Up S**t Creek With a Broken Motor

Sometimes life carries us away. Caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily tasks, we forget to have fun, to explore, to make adventures... And sometimes adventure carries us away, and we fall behind in the daily hustle and bustle, miss appointments, let grades slip. We grow tired, and adventure isn't so fun anymore.

Four months of traveling every weekend -- climbing, camping, drinking, and general craziness -- had me tired, and I elected to take a few weeks off from playing around on cliffs and running to the tops of mountains. It feels good to focus on my Russian studies and work out more regularly. I've settled into a pleasantly boring routine (one that will be broken when the weather cools) and my Russian is quickly improving. My teachers are happy.

But just because my exploits haven't graced the pages of "Down to the Wire," doesn't mean there aren't others doing cool stuff. Below is an excerpt from an e-mail my mom sent me. (Also, I've posted some cool pics that Jane took when we all met up in the New River Gorge two weeks ago.)

Maybe this is where my love of impractical endeavors came from:

Dan and I have been gathering some items for his unfurnished apartment – a used box spring and mattress, used twin bed frame, $5 end table, shelves, etc....we may go hog wild and buy a new computer desk at Staples, but trying to decide the perfect fit since the room is all of 8 x 10!!

Dan and I had quite an adventure yesterday. We decided that the day was too nice to waste on packing, laundry, etc. so we took the canoe and went up to four mile dam and canoed to Sytek Park (Bagley St. Bridge). Since we have a small (real small) motor for the canoe we just took the Xterra and decided that we would paddle downstream then use the motor to go back upstream. Well downstream was great even though the wind was against us - beautiful day. We got to our destination and attached the motor and headed back. The trusty motor started right up, then about one minute later, the handle broke!!! OK, no big deal, the wind is at our backs we will paddle back.....that actually went fine as long as we were in the deep water. Then we hit the rapids which were very shallow about a quarter of a mile from the dam. We were both paddling and going 2 ft. back for every foot forward. So we got out and tried to walk the canoe forward. That was hard because Dan had on Dad's flip flops and it was real rocky. He lost a flip flop then he couldn't walk. He got in the boat and the water was so strong I couldn't pull it. Soooooooo, we went across the river where there was a trail to the dam (wrong side of course). Dan carried the canoe on his back for about 1/4 mile, I carried water bottles, boat motor, and the one flip flop (wouldn't want to litter). Of course the trail was rocky too and Dan is barefoot carrying a canoe (oh yeah, and he has a shoulder injury from baseball). We made it to the dam and had to bring the canoe down a steep hill to the river, but we did it and made it across to the Xterra. I kept thinking of you and the conditions you trained in for SF. Ha, your 52 year old mom thinks she is SF!!! That should bring a chuckle to your world. Anyway, Dan and I bonded, today we will go back to laundry and packing, cooking and cleaning. Life is good.

We the Trad Climbers...

This is fast becoming the Sam and Derek blog. Not my original intentions, but Что будет, то будет (Russian for, "what will be, will be"). All I can say is: Next week will be different. A multi-state posse of ten will be rolling to the New River Gorge, assembling in full on Friday night.

As for this weekend, one word: Chill.

Derek and I hit up some true, J-Tree-style hand cracks on Saturday morning at the Junkyard Wall. I reacquainted myself with the art of crack climbing on New Yosemite, an ultra-classic 5.9, while Derek got in his first-ever crack lead (and first trad fall) on Labrador, a beautiful but rarely climbed 5.8 on Cat's Wall. We also discovered a population of giant, mutant spiders on the abandoned North Junkyard Wall, while climbing a smattering of .7s and .8s. In the afternoon, we wandered over to Kaymoor, where I got my ass handed to me on a silver platter. Derek belayed me up a steep 5.12a, where I linked the moves, but the redpoint remained far from my grasp -- so I settled for a beautiful 5.10a arete.

Rain hit hard Saturday night and drowned any plans for climbing on Sunday. But we eagerly raced back to Bragg where homework and dirty laundry awaited. Whoohoo!

Sorry for the lack of pictures. The climbs we worked demanded the belayer's full attention, and with only two of us, we were a hand short for taking good photos. All we got was one obscene picture depicting Derek's and my dim view of sport climbers. Sorry, folks, but my mom reads this blog.

