Nick was a San Francisco restauranteur with a string of successes that freed him to do whatever he wanted. It’s his second season here and second season kiting. He spent years as a chef on sailboats but has a front-of-house personality. We both appreciate delicious food so, when Doug went home for Christmas, Nick and I started sampling the culinary delights of La Ventana together.
Nick says that on the water I look like Mr. Magoo. It could be the pork pie hat. Mine has ear flaps that I attach below my chin. No doubt Doug’s oversized harness-board-shorts that I wear over my wetsuit and the big puffy yellow lifejacket add to the dork factor since most kiters wear form-fitted costumes and certainly no oversized flotation. My costume screams beginner. Good thing too. Other kiters veer away when they see me coming.
There are a multitude of board types on the water. Twintips are the easiest to learn and are the best for doing big aerial tricks. Surfboard kiting is harder to learn but the boards are better for riding swells. Foil kiting is the hardest to learn. Once moving, a standing platform lifts up out of the water leaving a thin wing in the water for a smooth fast ride even in the lightest wind. Kiters progress from one to the next to stay challenged. Doug foils and makes it look effortless. Often he comes in after a long session having not fallen. Clearly he needs to find a new sport.
As storms rolled across the western US, a high pressure zone moved into southern Baja and killed the wind. The waiting and hoping for the wind to return made me antsy. I thought of leaving. But I’m close to a kiting breakthrough and would hate to miss it after all the thrashings. A few days ago, I realized that I was only redlining my stress meter on launch and landing. Once on the water my stress level had dropped to 65 percent, a relief by comparison. A week ago it was pegged at hundred percent from the time I thought of going out until I was safely back in. On the last wind day I got lots of long rides and managed to land without crashing my kite for the first time ever. But upwind kiting still eludes me, and every session still ends with a long trudge back to where I started.
Non-kiting days are a challenge. What to do? In the morning I’ve been taking out the paddleboard, the same one that I swore I would never touch again, and then discovered how fun it was to surf on. The calm sea is clear and flat with occasional ripples when zephyrs grace the surface. I paddle a couple of miles south, around a buoy, and return. The bottom changes from rocky reef to sand and back again several times. Over the reefs I see colorful tropical fish and bits of green coral. Over sand I see schools of needle fish, most are small but some are up to two feet long. I hope to see a ray but haven’t so far. I paddle the whole time, trying to be efficient, trying to go in a straight line, trying to get a workout.
Some afternoons Doug and I take out his e-bikes and head to one of the mountain biking trail systems. The southern trails are flat and flowy as they wind through a desert jungle with giant saguaros. The northern trails climb gradually into the hills and offer spectacular views of the bay, with well designed curvy drops back to town.
Other times I take a long walk on the southern beach. Sometimes I find baby sea-turtles stranded up on the sand. They are about an inch and a half long and look cute and helpless. I know I shouldn’t help them, but I put some back in the water anyway. The next wave inevitably washes them up on shore again. They are often disoriented and crawl away from the water. Most will die. I heard that only one in a hundred make it into the sea. I guess the birds need to eat too.
Nick introduces Doug and me to a carnitas taco stand that is only open on Monday and Friday mornings. They have the cheapest tacos in town and possibly also the best. Usually they run out of food by 11:00 am. We meet Brad, a charter captain on vacation, kiting here for the first time. Nick explains what type of kiting we do. “I mostly twintip and am learning surfboard. Doug foils.” Then he looks at me with a barely perceptible head shake and grin and says, “He drinks water.”
It’s true, but I don’t feel diminished by the description. Failing and trying engages my mind as well as my body. I’ve spent hours watching instructional videos on how to water start, how to kite upwind, and how to launch and land, and how to change direction. I’ve spent hours staring out to sea, watching the wind and swell to learn their patterns. I’ve spent hours watching good kiteboarders execute their tricks, studying their body positions, kite and board angles, and transitions. And I’ve spent hours awake at night thinking about how to move and how it should feel in my body to do things properly. No, to be so incompetent and try so hard does not make me feel bad. It makes me feel young.
Epilogue
The wind came up again today. With lots of long reaches, fighting my way up wind, and making few directional transitions where I tend to lose ground, I managed to land on the same beach as I started. The accomplishment was met with fist bumps and big smiles from everyone at Dean’s, many saying “Congratulations! You’re a kiter now.” It felt great, like baby steps from here to there without falling. Now I can’t wait to run. I’d swear dark hair is returning to my gray beard.
They call it “the walk of shame.” My hunched-forward head-down posture appears to confirm that ignominious label. Kiteboarders are supposed to be able to launch and land in the same place. I got blown downwind, as usual. Hence, I have to walk the beach back to where I started.
Walk is the wrong word, trudge is more appropriate. The trek back is on soft sand and directly into the wind, today blowing 22 to 26 miles per hour with gusts over 30. Of course I have to schlep my gear with me, kite in one hand (fully inflated in order to dry and flapping violently), board in the other (catching the wind and offering stout resistance to my forward movement). Over my clammy wetsuit I’m wearing a big life vest and a harness. The harness impedes walking, but not much, so it stays on. I also want to remove the life vest but know from experience that it would flap and create even more wind resistance. It usually takes about half an hour to get back to Dean’s where I’m staying. It’s the daily workout.
Dean’s place is a complex mixture of comfy and funky. It’s right on the beach and extends up the hill. There are pleasant rooms with bathrooms and showers and great ocean views. There are also old shitty trailers. There are hot showers, electricity, and good internet everywhere, but the wiring and plumbing, half buried and half exposed, create head-bonking and tripping hazards. I’m staying in one of the tubes — an 8-foot diameter, 8-foot high, white, plastic water tank set on its side, with a glass door in the would-be bottom and an astroturf floor. It sits under a tree, which keeps the sun off, and is surprisingly well-lit and cozy. The community kitchen is well-stocked with serviceable kitchenware, and there is a patio that overlooks the sea with a couple of comfortable couches. A ladder leads to the flat roof of a lower room overlooking the sea where I stretch every morning and watch the sun rise. The water is typically flat in the morning. I see the occasional paddle boarder, or kayaker, or swimmer, or school of fish breaking the surface. It’s peaceful.
