Pine Mountain: Santa Barbara's hidden gem of paradisiacal high-altitude bouldering. I love this place, but for some reason, my last visit was a calendar year ago, when Mary was still here. I don't know why I've been so remiss. The rock, views, temps, and vibe are all fab. Even the pit toilets weren't too bad this time around. Aaron and I met up with Marcela, Elijah, and a crew of assorted SLO climbers, then pulled down at Happy Hunting Grounds till our tips bled. Aaron and I had limited time, so we didn't rest at all and cranked as hard as we could for a solid four hours, resulting in some good sends, some frustrating shut-downs, and a wealth of material to return to.
I climbed okay, considering this was my fourth day of bouldering this week, and my fingies were starting to feel dysfunctional. Still, I managed to pull off sends of Mayday (V7), Gyroscope (graded V8), Dissing Euros (V6), Skydiving (V5), Surrounded By Fish (V5... one of the stupidest problems I've ever done at PM), and a slew of other great problems.
Here's to next time.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sierra Nevada trip, 2009
Keith Gregson and I hit up the Palisades for some alpine climbing, but were stymied by very poor snow conditions (too deep, too unstable, too sketchy), so we hiked out, went to Ancient Bristlecone National Forest, then cranked out some fun sport routes at the Alabama Hills.
Enjoy the pics.
Oh, and if looks cold and windy in the Palisades, it was.
Enjoy the pics.
Oh, and if looks cold and windy in the Palisades, it was.
Friday, June 12, 2009
You can ignore a boulder problem, but, at the risk of over-personification, a boulder problem won't ignore you.
I'm embarrassed to admit it: I spent the last year or two avoiding a certain "classic" boulder problem at Santa Barbara's bastion of stellar river-stone, Skofield Park. Where Mission Creek cuts through Skofield at its northern end, a large, immaculate boulder with a crack splitting it's face overlooks the river. The undercut of the boulder touts an ominous traverse of odd pinches, gastons, and slopers. The problem? She Made Me Do It, a benchmark Santa Barbara V8, and my bouldering nemesis for at least the last four years.
It hasn't been a continuous struggle. I didn't engage in Vaudevillian repartee with She Made Me Do It; no all-day duels, no tizzy-fits. I tried the problem only sporadically over the course of four years, beginning every session with psyche, but, invariably, leaving in defeat. In the ample space between attempts, I trained, climbed elsewhere, flirted with Big Walls, Sport, Trad, more bouldering, and even enjoyed a long stint in The Shed, Phil Requist's Chamber of Pain. I got strong. I climbed other hard problems in the Santa Barbara area, such as Dancing Outlaw, Scoot Patrol, and the sit-start to Gangsta Hippy. I ticked almost every route at the Owl Tor between 5.11d and 5.12c (in a day, no less). All said, I was beginning to feel my pedigree as a somewhat experienced, marginally seasoned climber.
Big mistake. Fast forward.
On Friday, June 12th, after a long day in the shop, I mustered the energy to hit up Skofield. The skies were overcast, and much of the area around Skofield had burned in at least one of the cataclysmic fires of the last twelve months. Think Mordor near the ocean. Alone, without someone to whom I could justify my cowardice, I fought the urge to send some easy stuff and retreat to a mellow Friday evening in town. This is the part I like about climbing: when it comes down to it, the raw, beleagured, pansy-ass parts of your soul bear their banished heads, and you have to DEAL. As I sat beneath She Made Me Do It, I knew that I wouldn't leave Skofield until I sent.
After the first attempt, all my hubris from the last year of climbing fizzled. The stopper move—a hard pull over a steep lip—spat me off repeatedly. While I had the rest of the problem absolutely wired, I couldn't maintain enough energy and flow to finish. I bemoaned what appeared to be a mental block. And I was getting tired after about seven or eight attempts (She Made Me Do It is a very long problem). With psyche waning, I stepped back, drank some coffee from my thermos, then put my shoes back on and started climbing.
And sent.
It felt exactly how a climb should feel: intuitive, aesthetic, victorious, and piss-hard. In the end, it was just thirty feet of rock-wrestling up a river boulder, and me, on top, alone in the woods, yelling at the top of my lungs.
