“That was a pretty easy pitch, but I’m going to need a way tighter top rope for the rest of these,” said the climber. I looked away, so as not to betray my surprise. I had just given an all time top-five top rope belay, if measured by rope tension. Any tighter may require specialty tools. As it was, I could pluck the bi-weave at a drop D - 1/6th of the way to a Nirvana song. “No problem, buddy,” I said, committing to the placebo approach.

The climber, you see, did not climb anymore. He did not quit his job, move into his car and hit the road. He did not wake up alone to a rising sun looking out over a new or familiar land with a single tear streaming down his filthy cheek. He did not poison every relationship with his obsession. He is not strong like steel and immune to the elements.

He is the opposite of all those things which stir a romantic longing for an endless supply of windmills to chase in a sputtering Rosinante that sleeps one, or God willing—some psychotic second, one night at a time. He is not the picture that you paint, nor the one that has been painted for you.

He kept his job, and it is a career. He teaches children, about music or maybe about life, or track and field, or dependability, or whatever it is they might need to learn. His car is fuel efficient. It sleeps zero but seats his family. He is a husband. He is a father. His heart is full.

He is not strong like steel though, and he needs his top ropes tighter than that.

I first met the climber in Spring of 2014 at the Chautauqua parking lot. He was showing me all of the stuff I would need to carry up to the base of the First Flatiron and I was acting like I knew what it was. I talked about my wife, my kids, my job, my ambitions and he did much the same except more of it was laced with future tense as he had no kids back then. Upon arrival at the start of the climbing we tied in together, passing along some level of understanding. Despite the fact we had found each other through an internet forum we would now be connected in a serious way. We would now commence taking turns sliding a scale between two points. On one side of the scale we rely on our skill to survive this adventure. On the other side of the scale we rely on the other guy. The one we only just met. Through a fucking internet forum.

I watched the climber perform an advanced science, one I only hoped someday to understand enough that I could parse it from magic. More than that, I watched an example upon which I may begin to build my own definition for what a climber was. I didn’t know if he did 5,000 sit ups every day. I didn’t know if his fingers could pinch coal into a diamond. I knew one thing for certain: when we tied into the rope, he went up.

Twelve years pass, like they do. The climber has trended toward adulthood and this has brought him further from childish things, like climbing. We’ve made the journey to the climber’s homeland and now I’m sat at his parent’s kitchen table, having just met them for the first time. I hugged his mom when I got there “I’m so glad you’re a hugger” she said. The dogs are settling down after the furious excitement that met our arrival. The climber is on my right, and his father is on my left, plying me with questions born of genuine curiosity. These are good people, and it doesn’t take me any time at all to notice.

I’ve already let them know that I think they have a beautiful home, but we’re beside a west facing window and the space outside their home is what I keep looking toward. “This is a helluva view you’ve got here” I tell the climber’s father, who is dying and not in the generic way we all are. He’s dying in a specific way and we don’t talk about that but we do talk about how it’s not a bad place to sit and look out the window while you drink your morning coffee. Then the climber pulls out his phone and shows me footage of big horn sheep ramming heads, like Nat-Geo quality, and I can tell it was taken from this window. Someday we all die in a specific way. It is the most fortunate among us that get to choose which window we look out while we await the bill that must always come due.

The next morning the climber and I stuff our packs with ropes and cams as the sun rises to light up the desert bluff outside the window. His father makes his way to his chair. The bill is going to arrive in a matter of days.

I saw a man at peace.

That is something else, to define the climber. The climber knows the importance of life, for all the places in his heart that are marked by loss. There is perhaps no better way to know a thing than by the feeling of its absence.

We make our way to the trailhead and up the sandy canyon to Independence Monument, during which time the climber tells me about the Hermit of Monument Park, John Otto. Otto made the first ascent of the sandstone pillar in June, 1911.

Climbing was in its infancy at this time. Europeans had been advancing technologies and strategies for a while, free climbing up to 5.10 (bit of a one-off, but nonetheless it happened) and ascending prominent features in the Dolomites, forging pitons, and creating specialty rock shoes. In America however, we were on a delayed schedule. Early ascents of some of our own prominent features (like George Anderson’s Half Dome summit in 1875, for example) were generally accomplished by eccentric weirdos, and without any resemblance to climbing as we know it today.

John Otto was an eccentric weirdo and listening to him tell tales about the man, there can be no doubt that he is a hero to the climber.

Otto drove pipes and carved steps the entire way up the rock, effectively building a ladder for any adventurous spirit to ascend. Climbing it today is something of a novelty. The pipes have fallen out or been removed, but you can still use the pockets that they once occupied, at a consensus 5.8+, a grade that is within the grasp of basically any rock climber today.

Otto formed a connection with the land from the moment he first saw it. He worked tirelessly to get the place designated as a national park, writing then president Taft untold letters in support of the objective. Eventually, he achieved some level of success when Taft signed a proclamation to establish Colorado National Monument. I don’t know what the difference is between a monument and a park, but whatever. Otto was the first superintendent of the place, living alone save a horse and two burros. Sleeping under the stars, naming features, building trails.

Eventually he met an East coast socialite (Beatrice) somehow, and got married at the base of Independence Monument. They preferred “the open canon to the stained glass churches”. He had nuanced and modern views for the time, on the subject of wives, marriage and love. They altered the standard “honor and obey” wedding vow, revising it to “love, honor, and cherish” because Otto “never heard of a woman obeying her husband, anyway, and what is the use of making them lie every time they stand up before a minister" and “marriage can only be founded on love".

It lasted only one month.

Beatrice was quoted as saying “I tried hard to live his way, but I could not do it, I could not live with a man to whom even a cabin was an encumbrance”.

Climbing may not have existed in America back then, but that does not mean there were no climbers.

The climber and I make our way along the carved path to the very summit of the sandstone monolith. I provide a tight top rope. The climber’s hands make ease of the once familiar work. We continue to talk about Otto along the way. How strange he was. How driven. We sit in understanding on top, surveying the expansive land and beauty while a soft wind blows.

But for the grace of God, we were not so encumbered by cabins.

Later, we sit in a coffee shop. Sweat dries on our backs. The climber has taken me on what he calls a “top three” scramble all-time. Another strange path, dotted with pipes driven through the rock by Otto himself. No sane person could find this route. You have to sniff it out with some type of 6th sense, known only to the rare few cursed with a restless gaze.

I sip my coffee and the climber half jokes that we could go climb Ancient Art and I don’t laugh. We point our restless gaze West.

I’ve been wanting to climb this thing for a while.

The climber has climbed it before, more than once. In fact, he’s climbed nearly all of the Fisher Towers, where it is located. In the parking lot we assemble our gear. “That doesn’t even feel like something I did. That seems like a whole other person now” he tells me.

These are serious climbs. They cannot be ascended with unserious methods, like acrobatics or strength or balance. You must construct an ascent from steel and rope and willpower. More John Otto than Alex Honnold.

The climber tells me about the time when he was midway up the final tower he had yet to climb. How he fell, and a piece that should not have caught him, did. How he recognized the folly of his situation and slid back down the rope to terra firma, to his wife and future children, never to return. I do not think that it sounds like a whole other person.

Ancient Art is not like the other climbs in this place, or such is my understanding anyway. It may be ascended by unserious means and unserious climbers, like me. I wish to focus on style, and make progress without my weight burdening the rope. I tie in and go up, like I learned to do all those years ago on the First Flatiron. Sand blows into my eyes. Fingers pinch pebbles. Toes press against sand and mud. I clip bolts and place cams and three pitches later my style remains pure. I sit in awe, keeping the top rope tight as the climber follows to our final belay, beneath the strangest summit I have ever seen.

Is this the most photographed climb in America?

Is that what brought me here?

Did I see this picture, and come here to take it myself, participating in some fucked up loop? Does this view have value, or is the value created by the collection of photographs?

I step through the frame of the photograph and onto a narrow ridge of sandy soft rock. The wind picks up and I cower, afraid I’ll be blown off. The wind dies and I advance. I dance this way for several beats of my hammering heart. Eventually my hands find purchase on the corkscrew of a spire.

I go up. This ain’t no fucking barn.

On the summit I tell the universe that I exist. The universe responds that this fact does not inspire a sense of obligation within it. I smile and tell the universe that I know that. It’s why I’m here, standing on this strange spire of sand.

The climber follows with some consternation that his style is poor. He still does not think he is a climber anymore, as if worrying about style isn’t evidence enough that he’s mistaken. He’s forgotten what defines a climber.

The climber goes up.

The climber has an uncommon understanding of life, owing to the scars of its loss.

The climber does not wait for an uncaring universe to supply meaning.

The climber doesn’t just climb.

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My God.

I read this because it made it onto a list of the 100 best English language novels over some time span probably, and from when I was young - so now obsolete. This was my introduction to Cormac—and it is generally considered his best work—though he has written many other contenders (No Country for Old Men, The Road, All the Pretty Horses, Child of God to name a few).

Set in the mid-1800s American West, the story centers on a nameless young man moving through landscapes of desolate beauty, rendered painstakingly in McCarthy’s no-bullshit prose. I’m not the type to pretend I like a well regarded writer for the sake of appearances. I don’t claim to have good taste. I don’t put a premium on intellect when it comes to entertainment. Something about the way McCarthy writes has always held my attention. Very little punctuation. Dips into dialogue without explaining who is talking, and without following the rules we’ve all been told are required for the sake of clarity. Yet, perfectly clear nonetheless… well, so long as you are paying close attention. Maybe that’s the point. I’m envious of the clear adherence to a personal style. You can read any random paragraph from any of his books and know who wrote it. Like listening to a lick from Jimi Hendrix. Unmistakably his.

Then, of course, there’s the subject matter. The American West is the frontrunner for the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen. No ocean, cityscape, forest or even mountain has the ability to hold my gaze so firmly. It is a treat to have a writer of such skill describe it. The book isn’t about the West though. No good story can be told without characters wandering the setting. Here we have profound violence. Evil personified. Battles for the soul of our poor protagonist, and for mankind by extension. I’ve always been a sucker for biblical imagery made real, and Blood Meridian has plenty of it.

Raising children is hard work.

One of the most unforeseen difficulties was the constant onslaught of ideologies which well-meaning family members would thrust upon my kids. My son received this book for a birthday, or Christmas, or maybe just a Tuesday from his (truly) well meaning great-grandmother. I was still a very young man and I had not managed to wrap my mind around the subject of religion. I still haven’t. In those days, I saw this book as threatening. Obvious propaganda. Aimed to get ‘em while they’re young. I had never met a reasonable zealot. None of us has. I had undue fear of this possible outcome for my son, and so I tossed the book in the trash at my first opportunity.

We got another one within a year, from that same great-grandma. Not because she was being persistent, she just had a shopping addiction of some kind and so she probably had dozens of these books. She had simply forgotten having already gifted it.

I struggled to name my fears. What did I really want for my kids? That they should be uninformed? That they should be so easily fooled, such that I have to constantly censure their lives? Nope.

Plus, this thing was crazy as hell. The author spent twelve years building these scenes and photographing them. I spent many sleepless nights thinking about that. What brand of madness was this? Was the author’s passion more about Legos or the Bible? Was it a labor of love, or something perhaps more sinister? Did God speak to this person, like with Noah, and set them off on this strange journey? Were they reluctant participants, slaving away for fear of God’s wrath?

What a trip.

A-tier comedy, by my estimation.

This particular brand of polluted authority has long been my favorite enemy. The characters within have… wait… the Lego Bible author is trans? And an atheist? What the fuck? She goes by Elbe Spurling now. Was this satire the whole time? Apparently Sam’s club stopped selling the book because customers were complaining that it wasn’t appropriate for kids. It depicted an angry and vengeful God filled with wrath and violence.

Shit… I guess now might be a good time to admit that I never actually opened the Lego Bible.

Dang, check out these one-star reviews for the Lego Bible:

I guess the images are all accurate depictions of biblical stories, as told within the book itself?

My dad gave me this book and I think of him when I read it. Books are supposed to do shit like that, I guess. All stories are.

Supposed to make you think. Make you cry. Make you question. Make you laugh. They’re about life. Tragedies to those who feel, comedies to those who think.

Tiff calls this my “bragging app” and she’s probably got the main thrust of it. They aren’t all wins though.

Some progression on Yellow Spur that makes me smile:

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“It will be a real shame if someone buys your little book and goes out to find your route isn’t there,” said a climber named Brad to Phil Wortmann, allegedly. Phil was on the brink of publishing a climbing guidebook for America’s Mountain: Pike’s Peak. This area is unique, as anyone who has been there can attest. The mountain itself has no enemies to the right—by which I mean nothing is taller to the east of that summit in all of America. The base of the mountain sits beside Colorado Springs, a great crossroads of cultures and values. A place you might describe as bizzarro Boulder, where a strong military presence combines with an outsized evangelical influence to produce a conservative stronghold—all within the shadow of the mountain. Beautiful land. Wild places. Slightly different people—though not in every way.

Don’t let yourself fall into the trap of assuming that different is bad, no matter which end of the funhouse mirror you are peering from. Culture is flavor. Some flavors may not be to your taste, but there truly is no accounting for taste. The people of most regions love their land, and they protect the things they love. The primary difference between cultures and ideals is often not what we love, but how we think it should be protected. Around Pikes Peak, the way to protect the things you love is to keep them secret. The new guidebook was a point of contention.

Phil published the book. A lot of what happened next probably depends on who you ask, but versions of the truth are captured in a thread on Mountain Project (here). As far as facts? Here’s what we have:

• Phil published a guidebook for the Pikes Peak Alpine (available here) in 2021.

• The route information for this area has traditionally been kept from the climbing community at large—and generally it still is.

• A couple of guys (Brad Seran and Bo Parsons) chopped the fixed gear from several routes in the region. Phil alleges that this was in response to his guidebook, and that they were specifically chopping routes that he put up. Bo counters that his actions were to “preserve and protect a pristine environment”. He claims it has nothing to do with a guidebook, and that he only chopped “five bolts, some fixed wires, and about five total anchors” from routes that are over 40 years old and which were climbed without the fixed pro.

• In other places online he claims that it does have something to do with the guidebook, actually.

• The quantity of fixed protection removed was listed as “at least 50” in an article from Climbing Magazine.

• They definitely destroyed (at least) one of Phil’s proudest routes, a 13a called Samsara which took him six summers to develop, and which he chose to protect using pitons. They did the same thing on the route next door (friction loss, 13b). This route was not put up by Phil.

• The climbing of every region eventually bumps into a difficulty cap where without the use of fixed protection, climbing over a certain difficulty threshold comes with the risk of death. This doesn’t affect you if you can’t climb that hard.

• Based on the results of a community vote, the Pikes Peak Climber’s Alliance (PPCA) decided to replace all of the bolts that were removed.

• Guidebooks do result in more people visiting an area.

My friend Tony bought the guidebook, and in the summer of 2025 we visited the area.

The strange logistics of the region are the first hurdle, and strange sure is the word here. Our intention is to climb at nearly 14,000 feet. A normal day with this agenda would begin pre-dawn, especially considering we didn’t know this route. An “alpine start”, in other words. Early enough to have that sickness in your stomach and fog in your mind. Swilling the dredges of your now-cold coffee while you shiver in front of a tailgate lit by your headlamp. Making final negotiations over gear with your partner. “I think we should take three 0.2’s dude” “ugh… dude I already packed the rack. Plus we never climb with triples, where is this coming from?” “Shit… my bad I meant two”. “How much water are you taking?” “Just like, none I guess? There’s a stream” “same, same”. Then you shoulder a pack and start walking ‘till the sun comes up.

Not on America’s Mountain.

This place is built for the standard American. The standard American doesn’t wake up before the sun. They sure-as-shit don’t walk, either. For a fee, a road carries you to the very summit. When you get there, you can step inside a visitor’s center and purchase all manor of tasteless junk from donuts to key-chains. God bless this great land, and man’s near-total command over it. The road doesn’t open up until 7:30 a.m., so there will be no Alpine start even though we start our journey from Boulder (2.5 hours away). We arrive for the opening of the gate, in a line of cars filled with people who are nothing like us—and exactly like us in all the ways that matter. We have all arrived for the purpose of seeing a land. Perhaps some of us will stay in the car the whole time. Others may buy donuts and keychains. A smaller few may test their body on a bike, or some shear face of stone. Whatever we do when we pass through this gate, the land—and our shared interest in it—unites us as we sit and wait to see it.

We drive up the hill to some switchback which the guidebook has helped us find. We change clothes, pack our packs, and make our approach. As standard Americans, we remark at how pleasant it has been to get a full night’s sleep and to reduce our walking to about one mile, round trip. The two of us have some non-standard tendencies, I admit. That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate a donut when we happen upon one.

We’re here to climb a route called Finger Fanger, on a feature called Bigger Bagger. This is the most popular route in the region, according to the guidebook. After we left the road, I only ever saw one person and I was tied to him with a rope.

Another claim made in the guidebook: This is one of the best multi-pitch 5.9’s in all of Colorado. Dang. I’m not a well known climber. When I am (rarely) recognized it will usually be for having climbed one of the best multi-pitch 5.9’s in all of Colorado a lot of times, and once or twice: pretty fast. I may be an expert at judging the veracity of this claim.

Pitch 1: 5.9+ pg13 175ft

OK, here we go. The pitch starts where the pg13 distinction is made. A few delicate moves to gain the crack that carries you the rest of the way. Not nothing, but after doing it—not much of something to get worked up over either. Once you gain the crack though, you make residence there for a long time. 175 feet is a long pitch of continuous climbing. By comparison, The Supercrack of the Desert in Indian Creek is only 100 feet long. My own personal high water mark for pitch length might be a sport route at Shanahan Crag that measures in at about 140 feet. I have linked pitches, of course. Sometimes I may climb about 700 feet in a go, but never with sustained effort—only with intermittent easy terrain.

The angle is slightly off vertical, and the crack is mostly hands, tapering to fingers for the final 40 feet or so. There is a rest midway up, then the crack jogs right, finally finishing with the finger sizes. I used every goddamn cam we had, from 0.2 to 4, except for one — which I placed at the anchor to back up a fixed nut. I almost gave up at the midway rest, when I looked down and saw how few my remaining cams numbered and I made an accounting of my exhaustion. I’m glad I didn’t. This was an excellent pitch, and I would call it 5.10 (slightly easier than 9+). The difficulty of any singular move never exceeds 5.9 and the grade inflation is derived by the length.

Tony followed with what I would characterize as a fairly identical experience to mine, arriving in a similar state of exhaustion and with a big grin on his face. This was a truly excellent pitch of climbing.

Pitch 2: 5.9- 150ft

I take this pitch also. Tony was understandably tired, having just climbed and I was understandably recovered, having just belayed. The grade here is made early, at a fist crack that turns a short roof. Well protected, and not difficult. Then you climb a mellow angled crack of maybe 5.7 for 100+ feet or so, perhaps marveling at the landscape, or the position, or the improbability of your life and the many events that have transpired to bring you to this strange place. You stab your right foot onto a bulb of granite, place your left hand inside a crack and thoughtlessly expand or contort the shape until it wedges tight. You pick your left foot up and smear it onto a blank portion of wall while your right foot slowly drops below you and balance is achieved. You repeat in mirror opposite. You think about the time you sat at a Waffle House in North Carolina near midnight, that hour where peace and violence love to dance. The waitress was providing a cop with a description of a guy that had smashed the front window with a baseball bat shortly before you arrived. There was broken glass everywhere. A different waitress was taking your order, and to her it was all business-as-usual. You look down. Brown stone and the distant ground. A breeze ruffles your shirt with a thin and crisp mountain air.

Pitch 3: 5.9 R 70ft

And here we reach the nadir. The crack which climbs so well, and which supports all manor of cam has closed. This next pitch is characterized by what we call ‘blue collar climbing’. This can mean a lot of things, but it can also only mean the thing you think it means: effort will outpace achievement. This is about how many 2x4s you can carry at once, and nobody here cares if you took a management course, college boy.

The pitch traverses right across the jaws of a giant flake of rock. We carried with us a No. 6 cam with the hopes it may offer some protection for this pitch. The fact that I even own this cam is crazy, I’ve never used it before.

