November 29, 2011 • Uncategorized • by
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Roadtrip Part 5: Reunions and Reinvigoration at Joshua Tree National Park

November 9—Joshua Tree National Park, CA

The last and only other time I’ve been to Joshua Tree was a week after graduating college in the spring of 2007. Nine other climbers and myself piled into three cars and drove 18-hours without stopping, going 90 mph through the California night. We arrived at Ryan Campground at 11am, exhausted and ecstatic. Clean boulders, sharp and bulbous, surrounded camp. The enticing angles of the rock burst through our sleep-deprived haze, begging us to climb. We unleashed three crashpads from Eric’s truck, toted them to the base of an innocuous, egg-shaped stone and, harnessing the verve of youth, attacked the coarse granite.

During the next ten days, we cut our teeth on Joshua Tree’s world-renowned crags. I spent most of the trip with Eric and Dana, the only guys beside myself who were really interested in crack climbing. It was a blast. Every day without fail, we would drive into camp late in the afternoon, beating the roof of the car with our bloodied hands, The Rolling Stones turned up as loud as the radio could handle, and all three of us singing along at the top of our lungs. Without a doubt, those were the best ten days of rock climbing I had ever experienced, not only because the climbing was so good, but also because the people with whom I shared those climbs were so generous, forgiving, energetic and hilarious.

Preparing to lead the Headstone on our first day of climbing. 

Bouldering near Ryan Campground.

Joshua Tree and formation. 

Evening light behind a Joshua Tree. 

Raven enjoying the warm air. 

Rappelling off the Headstone. 

One of those people in particular, Pablo, was not even a part of our original group, but he fit in like we had known him for years, which in fact, Dana had. It was a random connection the likes of which make the world feel small. One lazy morning in camp, as Eric and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, Dana overheard someone talking about Tonasket, the small eastern Washington town where he grew up. Poking his head around the corner, Dana came face to face with his long time friend and occasional climbing partner, Pablo, who was camped in the site next to ours. Throughout the remainder of the trip, Pablo climbed, ate, slept and partied along with us. He was a strong climber and it was a luxury to follow him up classic routes that would have been far too hard for us to lead. He was an excellent teacher with a child’s soul who could show you how to build a bombproof climbing anchor one morning and then drink you under the table that same night. We liked him immediately.

Ten days passed in a blink. None of us wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. Most of the guys had to return for the spring quarter of college. I had to move out of my apartment and decide what the hell I was going to do with my life. These were not easy tasks, nor were they appealing, especially in comparison to the moment-by-moment life we’d been living. Still, we had to say goodbye.

I knew I would see most of my cohorts again, in the climbing gym or wandering the red brick pathways of campus, but I wasn’t sure about Pablo or about Joshua Tree. Driving away from the knobby rocks and forked trees, a melancholy sadness flavored my emotions. My stomach knotted up and my throat became parched. It passed in a moment, once we hit the freeway and turned the music up, but it could have been much worse. It would have been much worse if I had known that I wouldn’t see Joshua Tree until four years later and that I wouldn’t climb with Pablo again, at least not until today.

Early this morning Freya and I were driving the dusty roads of Hidden Valley Campground in search of an unoccupied campsite. Even on a Tuesday, everything was full. It was disappointing and I was ready to give up hope when, suddenly, everything changed. As we drove the last dusty finger of road in the campground, we passed three climbers standing next to a white truck. Creeping by, I glanced out the window and immediately recognized Pablo. I couldn’t quite believe it. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, “Is that Pablo?”

“Yeah man! Who’s that?”
“It’s Leif. Dana’s friend. We climbed together here…”
He cut me off before I could finish, “Of course! Whoa! Good to see you man. It’s been forever.”
We shook hands, smiling.
“So, are you guys looking for a site?” he asked, “You can share ours. We’ve got plenty of room.”

Moonrise through Joshua. 

Mike Pond leads in Outer Mongolia area. 

A place unlike anywhere else. 

