Utah: A travel blog about 26 hours of Greyhound hell

The Climbing Part

After five years of climbing, I finally made it to Indian Creek. The first day, I ran along the base of Supercrack Buttress and put my hand or fingers into every crack within reach. I noticed that as I pulled down, it felt like the sandstone pushed back. Everything felt incredibly climbable.

I noticed a lovely looking off-fingers crack that I assumed would go well. With hardly a glance a the guidebook, I racked all of my gear to my harness plus a few borrowed cams, which felt like a lot, and did the customary hands-on-hips pre-climb appraisal of the route. I chalked my hands and started up.

The first 15 feet went well. I was climbing a left-facing corner with tight, secure hand jams. I felt confident and placed gear accordingly. Then I arrived at a bulge. I had good feet and was able to take a rest to contemplate the moves ahead.

I moved away from my relatively comfortable position and began jamming my way up the bulge, for lack of an opportunity to lieback because of an inconvenient flare. The most logical feet for the moves were at hip height. Having climbed through the flare, it became time to lieback. I worked my feet up and my arms immediately began screaming to my brain, “THIS AIN’T GONNA LAST LONG!” Suddenly I became acutely aware of where the rope was beneath me and the prospect of taking an upside-down whipper. At this point, my breath was most certainly audible to my partner 30′ below. I reached down to my hip, fumbled a piece of protection into the crack, and mentally prepared myself to pull enough slack rope up to clip the piece. Ain’t no time like the present when your arms feel like they want nothing more than to give out on you, so I yanked the rope up, barely managed to clip the piece and half screamed to my partner: “I’m gonna fall!”

The Creek did not disappoint. I’ve heard a few people mention getting humbled by the climbing there, but I figured I’d been crack climbing long enough to be able to hang in there. Actually, I suspected that I might even excel because of my small hand size. (Haha, in retrospect, that’s cute.)

It’s true that the jams are so good that it feels like the crack grabs you back, but what I’d failed to account for was the length of the routes and what it feels like to climb with minimal rests and without other features. Nothing but pure crack. (If you’re not a climber, that sentence probably sounds weird.)

Over the course of the week, I got to climb at Supercrack Buttress, Selfish Wall, Scarface and Battle of the Bulge. After destroying the backs of my hands at Battle of the Bulge, we took a day to clip bolts on Potash Road. Despite the gobies, I feel like I barely scratched the surface. We started after noon most days. This was not my choice.

I assumed that after a few days, I would literally get into the groove and be able to send something beyond my warmups. I thought I would pick a project for myself. Not this trip.

Rain rolled in right around the time I started to collect a little confidence. Snow, too. Besides the weather, I’d also been confronted with the gnawing discomfort of an incompatible partnership. Not the typical minor spat that turns a day sour, but an entire week of misalignment. We disagreed on most everything. In the most Jersey Shore moment of my life, after trying to talk things through and establish reasonable boundaries, I finally gave up. In the middle of the woods somewhere outside of Bryce Canyon, I angrily packed up all of my shit and my tent (which I’d had to do every night for a week of cragging in the same area, which was obnoxious, due to indecision and my van-dwelling partner’s inability to plan) and took off walking down the side of the road.

Utah: The Not-Climbing Part

For lack of a vehicle, I was relatively stranded. I came upon an RV campground and asked where the nearest Greyhound station was. The young man on the other side of the counter had emo-styled, bleached-blonde hair, several piercings and a lisp. He blinked and looked at the backpacks on my chest and my back, quizzically.

“I don’t know where the nearest one is,” he said flatly.

Another employee behind the desk looked up from his screen and said simply, “I’ll take you.” Thank god.

For the record: there is no taxi service operating near the woods outside of Bryce Canyon. And I’m fairly confident that there aren’t any taxi services within an hour drive in any of the small towns in the surrounding area. (I later asked a motel owner in Parowon, she laughed, and offered to give me a ride to where I needed to go. Utah is very hospitable.)

So that’s how I found myself in the passenger seat of a Ford Taurus traveling 60mph through the desolate Utah desert at night in pre-tourism shoulder season having the lyrics of “Into the Coven” sung/explained to me. It was approximately 9pm. As an aside, I listen to a podcast with the catchphrase: “Stay Sexy, Don’t Get Murdered.” Between the lyrics about bleeding the blood, smashing the cross, etc. I was praying to the creators of the podcast, Karen and Georgia, that this hour long drive wouldn’t be my last. (Spoiler: I didn’t get murdered.)