Long Live Trad Climbers: The Few Who Do Stupid Things for a Pointless Sport!

Team Ras Kabeer Triumphs, Again

At first I felt guilty about this weekend. As I cleaned Clif Bar wrappers and loose chalk out of my car on Sunday morning, I realized Saturday was in no way an adventure. On any given Sunday, this would not be a startling realization, but this blog has taken on a life of its own – more of you are linking this page to friends, sending me e-mail, and complimenting the photos and writing – so now I feel an overwhelming obligation to provide you with some titillating story of high adventure: braving bad weather, climbing ropeless, and generally risking life and limb. This is not such a story.

My first inclination was to post nothing at all – a gaping hole in my weekend memoir. But I like to write and you like to read, so something had to be done. And then I considered an outright apology: "I am sorry for being so boring!" This pitiful idea held sway until late Sunday night when Derek and I were eating pizza and drinking beers with Scott, Melissa, and the Little Monster. (Scott and I were doing all the beer drinking, of course.) Libations were poured, and Derek and I got to telling stories of our weekend:

At first, we were hesitant. I mean, what exciting really happened? But as the alcohol got the best of (at least) me, we realized it was a far more meaningful trip to Moore's Wall than we first thought. What unfolded, as we remembered the day's details, was a story of how life must always be lived in the present. How when put in the right perspective, even an unproductive day of climbing means more than a great day in the classroom/office/house/etc…

I won't painfully recount the entire day. Instead, I'll give you a few snapshots – pretty little images to carry you through the long workweek, until you can get out and have a real adventure:

· A 90-degree, cloudless day and we forgot our water at the bottom of the cliff. To intent on climbing, we left it there. Five hours later, we took our first sip of sweet relief. (For me, sweet relief came an hour later in the form of Leinenkugel's Sunset Wheat.)

· Problem: Crowds of painfully slow climbers clog the anchors. Solution: FREE SOLO! Derek and I soloed Sentinel Buttress, a 220-foot 5.5 and Derek's first committing solo.

· On Air Show (5.8+ by Moore's Wall standards, at least .9+ or .10a anywhere else), I was twenty feet above my last protection (a potential 40-foot fall) and staring at an absolutely blank corner with nowhere to place gear. The corner was definitely .10 climbing, my heart was in my throat, and I had to make the decision: find pro or go for it. I went for it… and didn't fall. I hammered to the top and belayed Derek up, who also made it through the crux. Small adventure, big reward.

· Derek led Zoo View (5.7+), a route I balked at the first time I saw it. It took me two more trips to Moore's before I stepped onto its steep face moves. My hat's off to the Ras Kabeer.

· "Watch out for the rattlesnake on the trail," warned a fellow climber, "We saw it on the way up." Joking, I said I'd let Derek lead the way, as he headed down the trail in front of me. As he made a wrong turn, I chided him, "You don't even know where you're going," as I passed him. Derek just laughed, as I walked into his clever trap. Now I was in the lead and looking an awful lot like rattlesnake food.

· Two beers is a party when you haven't drunk water in five hours. With two empty Leinie's in hand (and Derek egging me on), I rocked out to The White Stripes and gave old men dirty looks (they gave me the Stink Eye first) in the Food Lion parking lot.

· More Stink Eye: While wolfing down a burrito at Chipotle – and two more Leinie's – I kept getting an evil glare from a fat guy sitting inside. I think he was just jealous. We were having way more fun. I glared back and shook my head.

· Free solos, scary leads, rattlesnakes, dehydration, drunken and disorderly, and home before eleven. Life really ain't so bad. Until next week, take care.

**Translation: Ras Kabeer is Arabic for "big head" -- the name we affectionately call Derek, and a damn good team name if you ask me.

**The next weeks promise some exciting posts. Two weekends in the New River Gorge, followed by a four-man, marathon day at the 1,300-foot Laurel's Knob. The evidence is in the photos.

No Caffeine and No Ropes

It was a long week. Or at least it felt like a long week.

