Falling

There are many falls that stand out vividly in my mind, even from the abstruse memories of my childhood. Like the time I broke my wrist, taking a header off my bed when I was pretending I was bouncing on the moon. Or the time after I watched the apex of 80’s montage films, “RAD,” got inspired, went out with the intention of standing on my bike with no hands, and ended up in a rose bush. Both these falls weren’t last week, and took place well before I started drinking; so no way for me to blame it on alcohol- or even hope that it would have mollified the pain. Falling is something that can be trivial, like catching a curb while wending home from the local pub, or something that can be categorically terrifying, life-altering, and indelible. Falls aren’t solely physical either, they carry a psychological weight commensurate to the physical. And some falls are only psychological. We’ve all had those. Recently I’ve had two falls, in relatively quick succession, of both types. Somehow they have worked together to help me grow. So, I figured I had a new blog!

What precipitated this current fixation with falling throughout my life was my first “real” lead fall yesterday while climbing at El Cajon Mountain. Ok, I’ve yet to fall on a trad lead, and I’ve taken some significant sport falls on bolts, but I use “real” when I really mean it was bloody scary. It was onto an old bolt, sliding down a ramp as greasy as a lobbyists palm right after my foot blew from some featureless “edge” that really wasn’t anything at all. The fall itself was not far, a swing of maybe 5 or 6 feet, but it was unexpected and it happened to take place about 400 off the ground on a nearly vertical granite face. So it kinda begs the question, is it the physical fall, or the mental fall that caused my legs to convulse with fear when I finally took a thick, deep breath and pushed through the crux to get on the anchors? What I know for certain is that the relief I felt at the anchor, and the satisfaction I had of pushing through my screaming doubts on my second attempt, as I pushed high above that bolt and into a longer fall, tempered the fear as it stands in my memory. In fact, it made me realize just how much I love climbing.

Perhaps the most notable thing about this fall is that I would truly be dead if it wasn’t for my rope, harness, quick draws, etc. I can say for certain that if I’d been soloing the route, I wouldn’t be on earth anymore…it‘s the first time I‘ve ever hung back on a rope with my full body weight while being completely helpless, if only for a moment, and utterly dependent on my gear. Thus, while living simply is desirable, it is true that there are certain necessary possessions if you pursue certain sports. Or, to look at it more obliquely, there is gear which can be seen as superfluous, unnecessary, and frivolous to the greater part of society, which is what will allow you to experience nature and the human experience more holistically. Hopefully it will also get you back to tell your stories.

Alright, before our ship founders in the turbulent waters of epistemological relativism, let’s just get this out: I fully embrace the age old maxim (now a platitude) of “to each their own.” So climbing heinously scary shit is not for everyone, and even I’ll never be one of those pros or dirt bags living on the wall for days on end. What I’m saying is that we all have some sports we choose that have certain gear, so let’s stop screaming “consumerism at its worst” when we all get that shining new full-suspension bike, the new Brooks trail runners, the new Big Agnes ultra light tent, or even just the new warm jacket. Some things are necessary when we use them purposefully and to expand our minds.

All gear junkie tendencies aside, all falls are scary- especially the ones that don’t pose any physical danger. What I’ve found is that my time in the outdoors is my medicine that heals a psychological fall. I haven’t been at my best lately and I let myself down and some others. Somehow the whip I took on the rock and my ability to move through the ensuing fear helped me find James again and my confidence. It was a good lesson, falling as a didactic healing process perhaps? I guess what I’m getting at is falls are always going to occur, and you can’t wait around in fear of them, cowering under cover from some “beast in the jungle.” What matters is that you take them as they come, shake them off, and when you reflect, focus on how you swung up and kept climbing!

Ready to shred the gnar pow!!!

“Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal large codes of fraud and woe; not understood by all, but which the wise, and great, and good interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.”

                            -Percy Shelley


    Fall in Southern California seems to have a dual affect on the mind of its admirers and detractors alike. Somehow we all begin to long for the colder weather and make pilgrimages to the scarce areas where leaves actually show some color, but we absolutely forget that temperatures reach the triple digits. In retail, I always face the struggle of apologizing to the customer looking for shorts and a kayak paddle when we are stocked to the gills with 800 fill down and gore-tex jackets. I‘d say it’s a safe assumption that Fall has a strong tradition of forgetfulness commensurate with our longing for a change. Yet, once it finally comes, the change isn’t all about the weather. The shorter days seem to lend themselves to pensive thought and more time spent with family and good friends. The holidays come around like an absolutely random, yet well-timed text from a good friend we’ve forgotten we wanted to hear from for a long time.

    Aside from all the rapture of change in the air, and a focus on holidays with those that matter most, I get a strong sense of wanderlust and look up to the mountains. In SoCal, this means ice-snow…perhaps I’ll use poetic license here and call it “snice.” But even a light dusting of snow in the local mountains seems to precipitate a rash of accidents as people strain their necks to keep them in focus while driving down the freeway. The most miniscule amount of snow, seen or perceived from an Iphone snow report, incites grand schemes of all-night drives out to the better mountains in the north or out of state; it makes me dream of the thigh deep powder runs under bluebird skies that I’ve never once experienced outside of the space between my ears. Most importantly, though, all these musings include being out on the slopes with good friends and sharing our great runs afterwards with a great brew. The snow can’t come soon enough, and I’ve already dusted off my board and plan on having it tuned and waxed before even our grungiest local hill opens the lifts (read- Mountain High).

    What becomes sincerely ironic for me is that this conception of the mountains, with their thin air, sublime nature and quietness that often can hurt the ears has become a marketing tool in itself. We often romanticize a long weekend at a cabin in Tahoe or Mammoth with dreams of perfect runs and nightly Bacchanalian booze- fests that might even include Speedos and a hot tube time machine…you get the picture. There’s such disparity between the opening quote I selected from Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” and the image we are sold, that we buy, and that I myself am culpable of selling on a daily basis. I intended to highlight this with the quote and the image from Arbor (a company for which I harbor shameless enthusiasm). I’m absolutely stoked for my first runs of the season now that I’m getting my edge control down and starting to carve hard on my board, but I wonder how much of this is authentic experience, of if it even needs to be- even a day at the local resorts leaves me recharged and ready to face the messy gig of prosaic weeks in the city.

    The irony of the snow industry clap-trap versus the romanticized conception of human experience in the mountains really doesn’t vex me all that much, it lasts about as long as it takes me to get off the lift and headed down a run. Both are authentic and flagrant imposters at the same time. I realize that most of the gear that goes out the doors at any big-box, specialty mom and pop shop, or mammoth discount tent sale probably spends more time in a dark closet, but honestly, what sport doesn’t have its gilded marketing veneer that attempts to outshine the substance? I’m ready for winter. Let’s hit the slopes!