Nineteen minutes…  It has become my four-minute mile, my El Dorado, my white whale.  Every time I peek through my apartment’s solitary window, I see the trail up the “M” hill that presides over the town, unmoving and unmoved.  Its serenity taunts me.

Someday soon, the stars will align.  A light snow will cover all of the icy patches.  A tailwind will hasten my every step.  My footing will be sure and my gait strong.  The trees will come and go just a little bit faster.  The hill will feel just a little bit smaller.  I’ll reach the last switchback where the wooden bench finally comes into view, and my watch will read 18:15…18:16…18:17.  With renewed but restrained hope, I’ll charge ahead.  Each second will remove another pound from my pack until I’m racing, weightless, against the clock, against myself.  I’ll reach the bench at the top of the hill – the man-made reminder of failure after failure – and check my watch with the same innocent enthusiasm as each time before; only this time, I won’t be disappointed.  “18:56,” it will read.

Lo, the City of Gold!

I’ll ditch my headphones, and Van Halen (Hagar years, of course) will [Read More]]]>

Maybe this time...

Nineteen minutes…  It has become my four-minute mile, my El Dorado, my white whale.  Every time I peek through my apartment’s solitary window, I see the trail up the “M” hill that presides over the town, unmoving and unmoved.  Its serenity taunts me.

Someday soon, the stars will align.  A light snow will cover all of the icy patches.  A tailwind will hasten my every step.  My footing will be sure and my gait strong.  The trees will come and go just a little bit faster.  The hill will feel just a little bit smaller.  I’ll reach the last switchback where the wooden bench finally comes into view, and my watch will read 18:15…18:16…18:17.  With renewed but restrained hope, I’ll charge ahead.  Each second will remove another pound from my pack until I’m racing, weightless, against the clock, against myself.  I’ll reach the bench at the top of the hill – the man-made reminder of failure after failure – and check my watch with the same innocent enthusiasm as each time before; only this time, I won’t be disappointed.  “18:56,” it will read.

Lo, the City of Gold!

I’ll ditch my headphones, and Van Halen (Hagar years, of course) will trumpet my arrival.  I’ll rest on my plywood throne and survey my newly-conquered kingdom.  I will become its beauty.  It will become my strength.

This, faithful Cacambo, is truly the best of all possible worlds.

Once satisfied, I’ll coast down to the trailhead by way of the easy descent on the other side of the hill.  Each tree I pass will bow in my presence.  Each pebble I approach will scuttle away from my shadow.  When I reach the point where the tough trail diverges steeply up to the summit, I’ll pause for just a minute to reflect on my hard-earned victory.  Then I’ll put my head down and hike back to the top.

Eighteen minutes…  It has become my Shangri-La, my Holy Grail, my nineteen minutes…

The reward at the top of the hill.

Climbers are constantly dreaming about the next big expedition; runners are always looking ahead to the race on the horizon; skiers fantasize about that historic powder day; cyclists meditate on every mile of next Saturday’s century.  Those are the big days, the campfire climaxes, and the medals on the wall.  They exist to motivate and to celebrate, but they can only be as great as the sum of their parts.  Those parts are built and perfected on the “M” trail.

The “M” trail – so named for the 250 ft. painted-rock “M” that overlooks Bozeman– is a trail loop that ascends the hill up to the giant letter.  A decision must be made once you leave the parking lot – take the right fork up the steep ridge or take the left fork and switchback for a mile and a half up the easier side.  Either way will afford a decent hike to the top and a spectacular view of Bozeman and the surrounding mountains.  As if all of that weren’t enough, the hill is, quite literally, right outside our window, and the close proximity has contributed to its becoming my extra-Hyalite proving ground.  On days when I’m not climbing, I’ll load my backpack with some training weight and hike laps up to the “M.”  Sometimes, I’ll take it easy, just grateful for the exercise and the chance to get outside.  Sometimes, I’ll bust it hard and gun for the mythical nineteen-minute barrier.  Usually, it’s a little bit of both; always, it’s revitalizing.

