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Leftover Chair

2011-09-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

Guner Tatrum, Santa Barbara's local reclaimed wood expert, milled some rather large pieces of Eucalyptus for an outdoor bench we made, and luckily there were leftovers. I had a few hours of "free-time" one afternoon, and, with the help of Joy Brenneman, whipped out this whimsical combination of pierced metal, forged tapers, and engaging joinery.

Good times in the shop.

Labor Day Photo Dump

2011-09-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

Between hosting Santa Barbara Forge and Iron's first First Thursday event, building a climbing wall in Bernd's backyard, installing a cool handrail, and eating Korean food, my last few weeks have merged in to a jumble of activity. Here's to the end of summer.

This lamp will eventually reside in my living room, but for now it sits in our show-room. It's sort of an industrially-inspired work lamp, with a few forged shenanigans thrown in. And it's fully adjustable.

To my knowledge, I've never had Korean food. Erica changed that—with a vengeance. Yes, it's all as good as it looks. You should check out www.apricosa.com to fully indulge in Erica's culinary genius.

Since last winter, Bernd and I have schemed about adding an upper-headwall to his modest backyard climbing structure. Finally, in one busy Sunday afternoon, we made it happen, with the aid of Finn, Hjordis, and ginger-snap cookies. The structure stands about as high as the legendary Shed wall, and touts just as much linear feet of climbing, but the transition from super-steep to off-vertical adds a very interesting component. Good times, indeed.

After forging, assembling, and installing a rather elaborate Oaxacan-style gate at his beautiful residence, Steve Rogers commissioned SBFI to build a series of handrails leading up his front entrance. The aesthetic was still in the classic Oaxacan style—strong, slightly imposing, yet elegantly simple—but I threw in some details of my own, particularly in the brackets that supported the handrail. Thank you, Steve, for being such an amenable and supportive client!

Yeti goes down in a blazing flame of group enthusiasm.

2011-08-24T23:07:00.000-07:00

After climbing to—and then backing off from—the mantle of Yeti for a number of sessions, Mary finally decided it was time to send. Everyone was there: Bernd, Hjordis, Finn, Thomas Townsend (new guy), Bret, Layne, and Sophia. With pads galore and a small crowd churning out psyche, we finished off today's session in style.

Yeah, that's my wife.

First Ascent: Trebuchet

2011-08-20T22:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks: no gratuitous action shot; no wide-angle, color-corrected flaunting of back muscles; no digitally photographed hustle or bustle. In fact, I don't even have a picture of your's truly climbing—anything. What I do have is a self-taken iphone portrait--post-send--of me about to consume a Butterscotch-Chocolate Cookie.

Kyle, thanks for letting yourself be convinced in to hiking up an obscure canyon, only to spend a perfectly good Sunday afternoon belaying me on the first ascent of Trebuchet. You are a true gentleman. Piper, thank you for the cookies. Sending may not have occurred without them.

Someone, PLEASE go do this route. You won't regret it.

Silly Fantasy Novel Covers

2011-07-11T07:33:00.001-07:00

No matter how honed the prose, deep the plot, or enticing the characters, Sci-Fi/Fantasy novels tend to have ridiculous cover artwork. I was an English Major. I read—or sometimes skimmed—many books of a high pedigree, and tackled novels with stolid, leather covers, or books with the monochromatic look of "classics". The more color on the front, the more kitschy the artistic flourish, the less quality the literature, right? It's too bad that some of my favorite Sci-Fi/Fantasy authors make just that mistake, or suffer the poor judgment of their publishers. Take Orson Scott Card, who, more than likely, had nothing to do with this doozy:

What's going on here?

If you've never read a book from this series, and merely gravitated towards the auspiciously oiled bosom of said Conan look-alike, then you probably found your mind tailspinning into a bawdy cloud of images, part erotic, part magical, wholly ridiculous, and strangely entertaining. Somewhere, somehow, visual media like this was—and continues to be—produced. God help me, I get a kick out of it. That is why I went to my local bookstore the other day and bought four Fantasy novels from this six-book series by Orson Scott Card. Which reminds me: Orson Scott Card is one of the most prolific and talented Sci-Fi/Fantasy novelists of our time, and also an eloquent proponent of why literature keeps us human. To wit:

"The elitists are such boneheads they think literature exists to be admired. Wrong. Literature exists to create memories so true and important that we allow them to become part of ourselves, shaping our future actions because we remember that once someone we admired did this, and someone we hated and feared did that.

Literature matters only to the degree that it shapes and changes human behavior by making the audience wish to be better because they read it.

It becomes importantly bad only to the degree that it entices the audience to revel in actions and memories that debase the culture that embraces it.

Next to that, questions of how one literary work influences other literary works, or how the manner of writing measures up to the tastes of some elite group are so trivial that you marvel that someone who went to college could ever think they mattered more."

Orson Scott Card, July 29, 2007, "Uncle Orson Reviews Everything"

Esoterically Wonderful: Trebuchet, 5.fun

2011-06-14T07:30:00.000-07:00

For those who didn't geek out over Medieval siege-weaponry when they were in Junior High, a Trebuchet is a cross between a giant slingshot and catapult. Without relying on the specific workings of the Trebuchet, the nature of this climb likens itself to said weapon: that is, if you botch the first move, you get forcibly flung off the arete.

Lo, the first sequence of moves.

Then I throw a heel high and left, engage those mysterious inner-thigh muscles you didn't know existed, and pinch the arete with my legs. Once established, I grunt through a series of off-balance crimps that lead around the corner.

Now, the headwall. A beautiful—but insipid—crack slashes diagonally across the face, and provides the only means of travel. A series of desperate finger-locks lead the way, culminating in a viciously hard crossover move.

If you snag the crossover, the next move makes you work even harder. Set up, roll out, and dyno for a shallow fissure. It's beckoningly close, but the poor feet, steepness of the rock, and angle of the hold conspire against you.

This is where I've been falling. Best rope-swing in town.

Images courtesy of the inimitable Jason Shepherd, Santa Barbara's ONLY current legit climbing bum.

Rogers Gate, Part II

2011-06-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

A completed side of the gate.

Drifting holes to allow for the pickets to pass through.

Detail of the the drifted holes and joinery.

Fabrication of the "ray" detail is like putting together tinker toys.

Apples, pecorino, French cheddar, luque olives, olive bread, and focaccia: a typical group lunch at the forge.

The Rogers Gate

2011-05-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

It's been a long, tiring, and productive week at the Forge. The Rogers Gate proceeds: I finished all the lozenge details for one side of the gate, and almost all the heart-scrolls.

A friend of mine came by the other day, took one look at the chalk sketch of the Rogers Gate on the floor, and boomed "speak, friend, and enter". If you can plumb the significance of that literary reference, then you probably can discern the difference between orcs and elves as well.

Renaissance Man, Day 5

2011-05-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

Image courtesy of Jason Shepherd.

For posterity's sake—or mnemonic repetition—here's the litany of moves running through my head while working Renaissance Man:

Right foot on root, right hand palm-press for balance, reach left to three-finger pocket, ease in to open hand grip, reach right to undercling, left foot step-through, paste right toe, cradle right knee into knee-bar and torque out and in, release right undercling and grab crimp, lock it off, shift left toe to higher foot, stay tight, reach hellish sloper, move quick but controlled, bump left hand to sloping edge while pressing like hell with left toe and torquing right knee-bar, keep core tight, slowly release knee-bar, high-step left toe to hueco, flag right foot like crazy to the left under a bulge, release left pointer finger on left hand to make room for right hand, match hands, keep core tight, static reach for sharp crimp, then...

One or two more hand-movements will bring me to the flared crack, my first gear-placement on the route, and a 5.11d/12a joyride to the top—hopefully. Sometimes it occurs to me how little objective gain this climb will bring me in life, and for a moment I'm struck by the absurdity of it all.

But just for a moment.

New Work: Coleman Residence, Part 1

2011-05-01T07:16:00.000-07:00

I officially toppled off the social radar over the last couple of weeks due to a massive push in the shop. Our client, who was building a sharp residence on the beach at Sandpoint, had a non-negotiable move-in date, and we, being amenable metal-smiths, agreed to a nearly impossible timeframe for installation. Months ago, In the preliminary stages, Dan had briefed me on the scope of the project, but I hadn't fully grasped the looming immensity ahead. And oh, the copious amounts of bronze needed! Wonderful, finicky, lustrous, softer-than-steel bronze. It even has a funny smell and bitter taste (don't ask). I hadn't worked with bronze in any substantial capacity since the City Art Project last year, and it was a labor of nostalgic fervor.

The Sandpoint Project (hereafter known as) evoked a slightly eclectic catalogue of aesthetics, at least from a metalwork vantage. We executed lots of uncompromising straight lines, seams, and angles, yet much of the finishes were mottled, weathered, textured with a hammer, or intentionally rusted for a neo-industrial look. I hesitate to say the interior of the house was modern because the term falters in the face of specificity, but the product of our work—and the work of the carpenters, lighting technicians, and flooring guys—was peculiarly rooted in the architectural sensibilities of our time: a push towards natural light; sustainable materials; unifying geometry; openness.

(By the way, the amount of metalwork at Sandpoint makes for prohibitive blogging, thus, I'm breaking my blog-entries into parts.)

Starting with the entry handrail, here's a little tour:

Normally I balk when a client wants to powdercoat forged metal. In this instance, I thought the matte-black brought out the textured cap-rail quite nicely.

Cool little transition

Bronze surrounds for the fireplace and flatscreen television. Each of the panels have thin-gauge bronze wrapped around sheets of perfectly sized wood. The goal was to have all the corners and seams match perfectly—a tricky task, since nothing was perfectly square.

Carefully machined hinges allow the four panels to open and fold against the wall, revealing the (pending) flatscreen.

I'm pretty psyched on this handrail. I hand-peened all 30+ feet of the cap-rail, and strategized fabrication for a continuous run up three flights of stairs. Yeah, it's functionally all one piece.

Transition around corner.

Engaging step encounter at the landing.

I designed a hand-forged bracket for connecting the handrail to the wall. It vaunts an angular, somewhat savage look.

Returning

2011-04-04T21:28:00.000-07:00

Mary and I just returned from Bishop. You have to work pretty hard to not climb something good in this high-desert hamlet, but I somehow subjected myself to a number of "no-star" routes, and quickly realized why guidebook authors add their two-cents in the first place. It's not that I didn't have a great time; my sojourn into obscurity reaffirmed why I like climbing in the first place: distilled and esoteric adventure. When I first started coming to Bishop years ago (2001, I think), the modern "trendy" bouldering movement was on the nascent side, and Chris Sharma was just beginning to throttle the minds of climbers everywhere. Bishop was my first climbing trip, my first dirtbag locale, and my first outdoor vomit experience (following a massive Mexican feast at Amigos). I wax nostalgic whenever I come here.

We also had the fortune of following Jake around with his two friends Dillon and Dana, all of whom had been bouldering every day since that previous Monday, making Friday—the day we met up with them—their fifth day on the rocks. Oh, the eternal springs of youth!

Mary and I just bought Dale a backpack. Now he carries my rack, his water, and the legacy of working-breeds everywhere.

I had never bouldered up at Dale's Camp, but I can't wait to go back. Jake has his sights on Xavier's Roof, V11. He's super close, but Dale doesn't seem to care.

Owens River Gorge.

Here I am, unwittingly committed on a stupid-thin 5.12b at the Gorge. This climb shredded my tips and almost ruined the weekend.

It's Slab-Awareness Weekend

2011-03-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

After a successful Saturday of climbing at Gibraltar, where Bernd and I nabbed the first free ascent of Broken Mirror, we opted for icing on our proverbial cake: a Sunday afternoon Lizard's Mouth session. What could be better? With everything from challenges for the nascent boulderer, to yet-undone projects, LM has a vast array of untouched climbing fare. However, that last claim might draw laughter from the sidelines of the Santa Barbara climbing community. The main areas of LM have chalk in all the obvious places, and at first (and second, and third) glance, the true cherries appear plucked.

Enter Bernd Zeugswetter.

His eye for creative, complex, and truly hard lines is second to none around these parts. Bernd was the first to muster the pluck and power to consider climbing one of LM's most auspicious features, the now-named Egret Arete (V10 R/X), a sunny corner of stone that, since time immemorial, simply looked too high, too hard, and too terrifying. A mere stone's-throw away from Egret Arete sits Lord of the Flies, another highball boulder problem—albeit a much less challenging line at V0+. Lord of the Flies probably has chalk from 1977 caked on its well-traveled holds. Imagine my surprise when Bernd claimed to be working a heinous (and very high) slab problem a mere arm's-span away from LOTF. I had to see it. Thus, with multiple pads in tow, we set about the task of climbing—after lots of falling off of—what will surely become one of Santa Barbara's coolest thin climbs. I snagged the first ascent. Bernd second ascent followed quickly thereafter.

Unless someone can think of a better name, I'm calling it The Conch Problem, V8 (R).

(Thank you Bob Banks for the images, and for entertaining my dog with your dog)

Broken Mirror, 5.12a R (FA: Zeugswetter, Patterson)

2011-03-14T08:05:00.000-07:00

Windy day, hazy clouds, perfect temps, immaculate climb. Just when you though Gibraltar was climbed out...

Thank you Bernd and Hjordis for an amazing day of climbing!

What would Rutger Hauer do?

2011-03-01T20:16:00.000-08:00

A triumvirate of good things: my wife; my husky; and my portaledge.

A rather enlightened client (We'll call him Mr. Galt) asked SB Forge to make a medieval entry gate to his front yard. In the interest of full disclosure, a deep, hidden fiber of my being resonated with boyish excitement. Medieval means knights. And castles. And dungeons, where one could languish in shackles, or, if you're Matthew Broderick, escape to assist Rutger Hauer in medieval adventures. Either way, I totally dug the client's requests. Dan designed the gate, I pulled it off. Below are some shots. The entire gate is fastened together by rivets, banding, and some unique forms of punching and drifting. Totally rad. I'm almost halfway done, so I'll keep posting photos. The finished product will be stunning. And, well, medieval.

Carefully strategizing the placement of the straps is a lot harder than it looks.

I settled on an intact rivet head for the front, but the back is flattened. This style of joinery is uber-strong.

Clamp, heat, hammer, cool, repeat.

One month, three dog-attacks.

2011-02-05T08:22:00.000-08:00

Dale, sleeping off two consecutive dog-attacks.

I have never hit an animal before. I've hit my brothers, to be sure, but I always thought that the hitting of older siblings transcends moral boundaries, especially when it entails returning fire for injustices like wedgies and dutch ovens. But the hitting of animals was something I never considered. Not only does social prudence frown on animal abuse, I believe animals deserve a carte-blanche of good treatment, no matter now angry we get, or how we justify our rage. However, last week I found myself pummeling a full-grown Pit Bull as hard as I could.

Allow me to explain.

Two weeks prior to the tussle with said Pit Bull, I was trail-running up Rattlesnake Canyon with Dale, my amicable Siberian Husky, when a full-grown Australian Shepherd emerged around a corner, took one look at Dale, and charged him. Dog attacks happen exceptionally fast, and before I had time to react, the Aussie had clamped its jaws on Dale's leg, lifted him off the ground, and shook him like a rag. Dale yelped miserably, and all I could do was pull desperately on his leash. The owners (there were two of them) managed to subdue their nasty cur before any real damage occurred, but Dale continued to moan and howl in pain, so I carried him down the remainder of the trail.

