I'm sitting here tonight eating an enormous pile of sugar snap peas from my CSA share and feeling rather happy about my new alpine rock garden, which is entering its final stages of completeness:

If you click on that image, you'll spy down on the right-hand side a little example of artemesia absinthium.  That's right, the hallucinogenic plant that was used to make Absinthe, which is now banned in the USA.  I'm rather proud of that, because I grew it from seed.  Neighborhood covenants are stupid things, and so although I am forced to comply with them, I'll do it my own way.  Like, by planting psychoactive plants in my garden, for example.

At any rate, this rock garden is kind of cracking me up.  Time was a few years ago that I was constantly driving myself to climb harder, and bigger, and more often.  If I didn't get on a 6000m+ peak twice a year with numerous smaller training climbs added in, I considered the year to be a loss, and I still have many friends who think that way.  One of them wrote to me recently to see what was up, and asked if I would be interested in a pedestrian climb, like maybe Mt. Adams.  I laughed and told him that I wasn't sure that I remembered which end of the rope is the sharp end, anymore.  And now my token bit of alpinism in this home are a few pictures of former-me in some daredevil situation, and a pretty alpine rock garden.

I've been systematically getting rid of arbitrary goals in my life, like those aforementioned climbing goals.  So what if I don't climb a lot anymore?  I like my rock garden.  I like playing guitar in the evening.  So that's what I do now.  Some of my friends are beating themselves to pieces, thinking that they MUST be pushing new routes, climbing harder, being more whatever, and I think: would you feel this way if you were all alone, cast away on an island?  Because so much of that stuff is ego, and just fuel for conversation.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I sure do love that exhilaration of thousands of feet of exposure, of sunrise high up on a truly high peak, of doing something that is right off the pages of national geographic.  But I don't like the inevitable sickness in the camps; nor the machismo of people (men and women both) who are driven to one-up each other, daily; nor the overall senselessness of a life in which one is always looking for the next thing.  There are a lot of good things to be said for sitting in one's garden, planted and tended with one's own labor, as the sun sets.

Which is not to say that I won't climb and adventure again.  Just that the focus on arbitrary isn't something that I think I'll care much about, anymore.

Perú

 Tocllaraju, Ishinca Valley, Peru

My friend Danielle is all hot and bothered about doing a climb in Peru.  Specifically, she wants to climb in the Ishinca Valley, where I have done all of one trip.  Danielle is a hot-ass climber: daring, confident, and strong -- but without the standard climbers' baggage of ego.  In fact, she's self-deprecating and fun, someone who laughs at herself as hard or harder than anyone else can, always optimistic in the face of adversity, and her smile is freaky in how it takes over her face with its array of teeth.   In fact, her smile has been known to light small fires from 300 yards away.  In short, a really great person to have around on a high mountain, and honestly a really good person all around.  She doesn't bemoan adversity; she celebrates being alive, all the time, even when that means saying that yeah, We're Wet and Miserable, But Seriously I'm Glad I'm Not In Class.

I taught Danielle to climb.  Or, I should say, I provided the conditions, as a teacher, under which she had the chance to excel, which she did.  Something about her unbounded optimism resounded with me and she always poked me on a regular basis to go on a climb here or there, and so we've always kept in touch.  She came out to visit me a a couple of years ago, and then again last year with our mutual friend Darin, and both times we were blocked from a serious climb of Mt. Baker by conditions but we still had a great time together.

But so she wrote to me this week about climbing in Peru, and I was instantly ready to go.  What could be better than doing something that you love with good people?  Now we're in the planning stages.

I haven't been on a real mountain in three years now.

It's time.

Garden Mania

Fifteen cubic yards of topsoil

This is starting to get out of hand.  I've known for some time that I have a tendency towards addictions, so I have to watch what I get excited about.  But this gardening thing is truly beyond my control.  I spend hours and hours planting, amending, fixing, planning... you name it.  When I really get going, Laura laughs and says "oh, you have SUCH a gardening boner right now."