That’s when my driver surprised me: “I’m a Mormon.” His demeanor and sincerity was enough to convince me. Apparently, his musical tastes juxtapose sharply against his lifestyle choices. Utah, you’re wonderful, never change.

The next bus outta there wasn’t until 1pm the following day. So I stayed in a motel room with paper thin walls, scratchy sheets and creaky floors. Fifty dollars was a small price to pay to insulate myself from prolonged circular discussions about nothing leading nowhere; possible tickets from camping in inappropriate places; and the possibility of being ruthlessly teased by endless climbing made inaccessible by a partner decidedly unavailable to climb, despite being on a climbing trip. (?!?!) I fell asleep listening to a channel dedicated to true crime, scrolling indifferently on my phone. My mind was caught up in how something as simple as a climbing trip – what most people consider a vacation – could be so miserable.

The following day, I arrived at the bus stop 45 minutes early. I’d eaten a bagel and some pretzels the day before; we’d last shopped for groceries a week prior. The stop was many things in one: a gas station, a truckers’ rest stop, a bus station, a prime people-watching opportunity. There was a Subway and a Taco Bell inside the building, too. Hungry and disinterested in gas-station ham & cheese, I dropped my bags at a table and stood in line at Subway.

“What kind of bread do you want?” the woman barked at me from the other side of the glass. She seemed generally offended by my presence.

Forty-five minutes slipped by. At 12:55, I became concerned. No bus. 1pm came and went. I panicked at the thought of missing the only northbound bus out of the Middle-of-Nowhere, Utah. I searched through my phone and found a bus tracker. I was relieved to learn that the bus was running 45 minutes behind. In that email, I also learned that I would not get onto the bus without a printed ticket. Stranded, in the middle of the desert, I was without a printer. Go figure.

The bus rolled in and people piled out. The bus driver was quick to light a cigarette and adept at avoiding eye-contact with me as I crossed the parking lot to him. He walked around the back of the bus and I closed the gap by walking around the front.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said as I rounded the corner of the bus, “But I noticed that my email confirmation said that I needed a printed ticket. We’re kind of out here in the middle of the desert. I don’t have the ability to print a ticket.”

He took a pensive drag from his cigarette, gave me a kind of creepy old man smirk and said, “Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you have a ticket or not.” It was at this moment that I noticed that he was missing the pointer finger on his right hand. He took one of my bags and stowed it beneath the bus. I got on.

The second I became separated from my backpack containing literally all of the climbing equipment I own, I became very anxious. I thought about how tourists’ backpacks were regularly stolen from night buses in Thailand. But then the bus started and we were off.

I groped around in a smaller bag for my headphones. No dice. They were beneath the bus. Given that we were departing an hour behind schedule, it dawned on me that I would miss my connecting bus out of Salt Lake City. Great.

I called a general customer service line and spoke to someone that generally spoke English. He was unable to answer my simple question: My bus is going to be late. When is the next bus out of Salt Lake City to Seattle? I requested to speak to someone else. The next representative said that I would have to direct my question to someone in Salt Lake City. No, he cannot transfer me. I dialed the number provided and got the same general customer service line. A woman answered. Trying to use as few words as possible, I explained my situation a third time. Provided my information a third time.

A man on the bus approached me and asked me if he could use my phone, as I was obviously engaged in a conversation on the aforementioned phone. I probably failed to conceal my incredulity. Being a female product of society, conditioned to be nice, I blurted a “Yeah, but I’m using the phone right now.”

“What?” said the woman on the other end of the line.

Ultimately, I received zero useful information from three customer service representatives. I resigned myself to figuring it out upon arrival in Salt Lake.

The man on the bus began to speak to me rapidly about how honorable I was and how generous I was to loan him my phone. I reluctantly handed it over to him with the dial screen already pulled up. He continued to talk to me as he began using my phone. Not wishing to engage in further conversation, I opened my book and waited for him to finish his phone call. He then thrust the phone back in my direction and asked me if I knew about this band because he was involved with the band and helped them get started and he really liked this band and this band made great music. Rapid fire, the sentences didn’t end or begin. He just talked. Endlessly. Apparently, he was affiliated with Fitz and the Tantrums. Hmm.

About halfway through the third song, playing out loud on my phone, another man a seat ahead had made two fists with his hands and was visibly trembling with rage. I leaned back in my seat and mouthed silently to Talking Man, “He’s mad,” pointing to Angry Man. Talking Man paused only momentarily and continued talking over the music. Angry Man spun around and stood up and told him that the music had to stop.