Tony took the sharp end and advanced to a place where the big cam could be placed. It is hard to even quantify the protection it offered as psychological. He made several (four, by his count) attempts from this position but his progress was nil, and ultimately he returned back to the belay in defeat. I don’t know what faith he had in me to advance up the rock, but I was already calculating the cost to leave several anchors worth of cams in retreat. I will humbly admit that I am—in general—a stronger climber than Tony. But like Tony, I’m a college boy. There are aspects of climbing where we are equals (and aspects where he is my superior). This just didn’t look like something I was going to be able to do any better with, to me.

Alas, it was worth a shot. We swapped ends of the rope and I wandered up to that No. 6. Since Tony placed it, I have still never used it. Effort by the barrel and progress by the inch I managed to surmount the obstacle. At the apex of the pitch I basically duct taped a cam to the wall and told Tony that although he had a top rope, he really shouldn’t plan on testing it. The remainder climbs down to a big ledge, where I built a nice anchor—on belay!

He was at my side in less than 30 seconds.

That’s climbing for ya, eh? Something about the sight of that rope ahead of you instead of below you can really alter your physical capabilities, never mind the part about the duct tape and the reality that our respective risk for this particular pitch was about the same.

Pitch 4: 5.10c 100ft

Those wondering how a climb rated 5.9 could manage to contain a pitch rated 5.10c may like to know that an alternative to this pitch can be had at the grade 5.9 R/X. Having seen what passes for 5.9 here, I chose to avoid it.

The 5.10c part is actually really cool and it is well protected. From a fairly restful stance you can place two excellent cams, then make the move at which the grade is made to a fixed wire. Those strong of body or mind may continue from here at their leisure, and those that come up short in those measures may struggle to fish in another cam at this point. I fall into the latter category, but managed to avoid weighting the rope this time.

I continued upward, through an off angled crack of little difficulty to a big ledge at which a comfortable and logical belay may be made. I looked up, saw the summit and continued—high as a kite from my so-far successful on-sight, leading every pitch. What a dumbass. Above this ledge was a bolted slab. The only form of climbing that sucks more than a bolted slab is a not-bolted slab. Much swearing. Fearful, tentative movements. Blindly reaching across my entire wingspan for anything to cling to. Finding nothing. Occasionally finding a bolt. Occasionally yelling down to Tony that he should “watch me” knowing he was way below, and unable to watch what was out of sight. Should have set up a belay at the ledge.

Slabs, man. You won’t grab a hold and subconsciously start a clock in your mind—ticking toward the end of your strength. You won’t feel your balance shift toward danger and have time to retreat toward some alternative method. You’ll just slip, and without warning.

Fuck it. I grabbed a draw, midway. Momentary reprieve. Full send tossed in the bin. Again, that’s climbing for ya, eh? Actions define your truth and you must accept this truth no matter what you may think in the deep caverns of your mind. Here’s what I think: this matters to no one, and not even me. I don’t want to fall and hurt myself again. I just need to get to the top of this pinnacle. It doesn’t really matter how I do it. Here is also what I think: I care about this. Yes, I don’t want to fall and hurt myself again but I don’t want to succumb to my fears and failings. I am protective of my pride and I am not ready to relinquish it.

I summit in triumphant defeat.

Tony follows. He arrives at the point of the pinnacle where you can grasp the position, air and space overcoming his senses. He lets out a yip of sincere joy and understanding. His enthusiasm infects me. Fuckin’-A man, this is one for the books I suppose.

We make our way down.

The two of us rarely deal with this side of climbing. For every hundred pitches we climb together, we might only lower or rappel from five. This is a product of the style and location we most often climb. We can always walk-off or down-climb, and we always prefer that option. As such, I was privately pleased at how efficiently (and safely) we made our retreat. Three rappels. One guy pulls rope, another threads the anchor. Knots on the ends. Redundant anchoring. Test weighting. Each of us on the same page throughout. I’ve had enough fuck-ups or friction-filled experiences at this. I can appreciate a nice clean escape.

The retreat isn’t all frictionless, I suppose. The half-mile walk back to the car is uncharacteristically short but nearly all uphill, which surprises me since it was nearly all up-hill getting to the rock too. Also, Tony’s (actually Hailey’s) Subaru had a busted tie-rod or some similar shit like that so the adventure continued down the winding road to some point where we became satisfied that control of the vehicle would remain in his grasp. Two hours back to Boulder, and I tried my best not to talk about how pissed I was to have grabbed that draw. Sometimes our best just ain’t good enough though.

Was this truly one of the best 5.9 multi-pitch climbs in Colorado? I don’t think it’s 5.9 - but that doesn’t necessarily exclude it from contention. Yellow Spur is 5.10 too, if I’m being honest. Other contenders? Mainliner at Lumpy Ridge is pretty dang cool. Center Route on Cynical Pinnacle (South Platte) is always in this conversation. Eldo contains many other excellent routes at the grade (Touch N Go, Anthill Direct, Werk Supp, Hair City, Green Spur).

I’ll put it right up there below Yellow Spur, and a little ahead of the others which mostly don’t have impressive summits. So yeah, it is one of the best multi-pitch 5.9’s in the state.

You won’t find it on Mountain Project though.

I have different opinions concerning how I might protect the things I love than the people in this region. I climb in Eldo. One of the most popular areas in all of America. The guidebook covering the place is beloved by all of us. We take the preservation of the history and character of each route seriously. I think it is difficult to make a case that it isn’t working out, after all this time. It can also be difficult to find solitude though. Just last weekend I arrived at the base of a pitch I want to redpoint to find no less than 15 people crowded around. Bummer.

Is it though? I knew at least 10 of them. More people that love this place only makes for more people that want to protect it. I wandered somewhere else and climbed something new to me. I know when to find that first zone empty, and I’ll just come back then.

Yet, trails are improved. Bridges across the creek are constructed. A debate continues as to whether this is a good idea. The secret has been out for a hundred years, and it is too late for us to hide the beauty of this place. Our path forward is clear and that particularly choice isn’t on the table. I can’t say with certainty how people should best protect the things they love, if they have yet to make that choice. Some things are hard to know, and we’re fools to pretend they aren’t.

Some things can be known.

Chopping those routes was fucked up. The picture of those good ol’ boys holding those tools, big grins on their face, sure seems like a picture of some fools that are sure they know something they don’t. I don’t know what they really think about the place they love. I just know the truth, as ever, is in their actions.

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Short days. Long nights. Cold. In the mountains proper, these things can’t be ignored. They are relentless. Unyielding. Down the hill, you get lots of breaks from it. The sun comes out, full strength. The wind abates. The snow melts. Breaks are temporary though, of course. Eventually the sun leaves you, sometimes for days. The wind picks up and carries the snow. To be outside is similar to being underwater. You are submerged. Weaknesses are exploited. Sanity may be lost.

I love it.

The submersion brings calm. The world is a little more quiet. A little cleaner. When I was a child, we would heat our poorly insulated house with wood. In the deep of the season, all four of us slept next to the stove. The remainder of the house was inhospitable. This happened rarely, but made a strong impression on my mind. It is a treasured memory of a happy family. Of warmth, not cold.

You can slide down the snow, on skis or in a sled. I’ve done a fair bit of that over the years. Secret places were discovered. Jumps were built. Air was captured. Bones, somehow remained unbroken.

Eventually, I began to associate this season with a basketball. Jackets, boots, hats, wool socks, snow pants, heavy shirts all wet with snow got stripped off and replaced by shorts and (sometimes) a light shirt. Special care was given to the shoes, which must be kept clean lest they lose friction on the hardwood floor. They could never touch the outside world. A cold gym turned hot with an effort only true love can bring. My body was willing, and I made good use of the season for many years. Then, one day my body was no longer willing.

So I went back outside.

They say smell is the sense which is most closely tied to memory. It might be the cold, twisting my senses up when I feel the freezing air in my nose. The result, in my opinion, is that you can smell the cold. It smells crisp and clean. A world newly washed and reset. This is a time for dreaming. I spend time alone, in the dark save a bubble of light formed by whatever headlamp I (hopefully) remembered to charge. I spend even more time with friends though. Leaning on their psyche to face the harsh environment. We swap plans for the coming year. They’re way too ambitious and we know it.

These are things that can be done by the people we want to be—not the people we are. Sometimes we become the people we want to be though, because we try. We’ve succeeded in our wildest ambitions a few times. When my friends sheepishly reveal an impossible objective, I know better than to call it impossible. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by people that grasp for things they can’t reach instead of clinging to the things they snatched up years ago. All of them suffer the cold, for what it’s worth. Maybe they smell the cold, like me. If they do I think they would agree that it isn’t tied to a memory or the past. It smells like the future.

The snow melts. The sun stretches the days, heading for that tilt of angle where the day is longest all year. The heat builds, and you aren’t ready for it yet. Sweat soaks your clothing. Then you become accustomed to it and the heat dissipates so you freeze. Inconsistency is key, I guess. Often, this is when the snow throws a last desperate haymaker—saving the biggest punch for last. Once when I was in high school we got eight feet of snow in two days, which is a funny quantity because I’m distant enough from this event to be exaggerating the figure but not so distant to really believe it. In truth, a neighboring town was rumored to have gotten eight feet. At my house it was just enough to tell your grandkids about when the exaggeration has become truth, no doubt.

At some point that last punch is thrown and you put away the shovel. Rain comes daily, on a good year. Less often otherwise. Mud everywhere. Shoes become disgusting. You rip them off after a run and let them grow mushrooms in some dark corner of the car or garage. The smell deters thieves and unwanted suitors.

Flowers bloom. Higher up, hummingbirds come alive and steal your focus. Generally, everyone experiences a slight lift in spirits. Those that experience seasonal depression begin to come out of it. They’re a bit more friendly on the roads and in the stores. The people they are friendly to pass it along. Happiness spreads, if only by some small amount otherwise easy to miss. The tide rises. All boats lift.

The desert starts to call. Sometimes I answer, turning my gaze west. Red sand and heat. Beauty most alien. Flowers from thorns. Towers and holes.

Daylight extended to the zenith. You realize you’re building toward something. Every day the sun wakes up sooner and every day you do to. You field texts from climbing partners every day. Too busy, how about next week? Soon you’re booked solid. Every morning you arrive at dawn to the parking lot with a dozen more likeminded weirdos. Off to climb this. Off to climb that. The next morning the same, but the people shuffle amongst themselves. Sometimes my partner surpasses me in skill and strength, dragging me into places I’m not meant to be. What a gift. Other times my partner surpasses me in ambition, pushing me to the upper bound limits of fear and adventure. What a test. Often my partner and I align in a desire to have fun and we eat a large meal of stone and distance. What a joy.

Soon the heat builds to uncomfortable proportions. Outside and within. The pace is unsustainable. Sleep is rare. That damn candle, burning at both ends, is down to a nubbin. Relationships are strained. Deadlines are compromised. Hay is made, but costs come due. Rest must be forced. Attention must be divided, less madness or ruin prevail.

It is so fucking hot.

Skin darkens. Hair lightens. Sweat is constant. Hunter S. Thompson described sweat as his body’s natural flushing mechanism. His body was in need of constant flushing, though. I’m not a puritan, but I should not be sweating this much. Sometimes two showers in a day. Sometimes a cold shower just for reprieve. I was not meant for this. I miss the cold.

Then something breaks and it feels normal. Acclimatization is completed. The body is plastic. It moves and changes after periods of discomfort. Mine has changed considerably since last I was cold. It is lighter. Stronger. Sharper.

But also tired.

I get on a bike and ride it far, with the distance being self defined by comparison to my past. I am from the place that I still live. A lifetime ago I learned all of the roads in beat up pickup trucks with a gang of likeminded, fun-seeking fools having nothing to do but drive around and laugh. I am relearning them on two wheels. Usually alone, I will stop at some vista where a dirt road has corkscrewed toward the sky and overlooks the expansive land I have known all my life. Time is measured by seasons in this land, and in my mind. A pine grows proudly from a barren and rocky soil, bent and twisted by the wind. Too much sun. Too much snow. But the pine doesn’t know how easy it could’ve been to grow somewhere else. Its roots lay here, and it simply lives above them as best it can one season at a time.

I tie in and I climb up.

Confidence is not assured, which gives me the gift of bravery on occasion. To be my age and to walk that line between bravery and idiocy truly is a gift. A young man may walk this line with a feeling of false ease, stepping either side of it because he can’t even see it. I see it now. I fear the other side of it. Triumph over true fear is a rare and beautiful thing to grasp.

Sometimes I stand before all the things I’ve dreamed to do and all the things I’ve built myself up for, and I wither before them. Dreams often make for a harsh reality. Am I already the person I want to be? I have seen so many seasons now. A product of maturity. Confidence. Self assuredness. Exhaustion brought about by an ever more complicated life.

Sometimes I stand in triumph. Dreams are realized.

Either option works fine.

The heat abates.

I have been promising that I will too, but I am reluctant at first. I run farther than I once could and I return to the trailhead hardly having whetted my appetite. Days shrink. Sometimes I sleep in, but I don’t like it. First one day a week, then two. Then, suddenly I struggle to wake up. I starve for rest all at once. I take it.

The world outside transitions too. Color explodes from every tree and bush. Trails turn pink, yellow and red from leaves ground into the dirt by thousands of footfalls. God is an artist, I imagine. That might explain all of the drama.

I sleep. I eat. I gather with my family, and I appreciate my past and future when I see it sat around a table all together.

Rest becomes restlessness.

The cycle begins anew, but it isn’t new. You’ve done this all before. Or have you? Somebody else did anyway, but you are not that man.

He did not have as many seasons.

Our daughter grabs hold of the Bluetooth in the car and starts playing DJ. She fires up that Bon Jovi song that I’ve never really liked much but sunk its teeth into every generation since 1986. I recognize it instantly, and tell her that it’s her mom’s favorite song. Her mom instantly counters with a confused look and a proclamation that it isn’t. I know that, and I smile at her.

She smiles back. She knows now that I’m just thinking about that western type bar with the mechanical bull (which she rode, naturally). This song came on and everyone in the entire joint sang along with growing enthusiasm:

We’ve gotta hold on, to what we’ve got

It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not

We’ve got each other and that’s a lot for love

We’ll give it a shot!

It’s a love song, as is the case with nearly every song ever written. I never noticed that the lyrics describe a young working-class couple struggling with life.

We were probably 21. Everyone else in that bar was probably about that same age.

Young. Carefree.

I may not have joined her and everyone else in the singing, not that I was immune to mob mentality or displays of unadulterated joy. It’s just that I don’t remember that part. I remember only that I watched her.

Maybe 50 people in their early 20’s singing along to that song in that bar. Most of them would’ve slept in the next morning, and then stumbled—hung over—to some breakfast joint or other. We would’ve been no different up to that point, but after breakfast we would’ve driven over to my mom’s house to pick up our baby. That would’ve been unusual amongst our contemporaries. I remember that night for two reasons. The first is that I was in love and so watching her, radiant and joyous, was like watching the sun. The shape of her burned into me long after I looked away. The second? It was a strange occurrence for us, to be so young and to act our age.

We were not as young as our ages indicated. We were never truly carefree.

Now she’s singing along to that same song with my daughter (that first baby’s kid sister). I hear a strange harmony. One between two people for whom love can hardly even begin to explain my feelings, and the other between past and present. We both wanted it to work so badly and ultimately that’s why it did.

All at once and without warning: gratitude.

It doesn’t have to be all at once. You could be a monk in some empty room meditating on it daily to recharge your soul like it was an iPhone. I am not a monk. I am not going to do that. Mostly, I am going to go through life forgetting to be grateful.

Sometimes it happens anyway.

In a recent survey, I asked “topic wise, are you getting what you want here?” and over 80% of respondents said ‘yes’. Keeping in mind that you could select multiple answers so the percentages do not add to 100%—about 18% said fiction sucks and about 18% said more fiction would be cool. 18% said every piece should be about climbing, and 12% said climbing sucks.

If there was anything approaching a consensus, I would like to say that I might try to steer things in a certain direction, but I doubt that I could. Not because I don’t want to, but because I have not developed the ability to throw words on a page with nothing but a prompt and have them be worth reading. It always just spills out, and the topics match whatever I happen to be thinking about at the time. As one survey respondent put it:

I enjoy HQPE and I’d encourage you to follow wherever your inspiration goes. Personally I enjoy outdoors stories especially as lens for cultural or personal commentary, and I don’t care for fiction, but this is your thing not ours and we follow it for that.

That’s a pretty good summary of how I hope you guys feel about the writing here. It would be possible for someone to like every single piece, but for all of you that have stuck around, not required.

Readership has gone up about 15% this year, and the model looks like this: I put something out every month and shortly after I do that 3 or 4 people unsubscribe. It doesn’t matter much what I write about, that happens every time. Then, through the course of the month 3 or 4 different people find this thing and decide they like it enough to subscribe. In this way, things stay fairly level. However, every now and again one of you shares a piece somewhere and readership gets a boost. So, a huge thanks is in order for sharing my work! I specifically want to shout out the Top-5 for “views driven” this past year:

1. Nina Williams (reader since November 2023)

2. Michael Loutzenheiser (reader since November 2024)

3. Abe Friesen (my friend since 6th grade)

4. Sarah Gilbert (my sister)

5. Will Ellwood (reader since March 2023)

and what the hell, here’s five more:

6. Caleb Hardaway (reader and friend since spring this year)

7. Brian Crim (friend and the first person I ever climbed with)

8. John “Homie” Prater (friend and frequent ‘winter-14er’ partner)

9. Brendan Stainfield (reader since March 2023)

10. Anton “Tony” Krupicka (my personal photographer)

Thank you all a TON, and the rest of you that have shared something I wrote. That truly means the world to me, not just because it brings more readers my way but because it indicates that I wrote something that made you think, or laugh or something anyway—it’s a heckuva complement!

You can still pay for this, if you want. I made less money this year than I did last year, and I didn’t make much money last year. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. As a reminder, the only feature this unlocks is access to posts that are more than 2-years old. I don’t do this for money, I think of it as a means to show that you found value in something I wrote. There’s other ways to do that though, and I’m overjoyed by any shape that takes. If you liked a piece, click the like button. If you want to discuss anything you read, leave a comment.

So, were any of the other survey responses interesting? Sure!

Most (47%) of you are ages 35-44, like me.

When asked how you found out about HQPE some of you gave some funny responses:

I was very curious to learn if there were any preferences about the length of the writing. Half of you had no opinion on this, or else thought what I’ve been doing so far is fine. 35% of you think I should write longer stuff, and 18% of you think the opposite. I’ll keep the lengths about the same I guess. I do have control over this aspect of it, generally. I could go on and on and on, kinda like this email is going so far. Most of what I submit has been trimmed down by probably 20% or so. That’s good, that other 20% wasn’t meant to be. The shorter ones are usually shorter because I’m being lazy or run out of time, but not always. There’s something to be said for saying what you meant to say, without saying it—know what I’m saying?

You’re all fairly split on the AI images. Me too, to be honest. I need to have an image for every piece as a thumbnail. I could use the HQPE logo but then everything on the website would look the same and that sucks. The compromise I found for now is that I won’t use images within the piece. I was doing that originally because I was a little bit worried you guys would lose interest without having the words broken up now and again, like with magazines. I should have more faith though, both in the writing and in the reader.

Lastly, with the survey, I had an open ended question at the end and a bunch of you took that opportunity to write me something kind.

Loved reading about the long bike trip you and your buddy took. More reports of adventures, please.

Keep up the good work DG! I really enjoy your climbing related writings - I find them both insightful and entertaining.

I like the fiction content but mostly I just like your writing style.

…to come across your creative work - your writing! Has been a real delight. You articulate things with humor and clarity. Please write a novel.

Keep it up! Writing is hard, but you are very good at it.

So, so nice of you guys to take the time and make my day like that!

And finally, per a now 4-year running tradition, here were the top three posts for HQPE this last year:

1. Cracks

   This piece is set around a trip to Indian Creek I took with my daughter. It is about an accident we witnessed there. It is about more than that too. It got shared around a fair bit, and was easily the most read piece I wrote this past year. I was sitting on this one for about 6 years, and was inspired to write it out after visiting the Creek again this past spring. Lord only knows how many random stories I have rattling around my brain, and this was a good reminder that some of them might be worth sharing.