The Kennesaw crew on race day. Jack, me, Bill (Dad), Andrew (brother), and Dave -- Rock/Creek Stump Jump '09

The home training field is an important thing to find.  I need a place where I can go to focus more on the activity than on the setting.  I need a place where I can go to focus more on nothing than on anything.  I need a place like the red trail at Nashville’s Percy Warner Park where I know exactly which tree I need to pass to ensure that I’ve run farther without stopping than I did the last time I was there (often known as “yesterday”).  I need a place like Atlanta’s Kennesaw Mountain where my dad and his friends have run every single Saturday since as long as I can remember.  Dad’s a veteran of two New York City Marathons, one Boston Marathon, thirty-six consecutive Peachtree Road Races, and many, many other classic runs along the way, and he still calls me several times a month just to talk about his most recent Kennesaw session and his plans for the next (often known as “tomorrow”).

"M" pressive, I know.

These places get into your soul.  You create memories together; you suffer together; you celebrate together.  When I think of the Mountain Mist 50k, I’m reminded of one hard, hard day and a lot of relief, pride, and pain post-race.  When I think of the red trail, though, I’m reminded of the hard weeks leading up to a race, the easy weeks right after, the deep conversations with training partners, losing myself in iPod books, soaring through my favorite meadow, psyching myself up for the tough climb that I know is right around the corner, and deciding whether or not my next dash past the red blazes will come directly after this one or a few days from now.

Sure, I train for the long races and big climbing trips, but those pay-off days are not the ones that make me a runner, climber, athlete.  I earn those titles on every run that doesn’t come with a t-shirt and on every too-pumped-to-move top-rope session and every time that last push to the top of the hill means I’m hiking down in the dark.

Each day, when the sun rises above the “M,” I glance out my window and say a silent “good morning” to the hill.  I know – and so does it – that one of these mornings will mark the last time nineteen minutes haunts my dreams.  When the following day dawns and the Age of Eighteen Minutes is ushered in, I imagine I’ll start the day much as I’ve done so far: get out of bed, stretch, amble over to the window, and smile at my friend.

There are few things in this world that make me happier than an intermediate belay.  For the uninitiated, an intermediate belay is the stop-over between pitches – you ascend a rope-length or gain a nice ledge (whichever comes first), plug in some gear to build an anchor, affix yourself to the wall, and relax.  It’s a perfect place to get some water, eat a snack, wrap yourself in your favorite puffy jacket, slip into some heavy gloves, and enjoy the view.

The intermediate belay is a payoff several times over: you get to rest and recharge from the often stressful and strenuous climbing, you get to check out the scene from a place that few people ever stand, you get to solve complex anchor-building puzzles, and there’s often no one there to see the tears in your eyes as the warm blood refills your frozen fingers.

Over the years, I’ve stockpiled memories of my favorite belays – some noteworthy for the scenery, some for the relief, and some for the shenanigans – and the top of the first pitch of Hyalite’s Silken Falls ranks right up there with the best.

Silken Falls headwall [Read More]]]>

Enjoying puffy warmth at the top of pitch one.

There are few things in this world that make me happier than an intermediate belay.  For the uninitiated, an intermediate belay is the stop-over between pitches – you ascend a rope-length or gain a nice ledge (whichever comes first), plug in some gear to build an anchor, affix yourself to the wall, and relax.  It’s a perfect place to get some water, eat a snack, wrap yourself in your favorite puffy jacket, slip into some heavy gloves, and enjoy the view.

The intermediate belay is a payoff several times over: you get to rest and recharge from the often stressful and strenuous climbing, you get to check out the scene from a place that few people ever stand, you get to solve complex anchor-building puzzles, and there’s often no one there to see the tears in your eyes as the warm blood refills your frozen fingers.