Not wanting to witness a fistfight 30 minutes into a 24 hour plus bus adventure, I announced: “I have a phone call to make!” And proceeded to call my mom. Talking Man stood up, unphased, and began asking the other passengers on the bus if there might be a phone available for him to use. No phone call was ever made.

Several long hours later, and more than an hour behind schedule, we arrived in Salt Lake City. Talking Man had visited me for much of the ride, although I’d moved away from Angry Man for fear of physical violence.

When the bus stopped, I collected my bags and basically ran toward the nearest brewery. I knew that Utah beer was going to be, well, state-regulated Utah beer, but I was desperate.

I made it a block from the bus station when a man walked up to me and asked, “Did you come off a train?” Not sure why my method of transportation was relevant, I told him no. He then told me that he was trying to hop the next freight train because Utah sucked because you couldn’t buy or have weed there. He also informed me, repeatedly, that I was in a very sketchy area. Surveying my loaded backpacks, he told me that I needed to figure out how to travel light. Without missing a beat, I told him that I had a lot of climbing equipment on me. That I hadn’t been planning to walk with all of it. (Cue mental facepalm. “Yeah, I’m carrying a bunch of valuable shit today. It’s heavy!” My city smarts are lacking, I’m now well aware.)

My phone started ringing. It was my boyfriend, Tim. Trying to act nonchalant, I told Tim everything I knew about the guy that had followed me for three blocks. Apparently, being known was enough to get the guy to bugger off, because he suddenly ducked into a parking garage without a word. I was alone again. Just me and my big-ass backpacks. Thankfully.

My soggy Subway sandwich was the most substantial thing I’d eaten in 2 days, several hours earlier. Despite the beer (all the beer on draft) topping out at a rowdy 4% ABV, I felt calmed halfway through my gose. I killed time, a salad and the end of my book before I ordered another beer. This time an IPA. 4%. I pulled a new book from my bag.

A man sat down beside me and flashed me a smile. I made some kind of friendly offhand comment and went back to my book. He ordered a beer and some dinner and struck up a conversation. I learned that he worked for a company that sold medical devices that helped straighten spines. He told me about being in the OR, he agreed with me that Utah beer was pathetic, and we discovered that we had a mutual appreciation of Bend beer. Boneyard Brewing was a shared favorite. He was a nice guy. I indicated to him that on the scale of crazy, he was near the bar counter whereas most everyone else I’d interacted with in the last 24 hours were a full arm-length above the bar on my improvised crazy scale. He laughed. He got to hear this full story in person. He even bought me another weak Utah beer, compliments of the company he worked for. What a guy.

Reluctantly, I paid $10 to Uber the half mile that I’d walked to the brewery. I was pleasantly surprised to have my first female Uber driver. After I told her the abridged version of the last 24 hours, she said, “Oh honey, you have to take this,” and gave me a small pink can of Mace. “I’ve never felt like I needed to use it. Sounds like you need it.” Women support women.

Just before midnight, I queued up with the other Greyhound riders headed to Boise, Portland and beyond. A friendly young guy spun around and asked me about my bags and where I was headed. I told him that I’d been on a climbing trip and that I was headed home to Seattle. Within the span of a 10 minute conversation, he asked me to guess his ethnicity, demonstrated to me that he’d come prepared with a 40 stashed in his jacket pocket, and let me know that he was a virgin. Congratulations!

We boarded the bus. Talking Man was back and snatched up my bag before I could say anything otherwise and let me know that he would take care of it for me because I didn’t need to carry it because it looked heavy and he would love to help me out and that I was a mountain goddess and that I was from Seattle and that he was from Seattle too and on and on. Talking Man sat beside me again. Talking Man asked for my phone again. Not knowing what else to do, I handed it over again. And this time he made calls. Six of them.

“Mama? Mama, can you hear me? Mama? It’s me. Can you hear me mama? Can you speak up, Mama? It’s awful hard to hear you Mama. Don’t be mad, Mama. I just wanted to talk to you, Mama.” After his call with Mama, I indicated that it was 1:02am and that I’d like my phone back at 1:07am. I wanted to listen to music. “Ok, ok. I’ll give your phone back. I just want to listen to three songs. Is that ok? You’re so honorable for letting me borrow your phone. I just want to listen to three songs. You said that I could.” Trying to be gently firm, I repeated: “1:07.” Well, 1:07 came and went. “Hey, it’s 1:10, can I please have my phone back?” He reluctantly handed it over, talking to me the whole time. And he did not stop talking to me until after 1:30am. At this point, I was only able to muster the occasional, “Mmhmm.” His babbling was nonsensical. I told him that he could continue to talk to me, but I was going to go to sleep.

