It's Slab-Awareness Weekend

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)

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?

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.

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.

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

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

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...).