Climber leads the Pinched Rib (5.10b)

Sharp stuff is abundant in the desert. 

Someone told us that Joshua Trees evolved from underwater plants. 

The lap of luxury. inside the Mountain Hardwear Yurtini

Two hours later we were high fiving at the top of a two-pitch crack called “The Swift.” Pablo’s girlfriend, Kim, followed his lead and I led my own rope with Freya tied to the other end. Climbing with Pablo, I felt like only seconds had passed since I saw him last. He hasn’t changed. He’s still energetic, outgoing, and positive. He’s still a great teacher and he still lives like a kid.

On our first climb of the day, we led separate routes right next to each other. As we simultaneously neared the end, Pablo realized that he didn’t have any gear to fit the crack and that we was 20 feet above his last piece of protection. He asked if I had a #4 Camalot. I did. I unclipped the cam from my harness, made sure my left hand and foot were sticking solidly to the rock, and fully extended my right arm, cam clenched tightly. Pablo performed the mirror image of my move, grabbing the cam with his outstretched fingers.

“Sweet! Thanks man. I was getting a little worried there,” he says, chuckling.
“No problem. I’ve never done that before.”
“Me neither. It’s a good thing you guys showed up.”

I can’t wait for the week of climbing ahead. Joshua Tree is filled with special connections. It turns out that Pablo isn’t the only climber I know here. David Farkas, an AAI guide who spent the summer on Mount Baker and assisted Brandon and I in a rescue, was kind enough to let Freya and I set up our enormous tent in his campsite (it turned out that Pablo’s site was not nearly big enough). David will be leaving for Red Rocks in a few days and we will take over his campsite after that. Mike Pond, another AAI guide from Mount Baker, and his girlfriend, Lauren, are camped a few hundred yards away. We’re all planning to climb together tomorrow. I can’t imagine who we’ll run into next.

From the picnic table in our campsite, I can glance across Hidden Valley and see Pablo frying a quesadilla. He’s close enough that I can smell the oil and cheese. Maybe if I ask real nice, he’ll pass one over. I’m sure he’d be happy to return the favor. A song by The Rolling Stones plays through my head. You can’t always giiiit what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you nee-eed! Oh Yeah!

November 16—Joshua Tree National Park, CA

We’ve been trying to leave for a while now, but this place just keeps getting better and better. We haven’t climbed alone or eaten alone for the past week. We’ve made new friends and reunited with old ones. We’ve felt bold and been humbled. The weather is turning warm again. The campground is full of smiles. The rangers supply free coffee on weekend mornings. Why leave?

Whereas the other climbing areas that Freya and I have visited on this trip have felt somewhat antisocial, Joshua Tree is a buzzing hub of conversation and camaraderie. Our next-door neighbors, Manny and Gloria, an elderly couple with an RV, start a fire every night and encourage us to add fresh logs even after they’ve gone to bed. An eclectic group of climbers ceaselessly surrounds the fire. Steve, a grey-bearded ex-Marine who’s been a dirtbag for most of his life, tells raunchy stories about prostitutes, climbing accidents, and Yosemite. His voice is deep and gravely from too many cigarettes; his stories are both hilarious and offensive. He’ll be your best friend instantly if you offer him a beer. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy; he says he’s killed 14 people. Then there’s Flo, a 19 year-old Bavarian kid who shares our campsite. He’s been traveling the US for three months, climbing at all the best crags and walking highlines in aesthetic places. A German slackline company sponsors him and his next stop is Fiji, then New Zealand. He climbs harder than I probably ever will. He says food in the US is too expensive. He pours creamy ranch dressing on his cabbage salad. We offer him a burrito and he gladly accepts.

Wonderland of Rocks. 

Chimney through the Hall of Horrors. 

Bouldering near Cyclops. 

Lost most of my finger skin on that move. 

Slacklining under the stars. 