I put headphones in and put on my favorite podcast. In this particular episode, of the hundreds of episodes that I’d listened to before, and of all the topics in the world to cover I learned:

“Because you can board a Greyhound bus with cash and absolutely no paper trail Greyhound is usually the preferred form of travel for people who have found themselves on a Do-Not-Fly List. Fugitives, convicted felons, drug dealers, registered sex offenders, etc.” (Listen to this particular episode here and start at 19:40. Enjoy. #Murderino)

Meanwhile, on my first Greyhound bus ever, confronted with a man that literally would not stop talking to me and would not stop talking for the full 8 hour bus ride to Boise, ID from Salt Lake City, UT, I thought to myself: GREAT. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because Talking Man poked me upon arrival in the Middle-of-Nowhere, ID, and I nearly jumped a foot out of my seat. He asked if he could use my phone again. This time, I said no.

We eventually parted ways, mercifully, somewhere in Oregon. The rest of the ride was uneventful by comparison, but all I can say is that I’ve never been so grateful to see evergreen trees and a Northwest downpour. My climbing trip was an utter failure, but hey, I guess I got a semi-decent story out of it.

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Gusher

You could say I’m exuberant when I get to talk about climbing. And you’d be right.

This weekend, I basically exploded my love of climbing and eagerness to pursue guiding all over a colleague at Mountain Madness. My social-awareness filter tried to flicker on a few times during that conversation, but my enormous stoke overpowered it. Oops.

You don’t feel that kind of excited all on your own, though. It takes input.

As we crept along the highway in afternoon ski resort traffic, I felt a part of my brain come on that’s been dimmed for a while now. Probably unknowingly, Ian validated a very deep, core part of me that I have shut down for the better part of the last year: I live to climb and I love to guide. I just barely broke out of my comfortable world in Bellingham before that light flickered out. I’m so glad I did.

Besides eagerly anticipating what’s ahead in 2019, I’m taking a moment to really savor that connection. It wasn’t any one thing that Ian said. It was a shared language and ambition that really resonated with me. It’s the type of feeling that I want to give to anyone interested in sharing a rope with me. C’mon. Let’s climb.

There’s something to be said about a moment in which everything makes sense; I think it’s when your calling is coming through, loud and clear.

I’m very excited to take that call.

Awakening

In my mind, I stand at a stony precipice looking down into inky blackness. Above me, the stars shine brightly, beautifully. All is quiet and well up there. I feel a gurgling inertia in my chest. I wish to slip into the darkness, sound into sleep, but the untamed faucet of my thoughts pounds my mind. Pressure builds against the dam of my own making.

And then suddenly, a single drop leaks through. A crack forms. Then there’s a burst: the thoughts rush through and comfortably settle, like a river no longer resisted. There’s calm, clarity and a certain natural order. Truth. A literal breakthrough.

I, like any person native to anywhere, am the product of my surroundings.

I am the first born daughter of two small parents. I too am small, but able. I was nurtured to believe in myself. I am naturally wild. I find affinity in animals, flora and fauna; confidence in my quiet. Like a puppy, I can be riled. Like a horse, I long to run free. Like a girl, I love to love. Love finds me and I find love, though it comes with ample searching.

I found climbing when I was looking for myself. I was lost at the time, searching for purpose in school work. I applied my passionate heart to my studies, but never found the thing that gave me wings. I went to school to write, but couldn’t seem to find my voice. I felt stifled by the style I was being trained in.

In time off from school, I worked as often as I could. I climbed sporadically at my local gym but was never truly moved by the colorful plastic holds, challenging as they were. I knew it was possible to climb outside, but I didn’t know how to do it. So I asked for help.

When help came, I discovered something that I would do for the rest of my life. I knew it immediately. Nothing had ever rung so true and so right. I have fought ever since to be with my love of climbing.

To those who have never fallen in love with a passion, I probably make no sense. To those who limit their passion to a joyous corner of their life, a small shrine of what it means to be alive; I probably come off as cavalier. Trust me: I am. A mountain does not fit in the tidy closet of an hard-earned apartment space, I’m afraid. And one certainly isn’t enough.