Most people here stay for the season and have been coming for years. It’s a collection of characters. Almost half are women. Almost half have brought a dog. There are some young people but most folks are middle-aged with the vibe of people much younger. Everyone is congenial and treats each other like family.
In the afternoon when the wind comes up, the outdoor couches are perfect for watching the kiters scream back and forth across the water. There could be over a hundred kites out, appearing as moving patches of bright color from the shore to the horizon, up and down the coast. Some riders come within feet of the beach, fly high into the air, do loops or flips, and are suddenly accelerating back out. Such graceful motion is beautiful to watch.
Doug left today to spend Christmas with his family. He will return in a week. Today was the first day I did not have him to coach me, walk along the shore to help me in safely, and help me carry my gear back. There is also an el Norte today. High pressure over the Great Basin in the US creates strong winds that move south in the Sea of Cortez. Today’s swell is the biggest I’ve seen.
This was my seventh day on the water. I don’t count the first day because within two minutes of getting wet, before even trying to stand up, I tomahawked my kite and it blew up. So much for that day.
On all the other days I’m just happy to have not drowned.
I’ve learned to control the kite, mostly. But when I can’t, things get crazy fast. More than once the kite has lifted me out of the water, up to 10 feet high, and dropped me far from where I started. It would be awesome if air was what I had intended, but when it just happens out of nowhere, it’s heart stopping.
The most typical terror is basic and happens all the time. I’ve gotten fairly proficient at getting up on the board. Next thing I know I’m skimming along the water going faster and faster and faster, completely out of control. Then my board catches a swell wrong or I do some other stupid beginner thing that I can’t even identify. Even if I release the bar as I was taught, any number of frightening and potentially painful things might happen. Ingesting a bunch of sea water is almost guaranteed. Today I got dragged at about 20 mph for a long way, thinking the whole time, be calm, I should stop eventually.
I’ve only been hit in the head by a flying board once so far.
The YouTube training videos all show water with a glassy surface or, at most, some ripples. I’ve watched many and have yet to see one with a swell or whitecaps. Perhaps it’s better to learn in a protected lagoon or lake, not the open ocean?
Every day kiters wait for white caps before heading out, but with today’s wind and swell, it wasn’t white caps out there but a sea of breaking waves. I was terrified and had no desire to enter that chaotic mess. But the only way to learn is to put in time. So I went. Soon waves were crashing over my head. I managed to get several rides, some up to ten seconds long. Admittedly, I was so scared the whole time that my kite handling suffered. I also got out earlier than usual, just grateful to be alive and uninjured.
No, this walk back is not of shame. After facing so much fear, it feels like a walk of triumph.
Back at Dean’s place someone says, “Great day huh, Did you have fun?”
I reply honestly, “Not yet.”
About two-fifths the way down Baja on the Pacific side, we leave the pavement for a rocky, rutted dirt road that heads west through the desert. Doug deflates his Sprinter Van’s tires. He says the road is too jarring otherwise. Even with low tire pressure, everything shakes as we creep along. The van tilts right and left just shy of tipping over. Things jiggle free and crash around in the back. My teeth feel like they may rattle loose. I can’t imagine how much worse it would be with highway tire pressure. After a long uncomfortable ride we reach the ocean, turn right, and continue along a bay for another long way to a desolate windy point.
The landscape is mostly rocks and sand with few plants. All the plants have thorns. There are about a dozen vehicles spread over about a quarter mile of dispersed camping. All but Doug’s van are high-clearance four-wheel drive pickups with campers. They are all parked beside semi-circular rock walls that serve as windbreaks. The walls are chest or head high. Some were crafted by people with serious masonry skills. Most are adorned with shells from abalone, conches, and clams. Many also have skulls, assorted bones from desert or marine animals, and feathers.
It’s late afternoon. The tide is going out and the bottom is all rocks, bowling-ball size and larger. The water is choppy and the wind is relentless. Rarely have I felt so out of place and uncomfortable.
Doug does an annual winter migration to La Ventana in southern Baja for kite boarding. Along the way he stops to surf on his stand up paddle-board (SUP). I don’t know anything about either sport, but Doug assured me that I will pick up both sports in no time. Once Doug told me that, “when you get water up your nose, you know you’re having fun.” He’s that kind of friend, so the chance to hang with Doug and try something completely new seemed appealing.
Taking advantage of the wind and a limited low tide patch of sand, we take out a small kite and Doug shows me some basic maneuvers. A cactus branch is stuck in the sand right where the waves are rolling up on the beach, a few feet from where I’m leaning. The kite catches the wind and yanks me across the sand toward some rocks. Somehow I manage to stay on my feet and keep the kite from crashing. The kite luffs a bit, and I move back to where I started. Doug says I’m doing well with the kite. I consider it a major accomplishment to not step on the cactus.
In the evening we meet a couple of guys in the camper next to us. Mike has been surfing since he was 11. Now he is 68 and is coming back from a shoulder surgery. Bruce is the same age and has also spent his entire life surfing. Bruce tells a story about how he had to fight the locals for the right to surf some break in Hawaii. He says, “I didn’t mind the beating I got, but they didn’t like the beating they got.” I’ve heard similar stories from other surfers over the years about how surfers tend to be territorial and inhospitable, especially when there are a lot of people competing for few waves.
The morning is windless and waves are breaking about waist to shoulder high. Mike is out at first light and catching waves before sunrise. Bruce, Doug and a couple of other guys are not far behind him. There’s a three hour window to surf here most days. By 9 a.m. the wind comes up and it’s over. The rest of the day is spent sheltering from the sun and wind.
I take the SUP and follow the surfers’ route out, knee paddling past the break. I try to stand up and fall off immediately. I try again and fall again. No way I can surf, I can’t even balance enough to paddle forward. Every roll of the swell knocks me off. This is crazy; I should be learning the basics on a lake not the ocean. I paddle out farther so I don’t have to contend with crashing waves and keep trying. Returning to land is a worry but a problem for later. I never stand for more than a minute, then back in the drink. It’s frustrating, exhausting, and not fun.