Sunday morning, I woke up, and instead of brewing my regular cup of joe, I thought, I should stop drinking caffeine. So I put away the French press, stashed my Ethiopian Fair-Trade Blend in the back of the cupboard, and proceeded to spend the next four days in a caffeine-deprived stupor, barely staying awake in class and hardly having the energy or motivation to work out.

For unknown reasons, I'm attracted to these self-imposed, Puritanical streaks of self-deprivation – no sugar, no red meat, etc. – but they rarely last long. By Friday, I was off the wagon, and downed a full pot of delicious, black coffee by noon. The hedonist trumps the Puritan every time.

So it was with a head full of chemicals that Derek and I left for Moore's Wall, north of Winston-Salem, this weekend. All week, I had poured over the guidebook, planning which routes we would climb – a handful of 5.7s to .10a's – and just how to approach them. But on the second pitch of our first climb, I got a heady idea.

"Hey, Derek," I probed, "Want to solo this next pitch?"

I said it. There was no taking it back. The question was lying spread-eagle on the table, and I tried to decipher Derek's expression as he moved onto the belay ledge.

"Sure," was all he said, as he untied from the rope and I coiled it around my shoulders. And without further discussion we moved into the next 100 feet of easy, fifth-class terrain above. We moved quickly and efficiently without the rope and gear to hinder us, and I began to feel very free – very at ease in the vertical world. Derek was only 20 feet below me, making his own way amongst the sharp quartzite holds. He was moving smoothly and looked at ease with the situation, which shouldn't have surprised me. Derek has been climbing for a very short time, and he has been leading for an even shorter time. But he has the headspace of a veteran climber. On his first lead he placed less gear than I did on the same pitch. I am continuously impressed by his dispassionate cool in potentially scary situations. And now, after only a few months of climbing regularly, he was in the middle of his first ropeless solo.

A few minutes later, as the sun sank closer to the horizon, we topped out. A cool breeze brought the scent of pine needles to us and we sat quietly, catching our breath and taking in the view.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" Derek stated flatly after a couple of minutes. "You know I'm afraid of heights. But somehow I'm running around up here anyway."

I just laughed and moved off toward the rappel anchors.

Maybe it was the self-deprivation from earlier in the week, but a few minutes later, standing at the base of the cliff, I felt more willing to give in to my every whim – and at that moment, my whim was free soloing.

Now, I'm not Dean Potter or Derek Hersey. I don't solo 5.12 or 1,000-foot routes on the Diamond, but I get the deepest sense of satisfaction from moving unimpeded across large swaths of rock. Derek and I stood looking up at the 220-foot Sentinel Buttress – a long, exposed 5.5 route with a smattering of 5.7 moves – and I told him I was going to solo it. Before I had time to second guess myself, I moved into the opening holds, and within 10 minutes I was standing on top. With only one ledge at the 100-foot mark, it was an exciting stretch of continuous climbing.

I became a man possessed. In two days I soloed over 800 feet of ground. Everything we climbed the rest of the weekend, I inspected for free-solo potential. Derek led a super-exposed 5.6, and I led a continuously overhanging 5.7 – both of which I plan to solo in the near future. We didn't accomplish all the routes I had planned to climb, but I rediscovered a type of climbing I hadn't attempted in over a year – and I did it alongside a great friend.

Every day, we deprive ourselves of things we love. And sometimes for stupid reasons. I love to live in a caffeine-saturated buzz of wild, impulsive energy – but I got the hair-brained idea to cut myself off. I also love to climb big cliffs with no rope. When I do, I am deliberate and in control, but I tell myself I shouldn't because it can be dangerous. But that's bogus. I love it, and it presents a physical and mental challenge I can't find anywhere else.

So don't give in to that weak voice of reason. Be irreverent. Embrace your demons, live dangerously, and maybe I'll see you someday, climbing without a rope on something even I think is nuts.

**In the top, panoramic photo, Sentinal Buttress (5.5, 220 feet) is the arete roughly 15 feet to the right of the pictured climber. Clicking on the photo provides greater detail.

**The weird self-portrait is what happens when I get bored at belays. Thank Jesus for auto-locking belay devices, otherwise my partners would get pretty nervous. Look, Ma, no hands!