To return to my opening thought, the enormous dam of my self-imposed insecurities burst tonight when I realized that I wasn’t meant to be a rock climber alone. Oh no, my calling comes from deep within the mountains that have lent shape to the last 25 years of my life. I was born into the rugged Cascade Mountain Range for a reason.

Now if only I could fall asleep…

Thanks, Guys

SATURDAY

One after another, I watch the guys throw big tricks off an improvised jump. I often volunteer to film them partially to support them, but mostly because I’m in awe of what they can do. Before I get into position and pull my phone out, they tell me that I have to hit the jump too. Oh boy. “Okay.” I quietly hope that I’m not getting in over my head.

Will: Backflip. Ashton: Backflip. Drew: 360. Tim: Lincoln loop. Suddenly it’s my turn. I stuff my phone into my chest pocket and pick my way through trees to the starting point above the jump. My skis slide hesitantly a little lower. Then a little lower. The guys cheer me on from below. I point my skis downhill and feel myself blast off the thing.

My air wasn’t huge, but it was pretty big for me. Somehow, my body knew what to do. Rather than spazzing mid air, I felt controlled. I crest the highest point and come back down to a plush, powdery landing. Ooh, it felt so good. And it set the tone for the rest of the day.

A few laps later, I look up from the skin track and see another opportunity to feel the air rush beneath my skis. A sizable cornice had formed above a cliff feature that wrapped around into a sweeping left turn. The time was right and the cornice was calling.

Tim and I climbed above it, keeping our distance from the edge while we determined precisely where to drop off. From above, the landing was somewhat blind. Suddenly my fun cornice drop became a scary question mark in my mind. I paused a moment, balking at my seemingly brash decision. Tim directed me to the sweet spot and encouraged me with his phone out, ready to film my drop.

I often get too caught up in willing myself to jump off things and struggle to announce my drop: “Three… two… one… dropping!” Most times, I’d rather just push off at two so that I don’t have to confront the fear of getting to one. For this reason, I often don’t get the shot, haha.

The air whooshed beneath my skis as I plunged from the cornice above, to a small intermediate rocky cliff, to smooth powder snow below. It all happened so fast. I link a few swooping turns and look back to see Tim perched above the cliff, only higher. He asks me if I want to film. In the interest of saving transition time, I shout back, “No!” And watch him push off, tapping the edge of the cliff before dropping 15 or more feet to the snow below. I immediately regret not taking my phone out.

Tim is my boyfriend, but he’s so much more than that. Most of his boyfriend duties practically stop once we leave the frontcountry. From there on, he’s my partner. Tim rarely pushes me to do things I haven’t set up myself; but there’s something about his encouraging smile that gives me the courage to trust my skis and will myself into the unknown. Often, into the air. It reminds me of when I was learning how to slackline; if there’s somebody there beside you to rest so much as a single finger on, you suddenly find the stability you need to make tiny steps forward. Progress.

couloir

We skied until sunset, pausing before we ripped the skins from our skis for our last run of the day. I looked across the valley and pointed out a couloir saying, “I’d like to ski that.” To my surprise, the guys thought it sounded like a good idea and said that we’d come back for it tomorrow.

SUNDAY

My nervous mind had played out several crash reels on the skin track on the way over and up. What if there’s a mandatory drop and I catch an edge immediately? Will I tumble to the bottom? Will I learn what it feels like to tomahawk? Are there any cliffs I need to worry about? Trying to estimate my margin for error, I asked Drew, “Do you think I should do this? I don’t want to chicken-shit-out at the top.” He reassured me that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Drew’s vote of confidence was good enough for me. My doubts melted away as we crossed over to the peak.

We began to climb a face too steep to skin; Ashton and Drew ahead of me rapidly kicking steps, and Tim right behind me. As we climbed a semi-steep bootpack together, I felt well aware of the fact that I only had a shot at this line because I had the comfortable buffer of their experience to insulate me from poor decision making. Especially Tim.

About halfway up, Tim asked, “Are you nervous?” I can’t remember what I said verbatim, but I remember telling him with paradoxical confidence in my answer that I was. Yeah I’m nervous, but not scared. I was comfortably pushing it. I felt aware of my exposure and risk; I was accepting. There were still opportunities to bail, but so far, no reason to.

Drew and Ashton took a steeper, more committing couloir that split the center of the peak. The ride down looked like what it would feel like to drop a bouncy ball down a stairwell; from either side, step-like cliffs protruded just enough into the narrow corridor before letting out to the valley below.