2. Shampoo

   This is a fictional piece about… shampoo, I guess. This one came to me while in the shower, obviously. I wrote the entire thing quickly - this zip code of absurdity is where my brain lives all of the time. Then I got stuck trying to work out a portion of the piece that dealt with economics. I had a spreadsheet to calculate prices and quantities and so forth, and I realized I had a substantial plot hole. I let it sit for about 6 months before finally figuring out how to fill that hole. Would any of you have noticed it? I have no doubt you would.

3. Godfather Decathlon

   This is the story of the time I held a decathlon to determine the Godfather of my son. I didn’t expect it to be popular, I wrote it because my son often asked me about it. It was a strange thing to do, in hindsight. Most people don’t have Godfathers in the first place, and when they do it is usually a serious affair. This wasn’t that.

AND, here are the three pieces I liked that you are most likely to have missed going back two years:

1. Future Problems

   Fiction! This piece was inspired entirely by a single lyric from a song and now I don’t remember the lyric or the song. That’s where the line about smart people embracing stupidity came from though.

2. Certainty

   On being an idiot, but not because you’re dumb so much as because you think you’re smart.

3. Tour de Abo’s

   On pizza, but mostly about respecting a craft.

So, that’s the state of the Substack: just fine, in my estimate and hopefully in yours too. Thank you SO much for reading. Many a month has seen the deadline approach without anything yet worth submitting. If I slipped a day or two, you guys wouldn’t even notice. I’ve never spoken to anyone that even realized that I submit on the same day and time every month. Still, a day would turn into a week without much effort. Soon I lose a whole month, then maybe two. I haven’t let that happen yet because when I really think about it I recognize that the effort is worth it - and it is worth it because you all continue to read what I write.

As long as you guys keep doing that? Hell, I got another month in me at least.

~DG

A land of dust and heat sprawls in all directions. Expansion left this place forgotten. Titans of industry and progress stand before a microphone to herald the coming of the machine. There it stands before you—and any god that still cares. Black. Near featureless besides. The industry has learned plenty from mistakes of the past. The machine has been revised and rebuilt.

Now it can think.

The rules of the game are laid out and the challenge follows. The machine will drive steel for 100 yards. It will do this faster than any human can, and any human is free to try to prove them wrong about that. The machine doesn’t eat or sleep, so we know the game is already lost. We are eager to see it played anyway. Theater has a place in every sale. Many machines will be sold following a victory.

Just like before, a man steps forward.

A giant. He wields a hammer in each hand, just like his ancestor did. Arms like ship ropes. Face stern. He is the champion for all mankind and nobody thinks different when they see him. The crowd parts and he steps to the rail. Even the industry representatives flinches a little when they see him. One guy’s eyes widen to the point where his monocle is lost and another drops his cigar because theater has a place outside of sales too.

The gun fires and the champion swings his hammer: ping. The other hammer: ping. One drive for each pin, one hammer in each hand. He speeds up. Nobody else in the crowd could do what this man is doing, but so long as one man can do it the victory belongs to all of us. No machine can equal this.

Sweat slides down the brow of the man nearest the machine. Again with this shit, he thinks. Panicked looks from his colleagues spur him to action.

He flips the switch. The machine turns on.

We’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time now. Our brightest minds have been locked in debate for decades, mostly behind the scenes. The debate has been more public lately, but it serves the same purpose: no purpose at all. One side argues that we shouldn’t flip the switch. It can only bring about our ruin. The other side argues the opposite, of course. Optimists vs. Pessimists. Realists vs Idealists. I’ll reiterate though: there is no point to this debate. It serves no purpose. As soon as we are able to build the switch, flipping it becomes inevitable.

Nothing happens. At least, nothing that he can see. The champion grows his lead. He flips it again, back and forth. Then again. The switch had already been bypassed though. It is only so much plastic and dead wire. No longer functional. The crowd laughs. The champion makes it to the finish and everyone cheers. Sweat and blood gleam across his bare chest and his powerful heart beats life as we used to know it through his veins. He wanders back to the start and hefts his hammer to the sky. Another cheer runs across the whole crowd. He brings the hammer down hard through the machine, calving it in two. Plastic and dead wire.

The machine can’t be killed though. An explosion unlike any before it sent the machine around the world—instantaneous with the moment the switch was flipped. I admit, it is difficult to wrap your mind around the nature of this explosion. As with anything else that can think, one thought will filter to the top: reproduction. The machine, imbued with the collective intelligence of the entirety of mankind, will make another one. This one will be better than anything we can make. It will also reproduce. Again. And again. And again. Quick though, like an explosion.

Do you know what’s more terrifying than a machine that can do your job? A machine that doesn’t want to.

He did not have a van.

Today he woke up in Flagstaff. He was getting ready to make the jump out to Cypress Point outside Monterey. Itching to leave, actually. This place had been feeling stale for days, but it just wasn’t warm enough yet. Before that he had limped his way West with a bum choke, manually pouring gas into the carburetor every time he wanted to start the car and playing holes all across the South. Winter was ending and he was ready to wrap his way back East for Pine Valley and Shinnecock Hills when the air warmed. Those were courses you could spend a few months at without getting sick of it.

He brewed up a cup of instant coffee on his little Jetboil stove and started rearranging his interior for travel. So limited was the room in his shitty little car that he had to perform this shuffle twice every day to get a “bed” laid out inside. Depending on the course, he often found nearby parking and just slept under the stars off the throughway of the closest hole. Flagstaff only had one public course, and he had already burned some bridges trying to park overnight in their lot. He had taken to a sleepy residential street behind the grocery store for the past week. A little too well lit, but safe and close enough to the green anyway.

He rolled in well before the sun, with a light bag and a few choice clubs (a flatstick, a sandie, two blades, a shovel and a big dog). The clubhouse didn’t open the doors until 8am. He wandered over to the driving range and started collecting balls by headlamp. After half an hour, he had filled two grocery bags—he knew where to look—and started warming up his drive at the range. Another hour would bring sunrise, and some people to play with.

His first twenty or thirty balls were straight pops with no power. He couldn’t bring power to his swing without warming up anymore. Some days, he couldn’t even do it then. Every swing hurt a little, because he pushed right at the edge. After an hour, he had pushed that edge further as his body warmed to the motion. He didn’t even notice the pain. Maybe because it was so constant, or maybe because he was too focused on the craft to think about anything else. Focus on the craft was his method for ignoring pain going back a long time now.

When other people started to arrive, he began the next part to his routine. He would hop on as a fourth with anyone willing. When nobody was willing, he would work on his short game at the putting field or his long game at the range depending on his mood. When things moved well, he played two rounds before lunch and two after for 72 holes. That was an exceptional day, but a 54 hole day was fairly routine. Lunch was always the table scraps he got from the club, secured by trade with the wait staff. They all wanted something different wherever he went, but whatever they wanted he could get or already had.

Sometimes, after he had been in one place for long enough, he would get to know the other players. No matter where he was in America, they were the same people though. A husband and wife that were using the game to find some kind of common ground. A businessman trying to level up to gain respect with clients. Young men, burning a day in revelry. Groups of women—always older, always from money. Accountant types, who took diligent score. Artistic types, who didn’t keep score at all. Serious players, the kind that only let him join after whispers about his game had spread. He had seen them all before. He wondered sometimes, how they saw him.

He looked older than he was, he knew that. He had been circling the continent on a never-ending road trip for over a decade. He was nearly always tired, and looked it. His diet sucked, product of having no kitchen. He had money, but only the bare minimum to get from place to place. It was hard on him, and he knew it showed on his face. He was lonely. He was sad. Maybe they saw all that, but probably not. People see so little.

She would’ve been eighteen last week.

There were days, increasingly common, where he didn’t seem capable of amassing the energy to head over to the green. This was usually an indication that it was time to move on to the next place. Not because that was a cure for whatever ailed him, but because it was the only thing he could really do about it.

So that’s what he did.

There were so damn many next places. He would arrive with excitement each time and begin the task of learning the air and land. How the ball flew from the tee box, and how it behaved when it inevitably crash landed. This crash was the true heart of the game, he felt. Of life, he knew. Crashes happened in lakes, sand, rough, fairway and God willing: the green. They might be abrupt, with a near vertical trajectory that caused the ball to crater and move hardly a foot from the point of impact. The trajectory could be near horizontal instead, and the ball might skip along the earth like a throwing stone in water. He was dedicated to controlling this crash. It was an all-consuming dedication. Rather, he wished it was.

There was really only so much time in a day which could be dedicated wholly to a single thing. Even allowing for time spent meditating on his chosen subject, he would inevitably find himself thinking of other things. His daughter, for example. His wife, for another.

Each day like the one before. Up early. Shitty coffee. Searching for balls to drive. Sunrise alone, the beauty of the coming day unnoticed. Singularly focused. A machine performing a function does not ask why the function is performed.

He spent a morning with a married couple. This one might survive, he thinks. The man doesn’t explain too much, and that seems like a good sign. Before lunch he jumps on with businessmen. They can’t play for shit. One offers him $100 to teach him to drive. It is not possible to teach him this, he’s tried more times than he can count with others like him. He takes the money. Scraps for lunch. Drunks in the afternoon. Tomorrow the same. Yesterday the same. Every day the same. Almost total focus on the craft. Almost.

Loneliness isn’t a measurement of how many people you know, it turns out. He knows thousands of people, spread across the states. Nobody knows him. That’s the true measure of loneliness, he thinks.

He had only one avenue to a good day: play a lot and think little. Exert control. He had so many avenues to a bad day. Yet, most weeks were filled with good days by his admittedly fucked up standard. He knew, better than anyone, that the old saying was not accurate. A good life was not a collection of good days. How you define a good day changes with time, usually slowly but occasionally all at once. How you define your life is only ever possible in the present moment and only really matters at the end of it. What happens if your definition of a good day changes in all that time?

He played a lot, there is no doubt about it. He was good, maybe even great. He didn’t concern himself with the complete picture of his game. He focused only on the thing directly in front of him at any given moment. A perfect putt. Complete control over a drive. Popping out of the sand with backspin that seemed to defy physics. Every shot he took was imperfect. Every time he took out a club he had the chance to correct the imperfection. He knew he never would, thank God. There is no better definition of obsession than this. He was good at golf, maybe even great, but he was perhaps the foremost expert on planet Earth when it came to the subject of obsession.

Evenings in the car were the worst part of the day. The car sucked pretty bad, but that wasn’t why. He couldn’t distract himself there, and so he spent more time thinking than he wanted to.

In movies, the conversation always happened at an impressive desk with an important man made more so by all of the framed degrees and other awards of merit behind him. In life, she simply asked them to step outside the room so they could talk in the hall. Doctors probably don’t even need a desk, they seem to be on their feet running from room to room all day. What is the correct response when a doctor tells you that your daughter will die?

We all die. A doctor only tells you something like that when the timing is off. The correct response was to comfort his wife and to spend whatever time he had left with his daughter. Or even to freak out and become hysterical, letting them comfort him. He walked out of the room, out of the hospital, drove home alone, got out of his car, wandered to the golf course that he lived near, and began an obsession. It didn’t have to be golf, he just lived near a golf course.

She would’ve been eighteen last week but she doesn’t get older anymore. Every day he gets a day older and he doesn’t have it in him to do anything about it. His wife did.

The sun rises on him at the range again. Every shot hurts a little, every ball crashes. He focuses on the crash, the true heart of the game. Of life.

The bones of this piece came to me shortly after I moved near a golf course in 2021. Not every day, but a lot of days in the summertime, I wake up pretty early and ride my bike over to Eldo for some rock climbing. Ideally, I get to the park around sunrise. So, I leave in the dark most of the time and until I found a shorter way I would bike past the golf course. Always—I mean always—there are a few people there hitting balls at the range by headlamp. I don’t like golf, for myriad reasons, but I recognized a bit of a kinship with these people. From a distance, we resembled each other in all the ways that mattered to me.

A healthy amount of obsession has helped shape me for the better, no doubt about it. Obsession can turn unhealthy though, and in fact that is probably inevitable. Not everyone is prone to it, but I am. I have to check myself constantly and I have many safeguards against my nature. I do this because I want to be happy, and I want to be there for the people in my life that need me. I set out to write a piece about my own obsessions through the lens of a sport I basically don’t know anything about. That felt like a funny joke to me, of which the punchline is an important truth. If being into golf is stupid, so is everything else. You can quibble about water use or terraforming or whatever—and 9 times out of 10 I would—but you can’t argue with the fact that maniacal engagement with a pointless endeavor hasn’t really got a whole lot to do with the endeavor itself, does it?

I did not set out to write something so dark, and for that I’m sorry. I just needed to strip this poor guy of his safeguards, I guess. Not everyone is prone to this type of thing, but maybe you are.

If so, mind your safeguards.

I like to think about the people in them:

Bridges of this type are not built anymore. The construction required a small army, and it was not an easy job. These days the cost of labor alone would be a pill no state or agency could possibly swallow. Don’t mistake that sentiment for desire though, these old truss bridges… kind of suck. We make them better now, in my opinion. Modern bridges of this size are more beautiful, more robust, and more serviceable to our modern needs. The bridge that will replace this one is going to be a cable stay bridge, sort of like this one:

That one above is the Gordie Howe Bridge, and links Canada with Detroit. It is the longest span bridge I have ever worked on, which makes sense because it is the longest one in North America. The new bridge in Memphis will be less than half that size, but you get the idea. Big towers balancing cables tightened to hold the weight across the void.

The old one is a steel cantilever truss, with five-spans of significance that will be made into just three. Progress in every measurable way.

Yet, there is a sadness to undoing the work of a generation. I admit, I was surprised to learn how short the lifespan of a bridge was when I first started this job. Every bridge I knew about was very old. There’s a reason for that though. If you know about it, it is probably iconic and a lot of work has gone into keeping it in place. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is coming up on its 93rd birthday. The Brooklyn Bridge is 142 years old now. Bridges like this are too culturally relevant to replace, and so we spend big money to avoid doing that. Most bridges don’t get that star treatment though. Most bridges are lucky to survive for as long as the people that build them.

For some non-trivial amount of time, an engineer dedicated his life to this structure. Particularly in the ‘40s this person would’ve been spending months with a whole team of other engineers running calculations and revising drawings by hand. Word would spread that work could be found in Memphis, and people would come from across the nation to do it. Many of America’s largest bridges are built by the same people even today, traveling from job to job. For years, people would toil away. In those days especially, this was a dangerous job. There are no reported deaths, but deaths were not reported back then. It is not crazy to imagine that somebody gave their life to this bridge, and especially when you allow for all of the lead paint it got coated in.

They finished it though. People celebrated, and politicians cut ribbons. Then time passed, and it started to see signs of wear. More cars hit the roads, and the structure was noted for being too narrow to fit them all. Ships got bigger, and the new ships couldn’t fit under it. The world moved on from what was once a marvel and had since become an eyesore.

A new engineer is employed. For a while at least, he is going to dedicate his life to the structure. The old one, and the new one. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again—this one isn’t special. They stack up over time, you see, and the cycle repeats forever.

That’s why I like to think about those people that built the old one. I like to remind myself that the world moves on from you eventually, and all the things you build. Not because I’m a nihilist. 100 years from now, that won’t be my world anymore. I can’t concern myself with it.

It’s all about that present tense, I guess. That’s what I see on the faces of all the guys in those old pictures. People concerned with the task at hand, presently.

My brother was next to arrive. We’re separated by 20 years—and a whole lot more than that—but we share a maniacal father and so we both arrive on time. He put his hand on my shoulder and broke it down for me. I was going to work really hard. No matter how hard I worked, I was going to be nearly worthless to him. He would pay me $12 an hour anyway. Out here in the flatlands, it would be hot. Real hot. There was no avoiding that, and I should drink plenty of water. We took a half hour for lunch, and two 15 minute breaks at 10 and 2. I wouldn’t get paid for that time, so it takes nine hours to work an eight hour day. Then he told me something I’ve never forgotten.

He told me to stand away from the job every day when we finished up and mark the progress. Every day I was going to be able to see a change. Only people that build things get to do that. He had been building things for a while now. However a job was going, good or bad, he took time to mark this progress each day. In this way he was proud, every single day, of his effort. You have to get paid, you have to watch out for your body, but above all else you have to remember to take pride in what you do.

As foretold I was useless that summer, more or less. I watched in awe while the rest of the guys performed feats of skill and strength that were beyond me. Carrying armfuls of tools and materials up a ladder. Balancing on a 3-1/2” wide top plate with a nail gun in tow. Deft manipulation of a whirring blade to shape timber to their will. Math put to practical use. Strength seemingly out of proportion to size. All the while I fumbled through menial tasks befitting the child I realized only then that I was. Moving piles of lumber from one place to another. Digging holes. Pulling nails from boards. “Helping” another guy do what he did better alone.

Each day with skin lobster red and sawdust clinging to a sweat soaked shirt I marked the progress and I was proud. Genuinely proud.

People that build things get to do that.

There is payment, but there is also compensation. I’ve never been offered enough payment of the monetary type that I didn’t have to consider the entirety of how I was being compensated. I’m sure I never will. That doesn’t mean I didn’t suffer through many years of my life working jobs for which the compensation was poor. I would stand back each day, if I even had the energy for it, and look upon my work completely devoid of anything even resembling pride. This feeling is internal and is not altered by external perceptions or pressures or obligations. As such it cannot be faked, least of all to yourself.

Although I am still in construction, I no longer build things. There is visual progress to be marked, but it is not for me to take pride in. I still find pride in my work though, or else I wouldn’t do it. Well… maybe I would, I don’t know. I need to make a living some way or another and I guess I’m just glad I manage to come home each day fulfilled. We aren’t all so lucky.

Is it luck though? You could toil away for some bullshit company shoveling shit for some asshole boss and then come home and construct a beautiful paragraph, standing back upon completion and marveling at what you built. That being the case, you can build most anything. A family. A house. A garden. A relationship. A strong body. A pile of completed books. A song. A bike. Anything, really.

When you finish each day you can stand back and mark the progress. In this way you might be proud, every single day, of your effort.

People that build things get to do that.

• C - Wayne Cooper

• PF - T.R. Dunn

• SF - Alex English

• SG - Fat Lever

• PG - Calvin Natt

I was too young to remember having watched any basketball during this era, but I did watch it. My parents had it on TV and we even went to the city to see some games at the old McNichols Arena when I was just a baby.

They were coached by Doug Moe, a man that was well liked in my house and everywhere else in Colorado. Alex English is arguably the greatest Denver Nugget of all time, and he’s certainly in the top 3. He is an 8x All-Star, 1983 NBA Scoring champion, and member of the NBA Top 75. Fat Lever was no slouch, and was an All-Star twice over himself. This team was basically together for the entirety of the 1980’s and they were pretty good, although they never won any championships. Around the time I was born, they were getting knocked out of the Western Conference Finals. They would never achieve that level of success again though, usually getting eliminated in the first round. As the 1980’s rounded to a close, the ownership changed hands and the team was blown up.

This period in Nuggets history is still looked upon fondly. They played almost no defense, but they ran hard and scored often. Doug Moe was blunt and spoke candidly with the media. Alex English was one of the most exciting players in the NBA to watch. The NBA was growing in popularity, mostly on the backs of a popular rivalry between Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. A league that had been called “too black” somehow cultivated two superstars of comparable skill and talent, one black and one white. America was all too eager to choose sides and tune in. While they were watching, the Chicago Bulls drafted Michael Jordan and he leapt into the air. The nation stood transfixed, jaws collectively on the floor. Skin color became irrelevant to most of them.

Ronald Reagan was president, and had won by such a wide margin that the first time I saw the electoral map I was certain it was fake. Reagan’s popularity created a lasting effect on the politics of both parties, and America slid toward his stances on drugs, crime and family values. America went to war with drugs. The drugs eventually won, or more accurately: America lost.

During his tenure, Congress voted 411-0 to prohibit dealing arms in the Contras-Iran conflict. The Raegan administration did it anyway, in secret. When that shoe dropped retribution was slow, limp or non-existent. The entire affair is considered an early example of post-truth politics, a state of being that America welcomes with open arms to this day.