Back on shore I venture around the rocky point and shed my shoes to walk on low-tide firm sand that goes for miles and miles. Forty minutes out I come across a sun-bleached whale skeleton. Fifty to sixty vultures are gathered around, occasionally picking at the scant remaining connective tissue. I pace off its length, 96 feet. Some of the vertebrae look too heavy to lift. I’m in awe that something that large could even die. Maybe I should be in awe of the virus or bacteria that killed it?
Upon returning to camp, Doug and I decide to drive to the long sandy beach for more kite practice. The van quickly gets stuck in the sand. To reverse out we dig down and place three-foot sand-tracks under the back wheels and clear the way for the front wheels. The wheels grab the tracks, propel the van back about five or six feet, and get stuck again. We then dig out the buried sand-tracks and repeat. It takes us about an hour to go 100 feet to solid ground. Good times.
The next morning at dawn Doug goes out surfing. I sit on the beach and watch. Everyone here is an amazingly good surfer. Mike is especially talented, catching lots of waves, always in the right place, dancing up and down the board, and getting the longest rides., It’s cold and I have no desire to be out there trying to stand up on the board and falling off, even as I feel like I should want to. But if I was out there, I couldn’t even try to surf. First, I would need to find my balance, and then I’d need to learn how to paddle. Plus, all I hear are stories about increasingly crowded surf spots and a generally unwelcoming culture. Who needs to put in time and effort for that. It’s different for guys like Mike who have been surfing since he was 11 years old and can just style it. That’s how I feel with climbing. An endless bag of tricks and muscle memory are worth a lot.
In the afternoon the wind is up. I take out the kite to practice the sine-wave motion used to generate power. The kite drags me and I sand-surf across the beach. Doug says I’m ready to get on the water. But not here. The water is too rough and the shore too rocky and full of cactus.
The next morning I get up to pee at first light. It’s high tide, no breeze, and I can see the waves rolling in with perfect form. They break in smooth progression as they curl down the shore, offering the promise of long rides. At lower tide you have to walk a long way across rocks to reach the surf, but at the moment, thirty feet of walking on sand and you can get on your board. If ever there was a perfect time to go out, this is it. But I don’t want to. I feel a tinge of shame in that acknowledgment, but there it is. I love watching people surf but don’t need to be out there. Thinking back, I could have learned to surf when I was in middle school. We lived in Isla Vista, CA, four blocks from the beach. Okay, it was pre-wetsuit and the water was cold, it smelled of rotting kelp and had globs of tar from oil wells, but still, I wasn’t called in the way I was called to mountain sports. I’ve had a mountain thing going since I can remember and would have gladly undertaken any adversity to learn anything about backpacking, skiing, or climbing. No, surfing is not for me, and I never need to try a SUP again.
In the afternoon we change locations. The waves are forecast to come in bigger and this other place is better in high surf. A couple of hour drive takes us to a mile-wide bay lined with a sandy beach. Behind the beach are sand dunes and a large lagoon that fills and empties with the tide. Instead of rough camping there are some three sided shelters that people turn into supplemental living spaces. There are pit toilets, a shower, and even a place that serves fish tacos for dinner. It’s low tide and I can see there is a sand bottom all the way out. It’s quite beautiful.
In the morning the bay is calm, with no wind, and the waves are not too high. I have no desire to go out on the SUP but I need to do something for exercise. The humiliation of falling off the board seems better than the humiliation of doing nothing.
Remarkably, I’m able to stand up and paddle a little before falling off. The water is clear and the sandy bottom is reassuring. I learn to anticipate the swell, absorb it with my knees, and fall off less often. Paddling out is easier than paddling in. I practice both. Then suddenly while paddling in, I’m on the crest of a swell. I dig deep with the paddle. The wave gets steeper. I change stance to weight the board’s tip, slide down the face, and cut right to stay just ahead of the break. Wow!
Post script: It’s true. “Catch a wave and you’re sittin’ on top of the world.” The next morning I caught thirteen waves. Doug insists that one was shoulder high. Waist high seems more likely, but I can’t confirm. Even ankle high is a thrill.
The fishing boat seems to hover rather than float. Its hull is unnervingly visible, as though it’s suspended in the air. The water looks clear enough to drink. The sea bottom appears to be right there. Well below the craft a school of small fish all turn at once, then turn again and dart away.
A half dozen similar vessels sit ten to fifty feet off the decaying concrete pier, with bow lines attached to rusted rings on shore and stern lines attached to orange floats that mark their anchors. At present no other boats are entering or leaving this cove. I see no people. There are no buildings, just the crumbling walls of a structure long since abandoned.
I pull out my mask and snorkel and stash my pack behind a short stone wall that separates the dirt road from a weedy field with gnarled ancient olive trees. The water temperature is perfect, in no way cold and in no way too warm. I swim to the first boat, dive, and need to pressurize my ears three times to get to the anchor block, barely making it down and up in a breath. I continue on across the cove to the far shore.
It has been a day-on/day-off of climbing. On rest days I swim. The beaches are made of spheroidal stones, ovals, some flattened and good for skipping. Large stretches of beach are empty.
I have traveled solo to climbing areas much of my life. When faced with the prospect of not going or going alone, I have always opted to go. It can be a tough day or two trying to find a compatible partner. I look for someone alone, a group with an odd number of members, or people who seem particularly friendly. It only requires starting a conversation, but fear of rejection is a hurdle, even as I know that there are lots of good reasons to not climb with someone you don’t know. With that in mind, I always make it easy for people to say no in a way that avoids any awkwardness, and I don’t take it personally if they decline to climb with me. Looking back, I realize that I have usually found a partner within a conversation or two, and many of those people remain dear friends and favorite partners to this day.
Usually within a short time after meeting one person, I wind up connected to a crew. Climbers tend to be open and companionable people. We bond over climbing and in no time form a village, sharing meals in restaurants or evenings by a fire.
Leonidio has been different. On days that I’ve wanted to climb I have met people, but I’ve not climbed with anyone a second day. About half I shared a rope with left the next day. In most climbing areas, climbers stay for a season or at least multiple weeks. Here, people seem to come for a week. They tend to come with a group of friends, often from Poland or Germany. Many are couples on vacation. I have met no “dirt bag,” or as I prefer “life-style climbers.” Two days ago I went to a popular crag in the morning and spent most of the day in search of partners. While I went without expectations and appreciated the climbing I finally did and the people I met, it was emotionally exhausting. I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed at not finding a partner for future climbs as well.
