Climbing Forever

Hey readers. Or reader. Or an empty, readerless void. I am stuck at home, because Corona-tine (doesn't have too great of a ring to it, maybe I'll just stick with Corona Quarantine), and it is raining to boot. Woot. I'm a poet and didn't know it. So I figured I would finally publish a blog that's been sitting in my drafts for many months. Enjoy. Or don't.

November, 2019

Four years ago, on November 19, 2015, I climbed for the first time. I instantly fell in love with it; I had discovered my life passion. My relationship with climbing grew and blossomed and quickly became something I couldn't imagine living without.

I was listening to Dax Shepherd's Podcast, Armchair Expert, today and he said that he feels sorriest for people who don't know what they love. This may sound extreme, but I felt pretty lost trying to discover my life passion, and to know what I love. I knew it was climbing the instant I ascended my first route at a climbing gym. At times, I think back and wish I'd discovered it earlier. Yet, perhaps everything in life happens at exact moments for just the right reasons. I am thankful for every route I have climbed or fallen from, and every boulder problem mastered or unsolved. I cherish every memory with every person (or guinea pig) with whom I have climbed. Sharing my life passion with others brings me immense joy, and I love to see people encounter the challenges and reap the benefits that come from this amazing activity.

I've participated in a number of activities like yoga and running to try and quiet my mind over the years. However, no matter how hard I try, I couldn't get my thoughts to settle down. Climbing changed all of that. It feels always intuitive, always natural, and always something I should be doing. People think I am insane for climbing the flatirons in Boulder without ropes. People ask me why I climb or if it scares me and the honest truth is it doesn't. I climb because I have to, I love to, and it is what I should be doing. When I am on the rock, my mental chatter goes quiet.

In honor of this momentous occasion, my four year anniversary with climbing, I decided to finally post a draft blog I wrote in August about soloing the second flatiron. Enjoy!

August, 2019

As of this morning, I have solo climbed the second flatiron 100 times.

I don't write about climbing as much as I should considering the role of unparalleled importance it plays in my life. When first introduced to the sport, it felt like I finally found my passion in life- something for which I'd been searching a long time. About six months after climbing and my relationship began, I free soloed the second flatiron with a friend. I don't recall feeling scared of climbing with no ropes; on the contrary, I felt free and peaceful.

Soon, I couldn't get enough of soloing the second flatiron. Anytime the weather was nice, I carved out time in my day to head to Chataqua to do so. Over the years, free soloing has forced me to overcome seemingly unsurmountable mental obstacles. For example, there is a jump on the second flatiron called the "leap of faith." At first (and understandably so), most people are intimidated by the idea of jumping from one rock to the next. It appears so much more terrifying than it is, and for my first 16 climbs up the second, I was too scared and found a way to avoid it. When I finally decided to face my fear, I realized how much easier it was to do the jump. Conquering that fear was a game changer for me.

I now solo with friends, first time climbers, and have climbed the first three flatirons with over ten guinea pigs. Those places are my sanctuary, and I am so glad to still have such a strong relationship with climbing.

Climbing with Bilbo

Climbing with Gandalf

Climbing with Legolas

Climbing with Mario

Climbing with Dave

Climbing with Neo

Biker Chick

If you’re planning a trip to Boulder, Colorado, you’ve certainly added “visit Chataqua park” to your itinerary. First of all, you could have streamlined that to say “Chataqua,” I’m not sure why you felt the need to make that a wordier task. Sorry, I will stop poking fun at your imaginary itinerary-planning skills (or lack thereof?).

Lately, Chataqua has become even more of a messy conglomeration of tourists than it was before. The main trails have been under construction LITERALLY forever (that’s not being dramatic at all), you now have to pay to park, and this morning I saw that they’ve added a photo booth. Sheesh. I go to Chataqua not for the hike; I go to free solo climb the second flatiron (to sum up “free solo”- it’s climbing without a harness or ropes). Honestly, the hike to get to the base of the slab is the pesky part.

 

Because of the whole “pay for parking” situation (yeah, as IF I would drop a dime on that!), I have started riding my bike to Chataqua. Actually, ever since my shoulder injury mentioned in the past few posts (catch up if you haven’t read them yet. I’ll wait, and even include a page break so that it seems as if I actually waited), I have been biking as a primary means of transportation.

That was the page break that I requested be included on your behalf. You’re welcome. Alright, so back to the meat of this post. Yum, meat, maybe it’s time for a burger break? Do you see why I have issues just sitting down and writing? Because of my increase in biking activity, I am trying to be an overall less awkward biker. Whenever someone passes me (which gives you an idea of how speedy I am), they usually shout out “passing on your left!” (or, passing on your right!), and my first reaction is to move to the side they announce, which thankfully hasn’t led to any collisions yet, and then I awkwardly feel the need to respond, so I yell “ok, sounds good!” which is completely unnecessary.