Tim encouraged me to check out another couloir to the west. Our line was less steep and wider. I could see that this line was definitely going to go for me. Even though it was just the two of us standing there, we didn’t say much to each other. He encouraged me to look out for rocks and stay low in the couloir. And then he was gone.

I paused a moment. Alone. I looked out from my perch, keenly aware of my exposure. There’s something magical about being alone in the mountains. It’s not a feeling that readily lends itself to description; it’s the combination of recognizing your own mortality, and esteeming it with such vigor that it motivates repeat encounters with the ineffable: the vast masses of granite, impossible icy plunges, wilderness as far as the eye can see.

I click into my bindings, well aware that I could kick a ski from my perch 1000 or so feet below. I buckle my boots down. Check all of my zippers. Gloves on. Goggles in place. Okay. It’s time.

My hand fumbles for the radio at my shoulder. “Dropping in 30, boys,” I say, trying to feign my usual casual confidence, but my voice comes out small and higher pitched than usual. I don’t know how long I waited, but I pushed the fear from my mind as I simultaneously pushed my skis over the edge.

And so it goes. My first true couloir.

Just Say Yes

Recently, I learned what it feels like to be emotionally, interpersonally and spiritually malnourished. The feeling developed over the course of a year in which I failed to connect, I stopped feeling inspired and I felt like I had stopped growing. My ambitions toppled over. My opportunities felt like they’d dried up. My heart felt withered and I retreated into myself most every night to wait it out until things would finally get better. Turns out, this isn’t a good coping strategy.

I’ve changed several aspects of my life in the last few weeks, including a move and a new job. I made several of these changes against the well-intentioned advice of people that I love, trust and respect. This isn’t a flagrant middle finger so much as a revelation: you gotta carve your own way sometimes.

It all comes down to one little word for me: Yes.

For the last year, I fought really hard to fit. I swallowed my climbing ambitions and tried to substitute them for superimposed career ambitions; I translated my native dirtbag tongue into office banter; I relinquished an important piece of myself to pursue the comfortable and conventional. First world problems acknowledged, I suffered all the while.

In trying to smash myself into a tiny box, into abbreviated dreams, into comfortable complacency, I became bitter. In tamping down my inner flame, I lost my drive and my passion. I became vapid. Disinterested. Bored. And I needed help. And I found that in a fabulous therapist by the name of Charlotte. Thank god.

The greatest gift that I’ve been given in the last six months is that tiny word: Yes.

When I would hone in on everything that was wrong; all that I wasn’t; all of these walls that I’d built around myself to contain my loud-laughing, obsessively passionate, utterly determined, unruly personality, Charlotte asked me why?

When I shared my dreams, my hopes, my aspirations, Charlotte asked me why not?

When I followed up with all of my anxieties and insecurities, she acknowledged them and encouraged me to employ my flame and passion to problem solve around obstacles. Without ego stroking, she simply did some fire stoking. Charlotte told me yes. You can.

Previously, I’d been trying to survive on a steady diet of disregard, disinterest and disconnect. My contributions to my tiny box world felt like trying to fit gloves to feet. Obviously, I didn’t fit. And unfortuantely, I experienced a bit of soul rot for it. But I think soul functions very much like your liver and can repair itself when cared for properly.

There’s something incredibly powerful about someone telling you: yes you can. I think this experience will have enormous implications for me in how I request and provide mentorship. I think that this newfound understanding of “yes” has enormous implications for me as a female athlete. I want to project the yes-you-can feeling to any woman up against any obstacle; any challenge; any personal pursuit; because goodness gracious, a little belief and encouragement feels like the first rain to my soul garden after a long drought. It’s been a short 3 weeks in my new life and I’m already beginning to see the bloom. More details to come.

When climbing breaks your heart

Climbing, I love you. But you’re bringing me down.

Climbing, you’ve taken me to some incredible places. I’ve stood atop mountains that I climbed both physically and emotionally. I’ve learned what it means to truly see and know someone thanks to you. I’ve learned to get over myself. You’re present anytime I think about the things I’m most proud of in this life. You’ve given me more smiles, more highs and more experiences… More relationships… Than anything else I’ve ever done in my life. You’ve really given me something to live for. For that, I can’t thank you enough. For that, I love you.

Climbing, you’ve also stripped me raw. You’ve made me cry in front of people I didn’t want to cry in front of. You made me vulnerable. You’ve injured me physically. You’ve dictated my lifestyle and burnt bridges for me. You’ve been an addiction. An obsession. You’ve simultaneously swollen and decimated my ego. And most recently, you’ve stolen precious life. Again.