Cleveland-Bragg Spree of New River Craziness

When it rains, the world seems to slow down. Cars drive slower along the oil-slick roads. Dogs stop running, and fall asleep under front porches. People stop their hustle-bustle activities and take refuge inside. But for climbers, the world doesn't slow down – it comes to a dead stop.

We had driven five hours, late on a Friday night, to climb at the New River Gorge in West Virginia, but when we crawled from our tents on Saturday morning, the woods was soaking wet and a slow drizzle continued to fall from the steely clouds overhead. We would not be climbing anytime soon. Derek, Will, Sarah, and I had driven north from North Carolina, and Tim, Jocelyn, and Vik had driven south from Cleveland. One-by-one we massed at the campsite's picnic table and began discussing alternate plans – hiking, whitewater rafting, sleeping? After cooking some oats on the camp stove and brewing at least three pots of coffee, our collective creativity decided that a second breakfast in nearby Fayetteville would be the best plan.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting in the Cathedral Café, just past Fayetteville's only stop light. This was the rainy-day climber hang out. The place was bustling with climbers and the air was filled with a caffeine-induced buzz. Everyone wanted to be on the rock. But I'll admit, one of the Cathedral Café's breakfast quesadillas is a worthy alternative. It wasn't until almost noon that we ventured back to the cars and headed for the cliffs.

We found the trailhead and the faint approach trail to the Bubba City climbing area. We made our descent and quickly realized the rock was still really wet. Nearly all the moderates were waterfalls, and many of the .10s and .11s had impossibly slick start moves. But we found two .7s and a .10a to cut our teeth on. The rock was superb, and the protection was more than G-rated, making for a fun experience – no scary runouts or iffy rappels, which kept me in Vik's good graces. By two in the afternoon, the rock was almost entirely dry, which gave us a good climbing window before thunder and an ominous bank of clouds shut us down at around six.

A testament to my friends' ability to have a good time, we found our way a thousand feet down into the gorge, where we swam in the New River to wash away the day's sweat and dirt. And then in good fashion, we migrated toward the one thing that unites all climbers – BEER! Will had spotted a restaurant aptly named Pies and Pints earlier in the day, and the place lived up to its name. The beer was good (a.k.a., either microbrews or PBR) and the pizza was phenomenal. The tomato, garlic, spinach pizza was one of the best slices I've ever had – and the crust wasn't greasy, letting us gorge guilt-free. Okay, let's be honest: Eating healthy pizza means only one thing – you can drink more beer. So we did.

The night began peacefully, but by the third or fourth pitcher our stories were getting louder and more animated and there were way too many high-fives going around to still be considered cool. By eleven – when the restaurant closed – we were in rare form and rollicking back to the campground. Our plan was to wake up early and get in a few routes before we drove home to our respective cities. But alas, we were foiled again.

Sometime in the night, the rain began to fall. And by six in the morning it was beating on our tent hard enough to wake me from my beer-laden slumber. No climbing today. So instead, we woke up late, turned cooking breakfast into a two-hour ordeal, and packed leisurely. All except our beloved Will, who was curled up around a tree somewhere – seems the brew was a little too strong for someone, but I'll let him tell you how his morning went. Regardless, by noon, we were packed and saying our good-byes.

**In my opinion, the New is second only to the Red River Gorge for big groups to have great parties, and it would be a serious contender for the number one spot if only the camping was cheaper. So if you read this entry and want to join us on our next Spree of New River Craziness, shoot me an e-mail.

Bachar Dies While Soloing

This post has nothing to do with my weekend adventures:

I never met John Bachar, I'd only read about him in climbing books and magazines. But even so, I looked up to him as a climber and greatly respected his traditional ethics and penchant for free-soloing. While I was in Joshua Tree, many of the routes I climbed were old Bachar routes. His .10s were hard, his .11s were classic, and every one of his .12s I tried was impossible -- for me that is. He free soloed every one.

Here is what Rock and Ice and Climbing Magazine had to say:

On July 5, 2009, confirmation arrived that John Bachar died while free soloing. Bachar was found at the base of the Dike Wall, which is situated near Mammoth Lakes, California, where John and his son Tyrus lived.

In every sport there are men, myths and legends. In the world of rock climbing and free soloing without a rope, John Bachar was all three.