The owners maintained a surprised, moderately apologetic demeanor.

"Bro, we're sorry. Our dog is never like that. I don't know what happened," they explained, as if it was somehow partly my fault.

For the record, owners always say "my dog is never like that" when their precious pooches go aggro.

Dale turned out to be okay, anyway. I let a couple of days go by, then continued taking him on trail runs. About five or six days later, we were jogging up Tunnel Trail when we encountered two men with an entourage of three Pit Bulls. Two of them seemed like puppies, but the third boasted a thick neck, burly chest, and the unmistakable intent to kill. The three Pits descended upon Dale while I, in my high running shorts, did a leggy dance trying to stay out of the way while maneuvering Dale to safety. The two youngsters romped harmlessly while the elder Pit immediately chomped down on Dale's neck. I freaked out. Amidst Dale's cries and the owners yelling innocuous admonishments at their dog, I decided it was time to save my dog's life.

Again, dog-attacks happen exceptionally fast, and I was terrified about Dale's safety, so my reactions, while fairly ill-advised, proceeded reflexively. It was simple: make a fist, swing it hard on the Pit Bull. Movies portray fist-fights in a cavalier fashion, with combatants trading head-ringing biffs like mildly painful insults, as if a knuckle to the cheek was the equivalent of bumping your head on a towel rack. And if you're the hero in a Hollywood film, your punches always strike true, and knock out assailants on the first swing. Hitting a full-grown and maniacal Pit Bull, however, is like hitting a punching bag filled with tires. While I swung madly at the stomach and neck of the Pit, i quickly realized I was waging a futile war, and likely inviting an attack on myself. Luckily, the hapless owners managed to drag their dog away.

"Hey buddy," they began, "our dog is never like that, I don't know what happened."

Yeah, right. But don't worry: the dog-attacks don't stop there.

The last—and most bizarre—of this string of canine misadventures didn't even involve Dale: just me, a waifish black mutt, and its dull, bro-tastic owners. Leaving Dale at home, Jake and I attempted to snag a mellow Sunday afternoon session at Lizard's Mouth. Since it was Super Bowl Sunday, we had high hopes for good times and good problems, unencumbered by the typical throngs of glass-breaking dullards, who were hopefully at home watching the game. Fat chance, as it turned out. While standing—perfectly still, mind you—and looking at a problem I hoped to climb, a smallish black dog of dubious ancestry suddenly commenced a rearguard action against my thigh. As with the previous dog attacks that month, it was over before it happened, and I didn't even have the presence of mind to register shock, or outrage. It's owners, who I will describe as cheerily vapid, were mildly surprised, but mostly just worried that I would sue them, as the wilting guffaws on their faces communicated.

"Dudes. Your dog just bit me." I said, as I looked down at a small puncture wound on my thigh, seeping a penny-size drop of blood.

"Shit. Bro, we're so sorry. Blacky (dog's name) is NEVER like that."

Again, owners always say that.

"I don't care. Just put him on a leash."

"Totally, bro. We're sooo sorry. Thanks for not suing us and shit."

And shit, indeed. I'm not out to sue people; my climbing sessions and trail-runs don't begin with an impulse to litigate. I simply want to go and enjoy my afternoons without dumbass owners letting their dumbass dogs bite me or my dog. I hope I'm not asking too much.

Really quick, really.

2011-02-02T21:55:00.001-08:00

Heavens, I've been busy.

I keep thinking I'll toss a post out in to the great web effluvium, but tasks mounted, ideas coalesced, and climbing projects distracted. In summary:

1) I've been on an Italian food crusade.

2) Dale got his twig-and-berries snipped. Actually, he kept the twig but lost the berries. He had to wear a cone.

3) Mary and I just watched Eclipse, the third movie in the Twilight Saga.

4) I regretted admitting that last heading.

5) I'm obsessively projecting an obscure route far up Rattlesnake Canyon. It's the hardest thing I've ever tried on a rope.

Here I be, sorting out the lower section of the Rattlesnake Canyon Project, or, as Jay and I are calling it, the Renaissance Man Project (we thought we should name all the climbs at this modest crag after a medieval fashion). I'm about eighteen inches away from a clean top-rope ascent, which, when accomplished, will mean it's time to rack up for the lead. How hard? Can't tell. Initial consensus is low 5.13. It's not a clip-up, either: I'm taking two cams to protect the climb. Much to my nervousness, the first placement is about twelve feet off the deck, and AFTER the V9 crux.

The bottom is stupid hard, the top is manageably hard.

The illustrious Bobo and Bret, enjoying a moment of levity in my living room.

An evening of Risotto.

He still humps things, don't worry.

Last night at the Shed

2010-12-08T21:39:00.000-08:00

It had to happen eventually, but through some poetically unjust happenstance, REI recently announced plans to build a store in the Analucia building, thereby ousting The Shed and all its steel-fingered denizens. I climbed there tonight, purely out of nostalgia, and savored a slow, statically climbed ascent of Standard Crimp. It might have been my last—at least, until Phil finds a new place for the wall.

Justin Willet: winemaker and shed-regular.

Jake Novotny, crushing.

My lovely wife, crushing

After climbing—and a day of forging some cap-rail—I was pretty beat, so I snagged some takeout, and for good measure, a boutique Belgian Ale from my favorite purveyor of alcoholic esoterica: San Roque Liquor. Since Dan and I have plans to brew a Dubbel in the next couple of weeks, I thought I'd try some dark Belgian Ales of note, just to raise the bar for our attempt. Perhaps the bar has been elevated too high, because this beer was stupid delicious.

Behold, the Trappistes Rochefort #10, 11.3% of lively malt aromas coupled with darkly ripened berries on the nose, and a sultry, molasses flavor that belies the smooth, ridiculously drinkable character of this ale. Entirely worth the price of admission.

Mary and I are sprinting for the finish line this season. She has massive amounts of work to accomplish before Christmas, and while she typically works till 11 p.m. every night, her spirits are auspiciously high. We are both heading to Indiana for Christmas, and I'm sure she'll catch up on sleep and relaxation, as well as continue her quest to watch every episode of Bewitched. I am buried in work as well, and have no idea how to accomplish it all before the holiday. Tomorrow, after 56 fluid ounces of coffee, I will forge my brains out for eight hours. Talk to me afterwards and I'll give you a more accurate progress report.

Proceeding Apace

2010-11-17T06:53:00.000-08:00

I've never been one to bemoan my age or give in to teenage nostalgia, so as I sip coffee while writing this entry, having JUST turned 29 on the 14th of November, I proudly proclaim my getting-up-there-ness. Thirty approaches, inexorably. What to do but take a gratuitous picture on the Eastside of the Sierra? In this picture, I am fresh off a slew of razor-sharp 5.11s at the Alabama Hills, having just attempted to burn out my fingers after a stellar weekend of Whitney Portal trad adventures. I succeeded.

I haven't updated this blog in a while, so here's the rundown:

1) I discovered Roller Derby. Santa Barbara has a team, much to my glee. Not merely a kinky tussle between angry vixens, Derby portrays the strange—but impressive—side of manic competition, a la roller-skate-clad thirty-somethings. It's actually a viciously entertaining sport. Here's me raising the emblem of soused Americana to the sky. This is only the second Bud Lite I've ever had. Ugh.

2) Work in the smithy continues at a mad pace. I'm currently immersed in a stainless steel railing project. Pictures soon to follow. I will also be forging an "old Spanish" railing for a residence on the Riviera. For those of you who don't know me, I have a long-standing distaste for what has been described as Spanish Revival, or Spanish Renaissance. In Santa Barbara, metalwork typically defers to the tried-and-tasteless motif of boring scrollwork painted with black paint. This railing, while fairly typical in design, will tout some pretty cool forged construction, thus making it cool. I should be starting on it later this week.

3) Dale is getting big.

4) I had my birthday in Yosemite. My camera ran out of batteries, but I got on a five-pitch horror-show climb near Serenity Crack (character-building), and did a cool boulder problem called the Bachar Cracker. I also checked out Cedar Eater, a fifty-foot long off-width boulder problem. The latter was sadistically entertaining, and my ankles and calves still hurt (nevermind...).

Another BBQ

2010-09-20T21:30:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, a man walked in to my shop, interrupted my welding, and stated that he wanted a barbecue. In my line of work, if a custom request is not amended by particularities, then said project becomes more of a creative liability than a creative license. I need—and the customer appreciates—a more explicit projection of what they are paying for. So I drew a picture in my journal, showed the client, and he went for it. What emerged was a fairly angular, sturdy, and bitchin' flame bucket.

From the front, it's really just a State Park BBQ on steroids; no moving parts, no machinery, just a box on feet.

Front detailing.

Banding of banding.

We're firing this puppy up on Friday. Be there.

Yosemite, Sans Rope

2010-09-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my climbing career, I drove the five-plus hours to Yosemite Valley with the intention of NOT roping up, but bouldering. This goes against much of the tradly fibers in my hand-taped being, but I'm happy to say that I can finally commiserate with the punk-ass kids at the bouldering gym. In summary: the bouldering of Yosemite Valley is so superlatively good as to warrant a wholesale yard-sale of your cams.

Well, not really. I will never do that.

But Mary, Jake, and I had a blast pebble-wrestling on the warmish weekend of September 11th, and lest you think we forewent crack climbing altogether, we managed to find some exceptional solitary suffering on problems like Deliverance, a heinous roof finger-crack, and Cedar's Crack, an overhanging offwidth crack that offers quality harumph-ing for forty feet, then spits you off with a burly top-out. I snagged Cedar's Crack on my second go. Deliverance, however, is going to take multiple visits and a tolerance of pain that I have yet to obtain.

Contemplating the top-out (which you can't see) above me.

After a day of Valley activities (including negotiating swarms of late-summer tourists), we went back to Bass Lake and putzed around on the Lewis Creek boulders (equivalent of SB's Painted Cave in terms of convenience and concentration), then enjoyed the bro-tastic scene that is Bass Lake swimming. The Willow Creek waterslide was in good form:

From Bratislava to Santa Barbara

2010-09-08T06:58:00.000-07:00

I give you Geza Kummer, the man whose initials are imprinted on most of my hammers, swages, and sundry blacksmithing tools. After expatriating from his native Bratislava, this wry, scrappy, and chain-smoking Eastern European built one of the most successful blacksmithing and ornamental iron businesses in Santa Barbara, circa 1980's and 1990's. If you have seen classically honed metalwork around town, it's probably his. When he went out of business about five years ago, Dan and I bought most of his tools for a pittance, partly because Geza wanted to retire and move on, but I like to think this old-world badass actually liked Dan and I.

Well, he just might have.

While I was forging components for the Morley Wine rack (piece in progress; more photos to follow), Geza strutted in to our shop, aglow with goodwill—as his weathered features would allow. One thing you should know about Geza: he hates Communists. Most people my age barely retain a distant ire for Communism. We of the late-twenties mostly remember Communists as the bumbly, nasally-voiced bad guys from Rambo movies, or, at worst, an anachronistic regime of boring, gray buildings and propaganda posters. Russia, as an axis of evil, no longer presides over our worst fears as a nation. When Geza lived in Bratislava, however, Communism was omnipresent and hardly benign. I won't relate his stories, but he still drops vengeful comments about "the Russians" in normal conversation. For all the Russians reading this, I apologize; being Russian does not a Communist make.

Anyway, this guy may look small, but he could probably break my anvil in half, and then put a cig out on his tongue.

The September Sessions

2010-09-01T22:03:00.000-07:00

My garage wall hurts my fingers right.

I credit any semblance of climbing fitness I currently possess to this diminutive clapboard with holds.

Meat, Grandiose.

2010-09-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to belittle your barbecue set-up, but correct me if I'm wrong about the following:

Last August, during the height of cook-out season, you couldn't help but notice your bro-neighbor's Weber grill, and the obscenely huge slab of Tri-tip wallowing in redolent death. Skewered onions and peppers, adjacent to the meat on a separate bi-fold rack for purposes of temperature control, adorned the tri-tip as a savory obituary. And bro, with barbed-wire bicep tatoos, acted as pallbearer.

How decadent, how delicious, you thought.

I'll buy my own grill, you thought.

Later that night, crosslegged on your couch and tongue salivating with anticipation, you perused Craigslist with a vengeance. A week later, you fired up your little $25 hibachi and seared some carne. That grill is still sitting on your porch, perched like a defunct android from Star Wars, squat, rusting, and splattered with grease. It's a good grill. Really.

But this one is better.

Dan and I designed and built a barbecue grill that evokes the aesthetic of 1800's mining equipment. And, keeping with anachronism, we coated the whole thing with bacon fat to both season and protect the metal. No joke. I walked next door to the Paradise Cafe and asked the cook (he was a bit perplexed) if he had copious amounts of bacon fat. He did.

Leviticus, 5.12d

2010-08-23T21:32:00.000-07:00

Allow me to rhapsodize a bit:

Over the last ten years, I've accrued a massive catalogue of fond memories in the Santa Barbara foothills, and if nostalgia isn't a mix of sweat, blood, and manic enthusiasm, then I don't know what it is. No matter what the circumstance, the acrid stench of California Bay and the roasted-sweet wafts of Central Coast sandstone throttle my attention at a nostrils notice. Seven Falls canyon was one of my first hiking experiences in Santa Barbara, and while the well-worn passages of this popular frat-boy den conjure scoffing amongst longtime locals, I still gape at the beauty of Mission Canyon, threading its way below the rugged spine of Cathedral Peak.

On one of my early sojourns up Seven Falls (just months after I bought my first harness and pair of shoes), I noticed a steep crack adorned by bolts. I was callow enough to jump on the route—proud from a recent 5.10a redpoint at Gibraltar—and begin what soon became a spirited exercise in physical futility. I was young, ego-engorged, and routinely successful at most endeavors in my sheltered world of collegiate meanderings. Leviticus began the beat-down that would simultaneously wrench my perspective aright, and plant seeds of belief that maybe, just maybe I could climb something hard some day. Years passed, I climbed all over the Western United States, failed on some routes, succeeded on others, battled disappointment, wrestled with motivation, fell out of climbing, and, inexorably, fell back in to it. Somewhere along the way, past the endless drivel of grade-debates, climbing magazine fodder, and self-imposed limitations that overly esoteric subcultures sometimes engender, I realized that—for me—climbing is wonderfully pure, and can be distilled in to three truths:

1) Climbing is hard
2) Climbing is fun
3) Climbing is fun when hard

Forget silly numbers and letters. Leviticus, the route that shut me down years ago, taught me that I sucked and then inspired me to not suck, was still there and, well, waiting. What the hell? It's a rock. It has holds. Why shouldn't I climb the shit out of it ? With the scouting help of Bernd Zeugswetter, my partner in local route-exploring and a truly gifted climber (not to mention the nicest guy for 300 miles in all directions), I re-approached Leviticus. After one or two short sessions, I unlocked the bottom crux, and with a mere torque of my pinky, thrutch of my shoulder, and an obscene, gravelly yell, I had one clean top-rope under my belt. In my opinion, if you can top-rope a route once, you can lead it. Thus, I decided that no matter how desperate my top-rope attempt felt, I would lead Leviticus as soon as possible.