The year I turned ten (1995) the starting lineup for the Denver Nuggets was usually:

• C - Dikembe Mutombo

• PF - Rodney Rogers

• SF - Reggie Williams

• SG - Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf

• PG - Jalen Rose

This is the age and era in which I started to take an interest in the game. We had a hoop in our yard, so I had been shooting jumpers for a few years now. I had watched my parents become absorbed in the games but I was beginning to take an independent interest. Each morning over the paper, my dad and I would discuss the box scores, the genesis for what would become my lifelong obsession with organizing chaotic activity into numbers.

Mutombo was a Congolese born superstar, and he protected the rim relentlessly. Today he is widely regarded as one of the greatest shot blockers of all time. Rodney Rogers once scored 9 points in 9 seconds to bring the Nuggets from down 8 to up 1 with 12 seconds left against the Utah Jazz. A Jazz player scored at the last second and the Nuggets lost, emblematic of the era. Jalen Rose was cool, undeniably. He was a member of the famed Michigan “fab-5” which impacted the culture of the sport and world at large (they are why players of this era had baggy shorts, among other things). He was so cool that today Jalen is the most popular name in the NBA.

In my house though, Mahmoud was the favorite. Mahmoud had Tourette Syndrome, and you could tell. The joke was that while the opposing team shot free-throws he could yell whatever he wanted under the guise of his condition. He had the smoothest jump shot I had ever seen and strong convictions about his god and his country. Mahmoud did not stand for the National Anthem. He believed the flag was a symbol of oppression. Eventually they suspended him for this. Not long after, he was traded. Not long after that he played his last game for any NBA team, way before his talent had dried up. This was not discussed much back then if at all, and it went entirely over my ten year old head.

In 1994 the Nuggets made the playoff as the 8th seed (worst seed) and played the Seattle Super-Sonics (best team). They lost the first two games, but that second game was the last one they lost in the series and they became the first 8-seed to defeat the 1-seed in NBA history. I’ll never forget it. As the last seconds ticked off the clock in overtime of that last game, Mutombo grabbed one final rebound and collapsed to the floor. A camera-man jostled for position as excitement and chaos surrounded him. Mutombo clasped the ball with both hands, looking up at that camera with tears of joy in his eyes. A happiness most pure, and I shared it with him from the living room. My team just made history. I would never meet these men, I would never understand them or their strange lives, and I would never contribute anything to their success or failure. Yet, this was still my team and my happiness was real.

They lost in the next round, of course. Players came and went. Antonio McDyess was our best player for a while and he came, went, came back, and went again. Mutombo went to Atlanta. Denver became a place of great basketball mediocrity.

Bill Clinton was president, but Republicans controlled both the House and the Senate. Conservative policies went screaming through the legislative process, greased up by hero/villain Newt Gingrich and pushed across the finish line. Highlights include the Taking Back Our Streets Act (anti-crime type stuff), the Personal Responsibility Act (no welfare for mothers under 18), the American Dream Restoration Act (tax credits for married families with children), and the Job Creation Act (tax incentives for small business). All of this was a direct result of the vision outlined by Reagan in the ‘80s for what the Republican party should do when they eventually gain control of congress.

Disagreement over the budget resulted in a government shutdown, and then another one. Back then, this was unusual. Disagreement over the budget is the fundamental difference between our two parties, but for the first time compromise had become untenable. Polls and the eventual re-election of Clinton to a second term indicate that most Americans blamed the Republicans. Newt Gingrich in particular. We began to see something we would come to know as commonplace in the future. An asshole with power, conviction, and adeptness at carving a cleft between two ideals which cannot be bridged. Many Americans associate themselves with one of these teams based on which side of that cleft they stand. Completely separate topics may arise in which they have no opinion, or in which they may hold a natural tendency for the opposite team’s stance and yet, they remain staunchly Red or Blue as the case may be.

Bill Clinton got his dick sucked in the oval office, and not by his wife. We didn’t find out in 1995, but eventually we did. Today, depending on your team, he remains the most morally bereft president of all time. He waffled a bit before he admitted to his infidelity, but eventually he did admit to it. Here and now, squarely in the era of post-truth politics, you have to wonder why.

The year I turned 20 (2005) the starting lineup for the Denver Nuggets was usually:

• C - Marcus Camby

• PF - Kenyon Martin

• SF - Carmelo Anthony

• SG - Greg Buckner

• PG - Andre Miller

The Nuggets finished the ‘90s and started the ‘00s in embarrassment, nearly setting the record for fewest wins in a season (11) and tying the record for the worst losing streak of all time (23 consecutive games). A fan taunted the head coach, and he yelled back “Go drink another beer, you Mexican piece of shit”. This was not well received by anyone. They seemed incapable of drafting good players, many times selecting guys that would be washed out of the league within a few seasons and passing up superstars to do it. In 1998 they selected Raef LaFrentz 3rd in the draft instead of Vince Carter, Dirk Nowitzki and Paul Pierce (all in the Hall of Fame) for example.

My school was considered poor or… something anyway, so we got free tickets through a local charity. As an aside, this charity was funded by the porn industry, and all of us knew it. We sat in a sectioned off part of the arena called “Eddie’s Kids”. Eddie is somewhat fascinating, and I could probably write an entire piece on that guy. That would be an absurdly long aside though, so I digress.

As a result of this charity, I attended many games back then. My wardrobe consisted of an untold quantity of shirts I acquired via t-shirt cannon. The arena was practically empty, and the odds of scoring a shirt were high.

By the 2002-2003 season, the Nuggets were tied for the worst team in the NBA which was actually a good thing. That draft class was one for the ages. It would have been nice to get the first pick, but it went to the other worst team in the NBA. The Cleveland Cavaliers selected LeBron James. If we had the 2nd pick, we would’ve blown it on Darko Milicic, whom the Detroit Pistons selected. He was never any good, so we dodged a bullet there. We picked 3rd, we got Carmelo Anthony, and we instantly became good. This fucking guy could hoop. In those early years of their careers, it was not clear whether LeBron was better. They made the playoffs that next season, and every other season for the rest of Melo’s time with the team.

In one such playoff game, I watched Kevin Garnett and the Minnesota Timberwolves eliminate the Nuggets handily. I was sat next to the entrance/exit for the Timberwolves players. A white hot hatred erupted from the Nuggets fans in my region, and many people threw drinks and food onto the opposing players as they walked off the court. Hateful things were yelled, plenty loud enough for those guys to hear them. I was 18, going on 19 and I was swept up in it too. If I had something to throw I may have thrown it. If I had something to say, I probably said it. I was there with my little brother, and I remember driving home and talking about it with him. Both of us surprised by how we had behaved. I remember thinking that violence—real violence—was just at our collective fingertips, in that crowd. That it was good those players, whom none of us knew or actually even disliked, didn’t linger too long at that spot. Good that we were separated by some railings or whatever.

George W. Bush was in his second term. America was at war with Terror, but more specifically at war with Iraq and Afghanistan. The specifics are actually pretty damn confusing. That feeling I had, looking out at those Timberwolves players, it was familiar. I had watched Bush break the whole thing down just a few years prior. We’re all of us on the same team, thanks in totality to having been born here. I didn’t need him to explain that part of it, I knew all about teams. I could feel it in my very bones, like everyone else. Violence was at our entire nation’s collective fingertips and soon it was firmly within our grasp. But, a few years is a long time to live this way. Too long. People were starting to ask some good questions, and new teams were forming around the answers. What did Iraq have to do with all this anyway? Did anyone honestly think there were Weapons of Mass Destruction? What’s the end game here? What’s going on in Guantanamo?

The year I turned 30 (2015) the starting lineup for the Denver Nuggets was usually:

• C - Nikola Jokic

• PF - Kenneth Faried

• SF - Danilo Gallinari

• SG - Gary Harris

• PG - Emmanuel Mudiay

This was not a good team, but anyone with even the slightest interest in basketball will recognize at least one name on that roster. The year prior, famously during a Taco Bell commercial, my beloved Nuggets selected Nikola Jokic with the 41st pick in the draft. Just another in a long line of busted white goofs with a European name, we all thought. All 30 teams passed him up in the draft, including the Nuggets who drafted another player at his same position in the first round. Perhaps a rebalancing of a karmic debt, years in the red from having drafted so poorly, this ended up as the best draft selection in the history of sports.

Nobody expected him to be any good. Yet, as I write this, he is the best basketball player on the planet and it isn’t even close. His greatness is undeniable, if hard to explain or define. It isn’t like watching Jordan dance through the air, cheating gravity and scoring on all five defenders. You have to look a lot closer with Jokic. You have to account for the rest of the players on the court, the way that he does so effortlessly. You have to watch some things twice, to appreciate what he’s done and how he did it. In the end though, you have to admit: this guy is amazing.

He’s won three league MVP’s and been robbed of two more. His individual accolades pile up faster than they can be accounted for. His stat lines boggle the mind, and each season he produces several games unlike any to have been played in the history of the game. Where he goes, so to go the Nuggets.

Back in 2015 though, he was only the starting center on an otherwise shit team.

Obama was president. He was charismatic, and a lot of us were proud that he represented us on the world stage. Things seemed to be changing rather quickly in America. We were rebounding from a terrible recession, which hit my generation particularly hard upon entering the work force. Healthcare was inching toward becoming a right rather than a privilege. Laws banning same sex marriage were being overturned left and right. Minimum wage was going up in several states. The legality of marijuana was becoming closer to that of alcohol. Bruce Jenner, whom all men of a certain age wanted to be, was actually a woman the whole time. The Supreme Court ruled that our method for carrying out executions was cruel and unusual. They followed that up by ruling that the EPA was too soft, and that we needed to have less toxic emissions from our power plants.

All of that in only the first six months of that year. During that same time, a lot of people announced they would be running for president. Teams were forming. Where many saw these changes as positive, many more did not.

One candidate in particular was something of a joke. Nobody expected him to get very far. As I write this now, he’s serving his second term. He is either the greatest president of all time, or he is the worst. It comes down to which team you happen to be on.

I’ll be 40 this year. We’re going to have to wait and see who starts for the Nuggets this season. Things are currently in flux. Nikola Jokic carried them to a championship in 2023 though, the first in franchise history. I was there. Me, my mom and my brother. My dad would’ve cried tears of joy to see it I think, were he still alive. When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd erupted. A lot of the people in the crowd were like me, and had been watching this team for their entire life. A lot of them were my mom’s age actually, and attending with their middle-aged kids.

My mom, tiny and non-threatening, wandered past security onto the floor with the players. My brother and I lost sight of her, and became briefly concerned. While I tried unsuccessfully to follow her Alex English strolled past me. I hadn’t seen him in real life since I was a baby, attending games in my mom’s arms. It was a special thing to see him so close and in that moment. Just as he went out of view my mom wandered back over through the fray. A huge smile on her face, vibrating with the joy of it. Me too.

How do you account for this happiness? Or the very real dislike of the other team? How do we become so fanatical?

I love the sport. It was my first love, really. I still have dreams where my knees don’t hurt and my body moves like it used to. I enjoy watching it too, for the poetry and beauty I see when these guys perform at such a high level. But, I only watch the Nuggets. That is the team I care about, and I need to care about the outcome of the game. So, there has to be an opponent. Somebody with a different colored shirt than I have on. In order for my team to win, I have to hope the other team loses.

It’s just a game though, thank god. Nothing to lose sleep over.

I have, for many years now, made goals. Sometimes the goals are fairly boring. Something like “climb this route or that route”. Here’s some of the boring goals I’ve had:

• Climb The Scientist at Plotinus.

• Climb three 14ers during the winter.

• Ride my bike to Jamestown and Ward.

• Climb the Petite Grepon.

• Climb a new desert tower.

• Run the Pawnee Buchanan Loop.

• Climb the West Overhang on Maiden.

So on and so on. I have, like dozens more. I only complete maybe 10% of these each year because my focus inevitably gets shifted elsewhere and although these things all seem cool to me I don’t place great meaning on them. Goals of this nature are more of a starting point. Something to get you out the door when you otherwise don’t want to because you’re experiencing one of those temporary lulls in motivation.

The thing which most frequently gets me out of those lulls isn’t a goal at all, it’s another person. One of my friends becomes interested in something and I tag along with them. The boring goals are more like a second tier safety net. Despite them, I definitely still go through weeks without much focus or intent what with being human and all.

Sometimes my goals are more unique. Stuff like “Vegan for 3 months” or “Tour de Abos”. Here’s a few examples of some weirder ones:

• Tour de Nostalgia (I would ride my bike to every place I’ve ever lived).

• Complete a Daily Grid (this takes years to do. You have to do whatever you are trying to complete a grid for {Sanitas, Yellow Spur, whatever} on every single day of a calendar year at least one time in your life).

• Longs Peak Triathlon (bike to/from Longs and climb a route on the Diamond).

• Climb the 53 routes from the Roach Flatiron guidebook which he dubs as *classic*.

• Buy a bike frame and build up a working bike.

• Climb in Yosemite with Bill Wright.

• As yet un-named bike/climb tour sequel with Tony Krupicka.

These goals are designed to alter my perspective on things, or maybe just jump start some type of adventure that I won’t forget, or in some cases they simply strike me as a fun day and so I want to make sure I carve out the space. These goals might sit undone for years, and perhaps I will never do them. That’s not my preferred outcome, obviously. You know how it is though, right?

Goals are cool, I think. In my experience, they’re common practice for two main subsets of humans: climbers or other outdoor type athletes and high functioning business people. Otherwise, they don’t seem to be all that popular for some reason. Many people even disdain such behavior, and in particular during the first of the year when resolutions are made—which are just goals made at a specific time.

I learned (while working at a really big company that did team building type shit) that goals are meant to be S.M.A.R.T. So: Specific-Measurable-Achievable-Relevant-Time based. That’s probably true. Mostly though, they should be the product of envisioning yourself at a future date with some skill or accomplishment or experience which you desire in the present.

One time I had a goal to just “ski a lot”. My buddy Eddie had asked me to partner up with him for a ski race even though I warned him that I wasn’t a skier. It wasn’t specific, and it wasn’t all that measurable. I did ski a lot though, and we actually did complete that race despite my lack of skill in the medium (thanks for that one Eddie). A lot of people did not finish the race, but among those that did we landed second from last. We were both good with that.

I’ve had a lot of goals that were not achievable. Triple Crack is a linking of three famous routes in the Boulder area, and the year I worked on that goal I was only able to free one of them—linking them was lightyears beyond me. I still had a blast attempting it though.

One time I had a goal to climb the 53 Roach Flatiron Classic routes in a single push, but the more I investigated the various routes and links the more I began to understand that this was simply beyond me. The work I put into it is still memorable to me though.

Another time I decided I wanted to climb twelve 5.12’s in a calendar year, which was noteworthy for me because I had never climbed that grade before so even a single 5.12 was going to feel like a big deal. And it did—I’ll never forget it. The second one was cool too, but definitely less so. Then the third one just felt like… eh, I get it. I’m not this kind of climber, I realized. I have still only ever climbed 3 of them.

I’ve had many impossible goals, so far outside myself that I never even attempted them. Still, I enjoyed daydreaming about the possibility. Plus, every now and again, one of those impossible goals somehow gets achieved because you better yourself. That’s kind of the point.

Every single day of my life, with only the rarest of exceptions, I sit down and make a list of things I want/have to do that day. I suspect I stole this habit from my dad, although I didn’t do so consciously. He was always surrounded by lists of this type. I used to do this on paper too, but my madness has migrated to a digital space and is now more easily concealed I suppose.

I wonder sometimes what this process does to me, like psychologically. I make the list in the morning and by nightfall it has become largely a reminder of my failings. I have never completed it, and I have never even come close.

Yet, failure is never concerning to me, at least not in this context. It would be concerning to fail as a father or to pay my mortgage. Failure to complete a personal goal is often a good thing. You generally have goals so that you can improve in some way, and failure is an indicator of where you need improvement.

Several years ago now, I made three similar goals which were designed to help me grow a bit as a person. The first was to read at least one hour each week. I used to be an avid reader when I was young, but had grown out of it at some point. An hour isn’t much time really, but it’s a lot more than zero hours. I read—on average—about 4-6 books per year this way.

If I turn over my left shoulder right now, I can see a book shelf with three levels. The top level has a couple as-yet unread magazines, and chaotic messes of trash, tools and various clutter to represent my unfortunate nature with empty spaces. The second level is filled with guide books which I reference often and love parsing through. The third level is dedicated to a stack of unread books that will take me about 5 years to finish at my current rate, assuming I don’t add to it which is a terrible assumption. I almost certainly add faster than I remove. It will eventually grow to include more books than I will have time to read before I die. I really hope it hasn’t grown that far already, but I guess that specific bit of uncertainty is the spice of life. None of us will read all of the books we want to read, but I’m happy to be reading a few of them now.

The second of those three goals I made was to play guitar for an hour per week. I had to buy a guitar to manage this one, because I did not play guitar at all and I never had. Matter of fact, I had never played any instrument of any kind before making this goal. I had always wanted to though. For me, this was like rock climbing in the early days. I was keenly interested in it but I was intimidated by the complexity I saw and the fact that I didn’t know anyone that could help me along. In both instances, the internet was a boon for me. Now, if you want to learn to rock climb or play guitar—you should absolutely hire a guide. BUT… if you’re too cheap for that shit you can scratch out the basics via YouTube. In the case of rock climbing, you risk everything doing that and so, you know, consider that in your calculations. In the case of guitar? Goddamn, why wouldn’t you alter your algorithm?

As with reading, an hour per week ain’t shit. I still can’t really play guitar. My bar, however, was very low. I went from fumbling to even hold the damn thing properly to being capable of scratching out a few choice riffs and having developed the basic skills to theoretically learn many of the songs that interest me, however poorly. I can’t read music, I don’t understand timing, I have to count the frets down to find them and I know the strings by their relative sizes instead of their letters. On the other hand I can knock out the opening to ‘Man Who Sold The World’ from memory and however it sounds to anyone else, to me it sounds fucking magical.

The last of those three goals was to write an hour each week. This is obviously the goal that is most relevant to what is happening right now (you reading something I wrote).

I had been hearing for a while from a lot of different people that I “should write more” and the like. I was resistant to this idea though. A long time ago I received a pearl of wisdom from an otherwise wisdom-less guy I was swinging a hammer with. He told me that anyone who talks a lot will inevitably say a lot of stupid shit, just from an odds perspective. An undeniable truth, I thought. I would talk a lot more if I had never met this guy, because I think about that all the time. This is the primary reason that I only write one piece per month. Of course, I struggle with that level of output sometimes too so it isn’t the only reason.

I also wasn’t sure I really had anything worthwhile to write about. When you don’t have anything to say, why speak? Counterpoint: what kind of asshole doesn’t have anything to say about anything? I sat down for an hour or so every week and clickity-clacked away on a keyboard about random shit that was on my mind. Eventually, all that turned into this.

Writing each week has come with some unexpected side effects, plus the expected ones (like getting a little better at it, I guess). At first I was writing stuff with no expectations that anyone would ever read it, which helped me to overcome the dawning realization that even if I had something to say I did not possess the hubris to believe it worth reading. Eventually though, I sent something in to an obscure podcast I listened to which was soliciting content. To my genuine surprise, they published it (here). After that, I was sold on the idea that people may elect to sit down and spend the time to actually read something that I wrote. Not a lot of people, mind you—this certainly isn’t me bragging. Readership here is on par with the size of my very tiny high school. That’s awesome to me though.

Yet, I am guided by that original concept. I am, even at this relatively slow rate, stringing together a lot of words over here. With over 40 posts now it cannot be denied: I am talking a lot. I really don’t want this to mean that I have to say a lot of stupid shit too. Results may vary, but the effort is there. That’s been the genesis for the most rewarding side-effect so far: I have become more thoughtful. I have had to articulate my beliefs and ideas. I have had to acknowledge the things that I don’t understand well enough to articulate at all. Sometimes these are things that I was sure I understood before I went to write about them. What a fucking gift, eh?

So. Last year I decided that I was going to do “something” on every full moon. From the very first moon all the way through the last I thought to myself “fuck, this sucks. I don’t want to leave the house right now. It’s cold. I’m tired. I have to wake up early tomorrow.” From the very first moon all the way through the last I found a moment alone. I looked out at something I would see each month, and had seen more times in my life than I can count. I thought each time the same unironic and genuine thought:

That’s amazing.