Besides random campground acquaintances there are also old friends. One afternoon Freya and I drove into town to fill our water jugs and I received a message from Jeff, a childhood friend who lives in Los Angeles. As it turned out, Jeff and two other Port Townsendites, Charlie and Clay, were headed to Joshua Tree for the weekend. Their mutual friend, Ringo, drove from Phoenix to meet up with the crew. On Saturday we all took a hike into the Wonderland of Rocks. Pablo and Kim came along too. Charlie jumped from boulder to boulder while Jeff and Clay snapped photos and Ringo quipped one-liners that brought us all to tears. It started raining and we scrambled off the slippery rock and headed back to camp. We invited everyone into our enormous tent that night for a feast. Five stoves were set on the sandy floor with eight bodies huddled inside. On Sunday we visited the Hall of Horrors and I let the boys borrow my shoes and harness so they could top rope a climb called “Lazy Day.” They grunted and sweated their way up and I followed suit. Their visit ended with hugs and high fives. Our campsite felt empty when they left, but another group of friendly climbers soon occupied the void.

When we’re not socializing, we’re climbing and we’ve been climbing hard. One morning I decided to lead every sandbagged classic in Hidden Valley. We walked from crag to crag, never more than five minutes from our tent, and climbed routes that are notoriously difficult for their grade. Each one was more challenging and fulfilling than the last. The next day I was feeling bold and attempted to lead a 5.10b route called “Pinched Rib,” which is located directly behind our tent. I took five ten-foot lead falls, scraping my hip in the process, before letting Pablo tie into the sharp end. On his first try he found a key hold that I had been missing. I tied back into the rope, took one more lead fall and then finally sent the route clean. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. The rest of the day was a crapshoot and I’m still sore from the effort.

Freya’s first trad lead. The route is called The Bong. 

Kim sends a boulder problem. 

Ideal campsite.  for the Yurtini

Small plants, big rocks. 

The crew. Left to right: Jeff, Ringo, Leif, Freya, Clay, Charlie, Kim, Pablo. 

We’re running out of time on this trip. We have to be in Indian Creek for Thanksgiving and it would be nice to find a place to live in Salt Lake City before that. I think we’ll have to skip Red Rocks, save it for next time. There are so many wonderful places to visit and so little time. Without a doubt, Joshua Tree is my all time favorite. Just like last time I was here, I don’t want to say goodbye. I know how it will feel to hug Pablo and Kim, to drive through the gates heading north; a melancholy sadness will fill the car; it might even bring me close to tears. Maybe it won’t hurt quite so bad if I promise to come back. I promise…I promise…

All Rights Reserved ©Freya Fennwood 2010

November 18, 2011 • Uncategorized • by
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Roadtrip Part 4: Sport Climbing in Owens River Gorge and Driving Through Death Valley

November 4—Bishop, CA

Evenings grew colder, announcing November. While we cooked dinner, a storm brewed in the twilight. Each frigid gust was stronger than the last. The wind soon pulled our stakes from the dusty ground and we were obliged to strike the tent. We packed it haphazardly into the driver’s seat, lay our pads down in the rear of the car and closed the hatchback.

The car rocks gently in the gusts, but it’s quiet inside. We are warm and cozy, if a bit confined. Freya edits photos and video while I write. Each photo tells a thousand-word story of adventure. There are so many stories to tell.

We’ve been camping near Bishop and climbing in the Owens River Gorge for the past three days. Without a guidebook, we relied on instinct and other’s generosity to find the climbing area. The first day we drove gravel roads north of town, U-turning at dead ends and peering into the deep canyon, until we spotted a parking area filled with Toyota trucks, grubby vans and a dusty Subaru. An older couple soon appeared at the corner of the parking lot, where the approach trail began, and Freya bluntly asked them if she could take photos of their guidebook. They happily suggested a few walls that might sate our ambitions and let Freya capture the details with her camera.

Morning near Bishop in the Hoopla 4 tent.
Eating dinner. Pasta with red sauce. 
Fresh snow on the mountains. 
Trying to wake up on a cold morning. 