Controversial and uncompromising, Bachar pushed the boundaries of what was possible, and at the same raised the world's standards. A true rock star as a teenager, Bachar soloed 5.11 when 5.12 did not yet exist. He bouldered harder and climbed stronger than anyone. He refused to compromise his strong traditional style "ground up" ethics along the way.

Plan B

This weekend had spiraled out of control. At first, Scott and I had planned a casual, July Fourth weekend of cragging. Then we asked ourselves: Could we do 2,000 feet in a day? Then 3,000? And when rain scrubbed any hope of climbing, Scott suggested an idea he'd being toying with in recent months – tagging the highest point in five states, specifically, North and South Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia. Then I suggested we run to the top. Not to be outdone, Scott stated it could be done in less than 24 hours. The race was on.

Oh, and did I mention it would require 14 hours of driving and nearly 50 miles of running… But the challenge had been presented, the gauntlet had been laid, and I, in particular, had talked too much trash for this not to succeed. So, on Sunday, Scott and I sat at the Raleigh/Durham International Airport after dropping off his wife and son, ready to begin our 24-hour epic.

The Scary Truth About Endorphins
Summit #1, Mount Rogers, VA

Three and a half hours of driving brought us to the Grayson Highlands State Park in Virginia. Four and a half miles of steep, rocky trail stood between us and the summit of Mount Rogers (5,729 feet, or 1746 meters for all our beautiful Canadian readers). We started running up the trail and within a half mile, I was breathing heavy… really heavy. I was worried I would start walking before we even reached the first summit – and I'm sure Scott was in the same boat – but within a mile, our bodies adapted and we cruised along the wet, rocky trail.

It was raining hard as we wound our way toward the summit. We passed a herd of semi-wild horses and numerous wild hikers that we shied away from. We kept running and 54 minutes after we set out, we reached our first summit. Handshakes and photographs, but no summit view – there were just too many trees and way too much fog. I guess they call them the Smoky Mountains for a reason. On the way down, my endorphins were really pumping. It was probably the best runners' high I'd ever felt. My legs felt strong, my lungs felt full of O2, and my spirits were high. Now, I'm not a sports scientist, but I'm pretty sure that at some point, endorphins just aren't enough. That point was coming soon…

The Hill that Whupped the Alpinist's Ass
Summit #2, Mount Mitchell, NC

On Mount Rogers, we gained a measly 1,100 feet of elevation in 4.5 miles (335 m, 7.2 km), but on Mount Mitchell we would gain 3,600 feet in only 5.7 miles (1,097 m, 9.2 km) to reach its 6,684-foot (2,037 m) summit. That translates to steep! But our plan was to run to the top, and run we would.

We were still feeling good as we pulled into the parking lot, and we were still feeling good when we asked directions to the trailhead… Fast forward a mile up the trail: "Dude, let's walk." I'm not sure who said it, or if it was even said, but we walked. At first I was angry at myself. I'm a freakin' climber, a would-be alpinist, and I'm letting this hill kick my ass, I muttered. Oh no, I said, as I tried to run up the next steep, rocky, technical section of trail. But within a few meters, I was walking again. Damn! Beaten by a hill. But we soon developed a sustainable system of running the flat and moderately steep sections, while walking the steepest portions of the trail. I could live with this, as it would allow us to reach our goal of five summits without having a massive heart attack.

The rest of the 5.7 miles went quickly. We reached the summit in the rain, again – the fog afforded no spectacular view – snapped a few soggy photographs, and began our knee-jarring descent. Just over an hour later, we were stripping off our wet shoes and clothes, putting on dry stuff, and tearing off down FR 472 toward Clingman's Dome, TN.

Are We There Yet?
Summit #3, Clingman's Dome, TN

The answer was no. The answer was always no, even though I asked myself this question at least a million times on the 7.5-mile (12.1-km) ascent to the summit of Clingman's Dome. At 10 p.m. we had pulled into the parking lot at Newfound Gap in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Our original plan was to run the 7-mile trail to the Dome's summit, but it was dark and raining and, really, who wants to break an ankle in a fictitious race against imaginary opponents. We sure didn't. So we elected to run the 7.5 mile paved road to the summit. It was our race, we made up the rules, so it wasn't even cheating.