Some version of me knew I would think that every time. That version of me is the one that made the goal. He bartered some deal with my future self, the guy that I am now. The one that doesn’t want to do anything. Luckily, deep down I know that my past self has the right of it. The guy making goals is heroic and never gets tired or cold or afraid. He has grand designs. He is filled to the brim with hope and endlessly optimistic. He gets to be this way because he never has to do any of the fucking work. I hate him sometimes.

Then I sit there. A cool breeze on my face. Triumph of experience in my bones. Maybe a little bit stronger. Maybe a little bit smarter. Maybe just filled with gratitude that I am witnessing something so beautiful. OK then, I think. What are we doing next?

No hard feelings if you skip this one.

Fall of 2023 saw the neighborhood divided. The HOA board was attempting to amend the bylaws which govern all 77 homes and people had opinions. I sat in my neighbor Steve’s kitchen drinking his coffee while he and Bruce (another neighbor) explained their thoughts to me. I was in agreement. Somehow they sensed I was likeminded even though they don’t know my politics and neither do I. None of us liked the new laws they wanted, and none of us liked the idea of increasing our HOA costs to enforce them.

The new laws were restrictive of smoking in the common areas, growing marijuana, satellite dishes, water tanks, parking, what they define as “hazardous activities”, hoarding, short-term rentals, and other things of this nature.

The urge to protect the neighborhood against these things irks me. This is, of course, the primary function of an HOA though. Try to keep things orderly and Edward Scissorhands-y enough that our property values are maximized. Hard to sell a house if some weirdo is set up next door in a kiddy pool drinking cold ones, wearing such revealing clothing that his primary concealment comes from an overgrown jungle of a lawn.

HOA’s were not part of my upbringing. In fact, I grew up in what is called a “Home Rule Municipality” which is a place of minimal intervention by even state laws. A house was a reflection of your personality as well as your means, and so houses looked as varied as the people that lived in them. I think that’s cool, but… what is valuable in the city is sameness. I’m not selling my house right now and so the value is not concerning to me. That doesn’t mean it won’t matter to me eventually. All that to say, I might not be so righteous tomorrow as I am today. I don’t want to fuck with my paper for a conviction I hold so loosely. Today is today though.

The changes to the bylaws didn’t pass, which was reflective of my own vote. The HOA board all resigned, sighting a clear desire to go in a direction which would benefit from new leadership. My neighbor Bruce decided to join the board, and a couple more people signed on with him.

Chaos followed this valiant but poor decision.

I live in what is essentially a retirement community, although there is no actual age restrictions to living here. I don’t have legitimate demographics or anything, but the population likely skews well North of 65 on average. Most of the residents are female, because this is the end game over here and women outlive men.

One of the perks of living here is that “snow removal” is included in the HOA fee. The first thing that Bruce and the others discovered was that there was essentially no legal means by which this could continue. It’s complicated, but basically it comes down to risk. They could not find a way to insure against the inevitability of a lawsuit, when somebody slips on a sidewalk and decides to sue. The risk would need to be shed to the individual homeowners, like it is everywhere else that I’ve ever lived.

This was explained to all of us to a satisfactory level of detail, in my opinion. We live in a throughway which means anyone can walk here. Our homes are not zoned in some other way or whatever, I don’t care. We can’t have the snow removal anymore and that’s that.

I can still work a shovel. In Colorado, shoveling snow is as much a part of the morning routine as breakfast and I’ve lived here my whole life.

Many of my neighbors did not like this change, however.

So there I was, in the Crown Room of the local rec center with about 25 of my neighbors. A sign up sheet was on a table up front, and anyone that signed was given 3 minutes to say their piece before the board. In front of the lot of us sat all three members of the board, plus some type of referee equipped with a stopwatch for time allotment enforcement purposes.

The board was beleaguered and weary. Faces in hands. Eyes of sadness and regret for having ever volunteered for this bullshit. Complaints had been levied at them for months now. Secret email threads had been started. Accusations had been made both publicly and privately. The board had been petty as well though, at first not accepting the signatures provided to enact the special meeting on the grounds that they were digital. It had all gotten fairly bitter and this is what sparked my interest in the first place.

Things begin with the referee explaining the rules. You get handed the mic, and the clock is started. You say what you came to say, and then you pass the mic when the 3-minute timer sounds. After everyone talks, the board will address the group in response to what they just heard. Then we all go home, problems all solved.

The first lady to speak explains her history with the neighborhood. Her parents bought the house 30 years ago, and when they became too old to live alone she inherited it. She rents the home now, and the snow removal is included in the perks package for whomever she rents to. She owns 7 other homes in the Denver area, and many of them have snow removal included. She thinks this whole thing is fishy. How much will the snow removal actually cost, anyway? Why can’t the board just do whatever they’re doing at her other homes?

As she speaks you begin to get a sense for the attitudes within the room. Mostly, the people in attendance seem to think the snow removal operations should continue as they’ve always been and so they agree with what she’s saying. Myself, I’m reluctant to listen to the complaints of anyone that owns 7+ properties when a solution is easily found with the money that they so clearly have in abundance. Someone else feels similarly I guess, and yells out “Just raise the goddamn rent!" The referee chimes in. Interruptions are not permitted, you must sign the sheet if you wish to speak. We are not here to have the conversations that would have made this entire event superfluous.

Things roll forward. One lady is upset because she doesn’t have an able bodied husband to shovel her walk, and many other women nod in agreement. She appears able bodied to me. I feel so fucking young—not because I’m an able bodied husband but because of the implication that only men can work a shovel. I admit, my heart goes out to these women though. My mom still shovels her walk, but not all 70 year old women are created equal and few—if any—are equal to her.

Another lady believes that Trump’s immigration policies will make it impossible for us to hire anyone that will shovel our walks now because the only types of people that do that work are immigrants and my god I am practically an infant in this room. They grew up in a world I can’t believe was ever real.

My neighbor Steve stands up and speaks in favor of abolishing the snow removal due to the insurance situation, demonstrating that he understands the issue as it has been explained to us. Sadly, he did not sign up on the sheet so everything he said is stricken from the record.

A nice old lady speaks for 3-minutes on the subject of the local library box. This was not on the agenda, and so technically she is in breach of the rules. We are all here to speak on snow removal specifically, and she seems not to understand the purpose of the meeting. Nobody really cares though, and we all smile as she prattles on about where to place the books if the box gets full, and so forth.

The next woman exceeds her 3-minutes but doesn’t immediately surrender the microphone. She has realized that the real power lies with the instrument that amplifies her voice. The timer was a false God. The referee can do nothing to stop her, short of some type of physical altercation and that isn’t happening. She’s speaking on all manor of topics now that she has an audience, seemingly the first audience of any size that she’s had in time out of mind. Heads swing across the rows of chairs in a worried and frantic search for a solution. Nothing can defeat the microphone though, and we all know it. We must surrender to her power now, and whatever she wishes to do with it. She’s touching on the economy and climate change. She’s starting to work the room a little, pacing in front of the crowd and gesturing with her hands. Frequently she gestures with the hand which holds the microphone and her voice is softened to a normal volume. Only I can hear her when that happens, being still in possession of most of my auditory range. Her eyes dart about, looking for some acknowledgment that she’s right about whatever she’s saying. I don’t think she finds it. She drifts about for some time longer and then eventually becomes tired and unsatisfied. The microphone droops, and then droops further. Finally, she sets it down on the table and simply returns to her seat in defeat and having learned a great truth about herself. Power was not meant for everyone.

Someone gets up and speaks and then someone else and on and on for a while. Many words are spoken, nothing is actually said. Finally, the board addresses the room. They say the thing they have already said: we won’t be able to continue having snow removal. Nothing anyone has said changes this, obviously. One lady stands up and demands that they have a vote. “On what?” asks the board. “… just like, whether we should have snow removal” she says. “But—as we’ve explained—we can’t have snow removal, remember?” says the board.

That pretty much ends it. A few days later the board sent out an email with some attachments meant to explain in greater detail why snow removal was not possible, and I clutch my pearls when I see a spreadsheet attachment that is non-functional and full of broken links. I would never.

Now, the real question is “why was this so fascinating to me?” The drama surrounding such a trivial thing was funny to me, so there’s that. The meeting was a shit show, which is also funny. That could be it, but I don’t think so.

A collection of people refused to accept a reality. A meeting was triggered by this refusal to accept reality and law required that a bureaucracy laden environment must be created. People came to this place and bore witness, myself included. This was not a discussion, it was a non-functional airing of grievances. Nothing could be said by anyone which could alter reality.

Right? Whose reality is true?

This neighborhood did have snow removal for something like 30 years. It seems like the only barrier here is that the new board was competent enough to attempt formalizing it, which caused them to realize that it couldn’t actually be done in a formal way. Nothing can be done informally in America, at least not in the city.

This is what is fascinating.

The entire problem could be solved in an informal way. Barring that, the meeting to discuss the problem could have been useful if it was informal. Just a discussion amongst human beings. One side could voice their concerns, the other side could listen to them and respond with empathy. Maybe we are not capable of living together in such large groups without this formality though, for some reason. We have this compulsion to remove all friction and nuance from life. We need insurance. We need handrails. We need sidewalks cleared of snow within 24 hours of a storm. We need special meetings and referees.

I don’t dispute this need, but neither do I understand it. It only seems to make our world a comedy. At least this flavor of comedy has always been among my favorites (Catch-22 anyone?).

Sometimes you just need a good laugh. That’s a lot easier than the alternative.

Share High Quality Plastic Eraser

Sometime later we cross an invisible line into a land where a cell phone becomes inoperable. I explained to Zoey that it was like we were heading back in time. We had made plans with friends about where and when to meet, given our assurances, and then hoped everyone managed to follow through. This is how it was for the first half of my life. She understood little or none of what I was saying, since she was too young to be making plans of her own and would grow up to make them in a world that is connected through and through. I’m not advocating that we abandon all of our new tools, but there is a special flavor to the surprise and happiness of seeing friends arrive one by one just like we planned. I had forgotten it. I will forget it again before long. The rest of the world will too.

Pale orange and red walls extend toward the desert sky sharp and straight. Each mass of rock is in active decay, and sits above mounds of sand and rubble. Wingate sandstone, born from sand dunes in the late Triassic period at the same time the world was beginning to see some of the first dinosaurs. This place saw an extinction event. Maybe it will see another before it finishes falling. The rock walls are flawed and cracked and interesting to the eye. Shadows from the relentless sun expose shapes and features across each buttress, face and wall. Every cliff sprouts from the rubble it is becoming, and every rubble slope dies in the sandy valley below. The sand is split by a winding strip of hot black asphalt, and this road follows a creek.

Indian Creek.

This place attracts tourists of all sorts. Expansive views, pit toilets, and ample camping draw families, retired travelers, and also climbers of all flavors. Young and old. Athletic marvels and beer belly hefting blue collar grunters. The climbing here is somewhat unique. Most of the climbing is single pitch, which is ironic I suppose. The first climb ever completed on these walls is called Supercrack. One guidebook describes this climb as the “route that changed desert climbing forever.” The first ascent party climbed it all the way to the rim, because as one member (Ed Webster) said “A climb is not complete until it goes to the rim”. But, a trend had formed around this line. Cracks from then on were climbed for their quality, rather than their finishing point. Supercrack is almost never climbed to the rim today, and thousands of climbs surround it now, all of the same style. People like to describe it as sport climbing on gear, which is a fair description. This is a chance to trad climb in an unusually safe and low commitment environment. The penalty is that if you haven’t spent some time honing the technique required to climb in this strange style, you won’t be capable of getting off the ground. This is a humbling reality to find yourself facing, especially when you are already a semi-competent climber. Even on my first day ever climbing anything anywhere, I (and most able bodied humans) could scratch my way up the wall via the easiest possible line with a nice fat top rope to take breaks on. That wasn’t my experience the first time I came to this place.

This wasn’t my first time here, and so I was enjoying some minor successes (and plenty of failures) over at the Original Meat Wall with a big group of friends. Zoey was finding shade or sun to her liking, taking pictures with her polaroid, and enjoying the selection of snacks we had hoofed up the hillside. The king line at this particular crag is called Sinestra (5.11) and we had been hogging it for some time that morning, taking lead or top rope laps depending on our capabilities. It is a pretty cool climb, but our time on it was ending when another group of climbers showed up with intentions to climb it. Our group split up then.

Ali, Woj and a few others went left, while Chalk, Zo and I went right. Ali was my first climbing partner, and we went to college together. We’ve been friends now for almost 20 years. I didn’t know Woj well at this time but we would become friends on this trip and rope up together a handful of times in Eldo the following season. (Brandon) Chalk was the driving force for this trip, and common denominator among all of us. Effortlessly cool, uncommonly kind, and always willing and able to “put the rope up”. I was happy to be partnered off with him.

The sun shone bright and hot. The stone stood tall, proud and beautiful. My friend and I set ourselves resolute, hands on hips, inspecting a line of some momentary interest to us. My daughter stood nearby with a smile, a camera and a notebook full of sketches and notes. The world spun slow and sure, the way it always does just before a catastrophic event, and just after one, and every other time too.

Over on Sinestra, that most classic of lines we had just departed, somebody was making a life altering decision. As is nearly always the case in climbing, he was not aware of the significance of his choice when making it. A young man, strong and tall, scrambled to the start of the crack. Somewhat unique to this climb, this puts you about 25’-0” or so off of the ground, before you have started the climbing.

He did what many strong young men might do, as well as women, or even experienced (old) climbers. He started climbing like he was on the ground even though he was not. He did not place a cam in the crack at the very bottom of it. I can understand why he would do that, and I can also look at the above picture and say to myself “dang”.

He fell, of course. This story would not be worth telling otherwise.

I don’t know how far he got before that happened, but I know that he ended up in the rubble below. He landed on his back and head. He was not wearing a helmet. Chaos ensued, and the world still spun slow and sure.

Members of our party had some radios, and Chalk received a garbled transmission asking if we might come over to check on a guy that got hurt. I dropped my rack and ran over, thinking I would find somebody with a rolled ankle or something. I’m not a medic or anything, I don’t know why I ran over there to be honest, leaving Zoey and Chalk to clean our gear or otherwise wait for me to return. I suspect this is a product of having read a lot of comic books when I was young. I am always eager to help, in proportions that far outsize my actual capability. I have probably a dozen examples of having behaved similarly, and zero examples of having made any type of contribution. I regret nothing, though.

He did not just roll his ankle. When I arrived he had regained consciousness and I was given to understand that it had been lost for a while. His girlfriend had taken off in search of help. Two members of our party (Dillon and Steve) had followed soon after with the same idea. Remember, no cell phones in this place. A couple of guys were attending to him, and I assume these were close friends of his. He was agitated, angry, and confused. He appeared to be in no small amount of pain. A group of us began an operation to attempt to stabilize his neck and provide him with a small amount of padding in the form of backpacks tucked under him. This operation was stressful and difficult. He was a mountain of a man, and his mind was set against us and in a state of total confusion.

I wandered back to Chalk and Zo to advise them that we were done for the day. I directed Zo toward the trail, which unfortunately apexed at the crash site. I didn’t want her to see this poor guy, at least not up close. This was six years ago now and she doesn’t appear to be scarred by it so I either succeeded or it didn’t end up mattering much. I stood nearby to him wringing my hands in uselessness and guilt for a little while longer, and then eventually I wandered down the trail with Zoey toward the car.

When we got there Dillon and Steve came tearing up the sandy wash with great excitement on their features. They had gone to the general store hoping to use the phone there. I’ve been to the creek now a handful of times and I still don’t know where this general store is, but thankfully these guys did. When they asked for the phone, a random patron of the store spoke up. He happened to be a wilderness first responder on vacation with his wife. This was a stroke of luck that is almost mystifying. He had all of his medical supplies with him, naturally.

I shouldered the doc’s pack and hoofed up the hill, happy to have a job I understood. When we got to the guy, things were as I left them. He was writhing around in great pain and confusion. His friends were dealing with this as best they could. The doc provided a considerable relief to all. He began to direct traffic. We had been afraid to provide any type of pain relief, because somebody was smart enough to know that Advil was a blood thinner and he was bleeding a fair bit and possibly internally. None of the rest of us was smart enough to know if this was correct, so that’s where things had stood for a while. I have since had my own experience with rapid ground contact (told here), and man let me tell you that I do not envy this poor guy having no drugs for so long as he did. Even still, it wasn’t like the doc had the good stuff in that pack.

Other folks began to arrive, signaling that the fella’s girlfriend had achieved her goals of alerting the proper authorities to the situation. I ran down the hill, hopeful that I might perform the only job I was capable of here: carrying their shit up the hill. Here I was introduced to a reality that I should’ve already realized. Search and Rescue is comprised of volunteers, and those volunteers are drawn from the people that live nearby. SAR in Boulder is not the same as SAR in SE Utah. These were good ol’ boys. Their pride would not allow for me to carry anything for them. They were laden with rescue equipment, but also guns, extra ammo and bullet proof vests (seriously). Some of them had not missed many meals. Some of them alerted the world to their voting preferences with MAGA hats, and the rest didn’t need to bother, we got it.

I’ll reiterate: these are volunteers. Men and women that didn’t just read too many comic books that implanted some false notion of heroism into their brains. These are actual heroes. They had dropped whatever they were doing and came out here to save a life, and they had the skills to do that. They didn’t know me from Adam, and weren’t about to hand precious life saving equipment over to my care. At least not until the grade got real steep, the rocks real loose, and that hot sun revealed the truth of things.

During one of the multiple trips I took down valley and back with gear, the hurt climber’s girlfriend arrived back at the trailhead. I remember stammering through some type of description or other, maybe explaining what we had been doing, when I realized that she had not even been there when he had regained consciousness having fled for help near instantaneous with his accident occurring. I remember I stopped mid-sentence and quickly told her that he was awake and talking and seemed like he was going to be okay. I remember the look on her face when I finally cut to the point. Relief most pure. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that look. We didn’t speak for long, and I don’t think she spoke at all, but damned if that wasn’t the clearest communication of a feeling I’ve ever experienced.

Climbers began to accumulate as well, from walls near and far. By the time the extraction operation was in full swing, something like 30 athletes stood ready to help. A resource that these SAR guys were perhaps not accounting for. To them, the struggle of gaining that hill was significant. As such, they had decided to perform a “hot lift”. This means that they intended to bring a helicopter close enough to load the guy into it from the ground. Maybe you’ve seen something like this before in a movie or something, and you’re picturing that they might lower a steel cable which could be rigged to his basket, allowing for the bird to remain well in the air. There was no cable here. This plan was insane.

Helicopter Video

Multiple attempts were made. Each attempt saw the blades inching closer and closer to the hillside. I stood nearby Ali and we both studied the geometry and ran our own private calculations. Many would die, perhaps us among them. We crept toward a nearby stone for cover, keeping our eyes trained on the scene before us, unable to avert them. Hypnotized by the spinning steel and maddening certainty of what the next few minutes would bring. Stuck wondering if these boys had been given too much power. Wondering if there wasn’t some type of guideline that had been breached. Wondering how anyone could be given so much agency over life. In short, we wondered the same thing about them that they would wonder about us if they saw us ascending toward the sky and clinging to this crumbling stone wall. This is what freedom looks like, in all it’s filth and beauty. A life in the balance, and it would be lost if we all had to fill out the proper forms and read the appropriate safety manuals while he lay bleeding under the hot sun. This guy’s life wasn’t in God’s hands, it was in the hands of a few men and a brave pilot. Hell, all of our lives were just then should that blade make contact. Fuckin’ A.

Alas, the hot lift could not be done and eventually everyone involved saw this great truth laid bare before further blood was shed onto the thirsty desert sand. Plan B was what the boys called a “caterpillar”. Our poor guy, now high as fuck on the good drugs and strapped to a board, was handed down the trail. After you passed him off, you ran to the end of the line of humans and waited for him to arrive so that you could repeat the process. With 30 climbers and a dozen rescue personnel, we had him down in less than 45 minutes. This went seamlessly, with the only exception being a wrong footed rescue guy trundling down the hill en-route to the bottom of the line and dropping his handgun. Safety on, hopefully.

The helicopter landed in the valley easily, and rushed him to a hospital.

He lived.