The rock here is so different than Yosemite. Faces are steep and pockmarked; holds are numerous and slick. My forearms were pumped after a single climb because it felt like my fingers and toes were about to slip off every feature. Freya had the same trouble, but problems are quickly solved through cooperation. Thanks to some unlikely companions, today it felt like we finally figured out the rock

Three Canadian women—a mother and two daughters—have been tailing us across the country. I chatted with one of them while washing dishes in the basin at Smith Rocks. I glimpsed her again at Camp 4 in Yosemite. And we ran into them a third time, climbing in the sun on China Wall in the center of the Gorge. We’ve been sharing leads and sharing ropes since then, which is good for Freya and I because they climb harder than we do.

Their journey and their goals are nearly identical to ours: have fun, enjoy life, learn, grow, adventure. I talked with the mother, Tanya, as we both belayed one afternoon. She told me she had lost her husband recently and her closest friend to cancer not long after. She said it was a “wake up call.” She realized what she had been missing out on in life. She wanted to really live. The way she said “live” made me realize that she really meant it. I could tell how much she loved to see her daughters climb, and how much she loved to climb the same routes right after them.

Tanya’s story is rare and inspiring. Freya and I fit tidily into a sub culture of young climbers living frugally and enjoying the road. Tanya gave up her 9-to-5, sold the farm, and struck out. She made the choice to change her life. Few people are so courageous.

Tanya’s daughter, Tina, belays Steve in Owens River Gorge. 
Pat climbs a problem in the Happy Boulders. 
Jeff attempts a V1. 
Working on another dinner with salad already prepared. Yurtini in the background.

It’s getting cold in the car now and the windows are fogging from our breath. The light from the computer screen is hurting my eyes. The second toe on my right foot is blistered and swollen from being jammed into climbing shoes for too many days in a row. My cuticles are ravaged, caked with chalk and rope grease. Maybe we’ll take a rest day tomorrow. Maybe. It’s hard to stop when there is such a wealth of climbing to be done. Will Tanya and her daughters take a day off? I somehow doubt it. I expect we’ll see them tomorrow, chasing the sun to the warmest walls of the deep and pockmarked gorge.

November 6—Death Valley National Park, CA

We’re 100 feet below sea level and I’m still not warm. Winter creeps south and we creep with it, accomplices in the burglary of summer. In June, Death Valley has an average high temperature of 115-degrees. It’s not close to that now. Where has the heat gone? Freya and I want to feel real heat one more time before winter settles in. It was night when we arrived and, although the air lacked the bitterness to which we had grown accustomed, it was still too cold to take off my long johns. We’re curled up in our sleeping bags in the back of the car now. RVs surround us, their generators whirring. An eerie country vocalist is singing in Furnace Creek, the village next to our campsite, and the music reverberates throughout the entire valley. Freya thinks its religious. I think its just country.

Our last few days in Bishop consisted of sport climbing, bouldering and hot springing. Freya and I each led a route in Owens River Gorge on Friday morning before it started to snow. When the flakes began sticking we hiked out of the Gorge and drove north, following a map that a stranger in Yosemite had rudimentarily drawn in my notebook. Driving for a solid hour on a maze of dirt roads, we finally discovered a single hot pool and commenced to soak our sore bodies until our fingers wrinkled and our faces glowed.

The next day we met Natalie and Jeff, young climbers from Bend, Oregon who just so happened to be hiking towards the Happy Boulders at the same time we were. Since they had a crash pad and we did not, we asked if we could tag along. They said “Of course!” and we all worked out the hard problems together, grunting through overhangs and wincing through crimpers. That evening, Natalie and Jeff invited us to their hotel, the Ramada, which was equipped with a scalding hot tub and a rather cold pool. After soaking for a good hour, we took showers in their room and thanked them profusely for their generosity. Freya and I were still warm inside when we went to sleep that night.

Cooking breakfast in a parking lot. 
Airborne in Badwater Basin. 
Geology lessons. 
Bad Water.
Old Borax Works in Death Valley. 
Lowest point of exposed land in the United States. Badwater Basin. 
Barren landscape. 