Housing has been similar. In most climbing areas I find my situation, get settled, and, over time, it feels like home. Here I have had to move often.
Nothing bad has happened, and I find nothing wrong with any single day. But usually on climbing trips I experience connection and everything comes together in a blessed synchronicity that makes the world feel just right. On this trip, so far, that magic hasn’t happened. Things are a little off. I’m getting to climb overhanging limestone as I had wanted, but I’m aware how much partner continuity fosters a sense of caring and obligation that affects the climbing. While every dinner alone creates an extended loneliness I’ve never felt on a climbing trip before. And I know it can all change in a moment.
On my first rest-day swim I chose a rocky cove near a chapel to St. George. It is the only building on that stretch of coast, gleaming white in the day and lit at night. The chapel was built by a merchant who lost his ship in a storm but was able to recover his goods. I’m sure it was not the first ship to have sunk there. In ten feet of water I found the base of a ceramic container, narrow at the bottom and getting wider as it went up. It seemed old, possibly a relic from the middle ages or classical antiquity or maybe just last year. I placed it back on the silty bottom, thrilled to have found it, curious about its past, but knowing we had no future together.
Today is windy. I can hear waves washing up on shore and clattering beach stones rolling up and down in the surf. There is a timeless quality to being here, like in the movie Groundhog Day. I’m hovering in an eternity of present, with the awesome responsibility to shape each day anew.
Donna has undertaken a major remodel of her house. This summer she left her puppy Oscar and me in Ridgway and flew back to Berkeley several times. There were countless small decisions to make and, though I would not call Donna controlling, she has strong opinions and is only satisfied when things are just right. By necessity, decisions were made in her absence. Some choices were suboptimal. As the remodel progressed her stress increased. Trips got longer and the time between them got shorter. Picking colors, which interacted with other colors in different ways depending on the light, could not be done from paint chips in Ridgway. She needed to be there. Donna decided to take Oscar and drive back to Berkeley for the fall. This gave me a big chunk of time to go climbing. Overhanging limestone called. I love climbing in Kalymnos but wanted something new. Hence, I am now in Leonidia, Greece.
Travel sucks. A middle seat on a midnight flight, with no sleep, put me in Newark in the morning with a ten hour layover. The flight agent in San Francisco told me that I needed to pick up my bag in Newark, manually transfer it to the international terminal, and that I couldn’t check it in until four hours before the flight. After an hour of confusion in Newark, it turned out that they did check my back all the way to Athens. Good news, instead of staying in the airport, I found the train into New York City, made my way onto the subway to the lower east side, and went to Katz’s delicatessen for the best pastrami sandwich I’ve had in years. I walked back to Penn Station, fought to stay awake on the train back to Newark, and missed my stop anyway. No problem, there are lots of trains in both directions that time of day. The only way to prevent falling asleep and miss my flight was to walk the terminal until boarding. Another middle seat for a nine hour flight. I felt bad for the person on the aisle since I had to pee every couple of hours.
Lack of adequate sleep just added to my befuddlement. I don’t read Greek. Everything was confusing, from getting a phone card to meeting the rental car person. We searched for each other for half an hour, both of us within 50 feet of airport exit door #5. Once I was driving it was better, but what do those traffic signs mean? What’s the speed limit? These roads are awfully narrow; will this car really fit between those buildings? Fuck, I hate driving in foreign countries.
An hour of freeway out of Athens gave way to an hour of narrow two lane roads through olive, orange, and carob orchards. A double Greek coffee jolted me awake. The final hour was along a curvy coastal road, like highway 1 in California, except there’s land across the water. The Aegean looked clear and blue and perfect.
Leonidio is a small town with winding streets and red tile roofs. It sits in a valley below orange and gray limestone walls. As you enter from the sea, the first couple of kilometers are devoted to agriculture. There are orchards, farms, and greenhouses. It’s a real place. Of course there is a tourist industry because it’s Greece, but the tourists are mostly from Athens and come mostly during the summer. Few people speak English. Climbing only started here in 2017. There are no fancy restaurants, no tacos, or pad thai, just rustic local Greek cuisine. So far the food has been excellent. Eggplant is the local specialty. I have had moussaka, goat cooked with eggplant in tomato sauce, and local liqueur made with eggplant.
The beginning of a solo climbing trip in a new area is often hard. Climbers tend to be open and friendly, but not always. It has been a challenge to find partners. Plus, while my summer of scrambling mountain ridges put me in excellent aerobic shape, my fingers and core are weak, not at all suited to the overhanging sport climbing I came for. My first few days climbing have been like the start of almost any climbing season, mostly pain and terror not to mention the humiliation of not being able to climb at anywhere near the standard I expect.
The first few days of travel are always the same for me: jet lag, exhaustion, loneliness, disorientation, and a bit of depression. Newness has no luster, and I hate having to figure everything out. I feel like I have been gone a long time and want to go home. I also know this all changes. It already has. Yesterday was a good day of climbing with some success and some try-hard with failure. This morning I could finally appreciate how beautiful it is. I love breakfast here. Today I had yogurt with apple, nectarine, walnuts and local honey, fried eggs, tomatoes, peppers, feta, olives, olive spread on bread, salami, orange cake, fresh squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso. It’s a rest day. I will hike along the coast and explore a few beaches. In a month when it’s time to leave, most likely I will feel like I just got here and not want to go.
I slam my palm against the stone. The San Juans are notorious for loose rock. Footholds can’t be trusted. Typically, on a long day, at least a couple of footholds will break off. Ridge soloing here demands vigilance. There’s no hucking for handholds like in the videos. If I don’t test every hold, and be ready for any piece of stone to fail, I’m dead; or worse, I’ll get to suffer for a while and then die.
Yet these ridges beckon. Once a ridge line calls my name, I get an uncomfortable nagging pull every time I see it. Relief only comes from ascent.