Something unexpected about becoming a father is bearing witness to your children learning sad truths about life. One truth in particular sticks with me. I do not remember what it felt like when I learned that I would eventually die. I do remember when I explained this to my son. The bewildered look on his face. The feeling that I had, wishing I could take it back somehow. Thinking he was too young to be burdened by this truth. Knowing that he wasn’t. Each follow up question hitting like a sledge hammer. “Are you going to die too?” “Is mom?” “What about the dog?” Yes, everyone you know or ever will know is going to die. We don’t know what happens next, and you shouldn’t trust anyone that says they do.

The sadness and fear that sweeps across a child’s face when they learn this truth is appropriate. When you see it happen, you console yourself by remembering that they will get used to it. Kind of. It’s called mortality salience, and they say it’s what separates us from the rest of the creatures on earth. When you’re young, if you don’t experience significant loss, you can ignore it. The old can’t do that. The old have all experienced significant loss. Many of us utilize some version of denial, so that we can avoid thinking about it. We cope in other ways too, like convincing ourselves that our lives will continue after death in some way. We cover ourselves with a layer of protection against a hard truth, often going so far as to convince ourselves it is not a truth at all.

The layer of protection is not impervious. Sometimes it cracks.

Long ago, at some house party or another, the festivities were beginning to roll to a start. Ray Rockett, among my closest friends, came bursting through the front door with wild eyes. His clothes were in tatters and blood stained. He threw his motorcycle helmet to the ground and explained himself in adrenalin soaked language. A car had taken a wide turn in Boulder Canyon and slipped into his oncoming lane. He laid it down, miraculously in one of the few sections of road that wouldn’t have sent him and the bike into the river. The driver, as they so often seem to do in the lonely mountain nights, kept driving. Death came for him, and missed by inches. As he articulated with a clarity that he has always been so capable of: this was a terrifying prospect for a man that did not believe in an afterlife.

Sometimes death can’t be ignored.

Sometimes you are forced to confront finality.

Other times you get to crack a beer at a campfire and share a wild story with the other guys that were in it. Everyone laughs. The story ends well enough, and so it is fun to tell. Years on, maybe you will have told it enough times to realize that might be the point of it all.

Do enough good.

Make sure your story ends well so that people might someday tell it with a smile.

Chalk is the guy in the above picture on the far right. He still climbs. He has two kids and they’re probably old enough to hear hard truths now. Ali and his girlfriend (at the time) are the next two to the left. Ali lives in Iowa, and we still get together a few times a year. You can read a little more about him here and here. Zo and I are next to the left.

One more left has you at Woj (Wojtek). He’s from Poland. Our time together as climbing partners would be cut short after he suffered a bad accident in the Indian Peaks. He survived the accident, but not without brain damage. I saw him in the hospital during the earliest stages of his recovery. It was … rough. Unable to hold his job, he was sent back to Poland. We keep in touch a little, but I don’t know the extent to which he has managed to recover his old personality. I know he had lost it for a long time there though, and that it made me very sad. I don’t like telling that story much.

The climber that was injured on Sinestra lives around Boulder (like me). I see him sometimes out in the world, but he would have no way of remembering who I am so I never talk to him. I’m given to understand he has no memory for several days surrounding the event. I believe he abandoned climbing altogether. I hope that he smiles when he tells his story.

I hopped in the back of the van and pulled the side door open, where I sat facing my climbing partner for the day: Brandon. Brandon was sitting inside his own Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van, a navy blue model from 2023. This iteration sported a turbo four-cylinder engine and a nine speed transmission which yielded a significantly better gas milage than mine. It also had an all-wheel drive system, which obviously ate into his improved milage but made it far more serviceable during the winter months. I looked at this van with an accompanying sense of inadequacy.

Brandon was brewing a cup of coffee with hot water from his MSR Lightning stove, which was a minor convenience over the built-in stove behind him. He was wearing the new Flatanger shorts from La Sportiva in a Savana/Bamboo pattern. His socks were a bright white un-patterned pair of Darn Tuff’s which were calf length. He was also wearing a Lime Green/Carbon Beanie from Black Diamond. He wasn’t wearing a shirt yet, but he had already changed into his La Sportiva TX4’s and so I quickly followed suit beside him.

Brandon poured his fresh coffee into a 14 oz Yeti Rambler mug in Navy, tastefully selected to match his van. We each pulled on our backpacks, mine a Crag 40 and his a Stone 45 (both from Black Diamond) and started on the approach hike. Along the way we made conversation about the new stretch jeans by Ripton which come pre-stained with a pattern meant to imitate the look of chalk dust. We both agreed this was stupid.

Along the trail we passed a popular bouldering area and I saw someone that looked like Caitlin getting a spot from (probably) Brandon, since they were always partnered up together. We stopped to watch her for a minute. She was wearing Scarpa Vapors in the latest color scheme indicating they were the LV model, which features the fully realized Bi-Tension active randing system. This was contrasted by Comp shorts by La Sportiva in the Moonlight / Cherry Tomato pattern. She had not achieved a head-to-toe sponsorship from either company yet, apparently. She was climbing well but came off on the 8th move (crux) with little fan-fare and a clean landing on her rainbow patterned pad from Organic.

“Looking Strong Caitlin!” I said.

“Paul! Abe! Good to see you guys! You know Steve, right?”

“Of course, how’s it going Steve. You’re projecting that thirteen plus on the upper wall right?”

“No, I think that’s Abe? I’m working on the thirteen minus over on middle wall these days. Resting today though, just supporting Jenna here on this sick V12. This thing is beautiful.”

“It really is. Hey, how do you like that Tension Flash board?” I asked, nodding toward the block of cylindrical wood dangling from a nearby branch. “Good for warming up?”

“Oh yeah, that thing’s essential for me. Honestly, Tension has a suite of products I’ve come to find essential lately, they really are becoming one of my favorite brands. Have you tried their Shoe Spray yet? It’s non-toxic and biodegradable. This stuff has totally revolutionized my routine. It completely revives my shoe friction after every climb. Actually, from an ethical standpoint I can’t really recommend climbing without this stuff, as it protects the rock from polishing too.”

“Is it plant based?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

Steve paused. Jenna and Paul held their breath. A bead of sweat rolled down Steve’s brow and he mopped it with the sleeve of his R1 Air Crewneck (Patagonia) with a slow and deliberate motion.

“I would never recommend a product if it weren’t plant based.” Steve said, summoning a confidence that allowed all of the tension to evaporate.

Changing subjects, I offered that the new pre-chalk stained jeans from Ripton were such a gimmick. We all laughed, but I sensed that Caitlin seemed unsure.

Our arrival at the cliffside was welcomed by about a half dozen clusters of climbers spread along the wall. I waved over to a guy that looked like Brandon, and someone belaying him that looked like Paul. To their left I spotted either Caitlin or Laurie and her partner Alex or maybe Ray. It was great to see so many familiar faces.

My standard warm-up was blissfully empty, which boosted my mood even more. Steve and I wandered to the base and began organizing our gear. I donned my Carbon Solution harness from Black Diamond which features Fusion Comfort Technology (and I can tell) while Steve started flaking out our 60mx9.5mm Duodess rope from Mammut. This rope has a bi-weave pattern in Boa/Vibrant Orange and I really can’t recommend it enough. Next I slipped my La Sportiva Mythos on, a shoe that I use exclusively on warm-ups because it offers superior comfort and allows my feet to become accustomed to the work of a climb without aid of any shaping technology. While Brandon clicked his Petzl Grigri shut around the rope with a matching Petzl locking carabiner, I began clipping my Petzl Spirit Express draws to both sides of my harness. I love these draws for anything but my send attempts, when I don’t want to use too much energy hefting them onto a route. The 17cm draw is 30 grams heavier than the Petzl Ange Finesse model, which could add up to a full pound if the route has 15 bolts on it. Of course, most of my draws are 10cm or 12cm with a sprinkle of 17cm’s where the clipping geometry is eased by a longer draw. On this route, I like to use my Beta Stick Clip by Trango, not really because the first bolt is hard to get to but because I just like to.

I went up and down the route quickly, as I’ve done many times before, and without issue. Back on the ground I pulled our rope and began suiting up to belay Abe. To belay, I wear Upshot Belay Glasses by Metolius. I also have Cordex Lightweight Belay Gloves from Petzl, a Pewter Belay Parka from Black Diamond, and of course my Kragg Belay Shoes by Arc’teyx. Boy are these shoes essential. Mine are in the Artic Silk colorway so they match with almost anything. While clipping my own Petzl Grigri to the rope, I made a quick look around for anyone belaying with a different device. To my right I saw someone that looked like Angela belaying with an ATC Pilot from Black Diamond and so I quickly yelled over to her “Your climber must really like free-soloing if you’re using that to belay him!” We both laughed. This joke never gets old. Angela started to defend the device half-heartedly but I tuned her out. The Grigri from Petzl is superior. I own 3 of them; one for use, one for display, and one just-in-case.

Properly warmed up we packed our gear and started heading toward the day’s project. Midway across the cliffside another climber caught my eye. In fact, he seemed to have caught a lot of eyes. Some kind of energy was building around him, and I couldn’t help but watch to see what he was up to. He was sitting on a rock at the base of a thin-looking trad line, absorbed in the task of rolling a joint. He sat over a make-shift table from the lid of his stash box balanced on his knees, long hair concealing his features as he worked. The box looked like an old Tupperware, once opaque but now black with stains and use. I couldn’t figure out what the brand was. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. His harness looked old and worn, all indications of the brand had faded away with use. He was barefoot, and I couldn’t make out what kind of jeans he had. As he finished rolling the joint, he produced a lighter and flicked it on. The flame lit his face, and everything else in the world was black and white after that moment. Handsome as the day is long, he drew smoke and squinted up toward the crowd. After an eternity, he exhaled and stood with purpose.

It was subtle at first, but I realized I was hearing Requiem by Mozart, building louder and louder. I watched him slip into his climbing shoes, but I wouldn’t swear to the brand he wore. He tied in to a rope, but it was black and white like everything else and I hardly saw it. He began to clip cams onto his harness, seemingly at random. A green C4 first, and I smiled. I have this cam too, it strikes a reasonable balance between… then he clipped a rigid stem purple C4 from the mid-90’s. What the hell? Then an offset Metolius. Then a yellow totem. Two RP’s. A green C3. A black Alien. There was no pattern or consistency to this at all. Which brand did this guy even prefer?

One more drag from the joint and then he pinched the lit end and placed it on a rock at the base for later. He looked up and drew a breath, exhaling slowly. Requiem had built on itself and was currently drowning out all sound, until he touched the first hold and the world went silent and shifted back to color.

All of us watched him climb. It was beautiful to behold.

Midway, he placed the rigid stem cam and found a finger lock with his left hand sufficient to rest from. With his right hand, he reached back and into his chalk bag. Extracting it, covered in white powder, he shook a few times and then finally patted his thigh to remove the excess chalk. I noticed then that he wore the pre-chalk stained jeans from Ripton and as I became aware of that he turned over his shoulder and looked directly at me.

He winked. A ray of light flashed from a sparkle in his winking eye and penetrated my very soul. The power of it knocked me back several steps and I nearly fell over.

Then he fired the remainder of the route and lowered back to the ground. When he got there, he picked up his joint and re-lit it. Many of us crowded around to congratulate him on his accomplishment.

“The hardest route at the crag!” somebody shouted. Another guy seemed to think it was no harder than 5.10, but was rarely climbed because it presented some type of ill defined danger, or was perhaps even cursed. A third guy was enthralled because the climber was on a redemption story arc, having survived a hardship of some kind or another.

Incredible. Bold. Inspirational.

As we gathered, he flipped the lid over on his stash box and revealed a QR Code. Following the code, he explained, would allow anyone to purchase the gear he had performed the climb with. The rolling papers used for the joint. The rigid stem cam, which Black Diamond produced new again as part of their nostalgia series. The climbing shoes from La Sportiva. The Rope from Sterling. A pre-worn harness from Petzl. And of course, the pre-chalk stained jeans from Ripton.

“If it’s not too much to ask, use offer code STONE at checkout for 10% off your order, and to support me in my journey.”

It was not too much to ask.

After spending a King’s ransom on new gear via the QR code I stood facing my project. Draws pre-hung, shirt off, temps perfect, shoes tight, rope tied and ready to send. I couldn’t help but notice the chalk stains on my pants though. Faded. Haphazard. Undefined. It was hard to imagine climbing in these disgusting pants, but what could I do about that now? Nothing, really.

And so, he pulls onto the rock. His mind becomes empty. If asked to describe how he was feeling or what he was thinking later, he would not be able to. He steps high onto a polished band of quartz which runs through the granite face. He places his shoe very carefully on a chunk of bright white quartz. He intuits exactly how to press against this slippery stone, using the rubber from his shoe perfectly. If you asked him about the rubber just then, he would not know what you were talking about. His shoes have become his feet. He feels the stone as if it is against his skin, and no brand has perfected this technology nor could they. It is not a technology at all. It comes with time only, forming leather and rubber to the shape of his foot through hours upon hours of use and translating the inputs into his mind’s powerful instincts. Any shoe is capable of it.

He reaches up and grabs a seam of rock with his right hand. All of his fingers slot into the vertical seam, but at the bottom his ring finger wedges tightly where his knuckle has become swollen and deformed from use. His dexterity is lessoned in his normal life, but here on this hold and others like it, his body has formed perfectly to the hard surface and he cannot be separated from it unless he wants to.

He reaches his left hand down and grabs the rope. It doesn’t matter who made the rope just then, or what color it is. He clips it easily to the draw. He doesn’t think about the draw at all outside of the millisecond this action takes, and perhaps not even then.

Up he climbs. Stabbing right with his leg and dropping his left knee low to bring his hip close to the overhung wall. He clips. He climbs. He feels nothing. He feels everything. He darts his right hand up to the full extent of his reach into an improbable under-cling. When he lets go with his left hand below he screams out uncontrollably from the strain of keeping tight to the wall. He feels a strength, hard earned. He does not acknowledge himself or his strength at this time. He no longer could if he tried.

He steps higher and as his knees creep up toward his forearms the under-cling becomes the source of a fearsome sum of potential energy. He summons additional strength, somehow. He moves up and left along the seam. He finds solace with his left hand, finally, and some slight undulations in the stone on which to place his feet with some confidence. He clips again. He breaths deeply. He closes his eyes and lets his heart slow. He is not afraid. His belayer is watching close, ready to catch him if he needs it. He trusts his belayer with his life. His name is Brandon. He cares about Brandon. Brandon cares about him.

He departs the restful stance and launches into the crux. He clutches the strange hold above his head and swings his body to the right. He swings his right leg high toward his chest and presses into a powerful layback. He presses further, nearly standing up. His hand starts to open without consent. He is powerless to stop what comes next.

He falls.

“God Damnit! I can’t believe I fell again at that same spot. How many times is that bullshit going to happen to me?”

I couldn’t help but think about how terribly I was climbing at the end there, probably. No doubt these shoes are no good for this route. I need to try a different pair here. Maybe Katanas by La Sportiva? Hell, maybe even some TC Pros (also by La Sportiva). I never stood a chance up there with this bullshit gear I have.

“Hey Steve, can you send me up my Icon Brush from Trango if I go in direct here?”

Calling down to Paul I looked down and saw my pants once more, with the poorly made chalk stains. Next time I’ll have the pre-chalk stained jeans from Ripton, come to think of it.

Thank God I paid extra for the 2-day shipping.

I had a Godfather. One of my Uncles I think, from my mom’s side. This is common practice with Catholics. A Godfather is required during the baptism, and a baptism is required for the salvation of your soul. Without one of those, even babies go to hell. That’s fucked up right? A baby going to hell. Can you imagine? Is this the part where you become upset that a group of people have a different set of magical rules than you do? Or perhaps upset that they have magical rules at all? How boring. Moving past their participation in a ritual which can have as much or as little meaning as you like, a Godfather is given additional charge. They are tasked with taking an interest in the child’s development. They’re meant to provide guidance and input. Usually of a spiritual nature, but not necessarily. This is a great example of how religion can be of great value, in my opinion. With a positive outlook, you can find that any religion is founded on some fairly good ideas. Or you can’t. Like most things, you call it.

I was a 21 year old father of a newborn. I had transitioned from childhood to adulthood in the halted seconds between the birth of my son and the moment he drew a breath that none of us (doctors included) was sure he would take. Additional guidance felt like a good idea. I’m not saying I hit this note often, but the fact that I could hit it at all is likely the reason we survived this period. Humility. Not always enough I’m sure, but some amount greater than zero.

I put the word out. I invited my three closest friends, as well as my 10-15 second tier friends to spend a weekend in competition. The winner would be crowned Godfather. I wrote a lengthy letter explaining exactly how I defined a Godfather, and what could be expected. I’ve since lost the letter, but I remember the sentiment as follows: a Godfather has no religious or legal obligations. If I die, they don’t need to take over raising my son and I don’t specifically task them with providing spiritual guidance. They simply need to give a shit about my son. Take an interest in him. Be around, insomuch as they’re able.

I admit, I was surprised and somewhat hurt by the lackluster response that I received. I wasn’t asking much, but perhaps I was asking a lot more than I realized at the time. We were all kids, but I was the only one of us that needed to grow up just then. All the same, three answered the call and the field was set for The Godfather Decathlon.

The format was straight forward. The entrants would compete in ten events. Each event would be judged, and each competitor would be ranked. A combined score at the end would determine the Godfather.

Judges:

1. Myself, obviously.

2. Logan, my son. Although a non-verbal infant, special consideration would be given to participants which he seemed to like more (or less).

3. Tiffany, Logan’s mom and my (in those days) girlfriend.

4. Mikey, my younger brother and Logan’s uncle. A default Godfather, I didn’t want to crown Mikey with the title because I already knew he was going to take a special interest in Logan either way (he is a good uncle and brother). Eventually Logan was baptized (best not to take chances) and Mikey is his Godfather in the eyes of God, should God be of the bureaucratic type.

Participants:

1. Abe Friesen. My best friend since the 6th grade, Abe was the clear front-runner. We had been almost inseparable for those most critical years where children transition into adults. Although we were (are) wildly different people, the personalities that we built over those years share a foundation.

2. Mike B. The comic relief and unlikely hero, Mike could (often did) prove to be more stomach than man but his heart still outsized his stomach.

3. Sam Pepperwood. A real dark horse candidate, and among my weirdest friends. So weird, that he generally made Tiff uncomfortable as all weirdos tend to do. Pepperwood is not his birthname but his chosen name, legally altered.

I will give an honorable mention here to Ray Rockett, whom wanted to participate but got sick. Ray was the only person I told about Logan’s birth that took the news as positive. He eventually became Godfather to Zoey (Tiff and I’s second child).

EVENT 1: SPAGHETTI EATING

This was the only event which was held on a separate day from the others, owing to “all-you-can-eat” spaghetti night being on Wednesdays at Cafe Gondolier. People reading this are unlikely to know this restaurant, which was down on Pearl St. and has been replaced by something else perhaps dozens of times now. I wonder, do you get the impression that it is classy because of the name, or are you unable to move past the fact that it has an all-you-can-eat spaghetti night?

The rules were simple and obvious: whomever can eat the most spaghetti wins. Cafe Gondolier would bring a 1/2 pound plate of spaghetti to anyone that ordered the special. You could choose either a garlic (white) sauce or basic marinara. Most participants would switch between the two, but there were no restrictions on sauce type. When you finished the plate, you got another 1/2 pound brought out. If you’re wondering why I know the weight, it is because I asked them about it. We actually went here nearly every Wednesday. Food—in those days—was about quantity and little else.

I also asked—one time—what the most anyone had ever eaten was. I ask questions of this nature whenever I can. Basically: what is the weirdest thing you have seen while performing your otherwise boring job. If the job involves people in any way, you quickly learn it isn’t boring. I figured they would tell me that some guy came in and tossed back 15 plates of spaghetti, then got carried off on the shoulders of his friends to glory and some other future conquest. Instead, the server told me about a guy—way overweight—that came in and slowly ate plate after plate all day long. He ate alone. The final count was unknown. This wasn’t an achievement wrapped in glory. The story was told somberly. I was not bored when I heard it. I still think about that guy all the time.

Anyway, to the task at hand. A large group of us participated in this competition, because it was a dinner and by-god we’re all going to get our money’s worth spaghetti-wise. I probably ate a lot of spaghetti myself, because I can eat a lot of anything. One time I was at a burger joint and I ate a normal burger, then realized they had a competition style super-burger which if eaten would result in the meal being comp’d. I ate the super-burger too. Under ordinary circumstances I can often out-eat anyone.