Redpoint day included Justin Willet, Mr. burl himself, and belayer extraordinaire; Jake Novotny, a spirited and friggin' strong climber from Tahoe who perfectly embodies the unhindered spirit of someone new to climbing; and Robb Klassen, a supremely talented photographer—and, incidentally, barista at my favorite coffee shop. On the approach, Sunday afternoon heat seared our stroll up Tunnel Trail. The light, soon to be waning, fought tooth and nails in arrogant oranges, yellows, and sallow-white. As we descended in to Mission Creek, I noted every stone with perfect recall, and couldn't help but indulge myself the moment. What could be better than climbing a stunning route at the best time of day with a crowd of supportive friends? As I write this, I'm tempted to even more dire levels of saccharine, but I will stop here.

As far as the blow-by-blow?

Not much to tell. Really. It was over before it began, even though it really began ten years ago.

Jake takes a burn on top-rope.

Walking out. Damn good day.

New Coffee Table: A Little Deco, A Lot Awesome

2010-08-22T07:21:00.001-07:00

It can be yours for $1500, plus tax.

I'm rolling out furniture ideas these days. This has less with to do with my ability as a purveyor of metal wares, and more to do with a slight lull between jobs. The personal craft-picnic is over this week. Dan and I must attend to a bevy of clients and their respective desires, which run the gamut from interesting to tedium-incarnate. Lo, it is always thus.

This coffee table I made for my apartment vaunts some pretty cool joinery. Connecting metal to metal through means other than welding requires a lexicon of skills and imagination that I didn't possess just a few years ago. I've since experimented with forge welding (only a little), mortise-and-tenon, traditional riveting, tap-and-die, and upsetting—to name just a fascinating few. Blacksmiths have employed these techniques for centuries. I, on the other hand, am sorting through them relatively recently. Allow me to step back and reflect on my process. Early on in my metal career, I was drawn to the pure anachronism of blacksmithing. I wouldn't be a red-blooded American boy if I wasn't (Those red-blooded American girls reading this can relate just as easily, I'm sure. I don't mean to exclude; some of the most talented and visionary artist-blacksmiths out there are women. Some, even, are not American, but still, I assume, of red-blood. See Shelley Thomas: http://www.shelleythomas.co.uk/).

Aah, the popular conception of the FORGE, replete with heat, hammers, and the anvil pinging its shuddering bell-toll across the anachronistic night. Most people expect to see blacksmiths at Renaissance Fairs, not mixing it up with modern designers, contractors, and discerning homeowners. However, Metal, viewed as art and industry, has a recentt aesthetic heritage. In the last one hundred years, metalworkers pioneered processes too breathtaking for the scope of this blog (If you want to have your bowels voided from pure awe, observe the following clip of industrial blacksmiths forging a giant ring: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-D6-w1g3_30&feature=related). The minute, craft-based techniques that demand a hammer, anvil, and stout elbow still have pertinence, but I'm interested in the intersection of old-world burl and modern sleekness. To this end, I employ traditional joinery insofar as it furthers my design goals. I don't shun welding just to do so. I like the dynamism of straight lines, intersecting angles, and, tempering the two, curved, organic shapes. I want my current design work to be a retrieval of metal traditions from the last century, a potpourri of styles drawn from things as pedestrian as old shipping crates, and idioms as calculated as 1930's skyscraper design—all with a little "hair under the armpits", so to speak. Next month I might get in to Viking Art or something. But in the meantime, no curvy plant shapes or Spanish scrollwork for me—that is, not for my house.

Most of the table is simple in design, but I wanted a visually complex focal point on the ends.

Elegant taper to feet.

This span runs the length of the table. The pieces of the span intersect via four punched-and-drifted holes. A 3/8 bar driven through the respective holes secures them together. I like this detail.

With the help of a Frenchman...

2010-08-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

If you practice a trade anywhere in Santa Barbara—or California, for that matter—you have to understand and/or speak a certain measure of Spanish. Ostensibly, this fair state considers itself an English-speaking territory, but those of us who have hammered nails, tightened pipe-fittings, whitewashed walls, and listened to our co-workers Mariachi music on the radio know better: Spanish is here—nay, has ALWAYS been here—and will be here tomorrow, after the Taquerias close their steam-frosted doors for the night.

It came as a surprise, then, when I had to speak French while installing this last chandelier.

It turned out that our electrician, Eric, was from France. I asked him (in broken Francais), how many French Electricians worked in Santa Barbara. He said twenty-one. And thus, I thought, my chances of meeting French-folk, retrieving verb conjugations from my subconscious, and subtly brandishing casual, relaxed, vocabulary in their jaded faces increased by a factor of twenty-one. After my initial linguistic foray with Eric, in which I covered the basics—hello, what's up, yada yada—he asked,

— Ete-vous de Canadien?

— Pourquoi?

— Puisque vous faites accentuer un canadien.

Great, I thought. I just got admonished for having a Canadian accent when I speak French. I truly had not anticipated the catalogue of emotions that would accompany such an accusation. Eric, with a smile that MIGHT have had some "merde" in it said (in English):

— Ah well, we can't all be perfect.

Eric spent the rest of the afternoon brandishing his unadulterated French-ness, making quips about the City Building Inspector requiring a wine racks for residences (if, of course, you are French) and once, visible to all, greeting the designer, Dawn, with two neat kisses on the cheek. We of North American origin crossed our arms over our chests.

But my chandelier took the gâteau (cake). The installation went flawlessly, the bulbs flashed to life in a corona of clear-filament glory, and everyone—even Eric—ooohed and aahed. In a word: bitchin'. Higher res' photos will follow, once the remodel is completed.

New work, no good names, still happy.

2010-08-13T07:14:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to land on a design theme for my forged-metal furniture. I haven't discovered a completely unified look, and my ideas are still quite callow and exploratory, but I've noticed that I consistently enjoy the marriage of wood and metal, particularly when they convey a sort of old-world industrial look. I'm trying to come up with a name: Industrial-Modern; Weathered-Industrial; Abject-Rickety-Industrial-With-Character. I don't know. The latest installment of this "look" includes relatively simple lines in its shape, but suggests movement and a sort of internal kinetic sensibility. I call it the Slider-Bookshelf. Or, pending approval from trusted advisors, the Slidering-Industrio-Shelf.

It sits above my couch on a large, white, and fairly imposing wall. The shelf, which is a little over 50" long, nicely breaks up the space.

It's pretty dang sturdy.

The book-end bracket was great fun to make. The upright of the bookend begins with a textured flange then tapers abruptly down to a 3/8ish tenon, which then plunges through a punch-and-drifted piece of thicker material which makes up the base.

It holds books tightly in case the BIG ONE threatens to shake our drywall asunder.

The whole assembly tightens from below with the aid of a visually attractive (but functionally overkilled) twist-tab.

My end-table, however, is not a blood-relative of the shelf. With bronze banding, tapers, arcs, and a slightly formal organic treatment, this piece evokes something out of my Anglo-Saxon heritage—not turn-of-the-century machinery. I still love it. I'm hoping to make another one (or two) and sell it on spec. If you're reading this and you want your very own Anglo-Saxon end table, I'll make it for the screaming deal of $2,000. Check your piggy bank.

Pine Mountain still doesn't suck.

2010-08-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

Unless, of course, some hippy has a birthday and decides to invite ALL of his friends to Pine Mountain, complete with generators, guitars, lights, and bongo drums. Yes, you're reading me right: there was a veritable Woodstock in my favorite "pristine" Ojai camping and climbing area. Mary, Dale, and I fled to Enlightenment Ridge with our tent and shared a site with some equally embittered Aussies named Anthony and Nadine.

This was Dale's first camping trip. He performed admirably, and took three dumps in the space of twenty minutes. I do that too when I'm excited.

I was feeling flat from an extremely difficult work week, both physically and mentally, but I did manage to climb a bunch of good problems, including some old favorites like Mystical Steps Towards Deathless Superconsciousness (V6), Dissing Euros (V6), Clawing at the Walls sit-start (V7/8), 911 (V8), and Campus Direct (V6). I initiated this year's token obsession by working the opening moves of Whiplash (V11), just to get the sequence in my head—and so I can perfectly replicate the line on my garage Woody, which is almost exactly the length and pitch of Whiplash.

Good times, and it all ended with an succulent Lamb burrito from Red Barn Liquor Store. Oh, and there were no flies whatsoever (at Pine Mountain, not Red Barn).

Get stoked: The Playground

2010-05-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

While most of my climbing compatriots look hither and thither to distant climbing meccas (think: Bishop; Yosemite; Needles; Suicide; etc.), I am utterly stoked and satisfied to climb locally this summer. Enter yet another crag that Santa Barbara climbers sort of forgot, the holy-grail of local sandstone sport-climbing: The Playground. Most Santa Barbarians know this place as a labyrinthine jumble of huge boulders cascading down the slopes of the coastal range, and only the more adventurous hikers, hippies, and soused frat boys have explored its passages. Even local climbers have, as of late, passed this place up for the nearby bouldering locales of the Brickyard and Lizard's Mouth.

Unless you were Steve Edwards and Co. in the nineties. Mr. Edwards spearheaded a highly motivated—and, to this climber, visionary—movement to clean, bolt, and climb numerous routes up the strange formations of The Playground. There are currently numerous projects that have not been finished, including a solid handful of truly hard projects in the 5.13 range. While I have only touched a smidgen of these beauties with my not-yet-strong-enough fingers, I am stoked, smiling, and slobberingly excited. Jake, Bernd, Andre, Adam, Jasmine, and my lovely wife have all accompanied me on recent trips, and everyone has left tired and satisfied.

Just like how you feel when leaving Old Country Buffet—only better.

Me shouldering in to the crux of The Green Room, 5.13b. This line is one of many desperate projects for the summer.

I don't know how hard this puppy is, but the above picture chronicles what it feels like to dyno off of two monos. In a word, wonderful.

Jake clipping the second bolt on the mono-route (which we think is called Showgirls, 5.12c). This is Jake's third lead. Ever.

Mary strolling up a beautiful face-climb at the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers area of The Playground.

Chris and Rowena

2010-05-03T21:29:00.001-07:00

Chris dunks his head in a Mission Creek waterfall.

The months since my internship in Baltimore have rolled by exceptionally fast, and a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then--not the least of which is my marriage, and subsequent move to Santa Ynez. Still, the memories of those humid evenings in Baltimore--languid, but for the shrill cicada and crickets--are vivid in my mind. I can still taste that first sip of post-forging beer, unimaginably cold, a thrill to my mouth. And I have many fond recollections of Chris and Rowena, the three of us crammed in their small kitchen, trying to cook apace with the influx of the August tomato crop. For the record, there's nothing like seasonal produce on the East Coast. To be sure, I missed Chris and Rowena's easy-going manner and quick laughter, and Chris--avid collecter of flight-miles that he is--decided that eight months was too long a hiatus, so he and Rowena winged it to the West Coast for a week of visiting.

It was fun to be the host to someone who has hosted my callow abilities, frequent questions, and mishaps as a blacksmith. I cooked my patoosie off and hammered out some exceptional fresh garlic-dill bread (I'm proud of my bread), Dutch Oven stew cooked in a campfire, cornbread, soups, salads, and a bevy of other consumables. Dishes piled commensurately.

Here's Chris, Rowena, and their friend (joyously, now my friend as well) Orit Yanai. She lives in San Francisco and, to quote her website (http://www.orityanai.com/), specializes in "high-end, Old World wall finishes, focusing on earth plasters." Her dry-but-welcoming wit was all the rage during a legendary game of Balderdash.

On Sunday, Chris, Rowena, and I (Mary lounged at home this time) went hiking and swimming at Red Rock. See the top of the centrally situated rock-tower? That is a terrifyingly high perch for jumping in to the water, and the site of many a poor decision by sundry frat boys with beers.

Here I'm making the handles for the boiler doors by upsetting a rod of solid 3/4 roundstock. In this case, upsetting gives the metal a subtle bulged look.
First, I heat a short section on the end.

Then I place the end on the anvil, try to keep things vertically aligned, and hammer from the top. The cooled and harder metal at the top of the rod "smushes" the softer and hotter metal at the bottom.

The final look, before wire-brushing and finishing. Simple, but attractive nonetheless.

Pre-summer bouldering sessions continue to abound. With all the superlative summer trip ideas dancing around in my head and the massive, monolithic stones I intend to grapple with, bouldering provides ample distraction from antsy nerves--and keeps the fingies strong. Jake Novotny, a moto-cross rider from Lake Tahoe and a burly climber, has joined me on a number of occasions. He and I both sent the hard sit-start problem on the back of the boulder, calling it V8. Please: if you're in the area, climb it and tell me what you think. Left hand starts on a good crimp/edge, and right hand snags a cool three-finger divot. Paste your feet on to the nothingness below, then throw your right hand to the hueco. Brilliant.

Jake sets up...

Jake throws.

Frustration, followed by success, followed by more frustration.

2010-04-29T19:02:00.000-07:00

Climbing my stress away.

While Dan and I are excited to move our shop, we are currently embroiled in a frustrating setback. The City of Santa Barbara, flexing its bullying, bureaucratic muscles, has demanded to re-review the permitting process for the property. What does this mean? Delay. You can bet The City of SB has some mid-level hack slowly meandering through a mire of red-tape and interminable paperwork, and you can also bet that none of our questions will be answered without an absurd domnino-effect of "let me ask my superiors..." This is an outrage. The good news is the landlady loves us, and can't wait to rent the space to our business. We just have to sit on our hands till the permitting nonsense subsides. I feel like spilling hot coffee on the collective crotches of those working at City Planning.

Speaking of debacles, I recently accomplished a bouldering problem (which I'm calling "The Seven Year Debacle") at the Westmont College boulder. It starts at the lower right-hand side of the above-picture arete and consists of a stupid-hard throw to a three-finger pocket at the upper left-hand side of the rock (Keith, if you're reading this, you may remember the hold). I don't usually blame the difficulty of problems on a climber's reach, but the sequence demanded a highly idiosyncratic jumble of technique that has evaded me since my college days. To be sure, I haven't obsessed over this problem in a constanst fashion (I don't climb at Westmont very often), but whenever I happened by my alma mater over the last seven years, shoes and chalk in hand, this little line humbled me. When I finally did the moves, they felt only moderately hard, not seven-year-project hard (hence the name "The Seven Year Debacle").

I've also climbed a few other outstanding projects on the Westmont Boulder, some of them quite hard, all of them brilliant. With the help of local climber/surfer/skater/free-spirit Rusty Jaeger, and a few other enthused folk, we plan to continue this little renaissance of climbing joie de vivre--provided that Westmont Public Safety doesn't kick us off the campus.

In the meantime, work continues to occupy my time in a favorable manner. Here is a little blow-by-blow from yesterday's session in the shop:

Dan grinds the finish on an entry-way table. The look of the piece is an interesting cross between industrial and neo-classical.

SB Forge and Iron has a few signature styles, and one of my favorite is the turn-of-the-century industrial aesthetic. Here are some "boiler doors" that showcase the particularly clean lines, functional elegance, and raw strength of the machinery of yesterear. Machinery from the 1900's has a strange--even sexy--appeal to me. Yeah, I said that...

I built a metal jamb for the doors.

In order the assemble the hardware for the piece, which will be friggin' awesome (more later on the hardware), I wanted to retain the cool anachronistic look of rivets stitching together the steel belly of a monolithic sea cruiser from 1890--on a smaller scale, of course. Luckily, I had threaded some actual rivets on a different project a few years ago, and I had extras. Imgagine my joy! Threaded rivets!

Machining the hardware for the doors. I will post photos of the finished assembly.