The game is simple. I follow the absolute ridge crest to the best of my ability, staying right on the edge that would split a flow of water down into one drainage or another. If required to deviate from the purest path, I climb the line that is most interesting and still try to touch the top of every high point along the way, be it a rise, knoll, turret, spire, pinnacle, tower, or gendarme.
Spending time high above tree line here feeds my spirit. Most of the year this rarified environment is dormant and a monochromatic world of white. But in the few summer months alpine tundra sings with life, and vibrant wildflowers splatter color like an exploded rainbow. The air is thin, but it’s easy to breath. Views can extend over a hundred miles. Everything feels stark and clean and intense. No humans live up here for long periods of time, we can only visit, like in a house of worship. To the ancients, places like this are where gods would dwell. I don’t know about all of that, but I can understand coming to that conclusion. The air is charged and mysterious forces cause energized yet serene calms, dramatic winds, hail, and lightning. Modern knowledge of weather explains some of the magic, but not all of it.
Sometimes ridge travel is just walking along a broad rounded crest. Sometimes it requires balancing from rock to rock. The consequences of a potential slip vary from insignificant to certain death. In the first case I might leap, in the second I might crawl. And sometimes a ridge offers non-stop bouldering.
High elevation mountain bouldering is climbing at its best: pure and unencumbered by technical gear. I wear approach shoes, carry a light pack, and just climb the mountain. I strive to ascend the most aesthetic line, taking on challenges within a matrix of technical difficulty, exposure, and rock quality. In the course of a day I will do every type of climbing, use every type of hold, and experience the full range of movement that climbing has to offer. I will climb faces, chimneys, cracks, underclings, overhangs, liebacks, and mantels. Ridge routes typically entail a lot of climbing up over things and down the other side. A feature may require one move or offer continuous climbing for hundreds of feet. Sometimes it’s hard to find a way up, or hard to find a way down, with some trial and retreat.
Ridge routes are classic. They are where mountain climbing started, in part because they are safer from rock fall than gullies and open faces. Their erratic undulating nature of ups, downs, and flats provides periodic relief from the psychological stress of high exposure. When there is a good landing, I get to try hard moves. High above the deck, it’s all about keeping focus.
Outside Basecamp climbing gym in Ouray is an exhibit about the history of climbing in the San Juans. In the late 1920’s and early 1930’s, the San Juan Mountaineers pioneered technical climbing here. Dwight Lavender founded the group and was their prolific leader until he died at 23 of polio. In the winter of 1931, while at Stanford studying for a PhD in Geology, he made the first San Juan piton. He documented the design in an article published in 1933. It talks about starting with a piece of wrought iron, like a fat nail, flattening out the roundness for most of its length, and bending the other end into a “u” shape. After placing it in a crack, the climber can add a “harness” ring and pound it closed. Lucas, who owns Basecamp, and Pete, who created the exhibit, are enamored with the San Juan piton. Mostly Lucas and Pete develop new routes, but they are also steeped in history and repeat routes from that era in hopes of finding the rare prized piton. Neither has.
It’s the first of September first, summer is almost over, and I need a workout. No partners are available, so there’s no cragging for me today.
I decide to ascend the “true” southwest ridge of Mt Sneffels (14,150 feet). The ridge is a popular way up the mountain, with a minimal amount of third class scrambling, and I’ve hiked it a few times before. A well-used hiking trail takes me to the pass at 13,000 feet that divides Blue Lake Basin from Yankee Boy Basin. From here a rough climber’s trail ascends the ridge, bypassing a series of dark rock towers that sit on the true crest. None appear to be more than 100 feet above the trail, but all look challenging. After the mountain rises another several hundred feet, the rock on the ridge becomes a lighter hue and there are no more distinct towers.
Heading up off the trail on the true ridge, I reach the first tower. The rock is just shy of vertical. I pound the stone with my palm in several places. It’s too loose to climb safely. I look to the right and see that the ridge falls away steeply. The rock looks no better and there’s the potential for a longer fall. I step left, see a possible line of ascent, and pound the stone. Some chunks are loose, but some appear solid. I ascend slowly, testing, testing, testing, up 40 feet, touch the summit and look for a way down that keeps to the line of the ridge. After a scary 30 feet of down climbing, I’m between the first two towers.
The next tower is much the same. The third tower seems impossible. I keep moving left and down and almost reach the trail. Then a 30-foot scramble puts me into the notch between the third and forth tower. Getting up the third tower will require 25 feet of sketchy climbing and I will have to come down the same way. Perhaps I should pass on this tower, but don’t want to and keep pounding stone. I find a bit of solid rock and ascend. After touching the top and climbing back down to the notch, I’m practically shaking, aware of a great release after holding back a tide of anxiety.
A few high points later I come upon a near-rectangular, rock needle about 15 feet tall right on the crest. The ridge falls off precipitously in both directions. All sides of this pillar are essentially vertical and there’s diagonal crack about half way up that seems to split the stone into two pieces. No question, it’s beautiful and I want to climb it. I hit the base with my palm and it vibrates. Fuck! This whole thing could collapse. It weighs tons and the fall would be hundreds of feet. Pass.
The largest tower is just about the last feature before the rock changes. It is long and more resembles a hand than a finger. As usual I need to move left to begin. After ascending a wide chimney, I bust out onto a lower angle slope. The rock gets looser as I get nearer to the top, but it’s solid enough. I tag the summit and move along the line of the ridge. Going down looks impossible until I get right to the edge. The initial down-climbing is easy, then it gets steep. Suddenly it’s real rock climbing for at least the next 30 feet. I look for an easer way and notice a carabiner attached to a strange piton (like a lost arrow with a twisted head). Makes sense that someone would rappel here. In fact, I’d like to rappel about now, but I don’t have a rope. I look down again and study the line. Maybe I can make it. I look around again for alternatives and consider all the options. I notice the carabiner a second time. It looks usable, free booty; I’ll keep it. Maybe I should take the piton too. I hit it with a rock, side to side a few times, and it’s mine.
Descending, the rock seems solid and the holds secure. About 10 feet down, searching for my next handhold, I look right and see another piton. This one has a ring, so it’s old. Someone came up this way a long time ago. Makes sense, not a bad line, decent rock on a pretty cool feature. I decide to take the piton. I grab a loose stone, hit the pin a couple of times, and suddenly I have a San Juan piton in my hand. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s a gift from the gods. Maybe there’s no difference.