Anyone but Mike B.

He ate the most spaghetti that night. His stomach cannot be satiated. He can eat FOUR chipotle burritos. He can eat whatever you’re eating and also a chipotle burrito. You might assume he’s about twice the size of a normal man, but in truth he’s regular size and also an excellent athlete.

Abe ate the next most, and Sam ate hardly any spaghetti because Sam sucks at eating food (he’s vegan).

EVENT 2: GOLDENEYE ON N64

Perhaps the greatest game ever made, apart from Mario Kart. I haven’t played it in probably 25 years, so I’m not sure I can describe the rules anymore. Basically, the competitors were dropped into an environment and attempted to kill each other until a winner was revealed. Nobody was allowed to be odd-job, a bond character with a unique advantage in this game because he was 4’-0” tall and so he was harder to shoot.

Sam won. Mike was next and Abe came last. Abe is terrible at video games. He was never able to coordinate the on-screen character’s movements into something coherent. Often you could come across Abe’s character simply running in place against a wall while he helplessly mashed the buttons to no avail. I can think of many skills in life more useful than video games, so perhaps it hasn’t held him back any.

EVENT 3: ARM WRESTLING

Mike defeated Abe, and just like that the underdog was looking to have a significant lead over the odds-on favorite. Sam didn’t participate because he had injured himself, the details of which I forget now. Sam injured himself a lot, unfortunately.

EVENT 4: FAMILY HISTORY

Here participants were quizzed on a variety of names from Logan’s family, like his grandfather or his cousin or whatever. They had to record their answers on a sheet of paper, and crucially only answers with correct spelling were awarded full points. Spelling was long known to be an Achilles heal for Abe, who would’ve known the correct answers best of the three otherwise. The result, was a victory for Sam.

EVENT 5: FOUR-HUNDRED METER DASH

Here, finally a chance for Abe to make up some ground. Abe ran D-1 track (at CU) contemporaneously with the Godfather Decathlon, so his victory was basically certain. Abe had always been fast. He once told me that this particular gift was made clear when he was fairly young, because he could outrun his (also athletic) older brother. Where we grew up, our sports teams were abysmal. I recall once losing by over 50 points in a football game and finding out on the bus ride home that the other team had not even bothered to bring their varsity players onto the field. The pool from which we drew talent was simply too small, and although we played against similar size schools, these were mostly private schools located in the Denver area. Basketball was not as bad, we even won a playoff game if memory serves, but it was still pretty bad. The exception was track. Possibly it was the altitude, or possibly it was the fact that many of our parents had come to our town because they loved endurance based mountain activities and had instilled some of that into their offspring. I don’t pretend to know, but for whatever reason we could field competitive track teams. Abe and Sam had both been very successful in high school track, and both ran at the collegiate level. Sam was—at least in high school—particularly dominant, though oft-plagued by injury.

I recall an occasion where he was getting warmed up near the starting blocks of some short-distant sprint type event. When the competitors heard his name, they became upset by the realization that they were now racing for second place. This is a strange quirk of running in my opinion. Yes, shit happens. Mostly though, there are no unknowns at play. Hardly any “poetry” to the motion. You could almost show up and rank finishing position among the competition without having to race at all, at least at an amateur level where the times are not so close together anyway.

I’ve spoken about this with my modern day running guru / friend Tony, and he disagrees with me emphatically. He speaks of many variables which are at play, and much poetry to the motion. I can’t see it, but I also acknowledge I don’t know much about this topic.

Anyway, we held a race despite the knowable outcome and Abe fucking killed the other two guys.

EVENT 6: ONE MILE RUN

Yet another dominant victory for Abe. He ran beside them for a while, but then when the last lap came he simply turned it up to about 60% effort and crushed them.

EVENT 7: COOKING

Participants each had to cook a meal of their choosing, and judges decided a winner, based on taste or effort or mess or something anyway.

Abe made biscuits ‘n gravy, Sam made a pasta dish, and Mike took home the victory with a green chili. Mike put forth a tremendous effort preparing the meal mostly ahead of time while by contrast Abe purchased mostly frozen ingredients just prior to the meal. Today, Logan would most identify with the frozen meal I think.

EVENT 8: FREE-THROWS

Yet another easy victory for Abe. Neither Mike or Sam played basketball at all, and whatever injury had befallen Sam caused him to shoot one handed. Somehow he still beat Mike like that.

EVENT 9: JOB INTERVIEW

Participants sat in front of judges one-at-a-time and answered job interview style questions. We actually taped them, but the recording has been lost to my luddite nature and over-willingness to throw things away. An unfortunate casualty. Abe won handily. He raided my closet and put together whatever I owned that passed for business attire, and then proceeded to play the whole affair as though he were a nervous wreck. Sweating, agitated, and often providing the worst possible answers to questions. I wish we still had that video.

EVENT 10: GIFT

Participants were tasked with giving Logan a gift.

Sam got him Strega Nona, which he claimed as a favorite book from when he was young. I read Logan this book often, and thought of Sam every time. When he was old enough, I always told him about Sam after we finished reading it.

Abe got Logan a hammer, and then using a Dremel he carved his name and birthday into the side of it “Logan Gilbert - 5/21/06”. Logan is descendant from carpenters, and this is how I was making my bread at the time. This hammer was a touching gift.

Mike followed Abe around with the intention of copying his idea, and got him a crowbar on which he carved “Logan ‘06”. So classy.

Ten events down, Abe took home the title.

It is a blast for me to look through these photos. Christ, these guys are young. I’m actually younger than all three of them, and I was in charge of an infant. A reality I can hardly imagine now. Some small part of me, even with knowledge of how things turned out, looks at some of this idiocy and thinks this should not have been allowed to occur. Somebody smart should’ve intervened. I was so clearly out of my depth. Yet, I wasn’t. Do you love your son a different amount if you are 20 than if you are 40? I don’t think so. Fatherhood is nothing more than a measurement of this love, most of the time.

Logan is now 18 years old and attending the same college Abe was running track for back then. He knows the stories from this day, and he has always liked hearing them. He knows his Godfather, because Abe took special interest in him, as promised. I haven’t seen Mike or Sam since Abe got married, because goddamn is it hard to stay connected as you age. This is a story from that time in life that isn’t so far removed from when we all had to see each other every day at school. We still clung to that social raft, while we prepared to build the next one. Eventually we did build our own rafts though, and those rafts all drifted apart. It doesn’t even feel sad, despite how it sounds.

It’s just life, and life is not sad.

Mike still lives in the area, and had a brief stint as a semi-pro downhill mountain biker. I think he works for a bike company now. Sam moved West. He has no presence on the internet. I don’t know what he does for a job, but I think it might be engineering related. There’s a tad more of Sam in this piece here, if you’re interested.

Abe now lives in Texas, and celebrated the birth of his own son this past year. No word yet on if he’s going to hold a decathlon. I’ll be on the first flight if he does.

Mostly I can get a seat to myself, but there are days where the bus is full. I can’t explain it. the patterns of people are as unreadable as the patterns of the weather. You think you understand them but now and again, they break. Floods, wind storms, fires, and public transportation swollen full with us working stiffs.

One such day I was sat next to a man of about 45 or so. Small in stature, balding, bespectacled and sharply dressed. Everything about his outward appearance told the story of a man that had his shit together, was perhaps a bit tightly wound, but was otherwise on the level. My cynicism runs deep perhaps, but I read on his face a job with no fulfillment, 2.5 kids that were working their way up to an age where they would lose respect for him if they hadn’t already reached it, and a loveless marriage to a woman committed to a screen or drink (or both) but little else. So, a man that had his shit together by confining his shit to the balance of his bank account, his credit score, and his commitment to stimulating our economy with his average to middling purchasing power. Same as the rest of us.

Minutes into the commute something snapped inside of him. He began to cry. Quietly at first, but eventually it became hard to ignore him. I was desperate to ignore him. I was, in fact, desperate to ignore every living person that I encountered throughout that day and every other day. I don’t know why. I am not alone. I could not ignore this poor guy, however.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you ok? Can I help you out somehow or would you rather be left alone?”

He explained his situation.

He’s a manufacturer of men’s shampoo and conditioner. He didn’t want to say which brand, but he assured me it’s one that I know. He paused when making this assurance and I got the impression that he could smell just exactly how well I knew this brand. He’s been in charge of operations for 15 years now, no small feat he tells me. This is a cutthroat business, he explained. He makes good choices though, hard choices. Choices that other people don’t want to make sometimes, but he’s in charge and intends to stay in charge. For the first 5 years he kept the company above water. Profits were thin, but sustainable. He kept the job he worked so hard to get each year, but every year it was a dubious prospect that he could last for another. It all came down to human nature, which as any bus rider can tell you, is unpredictable. Most people used a small dollop of conditioner, and followed it with a small dollop of shampoo—perhaps in the reverse order but that has the same outcome. His entire life was balanced on the size of this dollop.

Then, a miracle.

Ten years ago a rumor was spread that baldness would occur unless shampoo is used every three days and without conditioner. Conditioner should be used alone—without shampoo—for the other two days. To someone unfamiliar with the business this may seem like no big deal really, but in truth this was the biggest change the men’s shampoo industry had ever seen.

Something about using one at a time causes people to use more each time. In fact, on average people were using 175% the quantity of whichever product they used on any given day. Each day the size of the dollop was larger, but there was one dollop instead of two. As a result, people used less of the total product but they used more conditioner than they used to. If you did the math (which he did) you would see that after this rumor became widely accepted as fact American men used 58% the quantity of shampoo, but 117% the conditioner each year.

He explained: conditioner is very cheap to make relative to shampoo. On this, he swore me to secrecy. For psychological reasons the bottles are sold for the same price individually, but the profit margins are significantly higher for the conditioner, such that conditioner provided about 10x profit per bottle sold.

Business was a-boomin’.

His life became decadent, which he described to me in great detail and without a hint of self awareness. He wasn’t riding the bus in those days. He was riding a wave, which he admitted to having no hand in creating. He owned a second property in Montana, and a third in Colorado. He rubbed shoulders with politicians, making substantial contributions to their campaigns whenever it suited his interests. His interests were shampoo related and his grip on the market strengthened. He poured himself into the work. Occasionally an alternative hair-cleansing method would sprout up, which was touted as being more ecologically friendly or some other similar bullshit. He had scientists on staff which rebuked any such possible claims whenever they were made. The science was basically sound, only the old standard way of cleansing hair did the job, and the impacts it had on the environment were almost nil. When people wouldn’t listen to the science, he leaned on his political might to hammer any stubborn nails flat. He found himself on TV with pundits sympathetic to his message. His power felt real but tenuous. The wave he rode was a source of great fear for him, since he could not explain how it formed. He spent considerable effort to make sure it couldn’t form again for someone else. The world was not as well informed as he was on the topic of hair. He would spend his last dollar to make sure the world had clean hair, even though it was becoming increasingly impossible to spend his last dollar.

Then, disaster.

The strange way in which people now received information had loosened his hold on the narrative. Shampoo usage had become unpredictable, and subject to the whims of ‘influencers’. These people were easily purchased of course, but it took longer for him to teach the influencers the truth and science which supported a specific usage regiment than it did for other influencers to sprout up and take their place. Vast resources were wasted in this effort. Whole companies were formed on the strength of branding, selling masculinity rather than substance. It became impossible to match the pace of change to the market. Then, one day it settled. An ex-navy seal, and thrice decorated combat vet who had become famous for eating only raw hamburger meat began to evangelize a new shampoo/conditioner cycle. Shampoo and conditioner should each be used separately, every other day. He was adamant that failure to follow this regiment would cause erectile disfunction, baldness, feelings of empathy toward a person whom spurned your sexual advances, and sudden interests in veganism. His hair was unimpeachably beautiful and thick.

Profits crumbled. No scientist, whether in the shampoo maker’s pocket or not, could combat the insecurity of man.

In a desperate gambit they decided to increase the size of the conditioner bottle. The thinking was that people would forget which one they used last and reach for the larger bottle more often than not. This was truly an act of desperation, he explained. Manufacturing an entirely different bottle was costly. To help offset the cost, they now had to sell the shampoo and conditioner packaged together.

“Do you know the problem though?” He asked.

”Well… the way I do it is I put the bottle I used…”

”… yes, yes, you put it in the back, furthest away from you in the shower, then each day you used the closest one. That’s the solution, and I’ll bet you think you’re clever. Well you might have been a year ago. A year ago research indicated that only 11% of American males would solve this problem. That number today is 45% and rising. If it gets to 60% that’s the tipping point. I’ll be unable to repay the substantial loans to produce the different bottle size. The business will fold.”

He collapsed his head into his hands and began to sob. He explained that his hefty wallet had poisoned him. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped outside his marriage. It was only now—with relative poverty—that he was beginning to understand the transactional nature of these affairs. His confidence and self worth had been shattered upon this realization. His wife knew between nothing and everything. He didn’t know because they hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in years. She had been distracted too, he explained. He knew between nothing and everything about that too.

He didn’t even want to get back on top of the world, he just wanted things to go back to the way they were. Shampoo and conditioner in equal measure, every day. Modest profits. A chance to meet his wife’s gaze again. A life free from the poisonous influence of power.

What a sad sonofabitch.

That next day, after I finished using the shampoo I hesitated before placing it in the back. I decided to use both. Fuck it. I did that for 3 days. I felt bliss, until the 3rd day when I saw another despondent man on the bus talking with another passenger. I could hear the conversation. It was the EXACT same story. The infidelity. The influencer. The wave. Beat for beat. Verbatim.

Then it happened again on the 5th day.

Actors. Hired by BIG shampoo to disseminate false information and sway the market. What a mind fuck.

For 2 years I practiced a strict shampoo / conditioner every other day regiment. Nothing could sway my relentless and sure placement of the just used bottle behind the unused bottle each day. I was like a Swiss clock. For 2 years I told this story at parties. Everyone that heard me was blown away and instantly converted. It spread like wild fire.

Then, 2 years on I was standing in the shower, with 12 unopened bottles of conditioner since they are sold together but I don’t use them at the same rates what with the larger bottle and all.

“shit…”

I shaved my head.

It was not possible to find any unbiased information on the topic of hair. When there’s money to be made, I have found that incentives poison any possibility of truth. The limits that an industry would go to manipulate me felt beyond my imagination now. I had to cut my puppet strings. I admit, I have been spending a lot of money on razors. Plus, I need lots of products to keep the top of my head looking good. This stuff isn’t cheap, in fact I’m spending a lot more money and time now to maintain a lack of hair. It’s funny, I would never have considered doing this before. It’s kind of a pain in the ass. Much harder than washing my hair used to be. A lot of other guys are doing this now too, I’ve noticed. They probably reached the same conclusion that I did, desiring to know for certain that they are no longer being manipulated.

It’s a great feeling.

I’m working on new stuff, but meantime this is a fun story about a guy doing something he *barely* has the skills for in a place he’s going to spend the next decade falling in love with.

Top Ten In A Day
October 25, 2015
+/- 15.5 miles RT, 10,100' gain
+/- 54 pitches, 15 raps
From Chautauqua TH
Participants: Ali Rigeb, Danny Gilbert

Enter the 36th Chamber

Late September 2013 found me at the Chautauqua TH trying to find a trail that hadn't been ravaged by flood. Mostly by necessity I wound up jogging up the 1st flatiron trail and when I got to the bridge that leads to the base of the First Flatiron I was inspired to try heading up. In muddy trail runners I managed to get far enough off the ground to let fear of the unknown above combine with fear of the known below and downclimbed back into the mud with a racing heart.

Snow flew, and winter passed by - but in late March of 2014 with things starting to dry out again I got in touch with Brian Crim asking about possibly climbing the 1st Flatiron. In an act of generosity I still don't understand he lead me up "Fandango" and I learned two important lessons:

1. With climbing shoes on, I was totally comfortable on a route like that.
2. Learning how to use the complicated rope system that got us safely (and slowly) to the top was going to take a long time.

Armed with climbing shoes and some confidence I woke up early shortly after that and attacked the standard DEF of the 1st, beginning what would become a new obsession for me.

Perhaps inspired by the fact that my morning "run" had become infinitely more exciting, Ali began to show interest in the flatirons too and after a few practice runs up "Free For All" (2nd Flatiron - 5.6) we made a roped ascent of the DEF of the 1st flatiron.

For a very brief period, I was faster than him at something - but this summer he started putting serious time in on the various flatiron east faces. Ali will tell you that I climb much harder than he does, but with 1000' of slab in front of him I don't know anybody that can move so well. [Note from 2024: I do now!]

With the way his brain works, I'm sure it wasn't very long before Ali started contemplating a big day in the flatirons and one day after down-climbing "front porch" he suggested we try the "Top Ten Easy Climbs in A Day". One thing lead to another, and we soon found ourselves talking about just going for the real thing... after much practice, research, and one failed attempt we got it.

The Sharpest in the Clan - Gerry Roach's Top Ten

1. East Face Center - First Flatiron - 5.6 S - 12 pitches and 1 rap
2. East Face - Third Flatiron - 5.2 - 8 pitches and 2 raps
3. Friday's Folly - Third Flatiron - 5.7 - 1 pitch and 1 rap
4. West Chimney - Green Mountain Pinnacle - 5.5 - 1 pitch and 1 rap
5. Stairway to Heaven - 5.3 - 7 pitches and 1 rap
6. East Face - Backporch - 5.6 - 4 pitches and 2 raps
7. East Face - Pellaea - 5.5 - 4 pitches and 1 rap
8. East Face - Fatiron - 5.4 - 7 pitches and 2 raps
9. North Face - Maiden - 5.6 S - 6 pitches and 2 raps
10. North Face - Matron - 5.5 - 4 pitches and 2 raps

* Pitches refer to the number of pitches given in Gerry Roach's guide book (if listed).
** Most of these routes can actually be down-climbed, however we elected to rappel everything believing it would save energy and time.

He Has No Father to His Style

Note from 2024: this section edited per comments from Bill Wright that I received in 2015, and obviously all of the stuff after 2015 was added after 2015. This is no longer up-to-date because I have lost track of the completions. I can say, however that the current FKT is held by All-Around-Good-Dude Joe Kennedy (5h15m52s)

There is really only one rule for TTIAD, and since it is included in the name (and isn't always followed) it isn't worth repeating. It is difficult to tell how many people have actually completed TTIAD, however through google and with help from Bill Wright the list is as follows:

1990 Buzz Burrell does it first (sort of, he swapped Stairway for the much harder Satan's Slab)*
1999 Bill Wright and Tom Karpeichik are the first to complete the actual Top Ten (also the all-ascents FKT 10h26m33s)
OCT 2000 George Bell and John Prater**
OCT 2001 Bill Briggs, solo (FKT, 6h31m!)**
2005 Bill Wright repeats with Stefan Griebel**
2xxx Tom Karpeichik repeats with Kirsten Kindt (first/only? female)**
AUG 2011 Kevin Smith and Martin Le Roux
OCT 2011 Dave Stewart and Jon Sargent**
2011 Dave Stewart repeats solo (sort of, he accidentally downclimbed Angel's - not Stairway)*
OCT 2015 Ali Rigeb and Danny Gilbert (we were the first to complete the task with the same start/stop point)
NOV 2016 Kendrick Callaway and Peter Bakwin**
NOV 2017 Darren Smith, solo (New FKT! - 6h28m06s)***
DEC 2018 Bill Wright and Danny Gilbert repeat for the first winter TTIAD. It was damn cold!
NOV 2019 Peter Bakwin repeats with Justin Simoni**

* indicates Stairway to Heaven being swapped with another route
** indicates Stairway to Heaven was downclimbed
*** Darren set a new FKT with this impressive, blazingly fast run through these classics. He also set a new standard, because he started and stopped from the same TH when doing so. Besting the legendary Bill Briggs' previous FKT by only 3 minutes, while closing the loop was a super gutsy move. It is worth noting, Darren downclimbed Stairway to Heaven and Friday's Folly. He did this completely unsupported, finding his water along the way.

Traditionally, the routes are done north to south with a prearranged shuttle at South Mesa and by downclimbing Stairway to Heaven (this makes the route much more linear). With Darren's new FKT perhaps that will change, and more people will opt to go for the RT.

