Once again, Pine Mountain.

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

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.

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...

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)

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!

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

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.