My father was always at his best during a crisis. When I was a young kid living in Phoenix, one year the Salt River flooded. People were losing their homes and dying. Dad was gone two or three days. I assumed he was pulling people out of the water, bandaging the bleeding, and splinting broken bones, but I didn’t know. I just remember him coming home looking exhausted and heroic.*
Whenever there was a crisis he would always shine. Then there would be an opportunity for him to be the man he knew himself to be, a man of strength, a man of action. And it was apparent to everyone around that he was strong, capable, resourceful, compassionate and had boundless energy until it was over.
It could be any crisis. My sister with a fishhook through her finger. My mother smashed by breakers and being pulled out to sea. Our dog with a mouth full of jumping cactus. Hurricane Katrina. Me in tears and emotionally raw.
In a crisis, my father, who could get enraged at the slightest irritation, would suddenly have serenity.
My father, who would leave a restaurant rather than wait for a table, could have infinite patience.
My father, who would go into racist rants about welfare queens and people crossing the boarder illegally, when responding to a natural disaster, would only see people in need and extend his hand to help every person he could.
As a child, this was the man I worshiped and wished to emulate.
And my love for him wasn’t just based on admiration, when we were kids he was energetic and fun. At the pool he would launch us kids as far as he could, and we would fly. At home we would all jump on him for giant wrestling matches. My grandmother would say, “Danny stop it, you’re making them wild.” He would give lip service to calming us down and then get us going again.
He introduced me to the outdoors, generously shared his love for the mountains and desert, taught me survival skills, how to shoot and fish, how to find dry wood after rain, how to cook over an open fire, and how to get water from a cactus. My life of climbing and mountain adventures are a direct result of me trying to be the man I thought him to be.
Some of my favorite memories are of being on long drives with him. Just time together was all I wanted. We could talk about anything, and I felt no barrier between us. Often it was an adventure, like when we drove to Guaymas, Mexico to purchase jewelry boxes to sell in Phoenix. I was 12. He sent me to the bar to get him a cervaza. He never drank beer. He just wanted to give me an experience slightly out of my comfort zone, in Spanish. We ate turtle soup.
Sometimes he would take me with him on sales trips. We would leave early with a thermos of coffee rich with milk and sugar. On long stretches of dirt road, he let me drive years before I had a license. Then, at his sales call, he would establish instant rapport with a customer, even if they had never met. He had an endless supply of jokes. He would kid around, bribe them with a gimmicky knife or a shotgun, and seem to always make the sale. He could do anything.
Divorce and the dissolution of his first family changed him. He closed down emotionally and became more rigid. He became less physically active. His encouragement of me to explore shifted to a lot of shoulds about getting a job. In spite of marrying again to a beautiful woman with two great kids, he always seem irritated. And despite being the first time he had a job he liked, where he was very successful, and recognized, and making a lot of money without having to work too hard, he seemed burdened and not particularly happy.
We were on a trip together the first time I heard “Come Together” by the Beatles. I was wowed. He thought it was garbage. Before long there were fewer trips and more arguing about hair length, the war in Vietnam, the right to protest, and lifestyles. My world was expanding and his seemed to be narrowing.
For the last 50 years I have missed the closeness we once had. I missed the adventurer who slept on the ground. I wanted something from him that he would no longer give. At the same time, I knew if I needed him, he would be there to the best of his ability.
To be honest, based on him smoking two packs a day for 20 years, his high-fat diet, lack of exercise, and propensity toward anger, I never expected him to live past 70. I’m glad he did. At 92 it was clear how much he loved his wife Barbara and all the kids, and all the grand kids. This street-smart guy from the Bronx even got elder-scammed because he loved a grandkid that he barely knew, and it violated his sense of honor to rat out a kid to his parents. And when the grandkid turned out to be trans, his love of family transcended any antiquated notion about what people should be.
And finally, in his death, this man who taught me so much about how to live when I was young, and how not to live when I was older, just showed me the best way to die. After a good night’s sleep, he woke in great mood. His son-in-law took him out for a long-desired haircut. They split a reuben sandwich for lunch. Then home in the company of people he loved, he told a funny story, joked around a bit, and then just slumped over and check out.
*He continued as a volunteer with the Red Cross, teaching first aid and responding to disasters, for the next 60 years.
Last week to avoid post election fretting and lost hours of cycling though news sites while votes were being counted, Donna and I went to Cedar Mesa in Utah. We spend a few days hiking into red sandstone canyons and looking for ruins left by the Ancient Puebloans, as the people who once inhabited this stark beautiful land are now called. We found dwellings that needed little improvement for renewed habitation. Okay, rooms needed sweeping, and doorways were sized for small children, and they could use plumbing, power, and internet, but walls were intact and roof beams had no signs of rot. Hard to believe these buildings were abandoned about 700 years ago.
Taking lunch in the shade of an old cedar tree I examine a matted mass of fibrous bark barely attached to the trunk. I considered how the people who once lived here probably wove this bark into clothing, shoes, sleeping mats, and ropes. Then I remembered that Avita, in her former life as Sam, used cedar bark as a fire starter.
Sam had been depressed. He had dropped out of college and was doing not much of anything besides sitting in his room playing video games and shuffling Magic cards. I returned to Berkeley to take him for daily walks in hopes that some exercise would help get him out of his slump. After a few weeks, I convinced him to join me on a climbing trip to Indian Creek. His agreement to come was not out of any love for climbing. He claimed that part of his depression was an inability to resist someone else’s will.
The day we arrived Derek was showing Clay how to start a fire with a bow. Clay wound the bow string around a stick and twisted it back a forth while pressing it into a slight hole on another piece of wood. The friction created smoke, but Clay quit before generating a spark.
Sam was fascinated and asked to try. I watched as Sam attempt the technique. It wasn’t easy and it took a while for him to attain the necessary the coordination. As he worked at it, I wondered if, by creating a spark, Sam could ignite his own life.