Sunday morning was spent in Starbucks using the free Wi-Fi to respond to neglected e-mails and catch up with what had been happening in the real world. Then we drove, drove, drove through the desert, the parched hillsides, the rundown reservation towns. As night flooded the salt flats, we finished our book on tape, and turned into a dusty campground.

We’ve climbed every day for the past week, except today. I think the sitting has taken a harder toll on my body than has the climbing. Tomorrow promises more sitting. We’re heading to Joshua Tree National Park and, since daylight savings time has kicked in, it will probably be dark by the time we get there. No matter. I know what the rock looks like. I know it’s gritty and bulbous and clean. I just hope it’s warm as well. There must be a little bit of summer left, hidden amongst the yuccas, woven into the roots of the Dr. Seuss trees.

All Rights Reserved ©Freya Fennwood 2010

November 11, 2011 • Uncategorized • by
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Roadtrip Part 3: Climbing Cracks in the Shadow of El Capitan, Yosemite Valley

October 30—Camp 4—Yosemite Valley, CA

What an incredible day of climbing! We got to the base of “Nutcracker” before the sun warmed the rock. I exhaled warm air onto chalky fingers, double checked my harness and climbed.

I had studied the guidebook for hours the night before. It said, “Only confident 5.8 lead climbers should attempt this route.” My confidence waned. I’ve led harder cracks before, but not in a long time and not in Yosemite, where the grades are notoriously tough. I wouldn’t have imagined attempting Nutcracker a week ago. I guess I’ve grown since then. Progress happens rapidly in hindsight.

We spent our first two days in Yosemite at a friend’s cabin in Wawona. Ted took us to his favorite swimming hole, a granite-strewn grotto with pools just deep enough for jumps. I bouldered on the water-polished stone. We drank beer and played games in the evenings, took hot showers and washed laundry in the afternoons. Our skin appreciated the time to regenerate.

Driving into Yosemite Valley the next day, we turned a corner and saw the big walls of legend. El Capitan and Half Dome made my jaw drop. I had to pull the car over. The streaked granite faces were unimaginably tall and steep. Waterfalls dropped from the top for thousands of feet, hardly touching the stone. Here was the proving ground of American rock climbing. Here were the towers that Bridwell and Robbins first climbed. Here was a challenge.

Camp 4. Ours is the biggest house on the block. 
Half Dome at sunset. 
El Capitan. Tommy Caldwell visible with magnifying glass on
right side of tallest face. 
Alpine meadows one gorgeous afternoon. 

Half way up Nutcracker I desperately jammed a yellow nut into the finger-sized crack and clipped it to the rope. My strength was deteriorating. My palms were sweating. My too-loose shoes were slipping off the crystal grit. Three other groups of climbers judged my progress from the ledge below. There were two options: move or fall. With a deep breath, I committed to the former. I grunted. I pulled. I nearly peeled off. Somehow I found sufficient friction to hold me. I reached for a hand-sized crack in a small bulge, jammed my palm inside and squeezed. The third pitch was taking it’s toll. I could hardly imagine climbing El Cap, 35 pitches of much harder terrain.

One afternoon, after climbing ourselves out, we were driving the one-way Yosemite roads when I noticed an entourage surrounding a lone cinematographer in a grassy clearing. The young man’s expensive video camera was pointed directly at the proudest lines on El Cap. Sensing something interesting, I pulled over and we walked into the field. The cinematographer was filming Tommy Caldwell, the world’s preeminent crack climber, attempting what would be the hardest free climb in history. We watched as Tommy, the tiny speck of green, moved gradually higher on a blank looking section of the massive face. As we gawked, a grey haired man and his wife sauntered over and began chatting. They told us the section that Tommy was climbing is rated conservatively at 5.14c and that this was Tommy’s third 5.14 pitch of the day. Before long, it became obvious that the grey haired man and his wife were Tommy’s parents. They glowed with pride. Tommy’s dad told us that he would be going up the wall himself in a few days in order to belay his son on the second half of the climb. In entirety, the climb will take about two weeks. Some pitches remove so much skin from Tommy’s body that he can only climb one per day. He will eat and sleep the rest of the time, splayed out on his portaledge, clipped into the wall.