Over the years, I’ve stockpiled memories of my favorite belays – some noteworthy for the scenery, some for the relief, and some for the shenanigans – and the top of the first pitch of Hyalite’s Silken Falls ranks right up there with the best.

Silken Falls headwall - Hyalite Canyon

Silken Falls is an imposing flow of ice deep inside Hyalite Canyon.  A two-hour hike brings you beneath the large lower headwall, and a short slog through knee-deep snow puts you at the base of the climb.

The temperature was warm enough on the day we went out there, but, with the wind whipping the spindrift down the face of the ice, Jason and I resolved to make short work of the first pitch.  We synchronized the radios, and he took off on the sharp end.  After a short traverse, he disappeared around the corner of the headwall, and there I stood, in the winter sun, awaiting the familiar crackle of “off belay” to come through the handset.

After a few chilly minutes, I felt the rope pull tight.  “You’re on belay, so climb when ready,” the radio sang, and, with belay jacket still on, I charged up the pitch.

The climbing was not especially difficult, but one of my crampons came unseated early on and complicated things significantly.  I gingerly chipped up the rest of the route, cleaning the screws on one solid foot placement.  The angle eased off halfway up the pitch, and I cruised up to the intermediate snowfield.

Awesome.  The pitch topped out in a spectacular snow-white amphitheater.  There was a thin gully climb far in the back, the large second pitch of Silken Falls to the right, and sheer black rock in between.  Jason was set up in the ice to the right, and he took in rope as I ambled up to the anchor.  I clipped the anchor and soaked in the winter sun.

Ain't kiddin' about that there intermediate belay locale. It'll shine from now on with the genuine Showtime stamp of approval. Over and out.

It’s hardly novel to be captivated by the things we discover in nature – after all, there’s a reason we recognize names like Ansel Adams, Galen Rowell, and Bob Ross – but it is extraordinary to me that climbing my way into places like this is always so very worth it.  The activity itself is rewarding, of course, but there’s definitely a different sort of satisfaction when the climb ends in such a special spot.  It tends to erase the two-hour hike,  the bone-chilling belay, and the hand-numbing climb.  It’s worth it all, and it’s worth it all every time.

The Bozeman Ice Festival was last weekend.  The festival – like its counterparts in Ouray, Cody, Valdez, et al – is organized to celebrate the local ice climbing culture, bring climbers together, and introduce new people to the sport.  On the schedule for the weekend were two competitions (a pro invitational on Thursday and an open on Saturday), several clinics, slideshows, movie premieres, gear expos, and, of course, beer specials.

On Thursday, the day of the pro comp, I drove into the canyon with Jason and his friend, Adam, to get in a few pitches before the weekend rush.  The recent frigid temps left the ice hard and dry, and we wore ourselves out on four- and five-swing pick placements on brittle flows.  The tough ice conditions and near-zero temperatures chased us after just a few hours, and we were hiking out with plenty of time to clean up and change for the movie later that night.

When we got back to the parking lot, though, we were met with a troubling scene.  Several somber-looking climbers were milling about, surrounded by trucks and snowmobiles emblazoned with the Gallatin Search [Read More]]]>

Adam and Jason rack up at the bottom of "Hangover" - Hyalite Canyon

The Bozeman Ice Festival was last weekend.  The festival – like its counterparts in Ouray, Cody, Valdez, et al – is organized to celebrate the local ice climbing culture, bring climbers together, and introduce new people to the sport.  On the schedule for the weekend were two competitions (a pro invitational on Thursday and an open on Saturday), several clinics, slideshows, movie premieres, gear expos, and, of course, beer specials.

On Thursday, the day of the pro comp, I drove into the canyon with Jason and his friend, Adam, to get in a few pitches before the weekend rush.  The recent frigid temps left the ice hard and dry, and we wore ourselves out on four- and five-swing pick placements on brittle flows.  The tough ice conditions and near-zero temperatures chased us after just a few hours, and we were hiking out with plenty of time to clean up and change for the movie later that night.