It's really like the first time that I felt that adrenaline rush from climbing.  I still remember the first climb that I ever did, on toprope, inside on a gym wall, and I still remember the first time on real rock.  And the first time leading a trad rock route (all two pitches of it). 

Or mountaineering.  I remember the rush of seeing "15,000'" on my altimeter for the first time.  And "17,000'" and "19,000'" and "20,000'"!  And seeing the conical shadow of the mountain at sunrise for the first time.  And skiing off an insane cornice, hoping that the ton of snow wouldn't follow me down.

Or riding a motorcyle really fast up a mountain road.  By which I mean, really fast.  I remember the first time that I ditched, too, watching the bike spin away from me, motor still running as the asphalt ground through my leather jacket.

But those things are nothing compared to gardening.  Seriously.  I think I go out to check my garlics about four or five times a day, and I'm now looking at greenhouses because I can't stand the thought of not being able to bring my eggplant seedlings to fruit.

All this is not to say that I've stopped mountaineering, or rock climbing, or riding fast motorcycles.  Those things are still fun.  But when you're done climbing a mountain, or leading a rock route, or zooming up a twisty road, it's really, really nice to come home to a quiet garden of herbs and vegetables, to listen to the sound of the wind in the trees and the creek and the frogs, and to know in a really visceral way that setting roots is right and good.

Retrospective

The Maroon Bells

Elk Mountain Range, Colorado

"Dude, please--they're called long-term bivy sacks."

-- A Mountain Rescue colleague who objected

to my use of the word "body bags"

"In my end, is the beginning."

-- Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542-1587

"When you die it negates the whole game: you haven't just fucked yourself, you've hurt lots of other people--that's when it becomes irresponsible and tragic."

-- Greg Child, famous Australian climber

We recently did a mission out here, a vanilla search and rescue for a missing skier.  They disappear all the time out in the Mt. Baker Wilderness, especially in autumn, winter, and spring.  This poor guy had skied up onto a cornice, and it had collapsed underneath him; his wife said that he was 20 meters from her and "just disappeared."   We found his body two days later.

Then there's the friend of my dad's, back in about 1977 or so.  He was a peak-bagger in Colorado, and more particularly, a bagger of 14'ers: someone who tries to summit every one of the 54 Colorado peaks that are higher than 14,000 feet.  One weekend, he'd topped out on one of the two Maroon Bells, which are renowned for their awful, crappy rock.  He was walking back down the trail, far past the difficult and dangerous sections, when the part of the trail that he was on sloughed off and slid down a vertical face, 1000 feet.

Trail in the Mt. Baker Wilderness,

in summer

A friend of mine was climbing a difficult route in Eldorado Springs and got off route.  Instead of downclimbing, she kept going, onto territory far out of her ability.  She told me later that she put in two pieces of protection, a good microcam (a kind of spring-loaded device that goes into parallel cracks), followed by a brassy (very small brass nut) in a suspect notch.  She climbed five feet higher, and then fell.  The brassy pulled out, spinning her sideways and upside-down, but the cam held.  She impacted the rock wall on her side, and her belayer reported on the 911 call that "she's unconscious and blood is streaming out of her helmet."  She survived that one.  Barely.

The worst climbing accident to ever happen to me occurred when I was ten years old.  I lived in a valley, and sandstone cliffs marked its boundaries.  A friend and I decided to friction up one side, which (looking back on it now) was an easy climb, but somewhat silly for a couple of preteens to attempt.  We got about halfway up when my friend started lobbing down loose rocks; one hit me on the forehead.  I said "OW!" and put my hand to my head; he looked down, freaked out, and took off.  I looked at my hand and saw blood all over it.  Funny, it didn't even really hurt.  I almost bled out that day, but managed to make it back to the house (and completely freak out my mother, for what it's worth).  Since then I've taken a lot of truly epic falls, but never been as badly injured as that.