Texture of Yosemite. 
Vernal Falls. 
Looking into the trees. 
Granite apron on north end of valley. 

Tommy Caldwell climbs harder than I probably ever will. He takes greater risks and attempts more difficult routes, but I imagine we get a similar feeling from completing a challenging climb. I moved methodically towards the crux mantle of Nutcracker, conserving my energy for the stressful moves that I knew lay ahead. Approaching the overhang, I placed a small nut in a seam to my left and clipped it to the rope. I reached high for a deep hold, matched my hands on either side of the hold and committed. My feet left the wall, dangling in mid air for a split second, before I brought them back to the rock and pushed up. I hooted joyously when I stood firmly on top. My body coursed with adrenaline. My mind was clear. I felt free, empty, whole, and full of life. I built an anchor, put Freya on belay, and exhaled.

By modern standards, Nutcracker is not a difficult climb—Tommy Caldwell could probably solo it in his sleep—but for me, it was challenging enough to provide a sense of accomplishment and adventure. It’s a memory that will not easily be forgotten, a moment that was painful, transformative, and fulfilling all at once.

It seems like almost every day of this trip has had a moment like this, when hours disappear without notice and spectacular beauty blossoms from the commonplace.

We’ve spent four days here in Yosemite, climbing in the shadow of the world’s best, and I imagine we’ll spend a few more. I’ve been thinking we should don costumes beneath our harnesses for Halloween. Maybe we’ll steal a shower from the bathrooms in Curry Village. Maybe we’ll eat quinoa and hot dogs for dinner tomorrow night. The weather forecast shows snow in the near future. Will Tommy stay on the wall through any weather? Will he climb the route free? What will he feel if he reaches the top? I can’t be sure, but I can certainly imagine.

Preparing to climb “The Grack” (5.6) on Halloween, dressed as Chef Trad.
I carried a plastic spatula and serving spoon up the entire route.  
Inside-Out Woman on the second pitch of “The Grack.”
Halloween Yosemite style, at the rappel anchors. 
Freya follows the splitter hand crack and thin slab. 
All Rights Reserved ©Freya Fennwood 2010

November 5, 2011 • Uncategorized • by
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Roadtrip Part 2: Smith Rocks to Lake Tahoe

October 22—Lava Beds National Monument, CA

After six straight days of climbing at Smith Rocks we left this afternoon and motored south through fields of sagebrush. A melancholy feeling filled the car.

We were leaving a place we had grown to love but had barely explored. We had climbed many beautiful and difficult lines up the pocketed stone, including a multi-pitch traditional route called “Moscow” that ascended steep cracks on Red Wall, and a slightly overhanging pitch called “How Low Can You Go?” on a solitary block called Rope De Dope. We had come face to face with a baby rattlesnake and lived to tell the tale. (As Freya was lowering me down a route called “Bunny Face” she noticed the snake hiding in a shadowy cave in front of her. At that moment, my immense weight began pulling her towards the rock and she screamed, “Holy Shit! Rattlesnake!” I was sure she was going to drop me. Thankfully a nearby guide grabbed the belt of her harness and prevented her from being pulled into the snake. A Brazilian climber shooed the snake away with a Stick Clip and we continued climbing not long after that, slightly shaken.) We had met wonderful people from Slovenia, Brazil, California. We had improved our strength, sharpened our skills, and focused our minds. We had experienced the variety and quality that Smith is all about.

At the same time, there were still hundreds of routes left to climb. They were all aesthetic and inspiring. They were warm and steep and challenging. We were not finished at Smith, yet we were leaving.