Each time I lose a friend to climbing, it shocks me to my core. How could something so beautiful and wholesome be so cruel? How could this happen? Sadly, it comes with the territory.

This is not thoughts and prayers. This is sadness beyond sadness; devastation; and acceptance. The rules are simple: there is always risk and your job as a climber is to mitigate it. Sometimes – even the best of us – come up short.

Oh Hey

It’s been about two months since I’ve had a computer, but good news: I’m back. More good news: within 24 hours of owning a computer, I submitted a piece to a magazine that may or may not be my favorite publication… Ever. (Rhymes with schmalpinist.)

Things that I’ve climbed lately: Plastic.

Things that I’ve skied lately: I won’t bore you with a list, but I do have some pretty pictures. (Thanks, Tim!)

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MSR Advance Pro 2 UL tent I reviewed in January.

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Things are good! I like climbing hills to ski them. I also like reviewing gear, so expect more of that.

Up next on my to-review list: Arcteryx Theta SV ski bibs. (Spoiler alert: I have a lot to say about the hilariously small pockets. I look forward to the day when girl pockets are the same size as dude pockets.)

Beckey Tattoo

In a complete 180 from my last post, I recently posted a photo of a tattoo I got to commemorate one of my all-time heroes and it blew up (by my standards.)

As is typical of me: I decided I wanted it, drove to a shop in downtown Bellingham, asked for a price quote, didn’t feel the vibe I wanted from the artist, left, found another shop and sat down, arm outstretched less than a half hour later.

Now, I have Fred Beckey’s name permanently etched on my arm. #noragrets

The reaction I’ve gotten has been funny to me. There’s been a lot of, “Ok…” in my personal life. And a few, “F&CK YEAHs!” The people who get it, yeah, those are my people. Obviously, I got it for myself first and foremost and I’ll explain why:

Fred Beckey never sent 5.14. I don’t even know if he climbed 5.12. And he certainly wasn’t a saint, he had an affinity for women (lots of them) and a bit of kleptomania for virgin routes.

But, Fred Beckey climbed for nearly 80 years.

Fred Beckey was the guy to establish countless NW classics: Angels Crest in Squamish comes to mind, the Beckey Route on Liberty Bell, the West Ridge of Forbidden, the Beckey-Chouinard route on South Howser Tower.

He established so many first ascents that he lost count.

He never sought fame or the limelight. He just sought climbing. A whole hell of a lot of it.

And the more I tell people this, the more I realize it means to me: Fred Beckey pioneered countless new routes, spent an absurd time in the mountains and he always came home.

Fred Beckey is my hero because of his relentless dedication to climbing. Besides opening a whole lot of stunning routes to the climbing community of the Northwest, he gave back to all of us in the form of guidebooks. That’s no small undertaking.

I had the idea for this tattoo a year ago while I was on a climbing trip in Mexico. I was hanging out with my friend Carey climbing beautiful bolted multi-pitch lines in Potrero Chico — pretty far removed from a lot of the classic Beckey lines, but pretty awesome nonetheless.

When Fred Beckey passed recently, I knew that now was the time to pull the trigger on this idea. I’m so glad that I did.

So, thanks Fred. I’m looking forward to the wisdom I’ll draw from your name permanently on my arm in the climbs to come. Hope you’re sending new routes in Heaven.

Why You Should Climb with a Girl

This weekend, I had the special opportunity to guide on Mount Baker leading a rope team of women. We were fast. We were strong. We summited on Friday via the Coleman Deming route in just over 5 hours.

After coming back to Bellingham, the mother of two sisters on my team — who also climbed and summited Mount Baker with my co-guide Arthur Herlitzka — told me that it was special to her that her girls got to climb with a female guide. I smiled and told her that I was excited about it too; but I didn’t realize exactly how important it was to me.

On the way down from 10,781 feet, Michaela, Tatum, Scarlett (my rope team) and I began to talk about feminism, outdoor media and climbing. At first, I didn’t have much to say beyond that I thought it was important to see more women outside and in positions of leadership, like guiding. And then I recalled and talked about the post I’d written about a bizarre and frustrating encounter with someone essentially mansplaining in a classroom environment how he understood the plight of all women in outdoor leadership because his wife had been slighted too… Yeah, I’m still a little salty.