Once, though, I almost walked off a cornice.  On a big peak.  I was leading the ropeline: me, my friend Bob, and my Colorado rock/ice climbing partner Gabrielle.  We were on the summit of a "little" peak in Ecuador: at a mere 19,500', it didn't really count for much as Andes peaks go.  There were really good views up there, or so I'm told: we were in a total white-out at the top.  We enjoyed our rest at the top, and then started for the first rappel.  It seemed like we walked for a long time, and I paused.  Bob called out "stop.  stop.  This is too far."  The fog and mist and blowing snow parted for a moment -- just a moment -- and I saw clouds below me, directly in front of me, not 20 feet away.  I was standing on a cornice, Bob was on the border, and Gabrielle was the only one on firm land.   We high-tailed it back, got our bearings, and made it off that mountain.

We think we've got things figured out, in our daily lives, but if there's one thing that these experiences have taught me, it's that we don't.  We just don't.  I suppose that's yet another reason why climbing is so vital and real to me:  it's a simple thing, to put a foot up another few inches and stand upon it, but in that motion lie some deep truths and pressing realities that are all too easy to lose sight of in the repetitious grind of daily life.

Be safe.

Going Back

There are only three sports: mountain climbing, bullfighting, and motor racing -- all the rest are games.

-- Ernest Hemingway

The best climber in the world is the one who's having the most fun.

-- Alex Lowe

I can't understand why men make all this fuss about Everest--it's only a mountain.

--Junko Tabei (first woman to summit Everest)

It has now been nearly three years since I have made any kind of serious attempt on any serious mountain -- much less thought about an expedition -- and I'm starting to get itchy.  I led a route up a 5.easy this summer so that Laura could get out on the rock, and it was fun -- but my lead head is definitely gone.  This is a dangerous combination: rusty on technique, but itching to get out on some steeps.  So I'm telling myself to calm down and just wait until she gets out here, and then we can get out on a more regular basis and start the process of reacquiring lead confidence.

The deal is, everyone is afraid of heights.  Everyone.  You show me a person who can look at 2000 feet of air between her legs while she stands on dime-sized toeholds with her last piece of protection 30 feet below her without feeling some trepidation, and I'll show you someone with a mental disorder.  No, the point is that the fear is there, but after enough time on the rock, or ice, or steep snow, or whatever, you learn to compartmentalize it.  The next move is what matters, and even if you're at a rest stance, you know that you need to make it soon.  Carefully and confidently, but soon*.  And if you're not at a rest stance, you know that your muscles are going to fail in short order, so "soon" takes on a whole new meaning.  Nobody can stand on a flexed calf, or stick to even a straight-arm hang, for more than a couple of minutes.  If it's taking you that long to figure out the moves, you'd best french free the thing and recover.

So I'll get it back.  A goal of mine for several years now has been Chopicalqui.  The Andes (and the Cordillera Blanca in particular) are simply amazing, and I need to get back there.  Huge, huge mountains in desperate wilderness, but perfect weather (mostly) and not too far away from me!  Peruvians are pretty awesome people, too (the spanish elitists notwithstanding).  And I know where the good pizza joint in Huaraz is, as well as the gear store.

Patience and practice, patience and practice.

And now for your weekly Finn.  Laura sends me these things on a regular basis, and I die from Teh Cute, so I take every opportunity to kill others as well.  He's like Medusa, slaying the hordes with his very appearance.

*My first lead was a vertical wall, about one pitch, with a ledge halfway up.  The crux move was off the ledge.  I psyched myself out, and sat on that ledge for nearly an hour while I tried to summon the courage to make the move; my belayer had godlike patience.  I went back to that climb, a few years ago, and climbed the entire pitch in 10 minutes.  I remember moving over the crux and thinking "wow, this used to be hard."  Proper perspective with experience.

UPDATE:  Oh, I forgot.  I did make an attempt not long ago on a moderate route on Rainier, but a guy on my rope bonked and so I turned the rope around.  I guess I just blanked that from my memory because (a) I was pissed off that we turned around 1000' from the summit after all the hard climbing was done, and (b) I had to leave behind $150 in ice screws in the rappels back to camp.  Grumble.

Exactly.