Walking down the river valley towards some incredible climbing. 
Sunset behind Smith. 
The deadly rattler rearing it’s head. 
Unknown climber on very difficult climb.

The wheels spun and the odometer ticked away miles. We started listening to a book on tape about Theodore Roosevelt’s expedition down the uncharted River of Doubt in the Amazon. Our adventure paled in comparison to his. The people of that era were harder than we’ll ever be. We made our last gas station stop in Oregon, sitting in the car while the attendant filled the tank. We ate dinner at Applebee’s in Klamath Falls because we couldn’t find anything better. The general manager gave us our appetizer on the house because he was from Washington and I was rooting for the Huskies who were playing Stanford on primetime. The servings were too big to eat so we took the leftovers in Styrofoam and drove into the night.

Crossing the California border by moonlight, we drove south and then turned right into the Modoc National Forest. It was too dark to see the lava fields, but street signs promised caves, towers and camping. The road wound on forever. The park gates were unmanned when we drove through. The campground was filled with RVs and Boy Scout groups. We hung our tent under a lonely tree and threw our sleeping bags inside. Now we’re brushing our teeth and cozying up for the night. I’m excited to wake up in a new place. Night obscures the dry wilderness from our view. What will morning reveal?

Racked for crack.  
Intrepid explorers discover spelunking. 
Another incredible sunset.

October 24—Kings Beach, CA

This would be an amazing place to spend the winter. Evenings are frosty. Orange and brown leaves fill every yard. Afternoon sunshine paints Lake Tahoe gold and the sand feels hot between the toes. We arrived yesterday and, already, we want to spend a lifetime.

After a morning spent exploring the humid depths of an endless cave at Lava Beds National Monument, we piled into the Subaru and chased the sunshine south. We crossed train tracks, passed through rundown towns full of broken windows, and rustled the roadside sagebrush going 80mph. Roosevelt’s adventure continued just as ours unfolded. His son, Kermit, had a brush with death in a series of intense rapids as we filled the gas tank in Reno and bought ice cream sandwiches at the mini mart. We departed California, arrived in Nevada, and then returned to California on a different road. Officials asked if we carried fresh vegetables or fruit. Our cooler was full of them but they didn’t have to know.

Soaking in a hot spring near Bridgeport, CA. 

Freya called her friend Robyn, who lives with her boyfriend, Kit, in Kings Beach on the west shore of Lake Tahoe. We knocked on their door but no one answered. We heard voices in the yard out back. Discarded materials, old bicycles, copper tubing, and eclectic automobiles surprised both Freya and I when we peeked around the corner, but Robyn and Kit welcomed us with wine, fire, and burritos. As it turns out, Kit is completely remodeling his house and the interior is beginning to take shape. He is installing radiant heat in the floors. The kitchen has bird’s eye maple cabinets. We talked carpentry, climbing, skiing, and adventure, sitting around the fire until it was too cold for imagination.

Kit left early for work the next day. Robyn and her dog, Pork Chop, took us to a rock formation called Big Chief. We warmed up on two steep but juggy 5.9s and gradually increased the difficulty of the climbs as the day went on. Robyn and I both led a 5.10a sport route and she continued pushing harder into the afternoon. The day culminated with a 5.10d that left us all pumped out and satisfied.

Pork Chop (A.K.A. Porkie, Pig, Piggie, Porker)
Robyn leads a climb at Big Chief.
Robyn making the crux look easy.  
Author making an easier crux look much harder. 

From the belay, we could glimpse the manicured hillsides of Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts. Robyn talked powder and carving and avalanches. I imagined pristine slopes, floated on flakes as light as air, painted trenches in the groves. These dreams replaced the throbbing memories of the routes we had just climbed and my emotions levitated higher and higher, into the twilight.

We’re comfy and warm here in the guest bedroom, a trailer behind the house perched amongst brick and sheet rock. The cushions are soft. The neighborhood is quiet. My stomach is full of curry and quinoa. My head is full of powder and granite.

All Rights Reserved ©Freya Fennwood 2010
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