Welcome back, me

2010-04-25T08:15:00.000-07:00

Nothing happens after six in Santa Ynez. Shops close their doors. Families retreat to sundry domestic activities like barbecuing, bocce ball, and walking their dogs. Chickens, cows, and feral cats hold court in a constant soundtrack befitting their various calls. Cows and cats don't bother me. Chickens (and roosters), on the other hand, are death for sleeping with the window open; by 4:30 a.m. they are roused, rowdy, and cackling away. Perhaps I'm more of a city-boy than I thought.

Mary and I have about four months of marriage under our belt, and about twice that amount living in the Santa Ynez Valley. Commuting continues for each of us: I to the South, she to the North. Her job continues to be exceptionally tough, and I'm amazed at her resilience. She works harder than anyone I know, and all I can do is cook dinner for her, administer back-rubs, and pick out cheesy movies to make her laugh.

As for my job? Let me begin with this:

It is time for Dan and I to take our rightful place among the hallowed passages of the Funk Zone, Santa Barbara's bastion of corrugated metal, questionable zoning, and industrial goings-on. Basically, a working artist's utopia. After a maelstrom year of huge art installations (see older posts regarding the City Bronze project), child-rearing (not mine, Dan's), and my marriage, Dan and I decided it was time to move in to a larger, more visible shop-space. Sure, we loved the fact that we could ride dirt-bikes at our old location. The weekly bobcat sightings were also nice. I don't even need to mention the boon of avocado trees at your shop door. But bucolic setting notwithstanding, the space was exposed to the elements, small, dubiously legal, and precariously situated in a box canyon (read: forging=possible wildfire=screwed).

So say hello to 118 Gray St.

It's just around the corner from some hipster wineries and furniture stores, and distractingly juxtaposed to the ocean. I like to tell Dan that it's a stone throw from the ultimate in commercial visibility (State Street), but far enough away to do what you want and not be hassled--not that we EVER do anything reprehensible. Still I like the idea that I can build a catapult, trebuchet, or ballista and not field probing questions. Of course, the main thrust of this new shop is to up the production ability of Santa Barbara Forge and Iron. We are so, so pumped. Moving will occur all this week, and into the next. Call me if you want to help.

Farewell, old shop. Your pastoral vibe will abide in memory.

Here are some recreationally-themed photos.

Little Egypt is a spectacular alpine cragging area outside Bishop.

I love the Brickyard, our local bouldering stronghold

Crimps on a classic.

Mary balances her way up Smooth Criminal.

A whole lotta BRONZE

2009-12-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

Finally, after months of sundry forms of parlay, negotiation, emails, phone calls, and more emails, Dan and I started work on the West Beach art installation. Fabrication began at the end of August, right after my apprenticeship in Baltimore, and ever since I've been immersed in all things bronze. The peculiarities of this metal both compel the eye and challenge the brain. When cold, bronze is easy. When forging, however, bronze has a narrow range of "workable" temperatures, and if you get it too hot, it literally burns up. Luckily, we haven't done much forging—just lots of cold-bending on the Hossfeld.

At the end of the day, I smell like bronze. I kind of like it.

Here's some images of the "swimmers" near Los Banos pool. Note the picture of the plan-sheet: the dude looks fairly Soviet in demeanor. Probably just intimations of Communism from the designer. Artists are all Commies, anyway.

A whole lotta pictures:

2009-08-27T16:24:00.003-07:00

This blog entry may be entering the realm of esoterica (wait, I'm a blacksmith...), but I'm posting a lot of pictures that detail tools, certain processes, machinery, and shop-layout. If this kind of stuff isn't interesting to you, then I'm sorry, but I think everything that I'm doing in regards to blacksmithing rocks. Tools are a big part of what I do. Therefore, tools rock. Especially big tools. Still, as far as I get away from traditional hand hammering, it all comes back to one's ability to see lines, understand light and shadow, and make machines do what your mind and eye desires. Ultimately, machines do nothing unless you direct them. I like that—it puts volition in to the mix. Enjoy!

The Treadle hammer. Awesome for precision hot-cutting, punching, or for when you need a very accurate and controlled application of hammering force. Basically, a very strong third arm. I'm building one ASAP.

The foot pedal.

The strike plate, a 1" piece of mild steel. I suppose you could use Aluminum as well.

Samuel Yellin original drawing. I revere this man. He was a master, and his empire of metal is worth looking in to.

His initials.

The spring-swage rack. Amazing amount of dies here.

Close up of the 7/8" spring-swage. This goes under the powerhammer.

Close-up of the 7/8" spring-swage.

Here I am, powerhammering the pipe from 1" to 7/8".

How does one powerhammer pipe without it collapsing, you ask? Fill the pipe with sand, weld the ends shut, forge to desired shape, then cut off the ends and dump out the sand.

Here's the beginning stages of me forging an escutcheon (the little decorative thingy that connects a chandelier or lighting fixture to the cieling). I start by laying out a piece of 1/4" metal on a big swage block, over the 3" bowl depression.

Apply heat with a torch.

Start hammering with crowned end of planishing hammer. Start in middle of bowl and work out from there in concentric circles The learning curve gets steepens from here. You have to be able to see, as Chris says, "line and shadow".

More hammering and sighting.

Here's the product, semi-finished. I still have to hot-cut the outline around the bowl and all that good stuff.

A hot-cutting chisel under the Treadle Hammer.

A number of cool dies for the hydraulic press. We use these to decorate, texture, or otherwise shape the things like drawer-pulls or bolt-heads.

The local climbing gym. I climbed here a few times, but I barely had any energy to pull on holds.

I'm going to miss Baltimore alleyways.

Here's some shots of a chandelier we made. Fitting the metal arms to the alabaster bowl was extremely hard and time-consuming.

The trappings of a good Baltimore evening in late August:

2009-08-25T17:39:00.000-07:00

The mossies in Baltimore are small but voracious, so if you're going to play guitar on the porch at dusk, you must have a Citronella candle, bug spray, and Chianti—the latter is for drinking. Tonight, I was in need of relaxation. Even though Chris and I make ample use of mechanical advantage in our trade—powerhammers, hydraulic presses, the Hossfeld bender—every once and a while we have to resort to our brawn, especially in the case of punching and drifting holes in hot metal. Chris swung the hammer for yesterday's punch session, but today was my turn, so I cranked up the forge, stretched my shoulder, and commenced pounding.

To be sure, punching and drifting requires a lot of force, but the process is equally demanding in regards to focus and intelligence. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Blacksmithing combines the best of your body and your mind, and demands that they work together in harmony. Once you attain proficiency with the hand-hammer, accomplishing mundane hammering tasks can seem perfunctory and hack. Step back a minute: reflect on the beauty of mind directing matter; of intention guiding every minutiae of work. When my hammer swings, I witness the human spirit affecting material form, a ruddy, everyday kind of incarnation. Mysterious stuff, the material world—especially when it intersects so palpably with the world of ideas.

Before work, I don't wear clothes.

Chris and Rich deliberating over their next move.

Filing a chamfer on the support shafts for the sconces. When using files on metal, don't go back-and-forth as you would with a wood file. Treat the file as a "plane" and perform long, longitudinal strokes.

Ever wonder how to quickly remove scale from mild steel? Take your torch, fire up an overly oxygenated flame, and flash-heat the cooled metal. The scale will simply flake off. I wish I knew this three years ago.

Here's three unfinished pieces. You can clearly see the holes I hand-punched and drifted. It might not look like much now, but it's quite a process...

Work, followed by Fell's Point

2009-08-25T04:00:00.000-07:00

Once again, Baltmore surprises me with its sense of awkward self-awareness, and, without waxing too fond, its charming smallness. Chris and I met up last night with Eric, one of Chris' former work-buddies (employee is too formal a word to describe their relationship), and we went to catch a beer at Max's On Broadway, a once-revered music venue on Fell's Point, but now just a bar that vaunts over eighty beers on tap (I had Resurrection Alse once again, as well as very, mysterious, very dark Belgian Ale. Both were good). As we walked towards Max's along the refurbished colonial buildings of Fell's Point, Eric described the small-town feel of Baltimore, how if you walk around long enough, you'll see people you know. Sure enough, the second we stepped in to the bar, Eric ran in to a girl he's known since elementary school. I know, I know: this coincidence doesn't suggest alignment in the celestial bodies or anything, but it was cool to witness. I also found out that night that Samuel Yellin, one of America's most famous iron-workers from the last century, did a lot of work in Baltimore. I also found out that Chris has some Samuel Yellin original drawings at his house. How cool.

Yesterday at work I spent a good chunk of time form fitting sconce arms to the alabaster bowls. The bowls will be "carried" by these arms, and since they will be seen from the front and side, the connection between the arms and the bowl must be absolutely seamless. Forged metal doesn't necessarily set you up for seamless, incremental work like this, but with the aid of the Hossfeld Bender—a leverage tool with a bending arm, not an Astro-Physics term like it sounds—I was able to form-fit the arms quite well to the bowls.

I also spent a while working with the 88, forging the bottom of the sconce racks. These little guys are pretty difficult to forge, and require a good eye, steady hammer pulse, and super-solid alignment of the metal. Another thing: in order to better see the true-ness of the hammer die, I have to be super diligent with scraping scale off of the metal the second I take it out of the forge. I'm making this a habit.

My favorite Baltimore Coffee shop. Its sufficiently socially-conscious name is Common Ground. They have good coffee regardless.

The Hossfeld bender. I love, love, love this thing. Dan and I have one, so I was fairly familiar with its use before coming to Baltimore.

The alabaster bowl sconces, and the metal arms that correspond to them.

Notice how seamless the joining of the bowl and metal must be. It's harder than it might seem to accomplish this.

Not exactly what I expected...

2009-08-23T14:21:00.000-07:00

Pepper the Cat, may he rest in peace.

After a week of not eating or drinking and barely hanging on to her resilient thread of life, Pepper the Cat finally passed on. She was fifteen years of age, supremely kind, loving, and full of character. I’ve not met many cats of this caliber, and Chris was very, very attached to her. Understandably, I hadn’t factored in grieving to my Baltimore experience, but death has its own, clarifying way of breaking down contexts—and building up connections between people. As such, I spent the evening with Chris and Rowena and their artist friends Dave and Lauren, with whom I raised many a glass of wine, and made merry in a checked sort of way. It was unexpectedly tender, sad, and joyous all at the same time. I will never forget the experience of that strangely melancholy and rainy night.

I don’t know if it’s because of my de facto proximity to Chris, or simply that Baltimore has an uncommonly creative population, but I’ve been hanging out with a lot of working artists, or more specifically, artists who make a living with their art. Art is their nine-to-five. There’s Dave, the ebullient South African sculpture pedagogue; Lauren, the talented jeweler and farmer’s market aficionado; Jill, the custom wedding dress-maker and mother of two; and, obviously, Chris, my mentor in metal.

These folk aren’t in the midst of an every day societal revolution per se; their art is tempered by reality, and, from time to time, they talk about their work as work, not norm-rending epiphany, or resume boosters for their creative ego. Dave was of particular interest to me. His somewhat sardonic, lazy eyes give him the perfect cover for an arsenal of witticisms, pith, and hilarious South African colloquialisms. I listened to him—happily—for the better part of an hour recount his experiences as a draftee in the South African military, which included brushes with Meningitis, harsh treatment by drill instructors, severe cold, and malnourishment. Towards the end of his monologue, he stopped, checked himself, and bemoaned his tirade in heavy brogue:

“Wot wos I tawking about?”

I reminded him that he started out telling me how he loved the color of a certain variety of succulent plant, the kind with small, dusty gray paddles. Somewhere along the way, he ended up reminiscing about the military.

“Ah yes,” he chimed victoriously, “well, in the army, they made us croowl [crawl] through those plants oowl [all] the time. I hated the croowling, but loved the color of the plants.”

Once again, the conversation came full circle: from the death of a beloved cat to a celebratory dinner party; from me in Baltimore four years ago to me in Baltimore now; from a South African artist crawling through mountain scrub in the army to that same artist recounting his love of dusty gray succulents. Maybe this is how life unfolds all the time. Maybe my day-to-day skein of experiences, associations, and relationships actually refer to a point of control, a locus. Perhaps the rest of my life will abide in relative shadow of perspective, but in the meantime, I’m noticing abundantly bizarre and surprisingly relevant concatenations that suggest a certain kind of teleology. It’s enough to make me think that all those socks I lost over the last decade of doing my own laundry will someday appear in my refrigerator, food cupboard, or glove-compartment.

Coincidences, Pear, and Pizza.

2009-08-22T14:30:00.000-07:00

Baltimore is turning out to be quite the medium of convergence for my life. Baltimore is the place where I used to work for the Johns Hopkins Outdoor Pursuits program, a generally rocky experience that resulted in me returning to Santa Barbara, working for my brother, meeting and falling in love with Mary, starting Santa Barbara Forge and Iron with Dan, then, lo and behold, returning to Baltimore once again, this time under the guise of an apprentice-blacksmith. And if I wasn't musing about the synchronicity of life already, I got a call yesterday from Graham Ottley, my long-time Summit Adventure buddy, and climbing partner of no small repute. Graham, or Mr. Forearm-veins as he is affectionately known, has flourished in the Outdoor Education field, and now works full-time for Summit Adventure. Anyway, to my utter surprise, Graham was in Baltimore, working for my former employer, Johns Hopkins, filling in as a temporary outdoor instructor for some big student trip.

Once we got over the anxious excitement that coincidences of this magnitude engender, we fell back in to our old repartee: tongue-in-cheek joking, pointed questions, pithy observations on our surroundings. Hanging out with Graham—who lives in the western Sierra Nevada—I realized that I dearly miss California, even though I've only been gone for a week. I miss its sometimes shoddiness, glitz, dry riverbeds, silly superiority complex, mammoth highways, farmer's markets, Spanish street-names, and countless other endearing idiosyncrasies. I can't help it: I'm my State's son.

Still, since I found myself today in a decidedly unique and, for me, unprecedented position—meandering in Baltimore on a humid Saturday afternoon—I made the most of things. Graham and I ate at a funky little grill on "The Avenue" (36th Street) called the Grill's Art, or Grill Art. I can't remember. We had a passable prawn-filled quesadilla, which could have been awesome, but I've decided that Mexican-themed grill food has to be very, very fresh to be tasty. This was, well, not fresh tasting. We also ordered a grilled pizza with pear, candied walnuts, spinach, and gorgonzola cheese on top—a cadre of toppings common to salads, not pizzas. The combination worked, however, and we enjoyed what had to be one of Baltimore's most friendly waitresses.

I finished the afternoon perusing a used book store on The Avenue, squatting in aisles and reading dog-eared books till my knees hurt, and finally placated the surly store-owner by buying a book of poetry.

A typical alleyway in West Baltimore.

The haggard-but-trusty steed of Mandala Creations. I drive this guy to and from the shop when I'm not on the bicycle. Chris shares the same diehard love of old trucks that my brother Dan has for his old beater.

Evocative sculptural elements in Chris' showroom

Chris' showroom, which is attached to the actual working shop. I would love to have something like this someday.

Week one finito...