But anywho, I wanted to share a few thoughts with you — as a female guide — about how climbing with a girl might differ from climbing with a guy. I’d also like to add the disclaimer right up front: the traits that I’m going to list are not necessarily gendered nor does gender exist in a binary. These are just my observations of climbing with women in the last couple of years and are not absolutes (i.e. women always X, men never Y, etc.) I mean nothing more than to highlight the things that I’ve really enjoyed about climbing with women. Also, I use “women” and “girls” interchangeably and don’t mean any offense by it. That said:

Girls are so fun to talk to. I’ve had a lot of really interesting conversations with women while climbing. I think that having a steady conversation while grinding uphill for hours on end is an impressive feat in and of itself. It definitely helps with the passage of time and mileage. I’ve also observed that women are more inclined to uphold their end of the conversation.

Breaks tend to happen right when they need to. Seems to me like a lot of women aren’t afraid of speaking up when they need to take a sec and adjust their pack, their boots or whatever comes up. When climbing with girls, I find that I’m well-hydrated, well-snacked and comfortable cruising at a sustainable pace. I find that girls tend to be more communicative about how they’re feeling and what they need before something like blisters become an issue. And I appreciate and respect that.

Speaking of snacks… Besides taking breaks for snacks, it seems like girls like to take a little bit more time with food prep and tend to bring the goods. And by goods, I mean chocolate. To be honest, I think most of my climber friends — guys or girls — are keen on summit chocolate. And post-climb beers. Yeah.

Girl-stoke is different than boy-stokeGirl stoke comes out in giggles and shrieks and proclamations of love for the mountains. Boy stoke seems to come in the form of hoots, hollers and whoops. Stoke, regardless of the source, is often contagious. But as a lady, I find girl stoke to be especially infectious.

Oh man, can we take a second to reflect on the awesomeness of lady-beta? Yep. It’s happening. Right now. First, I’d like to say that I really appreciate when people pause to ask you if you actually want beta. Props to the people that deny it. Props to people who don’t automatically spray you down. However, I gotta say that I love getting the crucial lady beta that gets you through the crux (because I’m not 6′ with a 6′ wingspan and man-powerful-muscles. I’m 5’1″, short & powerful, but sometimes require a more delicate sequence.) I don’t know if there’s any way to describe in words how great it is; but when it happens for you, you’ll know.

And while we’re on the beta note, I’d just like to briefly comment on the numerous times I’ve been on trail and people have asked either my male clients or my male coguide for beta on a route — not me, despite wearing the patches and gear to suggest that I’m a guide. While it might seem like no big deal — and often isn’t in and of itself — I raise the issue because it’s happened on more than one occasion. While I can’t say conclusively that it relates to being a lady, I just wanted to mention the observation and I’ll leave it at that.

The bottom line is that I’m psyched when I get to climb with women.

I’m psyched when I get to climb in general; but it’s extra special to climb with an all-lady rope team. It’s different and it doesn’t happen very often (at least not in my climbing thus far.) I know that more and more women are getting outside and getting themselves into positions of outdoor leadership. I think it’s awesome; it’s necessary. I look forward to roping up with them.

The Edge

You know that feeling when you’re standing beneath a climb, when you’re trying to puzzle out the movements, when you start to wonder: Can I actually pull this off?

Maybe it’s a project you’ve attempted several times before. Maybe it’s a string of long, strenuous pitches. Maybe it’s at your grade limit. Maybe it’s your anti-style.

But you begin all the same.

Sometimes, the first few moves are easy. You’ve psyched yourself up enough that when things go smoothly, your guard begins to drop. You’re flowing. Maybe I can actually do this…

Sometimes, the first move off the ground is heinous. You position your hands, your feet, begin to pull… Then come down. You reposition, begin to pull… And come down again. Maybe I don’t got this…

But you climb on. You go for it. And then:

Sometimes, you reach the crux, breathe really hard, grunt a little and barely make the move.

Sometimes, you reach the crux, grunt a lot and then take a whip. Having eliminated that possibility, you figure out the sequence and get through the crux second go.

Sometimes, you reach the crux. You give it hell, but it’s relentless. For whatever reason — excuses or otherwise — it’s just not going to go for you today. And that’s ok, because at least you tried. Guess that means you’ve got a new project.

That is climbing.

Besides the physical act of pulling yourself up a rock, you climb by pushing your limits. You discover what you are and are not (yet) capable of. By allowing yourself into that headspace, reaching complete physical and mental exertion, you discover the extent of your inner strength, grit and capabilities.

Encounters with “the edge” aren’t just limited to climbing; I can tell ya that much. But it’s good to take yourself there. It’s how we climb and how we grow.