On this summit, walking was less of a threat – in 7.5 miles we would gain only 1,600 feet (488 m). But pain and fatigue reared their ugly heads at around mile six, and by mile 6.5, I told Scott I needed to walk. Being a good friend, he slowed the pace, though I'm sure we were both happy to slow down for a few minutes. By this point – 26 miles into our epic – my right knee was throbbing, and the top of Scott's foot was giving him hell, but we pushed on, running and walking, to the 6,643-foot (2,024-m) summit.

We reached the summit at around 11:30 p.m. on Sunday. The fog had lifted, but it was dark. Foiled again! Our third summit, but still no view. Oh well, I thought, as I slammed a Clif bar and thirty seconds later we barreled downhill toward the car. We reached the parking lot at 12:45 a.m. on Monday. Nine hours and 55 minutes to go!

How Pavement Saved My Life
Summit #4, Brasstown Bald, GA

It was my shift to drive. We changed clothes and loaded up the car in preparation for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Georgia. Scott climbed into the passenger seat and fell asleep, as I put the car in gear and pointed the car south. I'm pretty good at a lot of things, but I can admit that driving isn't necessarily one of them. An hour away from Clingman's Dome, I was really falling asleep. I needed a nap or Scott to drive. I knew Scott was too tired to drive, though, because I'd hit the rumble strip four times in the last mile and he hadn't even woken up, so I pulled the car off the road and closed my eyes. Twenty minutes later I woke up and steered back onto the road, but an hour later my head was bobbing again. This time I asked Scott to drive. Thankfully, he consented and drove us the last half an hour.

We again elected to take the road, driving to within a mile and a half of the summit before parking and starting our run. We had originally planned this to be a six-mile run, but we were both hurting badly and knew the last summit would be a steep five miles on trail. Six miles in the dark probably would have killed me. But, thankfully, a wide, paved road led right to the summit. (I guess it won't be that easy when we climb Denali, eh?)

It was misting when we began our march to the summit, and it was still misting when we reached the lookout. Add another tally, that's four summits with no view! Twenty minutes later we were back at Scott's car and lighting sparklers to celebrate Independence Day…

Slim Jims Are No Way to Fuel an Ultra-Marathon
Summit #5, Sassafras Mountain, SC

I'll be totally honest. No fish stories here.

We had just ran (with just a pinch of walking) 39 miles. We were tired, hungry, and in pain. We were also almost an hour ahead of schedule and the sub-24-hour goal was well within our reach. So on Sassafras Mountain, we didn't run a single step. Nope. We never even thought about it. Instead, we enjoyed the first sunny weather of the trip and a leisurely 2.5 mile stroll to the summit (albeit a steep stroll).

Despite our pleasant pace, we were both gassed. Somehow, neither of us had given much thought to fueling this madness. I had brought several boxes of Clif bars and a bag of almonds and Scott had brought GU gel packets and a crapload of Slim Jims. Bon appétit, right? Even though our culinary skills were sorely lacking, we made it to our final summit with 46 minutes to spare – our total time was 23 hours and 14 minutes. Not bad for a couple of guys who ate almost nothing but Slim Jims and energy bars. With the clock stopped, we pulled out the camera to get that all-important summit photo. We looked around for a good view. All we saw were trees. Trees, bushes, and more trees. Our final summit, during the only good weather in 24 hours, and there was no observation deck, no fire tower, to rock outcropping on which to get a good summit picture. Alas, maybe it was fitting. This was, after all, our Plan B, our rainy-day adventure. We hadn't really planned anything – our directions and maps were drawn in pencil in my Russian notebook, our food could have been bought at a gas station, and we hadn't really trained for such an epic. This wasn't a cookie-cutter weekend, and it was never destined to end with a postcard-perfect view. We were both happy and tired, we had found adventure, and that was the real goal.

We stashed the useless cameras and began our last descent for this trip. An hour later we were sitting in the Sunrise Café in Brevard, NC eating $20 worth of breakfast food: waffles, eggs, potatoes, sausage, bagels, and coffee. Fourteen hours of driving, 44 total miles (71 km) on foot, and 8,800 feet (2,682 m) of elevation gain deserved a lot of delicious food. We could hardly walk, but we felt damn good.