2009-08-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

Thus ends my first week as an apprentice to Chris Gavin, owner of Mandala Creations. My sojourn in the world of full-time Blacksmithing has not been without its travails: heat, long days, feelings of inadequacy. Today, however, went well. I spent a fair amount of time with the 88 Powerhammer, and I think I discovered the machine's internal rhythm, or heartbeat if you will. The 88 has a scrappy, almost cocky attitude to it's cadence, and I think its bark is a little worse than its bite. As such, I'm finding I can do surprisingly fine tapering and drawing out with the 88. Chris and I also spent a while punching and drifting some pieces for the sconces. Punching and drifting is something I've been wanting to master ever since I got in to Blacksmithing, and Chris showed me some key methods that I will certainly employ.

Compounding my joy, Chris, Rowena, and Rowena's nephew, Brandon, went swimming in the Clipper Park pool after work. This week has been, without a doubt, the hottest and, in regards to heat, the most physically uncomfortable of my life. As such, the pool, modelled after a Roman bath, felt magnificent and decadent, especially with the addition of cool beer in plastic cups, and a mid-August thunderstorm, complete with heavy rain and lightning. I love the gestation of East-coast thunderstorms: stifling humidity gives way to summoning winds gives way to utter release of rain, lightning, and thunder. Whilst hanging in the poolside hot tub, I met a woman who owns a custom bridal gown shop in Hampden, and we talked shop for a while by the light of oddly Romanesque pyres. She reminded me of why small businesses rock, and why I absolutely love what I do. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

It's a big, hard, and punishing world out there. We small business people have to earn our keep. The upside is we GET to earn our keep.

In case I haven't said it already, I love Baltimore. It's truly an amazing city. It exudes a strange humility and approachability that I find endearing, and its attention to the artistic community leaves me impressed. The Maryland Institute College of Art is one of the finest institutes of its kind in the country. And Baltimore's labyrinthine hallows, care-worn brick buildings, and cheap real-estate (at least, compared to Santa Barbara) allow for ample artistic endeavor. If you haven't been to Baltimore, I recommend you take the time...

Requisite Andy shot. I need to cut my hair.

Here's a few shots of the Clipper Mill Area, a revitalized and renovated turn-of-the-century industrial area. I guess Baltimore had the largest flour milling industry in the world during the early 1900s. I'm not sure that Clipper Mill milled flour, but hey, you gotta wonder...

This is a shot of all the friendly pool-folk frolicking during the thunderstorm. Pretty surreal.

The Perfect Taper

2009-08-20T19:03:00.001-07:00

I'm tired.

Ten-hour days in the shop are already long and arduous, and the ever-steepening learning curve compounds my exhaustion, so in between eating, sleeping, and working, I barely have time to think. The name of the game right now in my Baltimore Blacksmith Vacation is forging a perfect taper. If you've paid attention at all to the ubiquitous Spanish revival metal-work in Santa Barbara, you've probably seen (and yawned at) the frilly, scrolly, and spiral-ly gates. Pay closer attention. Notice how your eye intuitively follows—even WANTS to follow—the interior curve of the lines. As your eye travels ever closer to the center of the spiral, the width of the bar likely tapers gradually, terminating in an elegant, thin, and subtle curve. If you were to unfold this spiral in to a long, straight bar, it would, in a perfect blacksmithing world, taper incrementally. Sadly, much of Santa Barbara's scrollwork vaunts the spirals without the elegant taper. Chris believes that a blacksmith should be able to form the most perfect of tapers before ANY other work is done.

Forging an elegant taper is a right of passage, a removing of training wheels, a graduation from "hack" to artist-blacksmith.

I'm getting there.

The last few days have been long, but Chris and I are finding our groove together. Hard, physical labor, coupled with keen intellectual attention, is a beautiful thing to behold. I can't imagine a better line of work. I'm also settling in to a rhythm of working, returning home through the funky, old, and evocative neighborhoods of west-Baltimore, cooking dinner with Chris and Rowena, and falling asleep to cicadas and crickets. The humidity is suffocating, as is the greenery of Maryland, but not in a negative way necessarily. It reminds me of long summer nights as a kid, yard-hopping at dusk, throwing water balloons at my sister, and dreading the end of vacation and beginning of school. Nostalgic, I know. I should also point out that I haven't worn a shirt ONCE while at home; it's expected that you do not wear an upper-body garment upon entrance to Chris' home. He does not have AC in his house, so this rule makes sense.

This is a bending template for the sconces we are making. Notice how a metal wedge secures the piece in place so we can bend the "arms" around the template.

Baltimore has so many old, run-down, but hinting-at-revival buildings. This is a cool industrial complex by the shop that some rich dude has bought and planned on renovating.

I should say something about the heat in Chris' shop: it's been high 90's every day, and extremely humid. And that's outside. The shop, with several 2300 Degree forges going, can exceed 120 degrees. I had a FULL gallon of water today before noon, and I still felt wickedly thirsty. My clothes are so wet at the end of the day it looks like I jumped in a pool.

Pepper isn't looking too good these days. He's been vomitting in the mornings. Poor guy.

These beautiful tapers by Chris are based on the Fibonacci sequence.

Whaddya think, should I get new ear-plugs?

These little guys may not look like much, but they kicked my butt. When you see what they eventually look like, you'll understand what I mean.

The Five P's: Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance

2009-08-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Chris is going to see Sammy Hagar, the bassist from Van Halen, and Joe Satriani play in some super-band called Chickenfoot. I, alas, am not going. If I was playing my musical loyalties right, I would have A) known that such demigods of the Eighties were playing in Baltimore, and B) bought tickets in advance. What a dark, dark streak on my track record as a human being.

On the forging end of things, I am attaining some kind of profiency with the powerhammer. Chris was able to hand off certain forging tasks to me without his supervision, and there were a few moments (just a few, mind you) where our work flow melded into a beautiful counterpoint of hammering, heating, and quenching (that's what we call sticking hot stuff in water). The mind-rattling focus of operating a machine that evokes primal fear in the pit of your soul, and the almost-unbearable heat of the shop, however, was exhausting. Chris works very, very hard. He is, after all, Scottish, and we all know that the Scots are predisposed to endure insane amounts of duress.

I also started hand-hammering camp. Chris takes great pride in the clean, hand-hammered aesthetic of his work, and he demanded more of my arm and eye than anyone—or any job—ever has. While we ate sandwhiches during a break, Chris simply looked at me, smiled, then said "so, we're going to see how good you are with a hammer". Thus ensued a few hours of finding that good work is less about forcing, manhandling, or pounding a work into submission, and more about articulating the vision of your goal to yourself, then, deliberately, to your limbs. It is a true interweaving of mind and body. Learning to "see" the finished product before the product is finished is the true test of skill.

I rode Chris' bicycle to work today through the day's first suggestions of humidity, and tried to ignore the fact that it might rain that afternoon and put a dampener on my ride home. It did rain—hard. Lightning struck literally as we operated the powerhammers. Sammy Hagar, I'm sure, would be proud. I arrived home late, completely soaked, and phenomenally starving. I inhaled the requisite Stella Artois, Kettle Chips, and water, then eased into a more dignified gastronomic lope with dinner: a wonderful Indian Curried chicken over rice.

I'm currently contemplating watching the Sci Fi channel (hoping to find something with zombies), then going to bed.

Chris, happy about reliving his youth with Sammy Hagar.

Lunch: Vegetable Soup a la Baltimore (lots of locally grown ingredients in this one).

Crankin' on the Stryker 88. Compared to the Stryker 165, this hammer is relatively easy to use.

Finishing up a day at the shop. Then, a ride through rain-soaked and hipster-heavy Hampden.

Trial By Hammer: Day 1

2009-08-17T16:45:00.000-07:00

The front door of Mandala Creations, my bastion of forging for the next two weeks.

Today's introductions went something like this:

Andy, meet Power-hammer Stryker 165.

Power-hammer Stryker 165, meet Andy.

The pleasure of acquaintance was all mine. Up till now, I've only used a 50lb Little Giant Hammer, a hardy device fashioned in the 30's, but still forging true. However, using a modern powerhammer opened my eyes to the glossy world of piston-driven hammers. Chris owns two Power-hammers: an 88 and 165 (the numbers refer to the weight of the sledge. The machines are actually thousands of pounds), and I became intimately familiar with the quirks of these wonderfully mechanized crushers. The heavy 165 hammer is a paradox of material, function, and operation: it stands seven or eight feet tall, weighs an ungodly amount, FLATTENS huge chunks of metal, yet it can deliver light, feathered blows with finesse. It's almost as if the operator must be as subtle as the machine is powerful. Here's some lessons from our day of forging railing pickets:

1) Consistency. Keep blows evenly spaced, and with consistent power. Also, pull the hot metal under the sledge at an even rate, like a machine.

2) Relax. Don't fight the hammer. Gripping the tongs on the metal overly tight causes you to misread the metal's registry on the hammer.

3) Don't manhandle the hammer peddle. The difference between ponderous, heavy blows and light chamfering blows is infinitesimal. I've never felt so intimately connected to a machine. It's kind of... shall we say, mech-erotic? Sorry, that was weird.

4) DRINK TONS OF WATER. The temperature outside today was in the mid-90's, with gobs of humidity, and the shop was a good 15 degrees hotter at times with the forge going. I gulped down a gallon of water, but I still feel like didn't have an ounce of liquid in me. My piss wasn't just yellow; it was dark orange. Tomorrow, I'm bringing salt packets to keep my water down.

For dinner, I had a Stella Artois and a spectacular salad with goat cheese, brussel sprouts (I introduced Chris and Rowena to roasted sprouts), and myriad other delectable chunkies. Now, to bed. Tomorrow I meet the hammer again.

Thar she is, the 165.

Chamfering the edge of the railing pickets.

Chris is very, very talented with the power-hammer. It's a beautiful thing to watch.

Some forged pickets, before final finishing and polishing.

A decidedly sweaty me.

Everyone asks me if I've seen "The Wire"

2009-08-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

After arriving in Baltimore, meeting Chris, Rowena (Chris’ girlfriend), and Pepper (his cat), I decided that I liked it here. Chris and I had a late lunch of guacamole slathered on garden-burgers. Afterwards, we braved downtown Baltimore, sidestepped a mugger getting pummeled by an undercover policeman, swaggered into the Belvedere, a prohibition-era speakeasy turned swanky bar, and ended the evening at The Brewer’s Art, a micro-brewery known for its face-slapping ales. At Chris’ behest, I had the oh-so-choice Resurrection Ale, a 7% masterpiece of light caramel and leathery musk. I have yet to sample their other drinkables. The current goal is to locate an “Eighty Shilling” beer, a Scottish invention that Chris loves.

Baltimore is in battle with itself, flexing it’s restorative muscles in some districts, and succumbing to squalor and crime in others. The transition zones are a surreal mix of stately brick, gothic industrial, and memories of past grandeur. Nowadays, hipster architects and designers are transforming old industrial buildings into expensive lofts and workspaces in a compelling mixture of archaic steel infrastructure, soot-stained brick, and clean, polished lines of glass and concrete. But again, it’s an uphill battle. In Baltimore, I get the sense that locals like it, but are still a little hesitant (embarrassed?) to tout their city to the world. As a result, folks seem humbly loyal to their town. I like that.

In contrast to downtown Baltimore, which is a mere five or six mile away, Chris’ neighborhood is the paragon of lush, turn-of-the-century New England suburbs. Old renovated colonials, brick cottages, and beautiful craftsman homes blend into the omnipresent crush of August greenery. Roads twist, connect, and end at odd times and angles, suggesting a distant past of city planning, and re-planning. You might say his neighborhood has character. His yard and surrounding property overflow with blackberries, tomatoes, kale, squash, basil, and countless other types of produce. We will be eating well these two weeks.

I’m stoked to start work. Chris has a precise and articulate vision of his role as an artist-blacksmith, and I can’t wait to see how that role manifests itself in his work.

Complicated scroll-work with copper backing.

Chris employs very clean joinery in his work.

The deck. I read here, eat here, and relax here. Evenings are best.

This is Pepper the cat.

Things I Will Think About Doing Whilst Sitting In An Airport But Never Actually Do:

2009-08-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

—Make a coffee-table book of airport carpet patterns.
—Drink a cup of glitter.

We're moving?

2009-08-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

Mary just got a job in Guadalupe, which is North County (that's everything NORTH of Gaviota, for all you not-in-the-know folks). Besides providing a steady income, great work environment, and the knowledge that she obtained a job in the shittiest economy on record for California, this job requires Mary to commute 1.5 hours from Carpinteria to Guadalupe. Decidedly awful. We are, therefore, contemplating a move to The Valley.

Perhaps I'm romanticizing things a bit, but the Santa Ynez Valley is one of my favorite locales in California. There's endless rolling hills, covered in lustrous grapes, grass, and gnarled oak trees, and the pace of life is kicked down a notch from kinetic Santa Barbara. In the current summer heat, the air feels heavy with dry grass aromas, herbs, and eucalyptus. In the pictures, there's a fire near New Cuyama, so that's why all sun has that el fin del mundo look. Last Wednesday, we barbecued at Justin's house in Los Alamos—perhaps the most parochial of the Valley towns—and proved to the world that radicchio-bacon salad, medium-rare tri tip, rosemary encrusted potatoes, and garlic bread are good to eat.

Seriously.

And they're even better with a Dierburg 06' Chard, Tyler 06' Pinot, and a bitchin' Sancerre.

Baltimore Blacksmithing Vacation

2009-08-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

I'm back.

Of course, I never left, but I have a litany of excuses for not posting, such as becoming an uncle, driving my fiancee back from Indiana, and running my business. Good, consuming stuff.

I'm heading to Baltimore in a few weeks to work with Chris Gavin, a highly accomplished Artist-Blacksmith whose work I admire. I'm apprenticing under his tutelage for a solid two weeks, and hopefully I'll garner some ability, ideas, and enthusiasm for my peculiarly niche profession. I'll be climbing at Baltimore-area climbing gyms (some of which are stinking amazing), and running a shit-ton, so hopefully I'll be in spitting-distance of my new goal: THE BUENA VISTA PROJECT (see earlier post). Mark Seelos and I did some in-depth scouting the other day, and it looked definitively possible to link sections together, even the more improbable cruxes. I've been bouldering quite a bit, so my fingies are feeling tough, even though my endurance probably isn't that great. The BVP is that long, however, so I'm going to favor power over endurance.

The line is so, so inspiring. At least to me.

NoiseTrade Widget

2009-07-01T06:57:00.001-07:00

Once again, Pine Mountain.

2009-06-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Sierra Nevada trip, 2009

2009-06-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

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.

You can ignore a boulder problem, but, at the risk of over-personification, a boulder problem won't ignore you.

2009-06-12T19:55:00.000-07:00

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

Baking my own bread...

2009-06-10T21:56:00.000-07:00

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.

The New River Gorge (subtitle: Cool Crags Californians Don't Have)

2009-05-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

As if the superlative-evoking climbs of the New River Gorge weren't cool enough, Mary and I discovered the beauty, secretive wonder, and local color that is rural West Virginia. Every once and a while, I come across a place that makes me feel truly "alien" or, as the local gas station attendant in Lewisburg put it, "not from these parts". We traveled country roads that wound their serpentine way through forgotten hollows, brushed with state troopers looking for [sic] "fellas without drie-vers lie-senses", happened upon a true Irish music jam-session in a tiny Irish pub, and ate the best corned beef hash I have ever—and ever will—have. My Scotch-Irish roots—hidden for so long—came out in full force. At said Irish pub (in historic Lewisburg), Mary and I ordered Bangers and Mash, Shepherd's Pie (with locally raised Lamb), Irish Stew (again, with locally raised Lamb), corned beef hash, and a hefty pint of local Stout. Oh, and that was just for one meal. We went there twice. Let it be known that I haven't eaten a significant volume of red meat in a long, long time. Yes, it was worth it. What does my Scotch-Irish half say to my California-fresh veggie half?