If you want to see a video of stronger-than-I-man Bernd and his buddy Nathan on She Made Me Do It, check out this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qt0_BaslCF8
It hasn't been a continuous struggle. I didn't engage in Vaudevillian repartee with She Made Me Do It; no all-day duels, no tizzy-fits. I tried the problem only sporadically over the course of four years, beginning every session with psyche, but, invariably, leaving in defeat. In the ample space between attempts, I trained, climbed elsewhere, flirted with Big Walls, Sport, Trad, more bouldering, and even enjoyed a long stint in The Shed, Phil Requist's Chamber of Pain. I got strong. I climbed other hard problems in the Santa Barbara area, such as Dancing Outlaw, Scoot Patrol, and the sit-start to Gangsta Hippy. I ticked almost every route at the Owl Tor between 5.11d and 5.12c (in a day, no less). All said, I was beginning to feel my pedigree as a somewhat experienced, marginally seasoned climber.
Big mistake. Fast forward.
On Friday, June 12th, after a long day in the shop, I mustered the energy to hit up Skofield. The skies were overcast, and much of the area around Skofield had burned in at least one of the cataclysmic fires of the last twelve months. Think Mordor near the ocean. Alone, without someone to whom I could justify my cowardice, I fought the urge to send some easy stuff and retreat to a mellow Friday evening in town. This is the part I like about climbing: when it comes down to it, the raw, beleagured, pansy-ass parts of your soul bear their banished heads, and you have to DEAL. As I sat beneath She Made Me Do It, I knew that I wouldn't leave Skofield until I sent.
After the first attempt, all my hubris from the last year of climbing fizzled. The stopper move—a hard pull over a steep lip—spat me off repeatedly. While I had the rest of the problem absolutely wired, I couldn't maintain enough energy and flow to finish. I bemoaned what appeared to be a mental block. And I was getting tired after about seven or eight attempts (She Made Me Do It is a very long problem). With psyche waning, I stepped back, drank some coffee from my thermos, then put my shoes back on and started climbing.
And sent.
It felt exactly how a climb should feel: intuitive, aesthetic, victorious, and piss-hard. In the end, it was just thirty feet of rock-wrestling up a river boulder, and me, on top, alone in the woods, yelling at the top of my lungs.
If you want to see a video of stronger-than-I-man Bernd and his buddy Nathan on She Made Me Do It, check out this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qt0_BaslCF8
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Baking my own bread...
I'm baking my own bread these days. A well-cooked loaf has such an alluring, decidedly tactile character. I'm quite an active guy, so I typically consume food that has a good return, both calorically nutritionally. I'm not the only one; John Muir also thought pretty highly of bread. When he garnered the first ascent of Mt. Ritter in the Sierra Nevada (no slouch of a peak, by the way. I've done it with tons of gear and an ice-axe.), he "rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets with some sugar and a tin cup and set off."
That's pretty rad.
As our culture flees from the nefarious carbohydrate by pounding meat, decrying flour, and converting to diets named after places (what the hell does South Beach Diet mean?), I hope we haven't thrown the baby out with the bathwater, or—as I knead an ample mound of dough on Wednesday night—the yeast with the honey-infused water. I've searched far and wide for a food as utterly satisfying, aesthetically proportioned, and versatile as bread, but my hands came up empty. Somewhere, somehow, I started to believe the lies about bread being a fattening, empty, wickedly tempting resevoir of potential ASS.
If bread was good enough for John Muir, it's good enough for me.
That's pretty rad.
As our culture flees from the nefarious carbohydrate by pounding meat, decrying flour, and converting to diets named after places (what the hell does South Beach Diet mean?), I hope we haven't thrown the baby out with the bathwater, or—as I knead an ample mound of dough on Wednesday night—the yeast with the honey-infused water. I've searched far and wide for a food as utterly satisfying, aesthetically proportioned, and versatile as bread, but my hands came up empty. Somewhere, somehow, I started to believe the lies about bread being a fattening, empty, wickedly tempting resevoir of potential ASS.
If bread was good enough for John Muir, it's good enough for me.
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