2000 words

The Road to Being Bitchin

I went to California early this summer with a goal to live and work. I packed the bed of my truck with a 9’6 longboard, a 6’0 fish, a 5’10 fish, and a haul bag full of climbing gear. Passing through Eugene after leaving Portland I noticed a feeling of apprehension running through my veins, was it really an adventure? A phone showed me exactly where to go, a call away was a hotel if I couldn’t find a place to camp, and in reality there was nothing that could go wrong. After thinking more, I took out road atlas and turned off my phone, using basic logic and luck to determine where I was going,

LA was fun, an adventure worthy of a story of its own, but I missed the mountains and after a few weeks I became annoyed of the traffic and high expenses. I also was sleeping in the bed of my coverless truck on the side of 101, which didn’t help motivate me to stay. So when my boss told me I was free to leave LA, I thanked him for the experiences, hoped to work more with him again, and left the lunch with plans for Yosemite. I had spoken to my friend Nick who was hiking the PCT a few hours prior about possibly meeting in Yosemite for an impromptu climbing trip as it turned out he was stumbling into Mammoth, CA, a few days walk to the Valley. So I set off, map in tow, north towards Yosemite. Slowly a plan developed after a gas station phone call that Nick would hitchhike to Lee Vining, and I would meet him there. With no service in that area, we trusted each other and relied on some luck to make it all work out. After hours of winding roads through the sierras, I pulled up on a sleepy Lee Vining, with no one out. As I drove down the street I noticed someone lying on a street bench; it was my dirtbag friend. I pulled a u-turn and, with the car still on, I jumped out and gave him a hug. Before speaking, we both giggled uncontrollably. The odds of me finding him and not driving by, the lack of phones, the lack of planing, and the feeling of adventure all culminated in a perfect experience. We eventually got to catching up as we descended back through Tuolumne and down into the Valley. We slept as per usual in some boulders, avoiding paying for camping as those year-in-advance reservations didn’t fit our spontaneous lack of planning.

We woke up early, unsure of what to climb, and we needed more gear. I had brought enough for myself, but Nick was without his aid setup, helmet, or even shoes, so we had quite the shopping list if we were to do anything big. We wondered aimlessly around the valley, looking for climbers who might be willing to rent us the gear, which proved to be harder than we expected. As the day neared noon and our quest to find borrow-able gear felt like it not might work, we decided to cut our losses and head to the village store for some ice cream. As we sat outside the store, ice cream sandwiches in hand, a familiar face walked out with a Montana Mountaineering Hat on, it turned out to be Blake, a friend of a friend.

We had been at a few parties together, as well as climbed in a group together, but hadn’t yet to tie in together or really gotten to know each other. After saying hello and some small talk, Blake asked us what we were planning on climbing during our short trip. We told him of our lofty El Cap dreams, Nick’s gear predicament, and our possible consolation idea to head to Tuolumne for some alpine climbing. He instantly offered to lend us gear for our El Cap dreams; whatever we needed, he had. It turned out to be true. He had just gotten off of some harder walls and his gear far surpassed whatever our skill level would let us do. We decided to meet in the meadow beneath the captain in an hour and sort through his extensive rack.

Blake organizing gear before the beginning of our quest.

After some confusion, we found Blake sitting beneath a tree, guidebook in one hand, a fresh rolled joint in the other. He handed us the guidebook to flip through, and we found the topo for our desired route, Lurking Fear. Possibly the easiest route on el cap, it is still no cake walk. As we became excited about the idea of finally climbing what we considered to be a lifetime achievement, we realized that we were slowly committing to what would most certainly be terrifying, my stomach turned. We continued to plan and discuss with Blake our strategy for Nick and I’s planned ascent. But as Blake’s joint finished, he let out a laugh, placed the now burnt end into his now empty beer can, and announced that he would join us. We looked at him a bit confused, but he just smiled and nodded his head up and down, presumably beginning to dream about the next few days that would be spent on the wall. We finished our beers, and headed off to

complete a list of things we needed to do before we could set off into the vertical. We filled large water jugs, bought food, and filled out our big walling permit at a ranger office. Within an hour I was looking down at a scene I had only seen in photos: a tarp spread out with piles of climbing gear, food, water, vertical camping gear, and other things we would need on the course of our multi-day climb. Lurking above was El Cap and its broad 3000 foot face. My gut and mind were not aligned, my mind knew this was something I had wanted to do since I had first seen climbers on el cap in a movie almost a decade prior, yet my gut remained solid in its stance that this was a bad idea, and disaster was imminent. My mind won over, and soon I lifted an overpacked haulbag onto my shoulders. As we walked closer to the base of the route, my gut continued to tell me this was wrong, but my mind couldn’t help thinking only of the legends and heroes that had walked this same trail.