Feck it. Give me me bangers.

Yes, I did climb on this trip. A lot. The New River Gorge absolutely redefined my conception of what constitutes good climbing. It's only fitting that a crag this good is located in a rural locale, away from all major airports, and touts some of the muggiest weather east of the Mississippi. If this place was near L.A., it would look like Mordor—give or take a few teenage V-snobs with their radios and annoying dogs. But this is the South: most people are friendly, slow-talking, and spend their evenings at the campsite reading or chatting (not comparing the size of their... ahem... climbing muscles). I can't even begin to describe how good—and varied—the rock is. Perhaps the New just suits my style; I quickly dispensed with a hefty amount of 11's and 12's, surprising myself. Everybody told me the New had really stout grades, but for some reason everything felt natural, or intuitive. Sure, we Californians have Bishop, Yosemite, the Sierra, the Needles, and Tahoe. But we don't have the New River Gorge.

But everything I just raved about pales in comparison to this fact: I GOT ENGAGED TO MARY SKOKUT!

That's right.

Virginia IS for lovers.

Eastward, ho!

2009-05-19T22:47:00.001-07:00

I'm heading out to Virginia to visit Mary this weekend. That's right: I'll be hanging—and climbing—with the famed Skokut, a woman who is, per Elijah Ball's description, a true "crank-muffin". She and I will hit up West Virginia's best at New River Gorge, and I'm hoping to score some legit sweet tea while I'm there, and maybe even a sumptuous Chick-fil-A feast. A Krispy Kreme chaser wouldn't hurt, either. Thank god for the South, capital "s".

For the first time in my sordid climbing career, I will utilize air travel to arrive at my destination of cranking. Don't worry: meager overhead bins won't keep me from packing my entire rack and rope. The New (as I understand it is called) vaunts classic routes of a mixed nature, and I've felt the trad itch lately anyways. Come to think of it, it's about time I mentioned my new goal for the year:

By next summer, I hope to lead a 5.12c or harder.

On gear, that is.

Indian Creek is potentially out of the running as a location because the cracks are so hand-size dependant, and lack the "sporty" nature I'm questing after. Said challenge must by engaging, powerful, sustained, hopefully a mix of crack and face, and of superior rock quality and position. Basically, I want to climb a work of art, something unequivocally inspiring. And it can't be a giveaway. I've got to earn it, every single inch. I won't suggest a length, but I would prefer something longer than 40 feet. I'm looking at routes in Yosemite, Tuolumne, The Needles (yikes!), and the for me as-yet-unclimbed Little Cottonwood Canyon in Utah. My ear is open for suggestions. Bring em' on!

That's my Christmas list.

Merry Memorial day, and a Tradly new year.

The Loaf and the Leap

2009-05-12T20:26:00.000-07:00

I spent the last three days climbing at Lover's Leap and Sugarloaf Rock near Tahoe, California. Needless to say, I was very tradly for the duration, but I also spent some time on heads-up sport routes. In the attached picture, I am leading a profoundly sustained 5.12a at Lover's Leap. The first bolt is too high for the picture—that should give you a general idea of the commitment level. The other picture is of me on Dominion, a mellow 5.10 at Sugarloaf. It was super fun to accrue tons of mileage on 5.10 and 5.11 trad, and was reminded that leading 5.12 sport doesn't mean you can lead 5.12 with gear. It should be noted that South Lake Tahoe area has absolutely stellar climbing, minus the crowds and hassle of Yosemite, and with lots of free camping.

Other routes of note:

--Bolee Gold, 5.10c, 3 pitches: slightly runout, totally exposed, utterly fun.
--Nirvana, 5.11c: raddest onsight of the trip. Insanely exposed arete climbing with very, very engaging cruxes.
--The Fracture, 5.10d: Sugarloaf's classic finger-crack. Elegant and fun.
--Taurus, 5.11b: in-your-face 5.11 finger crack that leads to super sustained 5.10d undercling/layback. I easily onsighted through the crux, cruised to the top moves, was about to celebrate by grabbing a jug when I slipped on lichen and took a 15 foot whipper on a yellow Metolius power cam—a good reminder to stay focused while leading, and to keep on placing good gear. Thank you Metolius!
--Hospital Corner, 5.10a: the best 5.10 in the galaxy. This route is mentally a 5.12 and physically a 5.10. Absolutely astonishingly good.

There was much, much more climbing on this trip, and 90% of it was world-class, but for now I'll just say Tahoe=rad.

Crack Machine

2009-05-03T22:15:00.000-07:00

This Saturday, my client, Phil, had me build a crack-machine for his backyard. I won't go into detail on its construction. Insofar as it helps crack-climbing, the crack-machine is brilliant, but besides its decidedly niche utility, it's actually more of a monstrosity. Here's the video to prove it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WW5m6JK1cW8

Tor: 2009 vintage

2009-04-20T14:58:00.000-07:00

I'm calling my last spurt of Owl Tor activity the "Grade IV Train-a-thon". With some long-route prospects materializing for this summer and fall, I've put the steep pockets and jugs of the Tor to peculiar use, with a mind to build endurance over raw power, extended gumption over bursts of burl. Elijah and Phil, you probably think I'm completely ridiculous for using the Tor as a training-gym for trad climbs. Hey, maybe if I lived in Yosemite I could sample the REAL vintages of long, hard, trad routes. Until then, It's the raw whiskey of the Tor, and the occasional two-buck Chuck of Gibraltar.

My Saturday was great. Felt fit, had fun, and watched Elijah and Phil punish themselves on Strictly Ballroom (5.14a?). Managed to cram in 11 burns on 6 routes, and eek out 11 redpoints as well.

Here's my rundown:

Power, 5.11d: two redpoints
Auto Magic, 5.12a: two redpoints
The Natural, 5.12c: two redpoints
Hell, 5.12b: two redpoints
Anchor Punch, 5.12a: two redpoints
The Sea, 5.12a: one redpoint

Tor Season: the gift that keeps on hurting

2009-04-11T21:39:00.000-07:00

Today was my first day back at the Tor after a weather-enforced hiatus. I have to admit: I was pretty nervous. The Tor doesn't exactly extend its arms in greeting to climbers. Nevertheless, Elijah, Skip, Justin and I made do with good temps and all-around good vibes. Elijah had a rad burn on BTL. Skip made noticeable progress on both Power and Auto Magic—especially on the latter. Justin finally sent Auto Magic. He crushed it, and he deserves every ounce of elation he surely feels tonight. Justin, I hope you're celebrating with a fine beverage.

Oddly enough, I had possibly my best day of fitness EVER at the Tor. I fired off eleven burns before the day was over, on routes ranging from 5.11d to 5.12c. Of those routes, I accomplished eight redpoints, and when we left I felt like I had another go in me. I should specify that I didn't redpoint eight different routes. I repeated some routes, but I made it a point to never redpoint a route twice. If that makes sense. So here's the breakdown:

Power, 5.11d: redpoint (X2)
Auto Magic, 5.12a: redpoint (X2)
Hell of the Upside Down Sinners, 5.12b: redpoint (X1)
Anchor Punch, 5.12a: redpoint (X1)
When the Sea Doesn't Want You, 5.12a: redpoint (X1)
The Natural, 5.12c: redpoint (X1)

Orchard to Ocean 5k

2009-03-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

I ran my first 5k race this last Saturday. I had no idea what to expect, how to act, or how fast to pace myself. I just picked some dude who looked reasonably quick, and stayed hard on his heels. Before I knew it, we were in the top eight or ten runners, and keeping a blistering pace. I resolved to finish the race still breathing, so I slowed up a bit, and did my best to approximate a "steady" rhythm. Note: I had NO detailed conception of what constituted a quick 5k time. All I knew is that back in high school, during my track career, there was a guy who ran a 14 minute 5k and an 8:41 2-mile. His name was Dathan Ritzenhein. He currently cleans up at races all over the world, but back in Michigan, during the 90's, he was a demigod. His coach would have him run numerous events—even ones Dathan "sucked" at—because he knew we didn't have a chance against his little prodigy.

But that was then.

By mile three, I realized that I was still—inexplicably—at the front of the pack, and keeping my breakfast down. I sprinted into the finish rather tired, but still alive. I felt like I strategized pretty well, made moves at the right junctures, "drafted" the right runners, etc. My time? 20:24, which placed me second in my age group, and tenth overall. I suppose it was an okay time—for a newbie. Basically, I ran 6.5 minute mile splits. Now I have a good idea of what to shoot for at my next 5k race. I'm thinking sub 19 minute. If I can get into the low 18's by the end of the summer, I'd be stoked.

Oh, and by the way, the Orchard to Ocean run has stupendous baked goods at the finish line. Well worth the effort.

Yair Kuperstein

2009-03-17T22:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight, at Vertical Heaven, I climbed with the typical Ventura crew: college students wearing i-pods; Prana clad bums; ten year-old loners deposited at the gym by harried mothers looking for a break. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary.

Then I met Yair.

At first, I thought he was just another Euro climber styling all the V-easy problems veeery slow, with comically precise footwork, as if to show us Amerikanskis how it's REALLY done. And he talked—alot. I almost left, hoping to climb in solitude. But as I watched him float everybody's projects (skipping holds to make them more challenging), I understood that I was in the presence of a fabled Euro-mutant. His name? Yair Kuperstein, from Israel.

Yair has a fair track record: 46th at the 2002 European Bouldering Championship, and 56th in the 2004 Championships. Yeah, yeah, I know: that's not first. Or second. Or even fifth. Still, the fact that he even competed with the likes of Malcolm Smith, Daniel Andrada, and Daniel Dulac places him in a seperate—if not transcendant—class of climbers. He laughed off his blatant cranked-ness, complaining about his "being out of shape" and "nagging injuries". I say bull-shit. This guy climbs with preternatural aplomb, and almost scary control. Yair and I will be pulling down at Lizard's Mouth on Saturday afternoon. He says he "hasn't climbed in a while", but we all know what that means.

WEBOLOS

2009-03-16T16:27:00.000-07:00

While Elijah was cranking elsewhere in Joshua Tree, I was busy administering the Boy Scout Rock Climbing Merit Badge for a Boy Scout Troop from Ventura. Elijah himself, believe it or not, is an Eagle Scout, so based on his experience, the Rock Climbing Merit Badge=5.13 climbing. Obviously.

Try it for yourself. The Scouts are waiting...

Lizard's Mouth

2009-03-12T23:37:00.000-07:00

Heralding in a new season of post-work sessions, Justin, Elijah, Marcela, Kristy, and I hit up Lizard's Mouth in the waning hours of sunset. Temps were frigid—for here. That meant skin and rock—inexplicably—stuck together, resulting in a slew of rad sends. Elijah repeated Gangsta Hippy, and I added a low start to the problem, making it even radder. At least for me. The rest of the day was spent on "Top of the World, Ma" boulder, which has become my favorite Lizard's Mouth locale for hard, sloper problems. I accomplished Bernd's Red Line (Vhard), the sit-start to Top of the World, Ma (Vawkward), and began work on a dire direct line between the two. Think: same jug/crimp start, go straight up. Those pics of me in a heinous heel-hook position? Yeah, that's the one...

Even Bob Banks made an appearance, camera in tow. Thank him for the images.

Lizard's Mouth, at long last...

2009-03-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

I hadn't been to Lizard's Mouth since the Gap Fire, which was a long time ago. In fact, it was TWO fires ago, which makes me feel a little bit like an old timer. I'm sure my arthritic cronies and I will wax nostalgic about "dem fires" in years to come. Anyways, instead of making the drive to Vertical Heaven to get a workout, I took advantage of the good weather and drove the all-too-familiar drive to Lizard's Mouth. Immediately, I was reminded of how many people go there on the weekends; I had no trouble finding climbing partners, and I wiled away the afternoon with some extremely quirky UCSB kids. Again, I felt my age, especially when I recommended a bar and they all said "uuhh, we're not 21 yet". Nevertheless, they were hilarious, and eager to climb.

Having not been to a legitimate bouldering locale in AGES, it was fun to feel strong and confident. I easily dispatched Gangsta Hippy (V6?) on my second go, and very nearly did the sit start to Gangsta Hippy (V7?). I also second-goed the sit start to Top-of-the-world-Ma, an exceedingly awkward V6 or 7. To the left of the aforementioned problem, I worked a rad sloper line that felt desperate—but very doable. Probably V7 or something. I don't know, nor do I really care. The climbing was, as I remember it to be in years hence, spectacular.

I'm anxious to go back, actually. If anyone is interested, I'll be thrutching on Thursday from the hours of 4 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Alabama Hills

2009-03-02T09:15:00.000-08:00

In a word: slabtastic.

Opting for convenience over notoriety, Bret, Jared, Mara, and I went to Lone Pine for the weekend instead of Bishop. Bret's Dad owns a small cottage just off the main drag, and we bunked up there for a weekend of climbing in the Alabama Hills, a clump of Joshua Tree-esque formations. Apparently, during the Civil War, Lone Pine had significant sympathies with the South, so, naturally, they named the piles of queerly shaped quartz-monzonite after the Alabama, a Confederate Ironclad.

The climbing wasn't world-class, but maybe national-class, or at least west-coast class. I climbed a shit-ton of routes ranging from 5.8 to 5.12, with quality ranging from great to gawdawful. The approach for the Alabama Hills is unbeatable. The crags were literally 4.5 minutes from the door of our cottage (no joke), and we could almost belay from our car. And there was no human detritus from L.A. roaming about; I've rarely climbed in such an area with so few people.

Like I said, the climbing here was slabtastic. As I write this, my hands are not the least bit pumped from two days of climbing, but my calves and quads feel a bit sore. I haven't climbed this much slab and face in a long, long time. And I guess I can still stand on my feet, because I onsighted my first 5.12 face climb (Diamond blade, 5.12a, 6 bolts). Apart from that, I accrued tons of mileage on mostly 5.10 terrain, onsighting a bunch of routes. I know it's kinda silly, but here's a list with do's and don'ts:

Bananarama, 5.8: do
Banana Split, 5.9/5.10: not that great. Don't.
Tall T, 5.10b: do
Dream On, 5.10b: the hardest 5.10b I've ever done. Definitely do.
Diamondblade, 5.12a: do
High Plains Drifter, 5.10b: do
Hang 'em High, 5.10a: do
Shark's Fin Arete, 5.7: awesome. do.
Pirateson on Horseback, 5.10b: eehh. okay.
Fat Black Mama, 5.11: do.
Pop, 5.11a: definitely do
Fizz, 5.10b: do
Slab Route, 5.10a: dirty, but do.
Open Project, 5.13?: effing impossible.

In short, the Alabama Hills are (per the guidebook) "the poor-man's Joshua Tree". The view boggles the mind as well. Mount Whitney towers RIGHT behind you—a la' Buttermilks view—instead of the pervasive L.A. basin haze, like in J-tree.

Borrowed Time

2009-02-04T12:01:00.000-08:00

Us Tor climbers are climbing on borrowed time. It's February, and the rock isn't seeping yet—which it should be by now. As such, conditions were once again great. Elijah looked fit on Atreyu, even though no, he didn't redpoint. He did, however, one-hang Better Than Life, which is no slouch of an effort, especially after not climbing on it for a handful of months. Micah and Bridget also came, as well as Bridget's dog, Bosco, who decided very early in the day that his nose was bound for my crotch. If I wasn't on the wall, or being lowered, I spent my time doubled over, hands defending my nether-regions. I'm sure the pleasure was all yours, Bosco. Maybe next time we can get to know each other first.