 

I’ve always found there to be “looks” that bikers exchange with other bikers, drivers, walkers, runners, etc. One of the looks is a look exchanged between bikers biking uphill and drivers passing them or driving downhill in the opposite direction. I used to give the sympathetic look to uphill bikers as a driver- like “aww, it really sucks that you are biking up that horrible hill, but I am sitting in my nice air-conditioned car and thus am unable to feel your pain, but I guess I am sorry you are in pain.” As bikers exchanging looks, it’s some serious empathy. Like, “yo fellow biker, I LITERALLY know EXACTLY how you feel; I just did that horrendous climb, but be motivated by the knowledge that soon, you will be flying downhill just as I am now.” The other is just the look of irritation that drivers give bikers and pedestrians, the one that says “how DARE you make me wait for another light cycle!” as they throw up their arms in indignation. Ironically, when that same driver is a pedestrian or biker, he or she is frustrated by drivers, thinking “how DARE you make me wait for another light cycle!” as they throw up their arms in indignation.

I decided to share the bike-related thoughts rattling around in my brain today, because it is Bike to Work day. I biked to work (because, once again, bike to work day!) basically one million miles (again, no drama here), and stopped at a few breakfast stations en route. I got a bunch of free bike gear from Nite Ize, who also gave me fruit and a Clif Bar, but they lacked coffee which I got later, ironically, at the tea factory Celestial Seasonings. Then I got to work drenched in sweat, which was fine because we are a bunch of fitness fanatics spending the majority of our time in workout garb. I don't have any kind of concluding thoughts for this blog so.... the end? 

 

Willie Nelsons

No, that is not a misprint in the title. I do not DO misprints, sheesh. And I am so humble and modest about my lack of misprints, too. Ahem... back to the point of this whole blog. Willie NelsonS. Plural.

Last Friday, I went with the band Intuit to Crestone to attend a festival called Crest Fest. Clever, right? I mean, it is totally a catchy name. After a charming four-hour car ride there, we went to the artist check-in counter and the lady putting on our bracelets was a bit overwhelmed and kind of overlooked the fact that I was not in the band. So, I walked in there wearing a musician bracelet.

I'm sure a lot of you are at a complete and total loss as to why that would be exciting. BECAUSE, of course, the bracelet was the golden (okay, orange) ticket into the land of backstage, the mysterious world where musicians get to chill before and after their sets. The backstage area was magical in multiple ways. First, there were free massages. Second, there was an enormous table with an impressive spread of grub. From pluots to peaches, sandwiches filled with any lunch meat you can imagine (unless you have some super bizarre imagination. Tone it down guys, there were no giraffe sandwiches), brownies, cookies, coffee, iced tea, the works. The only thing that the backstage area lacked was a sexy man to hand feed me grapes while two others fanned me.

I know you are all in anxiety inducing suspense about the Willie Nelsons. So, this was a rather small festival, in the middle of Hippieville Colorado, nestled in a field surrounded by mountains. So, naturally, it drew in a certain crowd. The crowd consisted of a shocking amount of men who looked exactly like Mr. Nelson, especially when you consider the low-ish amount of attendees (not because it was a lame-o festival but because it was just tiny). At first I thought I was just seeing the same guy over and over but then I started noticing that they were wearing different outfits.

Not as unique as you thought, Mr. N!

The amount of Willie look-a-likes truly threw me for a loop. I mean, I always considered him a rather unique looking character. However, by the end of the night I counted at LEAST seven of them, and who knows, there very well may have been more.

Boulder and D.C. Couldn't Be More Different

Differences between the D.C. area and Boulder, CO:

1) "Recycling" is not a familiar term to inhabitants of the nation's capital. Whereas those who do not compost are generally subject to scrutiny form the environmentalists comprising Boulder's population, I'd bet that the majority of D.C. residents do not even know what composting is, nor have the option to do so.

Yeah... you're not getting these options in D.C. 

2) There is this crazy thing called "diversity" in D.C. as opposed to in Boulder where everyone is a slightly different shade of white. Pale white, slight olive-hued but still white skin, white with freckles...Here, I am often the only Caucasian on the bus or in a restaurant or in the gym and I love it. Variety is the spice of life, after all.

This is diversity in Boulder... I guess the guy in the front is slightly tan?

3) Sidewalks randomly end. It is seriously perturbing, especially for runners like me. There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to why they end, but right when you least expect it, the sidewalk just disappears, perhaps into some other dimension comprised entirely of the last portions of D.C. and Northern Virginia sidewalks.