Smoke began to rise. Derek coached him on. Then the tip of the twisting stick chipped off and glowed orange. Sam dumped it out of the shallow hole into a wad of cedar bark. Derek blew on the tiny coal until the bark caught fire. Then Sam scooped up the flame in his palms and ran toward a fire pit full of waiting kindling, loudly proclaiming, “I AM THE GOD OF HELL FIRE.”
His face reflected joy and a sense of accomplishment I had not seen in a long time. An observer cannot know what makes a defining moment for another person. And growth is never linear. I did observe that Sam was more directed and engaged after that, slowly embracing more complex challenges, first climbing, then at work, then learning computer programming. With the challenges he also seemed to have an increase of joy and sense of accomplishment.
Since Sam became Avita, she tells me little. I know she is not working or studying, and I have not heard of her being actively engaged in any other passion.
As Donna and I left our lunch spot, I grabbed a handful cedar bark for Avita thinking that perhaps she could start a new fire. Then I worried that the gift could be taken the wrong way. Perhaps she would see it as hurtful misgendering. Okay, maybe she could weave something with it.
It occurs to me that I don’t know what gender of Ancient Puebloans started fires or did weaving or even if those things were gender assigned. I do sense that doing something with these fibers improves life and has done so through the ages. That’s all I want for her.
I step out into the cool late morning. Hard to get motivated before 11 am, almost like climbing in the Creek in March or November. Except in the Creek, late-morning starts make sense. There, it’s too cold to leave bed until the sun is out. Then there’s coffee and breakfast and a poop, then stretching and discussions about where to climb and another poop, then there’s a last minute change of plans, talk of who’s driving, tossing lunch in the pack, and possibly one more poop.
Here, the delay is just sloth. I read news that doesn’t seem to change: more Covid-19 cases, more deaths, more stupidity from the kleptocrats that hold power. Then I switch to youtube for last night’s late-night comedians retelling the same information. At least they offer a laugh.
I plug in earbuds and turn onto Rose Street, which heads straight up hill. Above Euclid the hills get steep and the streets need to wind their way through the neighborhoods. Luckily Berkeley is blessed with a series of paths and steps. I take a direct line up a series of steps to the ridge. I would be bored by taking the same route every day, except I’m not there. I’m in the story, up in the rigging of a frigate on the high seas in the late 1790s. An enemy vessel has been spotted. Our 32 guns are no match against the French ship-of-the-line with its 64 guns. The chase is on. Soon there will be the deafening sound of battle, the acrid smell of cannon fire, falling spars, the spray of a cannonade, and boarding with cutlasses, but first bold seamanship and trickery.
From Donna’s house to the crest of the ridge and Tilden Park takes about 50 minutes. I enter green space. A wide single-track trail leads through some eucalyptus, then open grassland filled with bright orange California poppies, then a stand of bay laurel to a little rise. A casual, unofficial, path runs off left and I follow it. On a slight grassy promontory stands a Monterey pine. I have a special relationship with this tree.
On January second I had back surgery. I’m pleased to report that it went better than I expected. Prior to surgery it was painful to walk, and a botched surgery could have meant never walking again. I woke to the pain being gone. During recovery the danger was in doing too much too soon. That meant no twisting, turning, or lifting for weeks or months. It also meant no climbing for the winter. Climbing in the spring was an open question. However, I was allowed to walk all I wanted. By late January I was able walk for a couple of hours. One afternoon after a rainy morning, I was wandering blissfully stoned when I first noticed the side path that led me to the tree. Its branches were perfectly spaced for climbing. I couldn’t resist at least touching the first branch. The bark was wet and the lichen was a bit slick, but my grip felt secure. I reached for the next branch. Slowly, with as much body awareness as possible, knowing I had to keep my back straight, I tightened my core and shifted my weight upward. Another branch was within reach. And so I ascended, ever so cautiously.
In the shade of the tree, I push pause on the story. The hero is now ashore in Shanghai and just noticed an exceptionally beautiful woman. I empty my pockets and leave my phone, wallet, keys, and hat on the ground. For a moment I hang on a low branch, first from one arm, then the other, as though it’s a jug rest on an overhanging roof, then I make for the top. By now much of the lichen has been worn off where I typically place my hands and feet. I try to ascend with continuous smooth motion. By the top I’m breathing hard. I can perch in top branches and stick my hand above the upper most needles, but the view is better, and the stance more comfortable, just below. From here I can see all the way down Wildcat Canyon. On a clear day, between two hills maybe ten miles away, is a glimpse of San Pablo Bay.
Upon descending, I traverse around the tree’s base. The long reaches to stubby dead branches, bark crimps, compression holds, and weight shifts simulate a boulder traverse. I feel lucky to have it; all the boulders in the area have been closed as part of the shut down.
I continue my walk and head up to Vollmer Peak. The snow capped peaks of the Sierra are barely visible in the distance. I’m homesick for those mountains, and climbing, and all the monkeys I expected to be living with for the season.
Several hours of walking later, I return home to Donna’s house. She has lovingly made a delicious white bean soup for dinner and a pear galette for dessert. Her eyes smile as she greets me.
Tomorrow will be mostly the same. The lock down sucks, but I can appreciate all the good things I have.
I’m at loose ends.
Donna will be in St Louis packing up her father’s house for the next five days. Most things will be donated. All she cares to keep are some signed books and rare first additions. The sorting will be a major task. Her father was an avid reader, and forty years in the book business led to him amassing a substantial library. I’m guessing the process will be slow. Each book will be opened, any notes will be read. Closure is a dance of holding and letting go, laced with tears.
My back is fucked up. It hurts to walk. I have tried stretching, resting, physical therapy, acupuncture, a chiropractor, a neuro-kinetic wizard, cortisone injections, and a course of prednisone. The MRI shows nerves being compressed inside one vertebrae. The next step is an appointment with a doctor who probably won’t be able to do anything, but I hope can recommend a good surgeon.
With two weeks to kill, I head to Indian Creek in Utah. I’m not sure I can climb. I’m not even sure I can do an approach, which is usually a 10- to 30-minute walk up hill. But I have nothing else to do. I miss climbing. I miss my friends. I can’t seem to write. Maybe just being in the desert will bring some renewal, or perhaps I’ll have a vision about how to proceed into the next stage of life.