Adding some entertainment to the day, a slew of SLO climbers descended on the Tor. Per our usual experience with SLO folk, bizarre and unaccountable activities were observed. We witnessed no less than FIVE ground-scraping or ground-smacking lead falls, as well as several very, very near misses (One guy almost fell with the rope twisted around his neck. Go figure.). Still, they were all nice guys, and besides the safety-poster scenarios, the shredding index was low.

I had my best day ever at the Tor (I know, I said that last week). I redpointed five different routes, and projected The Old Pro Skill (5.12d+). That climb rankles the best of us. I've even heard it rated 5.12d/5.13c (thanks, Bob). Whatever. It's still a great route, and I took some rather sizable whippers off the top. I'm going to have to earn every bit of that route.

Here's the rundown:

The Power of Eating, 5.11d: redpoint
Auto Magic, 5.12a: redpoint
When the Sea Doesn't Want You, 5.12a: redpoint
Hell of the Upside Down Sinners, 5.12b: redpoint
The Natural, 5.12c: redpoint
The Old Pro Skill: clean to the last bolt, then... I got tired?

We're climbing on borrowed time

Thank you Tor, may I have another...

2009-01-18T15:34:00.000-08:00

It's not often that the Tor and one's body feel good at the same time. We've all done it: cranked hard during the week, buit up expectations, fostered redpoint hope, and then utterly FAILED at the Tor. And then there are those days where you feel so awful on the drive to Santa Maria that you almost ask Phil to drop you off at In-N-Out so you can whither away the day pounding Animal Style fries. This last Saturday began somewhere in between "blah" and "great". Justin and I arrived at the Tor ahead of Phil and the crew, and we tried to warm up on Power, which was particularly cold after 34 degree temps the night before. The jugs after the ledge were ice-cubes, and I almost fell off the top because my fingers wouldn't kick-start. But as the day progressed, the air grew warmer, and VOILA, perfect conditions: cold rock, warm ambient air temps.

Thus, I redpointed not one, but TWO of my projects, in addition to running 8 laps over the length of the day.

No Skill (5.12c) went down on my third try, and The Natural (5.12c) took two attempts. Thank you, Tor, for not smiting my ruin upon the hillside that day. If anyone knows the proper Tor-oblation, I will gladly oblige.

Here's the rundown of this all-too-rare day:

Power of Eating (5.11d): redpoint
Auto-Magic (5.12a): redpoint
No Skill (5.12c): redpoint
The Natural (5.12c): redpoint
Hell of the Upside Down Sinners (5.12b): 1-hang

Campusing: the purest form of climbing (so says Phil Requist)

2009-01-13T23:10:00.000-08:00

It's been a wee while since I last posted. A bought of sickness and slough of work interfered with recreational blogging. However, no news isn't necessarily bad news, and I've had a fun—if not ostensibly productive—couple of climbing weeks. In several trips to the Tor this month, I've gotten on The Natural (5.12c), No Skill (5.12c), and Chips Ahoy (5.12d)—all of which are well within redpoint range. It feels well nigh productive to get on "hard" routes like these and to not flail my way to the top. I at least two-hung all three routes, and could realistically redpoint The Natural and No Skill this weekend. I'm not optimistic about Chips, however, because that route defies all human hope. And it clubs baby seals in its spare time.

In other news, I'm campusing quite a bit, along with Phil and Elijah. I love it; it's so simple, dynamic, and focused. I'm training per suggestions from Mr. British himself, Ben Moon. His website is a treasure trove of training tips and there are ample testimonies from the pasty, freckled English lads who have benefited from those tips. I am drinking black tea and eating a steady diet of scones with the hopes that I can do 1-4-7 on the campus rungs next week.

Every day is Christmas at the Tor

2008-12-14T07:25:00.000-08:00

Yeah, it was just a typical Saturday for me on the Central Coast: Jack Johnson himself called me to see what was up, so I gathered some hip, young, earth-loving-funky-dread-wearing-bongo-playing college students and we all grooved out at Jack's place. During the introspective bonfire portion of the evening, Jack and I jammed out on the guitar and Uke, and MTV recorded our live session for posterity. It will appear on television next month. Purdy sweet.

I'm lying, of course.

But I DID see Jack Johnson in front of California Pizza Kitchen with his kids. I didn't talk to him. I think he would have been pissed.

Oh and I also redpointed Hell of the Upside Down Sinners (5.12b) at the Owl Tor. I took me about 4 or 5 days of effort to tick this thing. While not a true epic, Hell was certainly a project, and I fell on THE LAST MOVE more than a few times. Of all the routes I've done at the Tor, Hell has the biggest holds you're likely to fall off of. Justin and Phil also had good days, and Justin pitched off the last throw on Power about 3 or 4 times in a row. Next time, Justin.

The Crag That Time Forgot (or The Crag That Most Santa Barbara Climbers Forgot)

2008-12-09T22:18:00.001-08:00

As an appurtenance to climbing at the Tor on Saturday, Micah, Elijah and I often climb somewhere locally on Sunday. Sometimes it's for gits and shiggles, and at other times it's serious cragging. On this particular day, I was amped to be at Green Dome. If you've never been there before, you should check it out for its remote location, interesting rock, and RAD steep routes. The easier climbs don't stimulate the imagination very much, but the steeper stuff is really pretty inspiring, especially for the area. We got on Monsters in the Maze (5.12b), a technical, crimpy, and consistently strenuous journey up a beautiful green-blue wall. The location? Amazing. You feel like you're, well, not in Santa Barbara.

I tried to onsight Monsters in the Maze, and managed to climb into the crux without falling. After that, I pitched. Because of the sharp nature of the rock, each successive attempt worked me. You don't get too many go's at Green Dome before your skin catches up with you. As such, I didn't redpoint, but I got real close. Next time.

Here's me climbing through the crux on my onsight attempt.

Torday

2008-11-21T00:08:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I went to the Tor. I fell on the very, very last move of Hell of the Upside Down Sinners (5.12b), but redpointed Anchor Punch (5.12a) yet again, Auto Magic (5.12a) twice, and Power of Eating (5.11d) for the umpteenth time. Slowly but surely, I'm building my fitness by working through the 5.12 jungle at the Owl Tor. Every week I get slaughtered, but whatever doesn't kill you at the Tor makes you... well, you know. In any case, fun was had by all. Elijah got on Atreyu, which he named partly because he likes the Neverending Story, and partly because he knows Phil will think the name is absurd. Micah, back from his travels in Greece, has been reacquainting himself with the Tor over the last month, and is pulling hard as usual.

Per the picture: no, my stomach is not reacting to my breakfast of coffee and Kefir.

The Tea Fire

2008-11-14T06:56:00.000-08:00

Most of Montecito, including the grounds of Westmont College, are currently burning. A surprise wildfire, fueled by sundowner winds, swept down the mountainside into the heart of Montecito, and at last count over eighty homes succumbed to the fires. It's bad. A bunch of my friends just lost their homes.

Here's to the shittiest birthday I've ever had.

The Little Giant

2008-11-12T17:08:00.000-08:00

It's here.

The ender-of-worlds. The bringer-of-pain. The apparatus del muerto.

Folks, Santa Barbara Forge and Iron would like to welcome a new member to its ever-growing tool family! This week, we finally shipped the Little Giant (blacksmithing power-hammer) into our shop. It weighs over a ton, I should think. I'm insanely excited. For those who don't know what the Little Giant does, here's a short explanation:

-- Utilizing a foot-pedal, the machine engages a wheel which...
-- makes a 50 pound sledge go up...
-- and DOWN
-- then UP
-- and DOWN

And so on and so forth. Basically, the Little Giant takes over much of the tedious—but necessary—hammering in the blacksmithing process. Here's to not having elbow tendonitis when I'm older.

Pics coming soon...

Buena Vista Project: Day 3

2008-10-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether to be stoked or bummed.

This was my first day of actually working all the moves on the project, and the outlook is grim. Or wonderful. It depends on how you look at it. Elijah and I spent a while playing top-rope tough-guy, and what looked like a decently hard route on rappell became a snarling, foaming-at-the-mouth beast by the end of our session. I've never flailed so hard on a piece of rock. EVERY SINGLE MOVE is friggin hard. So, I'm stoked that I found a legitimately hard project for some strongman (let's be honest: it probably won't be me any time soon) to send. But I'm bummed that the moves are way, way, way beyond me. Perhaps I'm just being negative.

Elijah and I quickly tired of thrutching, so we went to the Shed for campusing. Basically, campusing felt like an ego-booster after the Buena Vista boulder.

Pictures of the project coming soon...

It's raining in paradise (a.k.a. It's raining at the Tor)

2008-10-09T23:37:00.000-07:00

It rained this Saturday. I haven't woken up to a drizzly Saturday in years, or at least it seems that way. And while everyone was snug in their beds, or chowing down Aunt Jemimah pancakes, Phil, Elijah, Elhanon and I made the drive to the Central Coast's all-weather climbing destination: the Owl Tor. While the Tor's steepness kept most of the holds dry, general humidity and moisture made some pockets slick as snot. No matter how strong I felt that day, I still peeled off big holds. Most noteworthy was my 35+ foot whipper on Power of Eating. Note to self: don't skip clips on the last, tired burn of the day.

Also noteworthy was my bolt-to-bolt ascent of Better Than Life, 5.13c. I've never climbed on a hard 5.13 (other than Wild Kingdom, which is 5.13a). It felt... hard. And fun. We'll see. I still need to garner some endurance. Here's some footage of me sussing a section towards the top of BTL:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/badgermilk/2915781491/

All in all, I felt like a truck hit me by the end of the day.

Trail Running up Tunnel Trail

2008-10-09T00:17:00.000-07:00

Today, I indulged in the runner mecca that is the Santa Barbara front-country. Originally intending to have a nice, 35 minute jaunt up Tunnel trail, I took a fire road that I hadn't explored before. Woops. I ended up suffering on a super sustained uphill for about an hour. It was completely worth it. Expansive views, perfect temps, and the fear of being attacked by a mountain lion reminded me that SB is rad.

Dinner was homemade tomato soup. Delish.

Buena Vista Project: Day 2

2008-10-06T08:10:00.000-07:00

Here are the much-awaited pics. They're not stellar, I know, but it's very hard to get perspective of the boulder because trees get in way. By the way, that's Paul wielding the drill on the steep part of the route. Also included is a picture of the adjacent boulder, which touts some as-yet-uncleaned boulder problems. It's a fine piece of rock as well.

Dang, it feels good to be productive...

2008-09-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

THE GOOD NEWS: I just returned from a mini-epic adventure in the Southern Sierra Nevada. Jeff Dunbar and I traipsed around Dome Rock and The Needles, climbing some very classic lines, including Igor Unchained (perhaps the best 5.9+ for 45 light years in all directions), Just Barely (stupidly creative 5.11b), the perfect Anti-Jello Crack (5.10), and Tree Route (the most sustained jamming possible for a 5.6). Basically, the weekend was tradtastic.

THE BAD NEWS: I am sick as a dog right now.

I'm planning on getting better tonight after downing the rest of my Nyquil bottle. Hopefully, I'll crank on something this weekend at the Tor, but I'm not making any promises. This sickness seems to be hanging on.

By the way, that's not me in the photo of Igor Unchained (3rd pitch). I'll post some pics when I have them.

Buena Vista Project: Day 1

2008-09-22T22:15:00.001-07:00

Andre and I trucked up the trail with her two pooches (Bahini and Schatzi) to start cleaning the project and, hopefully, climb a little. I set a top-rope then rapped in with some scrub brushes. The rock quality ranged from excellent, Skofield Park quality, to choss. The crux moves are all on pretty good rock, however. Speaking of crux moves, Andre and I attempted the bottom ten feet of the route, and quickly found that we were in way, way over our heads. The route is all there, but strangely NOT there at the same time. Leading this route is going to be like pulling a 40 foot V9. Or something like that.

So far, here's the breakdown from what I can see on rappell:

-- first ten feet start waaay steep on pockets and huecos.
-- Several desperate slaps, then you gain a "ledge" of awkward gastons. Probably clip here.
-- Enter the real crux. Burl thyself into a rad undercling, set up feet, then throw (huck, hurl, chuck...?) for a sloping crimp.
-- Begin a back-muscle race against exhaustion as you deadpoint sloping crimps to pull the huge bulge, and top out.

All in all, it looks like 35 or 40 feet of climbing. Good stuff, indeed.

Vomitus Recurus

2008-09-21T22:52:00.000-07:00

I almost threw up running. Again.

Rather than a shin-pounding 10 miler today, I went to City College to run a sprint workout on the track. I hate running on the track, but it's the only way to accurately time my splits, so I decided what the heck. After running a 6ish minute mile at 80%, I charged up the bleachers for what I hoped would be a splendid lung busting climb workout. It was everything I hoped it would be except for splendid.

Still, I learned that I need to get QUICKER on my feet.

In other news, I had the best Pinot Noir of my life today. I tasted a barrel sample of Clone 31 from the western end of the Santa Maria Valley today, courtesy of Justin at Tyler Winery. Justin warned me that I might weep. He was right. I did. Truly, Justin is crafting the nectar of the Gods at Tyler. I wish I was in the employ of Zeus.

This just in: The Buena Vista Project

2008-09-15T22:26:00.000-07:00

Paul Dusatko, Marcela, and I hiked up Buena Vista trail today to check out the Buena Vista Project, an open project I initiated a few years ago, but gave up due to my then flaccid forearms. These few years later, I needed some new eyes and new enthusiasm, hence Mr. Dusatko. Confirming that no, I am not TOTALLY crazy, Paul matched my stoke and was super psyched about the overhanging arete. And yes, he too thinks it will be fierce.

I'm jittery while I write this. The route looks so, so good! It will likely be four bolts long, start low to the ground, crank through some very steep pockets and gastons, then enter into what appears to be the true definition of techie. Think super-burly underclings forcing you into positions of utter pain and confusion, then consumately desperate sloping crimps, then... well, I guess I'll soon see. I'm TR'ing it this next week to get the holds chalked and cleaned. What's it rated? Who knows. Usually, that kind of info comes AFTER the first ascent. I will say, however, it looks harder than anything I've ever seen in Santa Barbara proper.

Paul and I also found some quality looking boulder problems scattered around the Buena Vista Project. First ascents will be had, and will be had soon...

Feeling Tor-ific?

2008-09-13T18:38:00.000-07:00

Today was my best Tor day to date. I hit a new highpoint on Chips Ahoy (5.12d)—literally throwing for the jugs near the top—and redpointed four other routes. Heres the list: Power of Eating (5.11d), Auto Magic (5.12a), Anchor Punch (5.12a), and When the Sea Doesn't Want You (5.12a). While I didn't accomplish redpointing Chips, my burns felt super strong and I was climbing fast, which isn't usually my pace. My slow-and-steady trad heritage hangs on indeed.

On the way home, I had the best potato chip I've tasted in the last month. The brand was "California Chips" and the flavor was "Earthquake". Try them, and weep for joy.

Question: how was my run today?