That looks about right... 

4) Gluten free? Dairy free? Huh?? I've sporadically seen some gluten free items along the shelves of markets here, but asking for dairy free in a restaurant receives an eyebrow raise from the waiter and a completely baffled look. Chances are, if they say it is a dairy-free dish, you're probably going to get some anyway.



5) Pedestrians beware! In Boulder, anyone traveling on foot can basically step in front of an 18-wheeler without even glancing both ways and the truck will come to a screeching halt. Here, a pedestrian can be mid-intersection DURING a WALK SIGNAL and still provoke honk after honk from angry cars trying to turn right and having to wait a whole ten seconds for someone to cross the street. You could easily get struck by a car and it would not be a big surprise to anyone. 

Mocked By Plastic Deer

After informing new acquaintances that I am from Colorado, the first question they ask without fail is "so, you do you ski or do you board?" This question never seemed just to me- where is the "neither" option? Yet, being presented with an either/or scenario, I typically opt with the former and identify myself as a skier. I usually leave out the part where I am one of those skiers that makes four-year-old children look like Olympic athletes by comparison and cause those with higher aptitudes for the sport (essentially, everyone else on the run at the time) to sharpen their senses in my presence as I tend to unintentionally cause a lot of accidents.

The motivating factors to actually get me to ski are scant. Usually, I am convinced by friends and begrudgingly head to the ski rental shop where my mind begins to cloud over with a sense of dread at the day to follow. The causes of the aforementioned dread range from fear that my hands and feet which already have poor circulation will incur frostbite and require amputation from the insane cold and wind to the simple fear of hitting an ice patch (which tend to comprise the ski runs at Eldora) and falling over dead. Of course, there is always the fear of hitting a renegade tree like Sonny Bono. The list goes on, but you can use your imagination to come up with the rest of my ski-induced fears. I'll just say I've thought of basically all scenarios.

I'm not sure of the exact basis from which my ski-related fears stem. I could trace it back to my childhood days, when my parents enrolled me in ski school. At some point during the lessons, my little 6-year-old self decided she had had enough and booked it out of there to find Mommy and Daddy- an excursion which failed and reduced me to a fit of tears and a sense of abandonment. If my timorous nature did not stem from that instance, perhaps it came from an incident which occurred a couple of years ago in the infamous "Fun Gully" run at Eldora. Things were going surprisingly well for me that day- I had not caused anyone to wipe out in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting me as I swerved down the runs and I had not injured myself. The combination of these two things led me to acquire a faulty sense of overconfidence. As you can likely infer from the name "Fun Gully," it is a green run designed for little kids with tiny jumps and creepy, plastic deer watching as you weave through the trees. 

My friends and I had gone down Fun Gully a couple of times without incident. At the end of our trip, when Eldora was about to close, my friend and I opted to take the Fun Gully path one more time. My confidence boosted by lack of negative incidents during the rest of the day, I decided to pick up my speed a little bit over the mini "jumps" along the gully (if you can even call them jumps- they were more like slight raises of snow about 6 inches tall. I probably shouldn't say that- it makes my situation even more pathetic). Well, it turns out my skills had not actually improved- I hit one of the bumps at a slight angle and went flying, landing directly onto my left shoulder. 

My friends laughing at me was only made worse as I could feel the steely-cold stares of the plastic deer as they mocked me while I was down. Anyways, the outcome was Marisa in physical therapy to try and set her shoulder straight and it never entirely healed. I cannot express how overjoyed I was when Fun Gully was closed during my most recent ski trip. 

Don't do it! (Photo from staticflikr.com)

Somber Day for Us All

Creative juices cascaded around my mind upon my return from the midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises yesterday. After cozying up under the covers, I put thought to notepad and scribbled the ideas most prone to rapid dissipation for the sake of their preservation and called it a night. It was, after all, 4:07 AM.

I woke to a beautiful day. The marine layer was long gone- it packed its bags and headed elsewhere. The start of this glorious day I planned to spend whipping up my review of the film. However, after checking text messages and news headlines I felt the wind was knocked out of me. I am still reeling from the story- perhaps to a greater degree than many as the shooting happened to close to my hometown. As my mother noted, I could have easily been there. But I wasn't.

My heart reaches out in pure sorrow to the individuals affected by the shooting. At the moment, my shaken mentality prevents me from writing and releasing a review injected with a tone that would juxtapose the horror of Aurora's shooting. The film itself will, for at least a while, have a tainted reputation. I will write about it later, but for the moment, I think refraining is a matter of respect. Humaity shows us the cruelty of which it is capable. Now we need to come together in our support as a nation and combat that with compassion.