance, and perhaps more chance to actually perform well in the long run. No one has a "right" to perform at a certain level, we get to a high level by developing our performances incrementally and with honest introspection. Starting to write like a new-age wanker so enough of that, we all need to shut up and perform. And recognize when we do, and do more of whatever led to that performance state...
WG
PS--and sorry to use Sonnie as an example, for some reason he just came into my mind as I writing this. I like his attitude, he is almost always psyched on climbing, both his and others. Hope you're performing well and having fun Sonnie!
Anyhow, it was just nice to be out crunching through the snow with an armed pack on my back. SS and I have climbed together for years, and generally have if not fun at least some sort of rewarding experience when we go out. Actually, I can't think of one outing that wasn't fun. At the crag it was surprisingly cold--we were all excited about the supposed above-freezing temps, but it was windy and definitely tip-of-nose cold at the crag. The last time I'd climbed at this crag I'd been in really good shape; now I'm in decent all-around shape but not very good climbing shape. Scot led; I wanted to see how my collarbone and other injuries would do under load on a top-rope. He had a bit of a battle due to the cold. I definitely think we adapt to the cold; we were both laughing about how cold it felt and how "numb" we were. By the 10th trip or so of the winter I can deal with cold temps easily, but those first couple of trips are rough, and this was my first time out in the cold since Ouray, which wasn't cold...
I followed the pitch and was so awkward at first, moving like a dog on a skating rink. Then it started to flow a bit as I relaxed. I have a hard time rolling my shoulder from extended to locked off, but other than that it wasn't too bad. I got pumped stupid on a route I'd hiked on the on-sight last time, but the layers of cotton wool in my mind were almost gone by the top of the pitch, and I started to forget the nerves and just move (except when my shoulder creaked, that little bone is still moving around a bit). I was still cold and awkward, but there was a glimmer of climbing and not just scrabbling.
The sun finally came out, and suddenly we were moving more fluidly, warm, comfortable and just enjoying the day. That's what's so cool about climbing--it can go from absolutely brutal to sheer fun in moments, as well as the other way. We didn't climb all that much, but it sure was fun to be outside swinging and hooking tools, feeling the mountains, and doing what I really love to do. Yeah! May everyone get outside!
Performance:
I've been thinking a lot about what performance means, and come to the conclusion that a "good performance" in most outdoor sports means two things: First, a feeling you are doing the sport well for you. To put it another way, the act of doing the sport feels relatively inhibition free. You just do it. When you start and finish a section or an entire route and then suddenly remember that there's something else in life than what you're doing at the moment. This is internal. Second, there's the external measuring stick of time, grades, distance, what I call the "numeric" side of performance. When these two things are both "successful" then you're operating at a high performance level for you. If you do your local run in the evening and it feels really smooth and like you haven't had to try that hard but your time is two minutes faster then you've nailed it. If you go for a run and fight for every hill and your time is two minutes slower then you've had a low-performance day.
The final part of performance for me is then measuring my "numeric" performance with others. This is where it gets weird. If you're climbing 5.10 and then hike a 5.11 that's been giving you grief then you're a rock star in your own athletic world, and you've had a great performance. Drink a beer! But compared to Sonnie Trotter, well, you suck. Or do you? I suspect that if Sonnie were to have a battle on a 13a he would feel like he hadn't performed that well (or he'd laugh about it then send a 14a, he's Sonnie). Or maybe if a climber of Sonnie's caliber battled on an "easy" 14a redpoint he would be performing at a level that was incredibly high for most of the world, but might not be satisfying from a sheer performance perspective for him. But if he sends the hardest crack in the world his feelings about his performance might not be all that different from buddy who sent the 11a... There have been a few times where I've done something at the edge of the numeric envelope at the time. I had to try really hard, but when I did it I felt like it wasn't so hard. I had a good performance.
I think that we all mostly know when we've had a great performance, and when we haven't. I saw a great performance in Ouray when Will Mayo dropped one tool in the comp and then kept climbing for move after move. The crowd knew that it was a great performance. Same with Rich Marshall (I think Rich performed about the best of anyone in the comp--he doesn't have the power of the Euros, but he was performing very well). We've all been in the gym when some young kid or old punter does something that's clearly very cool--you can feel the psyche of a great performance, even if it's a V4 used as an easy warm up by the bad-asses.
It's something to think about--I often hear climbers (including me) bitch themselves out when they can't do a "lowly plastic V4! Damn, I suck!" No, they don't have the skills, or they aren't performing well at all. The more useful mental trick is to think, "Yep, my performance sucked. Why?" I've also seen climbers have magnificent performances and then deride the fact it took them so long or whatever. This strikes me as self-defeating and just wrong. They are letting an exterior numeric system define their performance, instead of looking at their own performance honestly. I think that, for me, the goal is to perform the best I can at whatever I'm doing. On good days when I'm well-trained that may be pretty high against the sport's numeric standards. But I actually performed pretty well in Cougar Creek by redpointing an m8 I'd onsighted easily... I'm not arguing for accepting lower standards, but for a realism in accepting and analyzing personal performance. If you're a world-class athlete like Sonnie, then focusing on your best personal performance may mean a new numeric standard. If you're a 5.9 climber who sends a multi-pitch 5.10 with no falls then that's every bit as cool as Sonnie's efforts, right on. If you're a 5.9 climber who falls off a 5.8 'cause you forgot to look at your feet then your performance sucked... Bottom line, if you want to get better or something then you've got to set higher performance standards and go after them. But I feel like I need to focus on the quality of my performance first, and the improvements will come as I get better at performing... There's the psychological idea of "dissonance," where your view of how the world should be doesn't meet what you're actually experiencing. If you really analyze and honestly figure out where your own performance is and was then there's less dissonance, and perhaps more chance to actually perform well in the long run. No one has a "right" to perform at a certain level, we get to a high level by developing our performances incrementally and with honest introspection. Starting to write like a new-age wanker so enough of that, we all need to shut up and perform. And recognize when we do, and do more of whatever led to that performance state...
WG
PS--and sorry to use Sonnie as an example, for some reason he just came into my mind as I writing this. I like his attitude, he is almost always psyched on climbing, both his and others. Hope you're performing well and having fun Sonnie!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)