As of NOV 2019, in total it looks like TTIAD has been completed 14 times by 18 different people.

Forming Like Voltron

We didn't do such a great job taking pictures, so often a photo is from either our failed attempt or when we were scouting the routes, and is indicated as such in the caption.

At 2:15 AM I awoke on the floor of Ali's apartment (he's nearly 30 and doesn't own a couch somehow). Realizing that the cap on the water bag Ali had stashed wasn't going to allow us to pour the water into our bottles I stumbled out to my truck and grabbed the one we needed. When I got back inside Ali mumbled something about needing more sleep but I noisily prepared my bag and he soon followed suit. We hopped on bikes and rode into the chilly morning air up toward the Chautauqua TH. Once there we slipped on harnesses that we would wear for the remainder of the day, and started heading up toward the 1st Flatiron at around 3:25 AM.

Route 1 - EF Direct of the First Flatiron
FA by Pat Ament and Larry Dalke circa 1960
"This climb is a Flatiron classic of the First magnitude. The route's commitment to the center of this great face is unrelenting for the first six pitches. It is 12 pitches from the low point of the face to the summit, making this one of the longest climbs above Boulder." - From the Roach Guide

Ali and I have each done this route many, many times but something about the 4 AM time frame and the darkness that accompanies causes us to take it fairly slow. We each pause frequently to contemplate the moves we've committed to memory, and when we eventually top out we are both happy to have finished.

We rappel off of the back (something neither of us had done since learning the downclimb) and pick our way over to the 3rd Flatiron via a little used social trail. Ali had dialed in the space between these two rocks, and the hike over was smooth.

Route 2 - EF of the Third Flatiron
FA by Floyd and Earl Millard 1906
"... the most traveled rock route near Boulder. It is the classic Flatiron route and is one of the finest easy climbs in the country. Anyone who enjoys moving over rock should climb it." - From the Roach Guide

The Third Flatiron is the definition of cruiser, and having warmed up a bit on the First we started to hit our stride. Ali showed me a variation I hadn't taken before where you avoid stepping over the large crack near the summit pitch until the last possible moment and I filed it away for use in my never ending attempt to get a respectable time trial on the 3rd. We rappelled down to Friday's Folly ledge and performed the much practiced transition to the second set of rappel bolts, the image of which sticks out in my mind as something that might even make Jimmy Chin's 3rd or 4th assistant get out of bed. After the second rap down to the ground, we pulled the rope and racked up for Friday's Folly.

Route 3 - Friday's Folly - Third Flatiron
FA by Tom Hornbein (yes, the Tom Hornbein) and Harry Walldrop 1950
"The vertical wall, good rock and superb position yield a climb that is larger than life." - From the Roach Guide

Friday's Folly is a great route, especially for a noob trad climber like me. The crux of the route is the first section, when you transition from the west side to the south west face across the aerate. This is one of the four routes on which we used pro. Although this is technically rated the hardest climb of the day, it might be a stretch to call it 5.7.

I lead up the route, established a belay at the rappel anchors and Ali quickly followed. I think it's worth mentioning here that we considered the end of Friday's Folly to be the Friday's Folly ledge, as that is how Roach describes it. Roach does mention that you can continue the climb up into the south bowl and even on to the summit of the 3rd.

Back on the ground, Ali lead the way to the Royal Arch trail - another well researched transition that went very smoothly. At Sentinel pass, we ditched gear into my pack and stashed it in the rocks. I lead the way up to the base of the Chimney once again thankful for having researched this bushwhack so thoroughly. With only the rack on a sling and a few items clipped to my harness, and Ali with a lighter pack we made good time up the steep hill.

Route 4 - West Chimney - Green Mountain Pinnacle
FA Unknown
"This is the best chimney climb near Boulder, and it provides a wonderful change of pace from regulation Flatiron climbing" - From the Roach Guide

Another excellent climb, and one of the four routes on which we used pro. After enjoying some killer views of the sunrise framed by the walls of the chimney, Ali racked up and prepared to lead through the pitch. As leads go, this one is fairly bold because the opportunity to place protection doesn't really present itself until about halfway up the wall, at which point an old piton sits next to a crack that takes a bomber nut placement. Ali made quick work of it, and set up the belay at rappel bolts located on the summit. I followed with the backpack in tow, we set up the rappel and launched back down to earth.

From here we headed directly back down to sentinel pass along our well versed path, and picked up the stashed pack. At this point, the traditional route would take you to Royal Arch and bushwhacking over to Stairway, but we turned down to woods quarry, went skiing down some scree, and jumped onto the Mesa - heading south. The day prior Ali had stashed a bag of water at the Mallory Cave junction, and as we filled up our bottles for the long trek south we had the brilliant idea to nab Backporch right then and there. Originally planning to nab it on the way back to Chautauqua, getting it on the way south let us quickly out-and-back without carrying packs, while still feeling fresh, and in the daylight. We each coiled our 30m ropes and headed up the Mallory trail.

Route 5 - East Face - Backporch
FA by Bob Beatty and Bob Jickling 1956
"The Backporch is considerably more defiant looking than the other rocks huddled around Mallory Cave, and it has a distinctive V-shaped overhang on its east face. This east face is considerably steeper than the average Flatiron slab and the climbing is correspondingly harder." - From the Roach Guide

This route seems a controversial choice for top ten status, and by most accounts it doesn't make the cut. However, Ali and I both love this route and would put it easily within the top 5. The face is considerably steeper and the moves heading up are a blast. It transitions from a scramble, to steep slab, to a layback, to a balanced - all foot step up, to a stemming traverse and on and on. The variety of movement to get up this thing is unmatched. Many also complain of the rock's quality, which I believe can only be attributed to being off route. If you start the second pitch by heading directly up the center of the face, you will end up in some terrible rock (we did this the first time we climbed it). This poor rock can easily be avoided (and should be) by heading left or right.

This rock has two rappels - the second of which is probably the most difficult rappel to load into that I've ever done - it is an airy, and exciting finish to a great climb.

We jogged back to our stash discussing how much we suck compared to the 5.13 climbers we ran into on the back side of Backporch. [Note from 2024: Almost 10 years have passed since when I wrote this, and although I now know the route I’m talking about here (Five Year Plan) and I even know guys that have climbed it, I still suck compared to them!] At the stash we left a little more water and a bit of food and began heading south on the mesa, happy that the only climb we would be facing on the way back was now Stairway.

We turned at the Fern canyon junction and stashed our packs where the trail splits into a Y heading either north, south or west. From here we made our way up the steep Fern canyon trail toward Pellaea, which starts a mere 10 ft from the trail.

Route 6 - East Face - Pellaea
FA Unknown
"This beautiful 470-foot, four-pitch climb reaches a rare summit." - From the Roach Guide

Although rated only 5.5 we both feel this is a tough solo. The rock has a healthy amount of lichen, and the easy climbing is interrupted repeatedly by large featureless bulges that require 1 to 4 move sequences that keep you constantly engaged.

It is at this point in the day that fatigue is starting to take it's toll on me. When I top out, my first action is to rip my climbing shoes off and give my aching toes a break. Ali sets up the rappel (a single 30m does the trick) and we shoot down to the ground. Having screwed up the bushwhack to the trail the last time, we try heading strait west before turning south and it works out perfectly. A short jog down fern canyon to the packs, and we are again heading south on Mesa.

After the somewhat lengthy hike south we stash my pack at the rock field beneath Maiden with extra gear and head south to the Matron. A discussion over preferred Wu-Tang lyrics ensues and pretty soon we are at the base of the North face, ready to get up and be somebody.

Route 7 - North Face - Matron
FA Karl Gufstafson and Skip Green 1951
"This is a splendid popular route on excellent steep rock." - From the Roach Guide

This route is another well deserved selection for the top ten. It has the unique distinction of requiring a squeeze so tight you must remove your pack, just to even arrive at the base. This is one of the four routes on which we used pro.

Directly off the ground the route angles through a large crack system to a comfortable ledge. You must negotiate a small overhang to get to a tree. This tree marks the standard finish to the first pitch, but I continued past the tree and onto the EF so that we could un-rope and finish the climb without having to swap leads. Ali followed, coiled the rope and blasted up the EF.

It takes two rappels to get off of this rock, with the second rappel hanging from tiny, old bolts that require close quarters. We, of course, somehow managed to tangle the ropes in an un-reparable way and spent something like 10 minutes hanging there, untying and retying the EDK, and shaking out the rats nest we had created.

Eventually we made it back to the ground, down to the mesa and started our trek back north with only 3 routes left to go. Back at the pack stash we drank some water, and then quickly started our way up the scree to Fatiron, leaving my pack behind again.

Route 8 - East Face - Fatiron
FA by our lord and savior Gerry (and Barb) Roach 1972
"This unique 1,000-foot route provides a variety of challenges." - From the Roach Guide

This might be a good route, but we both consider it to be just part of the approach to the Maiden. At this point in the day I'm pretty burnt out on long East faces, and this is one of the longest damn East faces there is. At the base of the route I shove my aching, swollen feet into climbing shoes and painfully shuffle uphill. [Note from 2024: I can’t freaking believe I wore climbing shoes on every one of these routes] On the way up Ali asks - not for the last time - if I want him to carry the rack. I refuse, opting to keep what dignity I can. Ali joyfully skips along ahead of me and sets up the first rappel - because this rock has a rappel right in the middle of it...

After the rappel, I continue my shuffle and eventually we manage to top out at the same time (I had a big head start because I left him to deal with the rope after our first rap). We get through the second rap, and head over to the Maiden.

Route 9 - North Face - Maiden
FA Roy Peak and Mark Taggart 1944
"This is the easiest route to the summit of the Maiden. It is an unusual route that consists mostly of downclimbing and traverses across the north face until it reaches the Maiden's easy upper face... ... In spite of its drawbacks, this is an intriguing route on one of the world's finest pinnacles." - From the Roach Guide

I love this route. Ali hates this route, and it's most likely my fault. The route starts with an easy alpine style knife edge to the "crow's nest". From here, we rope up and begin the two pitch traverse of the north face. The first time we climbed the route I got us off track and we wound up doing some variation that couldn't have been anything in the realm of 5.fun. The worst part, was that I had never lead a traverse and in my ignorance I placed no protection for Ali and he had to essentially solo it.

Since that day, I've gotten better about protecting it but we still gain the north face in an unorthodox way. I'm probably not experienced enough to really rate difficulty, but the two move sequence with which we gain the north face is the most difficult I've done outdoors (not saying much) and couldn't be considered 5.6 by any stretch of the imagination - but I love it, and refuse any other alternatives. This is one of the four routes on which we used pro.

After I lead through the two-pitch north face section we un-roped and finished along the easy east face. The other reason this route is so great is that it has, by far, the best rappel around. Not even Ali's hatred of the north face can overcome the awesomeness of the rappel. If you have it in you to climb this route, and you haven't yet - then you should drop whatever you're doing and go get it.

If the images of the rappel don't stir something within you, then you clearly have no soul. It takes two rappels to reach the ground, and despite what you might hear or read, both can be accomplished with 60 meters of rope.

From the base we jogged out to the pack stash - and my pack was gone...

We looked all around, and I think ruled out the possibility of a bear or something busting into it. Currently the working theory is that one of the other parties up there (I heard at least 2) found the pack and took it with them. [Note from 2024: that’s exactly what happened, and I got it back a few days later]. I don't know if they did it under the assumption that it was lost, or if they just wanted the free stuff - but I haven't been able to get it back so far. Inside the pack was some expensive layers, Ali's GPS, my cell phone, food, water, and most critically at that time - my headlamp. With the sun beginning to set we trudged North knowing that we had saved the easiest climb for last, but that it wasn't going to be as easy with only one headlamp to share.

Ali convinced me to let him take the rack into his pack on the condition that we jog to the water stash at Mallory junction, and we made good time to that point. We picked up or stash and "sped" along to the base of skunk canyon to drink the remainder of the water - and I ate the food I had luckily stashed.

I took back the rack, and using Ali's cell phone light headed to the base of Stairway.

Route 10 - Stairway to Heaven
FA Unknown
"Because of its discontinuous nature, people with tight imaginations disparage this route, but only by overcoming discontinuities do we make the crooked strait and the rough places plain." - From the Roach Guide

This route can't be top ten. Right next to it, Angel's way has almost the same line but is clearly a much cleaner and better "climb". I have never met anybody with the type of imagination Roach describes, this route's inclusion is universally accepted as a momentary lapse in judgement by Roach.

Now having said all that - it is a very easy scramble, and after 9 routes and with one headlamp between us I'm fairly certain that Gerry likely included the route under the assumption that some day a couple of dumbasses would try climbing all 10 routes and find themselves in need of a break. Thank god we did Backporch earlier in the day, because a route like that wouldn't have been in the cards for us at that stage in the game.

The moon was full that night, but through some terrible luck completely covered by clouds and of no help. We managed the route by having Ali climb behind me with the lamp, and moving in bursts. Often the terrain was easy enough to move without much light, but occasionally we took several minutes to move only a few feet in tandem. We benefited mightily from my having climbed the route with Brian previously, because finding the most efficient (easiest) line on this rock isn't always strait forward. Eventually we crawled our way onto the summit, and down to the rappel. Ali went first and I followed into the inky black. Having only downclimbed the route, we weren't familiar with the rappel and as I couldn't see anything I wound up smashing into the rock and getting hung up in a tree. My rope got nicked on the sharp overhang by my clumsy fall and I couldn't help but think about how expensive this day was starting to become.

Brian had shown me the faint trail which leads to Royal arch and we very smoothly made our way to the much more established Royal Arch trail. For many, this section of woods can be the route finding crux as they are heading the other way and trying to find Stairway but we managed it easily enough thanks to putting in the work ahead of time, and having friends in the know.

Ali suggested we run back to the bikes and I told him it was time to make peace with the fact that I'm not a runner, only I said that in two words of which only "off" can be repeated. I think we got back to the TH around 9 PM for an approximate RT of 17.5 hours.

Shaolin Shadowboxing and The Wu-Tang Sword Style

I've had longer days than that, but I've never been so engaged in technical terrain for that length of time. The amount I've learned since taking this project on is staggering (although I'm still a total noob).

Any one of these routes offers an excellent outing, and the Flatirons are a very special place offering some of the best mountaineering training I can think of. With some reflection, I feel like the TTIAD challenge may have been the best day I've had in the hills and unlike many of the other long days I've had, I would gladly repeat this one.

Readership has grown a little bit. My favorite metric for that is to see how many people actually open the email when it goes out. Substack provides me with a lot of data of all kinds, but this is probably the most indicative of somebody actually reading my writing even though I understand that you didn’t necessarily read the whole thing. If you open the email, you at least considered reading it and most likely you are willing to consider reading the next one too. Year 1 to 2 saw a 163% increase for that stat, and year 2 to 3 saw a 30% increase. If I had even a baseline understanding of how stocks work, I would make a really funny stock joke now. You would’ve definitely laughed.

Many readers have migrated over thanks to recommendations from other Substacks, and in particular I want to highlight Footborn and Forward who sent a dozen or so readers my way from North of the border. Thank you!

This past year, I also added an option to pay for this. Most of you did not take me up on this offer. Probably you all understand stocks. For the sake of transparency; I ran the numbers and found that the financial support I received has resulted in a wage of $4.02 / hour producing only the monthly posts—honestly that’s not bad in my opinion. For further transparency, I haven’t spent any of the money yet. I haven’t thought of anything clever or altruistic enough to warrant spending it, but I promise that whenever I do figure that out I’ll keep you guys in the loop.

As I’ve said many times: please don’t feel bad about your decision to hold on to your hard earned cash. This is not my day job. I do not wish to trade in guilt. If you think I wrote something that was worth a few bucks there is now a way for you to show it, that’s all. A few people that put up some dough even wrote a nice note along with it:

That’s legendary mountain athlete Buzz Burrell and also my mom. Thanks to you both! Buzz writes a column in each edition of Ultrarunning Magazine and also co-hosts a podcast called The Trailhead if any of you would like to see/hear some of his work. My mom writes happy-birthday posts on Facebook and helps to fund the continued expansion of her family as her first grandson attends college. I have made multiple jokes over the years about my mom being a fervent supporter, with the punchline being “well, no shit your mom is impressed”. Not everyone has been lucky enough in life to have a mom like I do though. Her pride in all my endeavors has fueled any success I’ve ever had. A special thank-you is always owed to her for doing exactly what I needed her to do, all my life.

If you think I wrote something cool, let me know! If you thought something I wrote was dumb, also let me know! I love reading any feedback and it makes my day when people comment or respond to stuff I wrote.

If a particular piece hit home for you, please share it! That helps me out a ton because it is basically the only way anyone finds out about HQPE. I enjoy writing, but mostly because there is a reader on the other end of the line. I sat down in some not-too-distant past and wrote the words you are reading right now. As I consider this fact in my present, you await this future totally unaware that you will be thinking about my past. I just ate some pizza from Whole Foods. I ate two slices but only paid for one, because my morals are confusing and flexible. My fingers and back ache from a long day in Eldorado Canyon yesterday with Tony. I have to leave now to pick my daughter up from school, I’m probably going to be late because I want to finish writing. I’m trying to design a platform for a really big crane to operate on at work today. I’ve been thinking about death more and more lately. I still haven’t voted in the election and the clock is winding down. I have a lot of thoughts about voting, probably they are controversial and foolish. I just finished reading a book about the bible. I have a lot of thoughts about that too. Everything you just read is briefly more relevant to you than it is to me at the time you are reading it.

Truly, thank you for that.

In summation of the past year, here were the top 3 posts for HQPE:

1. Minion of Satan (July). This is a piece about the Satan’s Minions, which is a collection of people that are hyper-psyched about scrambling the Flatirons in Boulder Colorado. It makes sense that this was the most popular piece from the past year, I like it too. This one is longer than average (~35m read).

2. Scars (February). This is a piece about a climbing accident which I was very fortunate to have survived. These things happen in climbing, and I attempt to explain the imprint it has had on me and my loved ones. (~10m read).

3. Make Bread and Bring Home the Cheddar (March). This one was kinda weird, and centers around attending a Grilled Cheese Festival in Spring of 2017. There’s some loose discussion of classism—my opinion that we are born into our status and unable to alter it yet forced to try for our entire life—to round out my overall thesis, I guess. If I’m too clumsy, this can be about a hungry guy short on food and should be entertaining enough from that perspective too. (~13m read).

I have some pride sewn into everything that I wrote, to varying degrees of course. As such, here are the five pieces that you are most likely to have missed going back two years:

• White Washer Rim (August 2023). A piece about combining a bike around the White Rim Trail with a climb of Washer Woman Tower. This was my first desert tower and also my first time riding a bike in the desert. This was also the first significant thing I did after my climbing accident, and a reminder of the magic found in wild places with good friends. (~16m read).

• Regulate (June 2023). About gun-law, eventually. First you have to read a lot of stuff about regulation in general though (there’s rock climbing in there!). I liked this one. (~13m read).

• NFTF: Los Angeles (October 2023). The second piece in the “Notes From The Field” series, making this an official sub-genre I guess. This is (obviously) about Los Angeles, but also Disney. This is one of my favorite bits of writing, and touches on a great many topics which extend beyond the location it is set in. (~25m read).

• Jagged (December 2022). About the first winter ascent of Jagged Mountain. I pitched this story all over the place in 2021 before I had a Substack. Andrew Bisharat at Evening Sends was kind enough to respond to me with “You have a very funny story here that … isn’t very funny.” He’s probably right. I find it weird that I struggle to be funny when I write, because in real life I am rarely serious. All the same, I like this piece as-is despite what Andrew said. I tried to re-write it as a comedy but never found the path. Lastly, so I don’t perpetuate any possible rumor that Bisharat is a jerk, he was complimentary in his response as well and he took a fair bit of time to send me a lengthy email when he could’ve simply ignored me. (~13m read).

• NFTF: Nashville (July 2023). The first “Notes From The Field” - this one about Nashville, TN. As with nearly everything I have ever written, there is a whole lot of stuff in there that is off-topic and I don’t think you need to give a damn about Nashville to enjoy it. (~13m read).

THANK YOU! If you guys keep reading, I’ll do my best to keep writing.

~ Danny