The drive across on Highway 50 is as beautiful as ever, basin and range, a cloudless sky, and cold clean air that lets me see to the far horizon and feel the boundlessness of the American West. At least driving doesn’t hurt my back. When doubts about my ability to climb enter my mind, along with thoughts of this journey being foolish, something else more visceral emerges that tells me to continue.
I drop into Indian Creek Canyon and stop at Donnelly, a popular climbing area with a short approach. Generic Crack is here. I often climb it when I arrive because it’s technically easy, yet a good first day workout. Later in the season, when I’m in shape, I like to time myself on it.
I see Eric and we talk about last summer, injuries, and desert wanders. I mention that I have never taken acid but would like to try it some day. A climber we haven’t met, in the next van over, hears us and offers us some. Looks like I may get that vision. We both get water bottles and our benefactor puts a drop of liquid into each for later use. We thank him and slowly walk up to Generic Crack. I’m out of shape from months of not climbing and pant my way up the route, luckily without much pain.
I roll into the campground late Halloween afternoon. Most of Creek Pasture’s denizens have taken the day off from climbing for “Creek Olympics.” Most of the events have already taken place: crash pad wrestling, rope jousting, some form of three-person reaching game where only one person can be touching the ground, and a competition involving costumes and skits. Everyone appears well lubricated from a day of drinking and other indulgences, and all are decked out in their best thrift-store finds. Outrageous, provocative, and silly rule. I get lots of warm hugs from pirates, pimps, floozies, and assorted furries. It’s great to be home.
The last event is a relay race around the quarter-mile campground loop carrying a full seven-gallon water jug. Competition is going to be fierce. Every team wants to take home the prize: a 3D portrait of Justin Bieber. At “Go!” five people take off with their awkward 56-pound loads. One person immediately drops his jug. He picks it up, takes off in a sprint, then trips and slides face first on the dirt road to roars of laughter and cheers.
After the race it’s body painting time. Sara is down to her bra and panties. Her bountiful sexy body looks festive as she playfully wiggles her artfully decorated rump.
I see bundles of wood, a pile of old pallets, and a stack of waxed boxes for tonight’s fire.
Last Halloween everyone was naked, but it was a warm night. Right now we are in a cold spell with temps near freezing during the day and forecast to be in the low teens tonight. As soon as the sun drops behind the ridge, I add two more layers and a puffy.
It’s dark and there are about 30 people in puffies with hoods on crowded around the fire trying to keep warm. A pallet gets thrown on the fire. It burns quick and hot. Several puffies come off. At the first wax box, flames leap 10 feet high, and everyone moves back from the intense heat. All of us longterm Creekers lift our shirts to warm our bellies. More people arrive. At the next wax box some shirts come off. Half the women are in sports bras.
Kaya has already shed her top and says to someone in a puffy, “I know it’s counter intuitive, but it’s actually warmer with bare skin.”
By the third wax box, half the men and women are topless.
Within a few minutes, with few exceptions, most everyone is shirtless. Unlike last year, most of us keep on our pants, and those that remove them keep on their underwear. Mike is an exception and goes full commando. Clinton offers him a knitted Santa finger puppet that Mike puts on his penis. It seems to fit, an apropos accessary for the party environment.
About then the body shots begin. A small cup is created somewhere on someone’s body, often near the clavicle or base of the spine, and another person drinks a shot from said cup. As the night progresses, people will get even more creative in finding places on the body to hold liquor and more diligent in chasing after wayward spillage.
I’m sober, not drinking, and have no interest in offering or taking a body shot. Even if I did, I wouldn’t because there is no way I would want to explain it to Donna. Our relationship is in a good place, loving, and trusting, and there’s no reason to risk conflict for a drinking game. As the fire expands and contracts, people crowd in and move back. It’s almost too hot, then a bit cold, then too hot again. I’m aware of being in the wrong head space for this party. I grab my layers and wander off into the night.
The clear desert sky is full of stars. A sliver moon is about to set. I’m not tired and the night will be too long to crawl into the back of my Impreza just yet. I take a dawdly lap around the camp loop, pausing often to look at the sky. Several Sprinters and other camper rigs have lights on. It’s cold to be out, nice to have a warm place to hang besides a ruckus party. The thumping dance music, laughter, hoots and screams can be heard throughout camp. I look over and see the fire blaze high over the site’s parked vans.
I’m happy to be here but also feel a bit out of place. There’s a youthful energy that I don’t feel. I’m also not sure how much I can climb. Climbing for me has always meant giving it all. I can just image how much worse my back would be if I took a lead fall. Yet I feel held by the red sandstone desert, by this lively inclusive community, and the need to live my monkey nature even if limited.
After a couple of laps around camp I’m drawn back to the fire. This time I shed my puffy but remain in multiple sweaters to regulate the fire’s temperature variance. Many drunk friends welcome me back to the fire with hugs.
Matt has an arm over my shoulder and says, “I gotta catch up on your blog.”
“I haven’t been writing.”
“Why not?”
I tell a partial truth. “Maybe I’m too happy hanging with Donna. Not enough suffering to be creative.”
The greater truth is that I prefer to write about what makes me most uncomfortable. But I don’t want to write about aging. It’s fucking boring and I have nothing to contribute that hasn’t been said again and again since the dawn of telling stories. And the thing that I find most heartrending involves my child. I understand when people in their 20s need to break from their parents and figure their shit out on their own. Yet the growing distance between us leaves a void that aches. How do I reconcile my respect for her right to make questionable choices with my fears for her well being? My jumbled feelings won’t settle into a narrative.
Now people around the fire are very drunk and making out with each other, but not really—not like lovers. It looks more like an adolescent kissing game, where people test smooch each other, then turn and kiss someone else. It doesn’t appear particularly sexual; there are no hands stroking the fun parts. It does look enjoyable. I wonder what it would be like to indulge in a kissing spree. There certainly are a lot of beautiful bodies. But what if a kiss isn’t good; that would be weird. And even if it is a good kiss, would it feel empty? With Donna, every kiss engages my heart. I leave the warmth and light again, for a long cold night in the back of my car.
Snorkeling in the Soup 