We woke to a ringtail cat in my haulbag, somehow caught inside after trying to eat our food. We kicked it out, but the annoyance of having to get up and deal with it made going back to bed a tough ask. I was too scared to sleep anyways. So we harnessed up, prepared our ropes and bags, and cast off into the dark, vertical abyss. As pitches went by, my body and mind became increasingly concerned by the exposure, especially considering that for the first 9 pitches there wouldn’t be a single ledge to stand on. But we continued up, pitch after pitch, with mostly Blake at the helm, leading up, leaving Nick and I to clean his gear and haul our bags up. That night, we wrestled our portaledges and did our best to set up our vertical campsite. Finally set up and in my sleeping bag, my mind couldn’t help but question what I was doing. I was putting myself in harms way for what? What would my family think if something went wrong? I hadn’t even told

Nick enjoying a snack a ways up the wall on Lurking Fear.

Blake leading, onwards and upwards.

any of them I was climbing el cap. I thought of a Krakauer quote in which he says that climbing is amazing when it goes well, but there is no justification if someone dies. The money I had spent on gear, the time I had spent consuming climbing content and training for arbitrary goals, all weighed down on me. It felt like I was meeting my hero, and they were awful. I had always driven through the valley at night and looked up at the headlamps on El Cap with jealousy, but now, sitting in my sleeping bag hundreds of feet off the valley floor, I couldn’t help but wish I was down on the valley floor, just driving by.

As the next day progressed, we continued past the halfway point and eventually many of the harder aid pitches were over. My mind slowly began to change it’s tune, as did my gut. The pitches began to flow together, the systems made sense, my fear of exposure melted away as the overwhelming beauty took the front seat. We continued higher and higher, slept another night in our portaledges, and finally made it to thanksgiving ledge, a large bivouac only a few hundred feet from the summit. We drank water, ate food, listened to music and gazed out at the valley floor and the thousands of stars that danced above.

After waking up and a few pitches of climbing, our unlikely team of three stood atop El Cap. We did it. We drank the last of our water, ate some food, and began the descent. Not long after, while

Sleeping in on day two.

walking down the seemingly endless slabs, a new thought entered my mind. I wondered if this experience had had any profound impact on me. Were those dark thoughts I had only a few days prior just something to write off as me stepping out of my comfort zone, or perhaps was there something more profound to glean? Trying to deduce this question, I categorized what parts of the experience I really enjoyed. I thought of the exposed cracks splitting the granite face, the jokes told while belaying, the dichotomy of peace and terror as only air hung beneath my feet, and the many layers of what I had been exposed to. I brought the question past the past few days, and into my whole climbing career. I realized that nearly everything was important. I have met some of my best friends and girlfriend through climbing. I’ve traveled for climbing, I’ve seen views most only see on the internet, and I’ve been able to explore and feel the freedom of the hills most only fantasize of when reading an issue of National Geographic. Another thought danced into my mind, how do I go about sharing this? Of course the photographer in me had taken a few photos, and I considered instagram, but why? The photos, although good and true, could never really translate the experience to the viewer. After thinking, to post photos to instagram seemed more like a wish to brag rather than a wish to inspire or share; the people who wanted to hear about my ascent I would far rather tell in person, and those who didn’t care to hear wouldn’t be bothered. But, as per usual, I reconsidered what I shortly before thought was bulletproof and realized that there was value in self reflection, and that sharing in a more careful way could be mutually beneficial to both me and those around me. I perhaps would've never climbed had it not been for story tellers, photographers, and the many influences I had in the years prior. I continued to think, walking down the trail.

Blake sleeping on thanksgiving ledge, two pitches from the summit.

Now, back in Bozeman, a few weeks later, I write. I would say the adventure worked: perspectives have changed, memories have been implanted, and life has gone on in a slightly different light. I told my family about the adventure, my mom could not of been prouder... I left Nick on the side of the road, a few hours north of where I had picked him up. Blake is still in the Valley, presumably ticking off some hard climb, with a smile on his face of course. I learned quite a bit on the wall, but much of the growth has happened in the time after the climb. I often used to find myself scrolling mindlessly through instagram and other social media apps, attempting to live vicariously through others, and wondering how they make it happen. I’ve realized that a key to adventuring is submitting yourself to randomness and chaos and just finding out. As Chongo said, "Trying to be bitchin can come at the risk of being instead, a complete fool. But, not trying at all, and hence never risking being a fool, can come at the price of never being bitchin even once."