When we got back to the parking lot, though, we were met with a troubling scene.  Several somber-looking climbers were milling about, surrounded by trucks and snowmobiles emblazoned with the Gallatin Search and Rescue crest.  We didn’t want to ask any questions, but we knew there were only a few reasons the S&R crew might be around.  Best case scenario, they just wanted to be a presence at the festival because of the substantial increase in climbing population for the weekend.  Worst case is pretty much what happened.

Jason sizes up the crux pillar on "Cave Route" - Hyalite Canyon

I called Michelle when I regained cell service outside the canyon and was greeted with a voice much more frantic than usual.  She had read on the Bozeman news site that a climber had been killed in an avalanche that day.  I reassured her that it wasn’t me and relayed what we had seen in the parking lot.  I told her I didn’t know much more than that and asked if the article mentioned the name of the climber.  “Guy Lacelle,” she said.  “Apparently he was pretty famous.”

Guy Lacelle is on the short list of the greatest ice climbers in the world.  At 54, he had probably climbed more meters of ice than anyone, ever, and he is well known for soloing (climbing alone and unroped) some of the hardest ice lines ever completed.  As the headliner of the festival, he was scheduled to speak later that night following the premiere of a new climbing film in which he figured prominently.  Guy was climbing in the pro event when he died just after 9:30 in the morning on Thursday, December 10.

It’s a generally accepted truth among climbers that if you get after it long enough and hard enough, you’ll eventually have to deal with death of a close friend.  Thankfully, I’ve avoided any really personal hits so far, but there have been some close calls.  Even still, it’s not easy saying goodbye to the stars you admire from afar, and Guy’s death caps what has already been a rough year.

A close call... - Chugach National Forest, Alaska '04

When your friends and partners begin to push themselves toward higher and more committing objectives, it just becomes a race against time and luck, and when you reach the elite heights that Guy occupied, every project on every trip will test the limits of possibility.  As the home of the legendary Alex Lowe, Bozeman is all-too-well-acquainted with the dangers endemic to the elite climbing world.  All it takes is a quick glance into the guidebooks here to recognize how deeply his influence is still felt, even as this year marks the tenth anniversary of his tragic final climb on Tibet’s Shishapangma.

As you can imagine, the Ice Festival turned into a commemoration of Guy’s life.  Michelle and I went to the theater on Friday night and listened to story after story of Guy as a climber, friend, husband, and hero.

I am always impressed with the way the climbing community responds to tragedies like this one.  It is often said that climbing is a lifestyle, not a sport.  Certainly, it is not unique in this regard; I know many surfers, skiers, and endurance athletes who would say the same about their respective passions.  I find the “lifestyle” label to be especially accurate in these cases largely because of the responsibility each group accepts to address danger objectively and honestly.  Whether it’s a climber leaving the ground with a full rack of ice screws; a backcountry skier descending with shovel, probe, and beacon; or an ultra-runner packing gels and electrolyte tablets, each athlete is displaying a commitment to safety that begins with an honest study of accidents that have already taken place and equipment that could have prevented them.  This attention to detail and honest assessment of hazards and consequences is not something that disappears when one is not actively engaged in a sport; rather, it’s a skill-set that, once cultivated, becomes the modus operandi for life in general.  I am grateful for this.

Back to the sharp end on Monday. That's the warrior's way...

It’s hard to make sense of tragedies like Guy’s death, and these events definitely spark an “is it really worth it?” internal dilemma.  I’m not sure I’m capable of such words as will properly honor Guy, but it seemed disingenuous to ignore his death when it has so thoroughly impacted my experience here.

If I’m certain of any one thing, it’s that I’m not going to stop climbing; that’s a powerful place to start.

So, get out there, everyone.  Have fun.  Go hard and go light.  Set your sights on grand goals and commit.  Just be smart and, above all, be safe.