2008-09-10T18:55:00.000-07:00

In a word, DESPERATION. Intending to take a nice 4.5 mile recovery run, I began my route in good spirits and in good bowel-constitution. The problems began around mile 4. A brief footnote: a few hours before my run, I stopped by Adam and Jasmine's house for some homemade guacamole—a possible mistake, I'll admit. Anyways, right on Cliff Drive, one of the busiest cross streets in SB, I tanked, my stomach bellowed, and the game was on. Either crap my pants or crap in a bush. I chose the latter, but the bush hardly hid my bent form, cowering in mortification.

Faucet poo galore...

Did you hang out in 102 degree heat this Saturday? I did.

2008-09-09T21:40:00.000-07:00

Setting a new record for hot weather climbing (for me at least), the crew and I pulled down at the Tor in 102 degree heat. It was the variety of heat that sears your nostril hairs when you inhale. Still, the rock felt great, energy was high, and I had a good redpoint burn on Chips. Here's the vid if you're interested:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/badgermilk/sets/72157607202118838/show/with/2842173914/

On another proverbial note, Andre Areno came to the Tor for the first time. Per the newbie routine, she and Elhanon threw themselves at Power, only to realize that in a battle of muscle, the Tor always wins. Good show, nevertheless.

How DID Rocky feel so great on morning runs?

2008-09-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

Taking advantage of the ubiquitous marine layer, I got up early to run in the cool morning temps. Usually, morning runs sound vigorous and refreshing the night before, but the actuality of 6:45 a.m. hits me pretty hard. This morning was not par for course. For some reason, I felt great for my entire run (8 miles), and kept up a nice 8.5 minute mile pace. Go figure.

I was tired at work, though. I had to move lots of steel because Dan and I are rearranging our shop. It's good to have Dan back from dodging bullets and imbibing Jumex in Honduras.

Andy Goes Tradly!

2008-09-02T23:43:00.000-07:00

No Tor this weekend for me. I was busy installing my metal handiwork on Chris Broomell's new winery in Valley Center. Truly an idyllic place, to be sure. I was fortunate to witness the "first crush" of Menghini Winery's Syrah crop. Last year's was sumptuous; I think things bode well for this year as well. When I got back, I was keening to rope up, and since Bret was amenable, I packed the rack and headed up to Gibraltar. Sure, Gibraltar doesn't inject the forearms with lactic-death, but it's bold traditional leads do hone the "head". I'm glad I went. After leading T-Crack three times in a row, just to work the butterflies out of my chest during the run-out mantle, I led Self Reflection, Kevin Brown's BRILLIANT nubbin-fest. If you haven't climbed it, take my advice and break out your stiff lace-ups because it gets thin as dimes up there.

All in all, it felt liberating to place gear and climb free.

Dragonforce: the fastest (and worst) guitar players in the world!

2008-08-28T18:13:00.000-07:00

After a long day in the shop where I ALMOST finished all the hardware for Chris' winery, I went on a 5.7 mile run, and made sure to throw in some hills for good measure. As usual, I love going up, but hate coming down. Physics demand that both happen. Anyways, I felt great, and I kept a comfortable 7.5 to 9 minute mile (depending on the incline) pace. When I got done, I thought I had only run 4 miles, but lo and behold... it was more.

Somehow, I don't think that's how my challenge will feel.

In other news, Dragonforce has released their new album. Admit it, you thought this kind of fare dried up years ago. Shame on you. Behold, ostentatious music galore:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7GpiRiFOo0

2008-08-27T23:51:00.000-07:00

Climbing filmmaker/bro Paul Dusatko and I charged at the Shed tonight, beginning our workout in typical fashion: cranking the Isaac Hayes. Yeah, yeah, I know: WHY DO WE LISTEN TO SOUL MUSIC WHEN WE CLIMB. Barry White, Curtis Mayfield, and Mr. Hayes may inspire the libido, but they don't exactly get the muscles fired up. At least, they don't for most people. But Shedders aren't most people when it comes to music-choice. Anyways, motivation was high tonight, so Paul and I climbed pretty hard, and I did 18+ laps on the wall, a high number for me. I'm trying to focus my shed training on volume and variety, and Paul pushes me in directions I don't usually go, such as awkward drop-knees, scrunchy crossovers, and other forms of what some call "jessery" (ask Phil about Jessery). You be the judge...

All in all, I got real tired, and left feeling injury-free, making for an A+ workout.

After climbing, Brandon, Merideth Mallory, John Taylor, and I went to Anna Lepley's new loft apartment for homemade pizza and wine. I attempted some babaganoush, but the tahini was old so it came out bitter. Eggplant is a hard sell to begin with, so I didn't take it personally when people didn't like my creation. Ah well. Next time.

Tuesday's Hike and Climb

2008-08-26T21:04:00.000-07:00

Bret, ever the intrepid soul, joined me on an after-work hike and climb up San Ysidro canyon this afternoon. Rather than stop at the main crag, we cruised up the canyon another couple of miles to Upper San Ysidro, the home of Gnome Fingers, a stellar 10b finger crack situated by a beautiful river pool. Bret and I both ran three laps, me on lead, Bret on TR. Bret is looking stronger these days, and even though he thinks he's weak, he's full of crap. Next time we go there, he's leading first.

Of course, we stayed longer than we should have, and it got dark. And we didn't have a headlamp. And we were hungry. The walk back almost ended in disaster every ten feet as we tripped over roots, rocks, and ball-bearing gravel. For some reason I kept thinking of how much I wanted Vietnamese soup. When I got back to the car, I promptly drove to Vons, bought some generic Asian soup, and am about to make it as I write this.

I love going from fantasy to reality.

Monday's run: a near-barf experience

2008-08-25T18:08:00.000-07:00

Contrary to the title for this post, Monday's run was actually quite enjoyable. I'm upping the mileage little by little, and I ran eight miles today with little difficulty. Breathing was metronomic and steady, muscles fired strong, and my normal sore-spots kept quiet. I cruised at a comfortable 10.5 minute-per-mile pace, and even my usually racous running-farts were almost non-existent.

But man, those breakfast burritos I had at 2 p.m. today did not want to stay down. I choked down flaming hot death-bile from mile 4 to mile 8. I guess I can nix those from my afternoon diet.

Other than that, it was a beautiful day, and I'm glad that breakfast burritos exist, even if they do make me sick before runs.

Bjorkland Ranch (rest day)

2008-08-25T07:24:00.000-07:00

I found the Holy Grail of waterfalls.

All I can tell you is it's in Santa Barbara, it's rad, and there was a crowd of German folk dressed in bizarre, Bavarian clothes. Go figure. Jared, Mara, and I spent the afternoon swimming, jumping off the top of the falls, and revelling in good bucholic style. I can't think of a better way to spend a rest day.

If you want to find out more about this place, you can read my article in the upcoming October issue of "Homeowners Resource".

The Tor Olympics

2008-08-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

The Olympics are all about specializing.

With sports like Curling, Ping Pong, Synchronized Swimming, and Speedwalking, it seems anyone can enter the Olympics, just as long as they spend inordinate amounts of time specializing in something.

Here on the Central Coast, Phil, Paul, and I specialize in hot-weather Sport Climbing. While most sane climbers migrate to cooler climes, we make the 1.5 hour drive to Santa Maria to suffer in 90+ degrees of unforgiving heat. It's silly, but we keep doing it. And I wonder why I always feel like crap after days like this! The record shows that I redpointed only ONE route, but I like to think that considering the heat, my exhaustion from the week, and several weeks lapsing since my last visit to the Tor, I did tolerably well. I nabbed The Power of Eating (5.11d) with ease, which injected my ego with motivation. Bad news. After a premature burn on When The Sea Doesn't Want You (5.12a), which I one-hung, I lowered back to the ground, flash-pumped and gasping.

So I rested. Once I could move my fingers to tie a knot, I decided to revisit Chips Ahoy (5.12d), my project during the colder months. Fully expecting a fiasco, I started up Chip's severe pitch with a bit of trepidation. Surprise, surprise, I actually pulled off my BEST one-hang ascent of Chips. Not bad for the temps. Also of note were my two desperate redpoint failures on Anchor Punch (5.12a-but-very-much-like-a-"b").

I left exhausted, thirsty, and famished. And I didn't even get a medal.

The Tuesday After

2008-08-21T08:27:00.001-07:00

Just got back from guiding a 5-day backpacking trip in the Sierra. You will probably never hear me drag on about dietary esoterica, but I do have a few things to say about Mountain House dehydrated food products. To my surprise—and sometimes chagrin, snobby backpacker that I am—they are amazingly good. Particularly the Chicken a la King, and the Lasagna. I can scarce believe the amount of calories they stuff in those things.

I missed climbing the whole time I was gone. After only being in town for 4 or 5 hours, I made my way down to the shed to crank (I hoped) with Bob, Elijah, and Marcela. All in all, had a good time, which is key to success when the Shed is in its balmy season. Worked on some very dynamic and very awkward moves with Elijah. I didn't exactly follow my self-imposed rule of "volume-over-power", but what the heck. Fun is more important.

Oh, and Dan and I changed our business name to Santa Barbara Forge and Iron. Thought you might want to know.

Shedding

2008-08-13T22:01:00.000-07:00

Having missed the "cool-kids" on Tuesday night, I went down to the Shed on Wednesday with Paul Dusatko. This is my last day of climbing before I head out to the Sierra Nevada to lead a 5 day backpacking trip, and I'm a little bummed (perhaps stupidly) about 5 or 6 days off from climbing. But I'm an idiot: it'll be good to take a nice rest.

As usual, the Shed beckoned me in with promises of burl and sending, then SLAPPED me with shear disdain. But it was a good night, albeit short. Did about 10-14 (can't remember) laps without much rest between burns, and dialed some routes I struggled on in the past, like Standard 2-finger. I couldn't even TOUCH that line two months ago. Finger pocket training gets you strong in the weirdest way. I'm not sure how to describe it. Also, at the request of Phil, I put up a new route.

Phil, I hope you like it.

Per the typical Shed experience, Isaac Hayes waxed wistful about love. May he rest in peace.

Tuesdays with Travis

2008-08-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

Travis Madsen and I met up late Tuesday afternoon at Romero Canyon trailhead, the starting point for a hiking/climbing linkup I've wanted to do for a long time. As Travis and I racked up by the side of the road, amidst other hikers returning to their cars, we both realized that no one has ever, in all likelihood, EVER racked up climbing gear at Romero Canyon trail. This is because there is no climbing anywhere near the trailhead—which is exactly how I wanted it. The nearest climbable rock sits at the bottom of San Ysidro trailhead, several canyons (with super steep fire-roads bisecting them) to our north. The plan? Hike and run to San Ysidro, climb 5 pitches of decently physical climbing, then run back to Romero via San Ysidro trailhead, and then East Mountain Drive. All in all, 6 miles of very diverse terrain, ranging from sick steep and sunny, to shady and downhill, to flat pavement. All in all, a very engaging route, and a great way to see a lot of landscape in a short amount of time. We ran everything we could, barring the steepest terrain, which we hiked.

It's worth noting that Travis has the "suffer" gene. He knows how to put in long, physical days that slowly eat away at your core of strength and sanity. He's the kind of guy you want in the mountains, or on a failed expedition to the Antarctic. I can imagine him on Shakleton's epic in another life, a pipe hanging out the side of a big grin, and seven out of ten toes frostbitten in his boots. 98% of my climbing friends would NEVER consider training with me for this challenge, but Travis actually had a good time. Needless to say, you'll be hearing about him in the future.

Here's a little rundown of the afternoon:

4:45— Start hiking. Hit the notorious steep fireroad at power-hike pace
5:40— Arrived at San Ysidro and started climbing. Did the following routes:
-Vanishing Flakes, 5.11a (fun and short slab)
-Orangahang, 5.9 variation (I would've done something harder, but we didn't have any pro besides draws)
-Great Race, 5.10a (three laps)
6:40— Starting running back to the trailhead
7:25— Arrive back at our cars

I was pretty stoked with our effort. LESSONS OF THE DAY: running with rope on your back (I used a "rope backpack") makes you want to die after mile 5. I think I'm going to move to using a small, alpine-type backpack that accommodates a rope. Also, my Camelbak started leaking. That's crappy water bladder #576 for me. C'mon outdoor industry. You can do better than that.

Twilight of the Gods

2008-08-11T22:18:00.000-07:00

Before I die, I'd like to sit through—and maybe even enjoy—a complete production of Wagner's The Ring Cycle. Just a little dream of mine.

In the meantime, however, I have lots of climbing and running to do. Today, Justin and I crammed in a nice little session at Theology Crag. I love this place. When you arrive at the base of the climbs, you can see a large carving from some 'theology club' from 1903, hence the name of the crag. The setting? Idyllic. Fly-season seems to have waned a bit, and the air felt crisp and cool, with a bit of that tangy sandstone scent to it. The river canyons of Santa Barbara make you want to take your clothes off, grow some hooves, and commence playing a pan-pipe.

But I digress. The climbing was okay. I did three laps on Beggar's Banquet, a sustained and pumpy 5.11c/d. Definitely not a climb at my limit, but a challenge nonetheless. The first lead was smooth. In fact, I couldn't believe how easy the crux felt (thank you SHED). The second burn, which came after pretty much no rest, definitely pumped me out, although I didn't fall. The third burn, which again came after no rest, put the finishing touches on my decidedly severe flash pump. This was good practice. I'm going to have to fight through a lot of 'flash pumps' on my challenge, because I'll be going from hours of hiking to sudden moments of intense forearm workout. LESSON OF THE DAY: I need to find a way to better fight through flash pumps.

All in all, a good intro to the amount of cross-training I'm going to undertake in the near future. Tomorrow, Travis and I are going to pound out 8 to 10 miles with about 4 or 5 pitches at San Ysidro. I'm looking forward to it. By the way, the photo to the left is of me on Chips Ahoy (5.12d), at the Owl Tor, one of the places where I get pummeled then call it 'training'.

In Which I Undertake An Exercise I Can't Do

2008-08-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

Today I had a garage sale. I'm good at garage sales. I understand the complex systems of checks, balances, and lying that goes into neighborhood cash transactions. I can't, however, swim, nor does my birthday challenge include any kind of swimming. Nevertheless, I went ocean swimming with my sister and after numerous disclaimers about my ability I jumped in. For the record, I wore fins. I suck that bad. Mary did not wear fins, and she still kicked my butt. Watching good swimmers is inspiring. And mystifying. How do they move so well? And why do I sink?

In any case, I viewed today's buoyancy debacle as a nice recovery day from yesterday's run. It was a good muscle stretcher without the pounding.

When to water

2008-08-10T00:23:00.000-07:00

Drink on the downhill. That's my advice for aspiring trail runners. If you're like me, you asphyxiate on water running uphill (I think the experts call it "drowning"), because your lungs are jonesin' for air. That was what I learned at school today.

Had a stinking gorgeous run today up to the Cold Springs trail lookout, then did the Ashley loop on the way back. Added up to 7 or 8 miles, much of it on trail. Felt lazy as all get out for the first mile, but as I warmed up, the pistons fired up pretty well. I consistently take a while to warm up, both for running and climbing. I finished the run feeling STRONG. Good 'kick-off' to my official training season.

Watched Bladerunner over a dinner of baked salmon with saffron and basil sprinkled on top. Perched the cut of salmon on a bed of sauteed veggies picked from my garden. Delish.

Bladerunner surprised me with its auspicious lack of special-effects suckiness. Go Ridley Scott.