The Pace of Youth: Not Crane’s short story, a climbing road trip!

    

     It seemed strangely ironic to me that my week-long climbing holiday in Arizona happened to coincide with the spring break I’d never had. Rowing all through college meant that Spring Break was spent in the misery of two-a-day practices, with lethargic, binge intervals of food and sleep in between. I left my watch at home and turned my phone off at the base of Mount Lemmon. Yes, it was a shameless rehash of the scene in Easy Rider where Peter Fonda ditches his watch as they speed off into the desert, but I wanted this trip to be about the experiences of climbing, of waking up when the sun was too bright and the birds too loud, and of hyperbolic stories of the day over IPAs in the evenings.  As we sped out to Arizona as fast as a hybrid could, I made a resolution that this would have to suffice as the break I never had while in college.

    I’d hazard to say this was the best climbing trip I’ve been on to date. The only expectation I woke up with each day was that we were going to climb from whenever the hell we woke up, until we ran out of light and started drinking beer. The objectives for the day changed as many as a dozen times, from trad lines, to mellow sport climbs, to mult-pitch objectives with heinous approaches, and then back to harder trad lines. The mercurial nature of our days probably originated from the pithy and often macabre humor found in the guidebooks we utilized while drinking and “planning” for the next day. Climbing guidebooks are one of the greatest examples of flash fiction or poetry of our time; I’m being serious here. They are works of art in their ability to be vague and detailed at the same time, in giving a description that seems innocuous, but at the same time its brevity belies a gnarly line which, when you begin to get experience at reading between the lines, will make your asshole pucker in fear. One of my favorites from an anonymous climb, which I‘ll paraphrase here: “Breathtaking movement up this sparsely protected, runnout line will delight the experienced leader who is not shy at the potential for a disastrous ground fall…” sounds like a hoot, right? There’s enough here for a stand alone blog in the future. The trip was a growing experience for me, in that I was able to let go of my inclination towards myopic planning and enjoy the sheer pleasure of climbing whatever the hell we ended up at, and the experience was much more pure for that reason.

    Another striking aspect of this trip was just how well the four of us got along. There was hardly any swearing (at each other that is), no meltdowns, and the only real mishap of the trip occurred when a stuck rope forced Gavin to rappel into a patch of cacti, from which a great deal of profanity, cursing of the gods, and general animosity towards nature ensued. Overall the group dynamic was super positive, and we climbed well in two man teams which we switched daily. The best part was that we never used double ropes, and no one decided to reengineer a belay while someone was climbing on it… good stuff! Also, from a purely egotistical standpoint, it was great to watch so many cyclists (Mount Lemmon is a world-renowned cycling mecca) who thought they were badasses riding up the mountain tuck tail and look away when they saw our gear and realized we were climbing the sandstone cliffs above them; sorry gals and guys, but climbing is the sport of Kings and Queens…cycling is that of lesser nobility. 

    Alright, on a heavier note, this trip meant so much to me not because it was some specious attempt to reclaim lost youth, but because it reminded me I am still young and nimble and able to adapt and change. I’m nearly thirty, yet I was able to cast off for a week of climbing, no showers, no real internet connection. I found delight in the basic joy of sleeping when I wanted to, eating when I wanted to, and climbing just to climb. A tangent on the climbing itself: I pushed myself to climb some pretty runnout trad lines (for my mental and physical ability) where I was able to shift my focus from the fear of a forty foot fall to the movement and holds which would get me safely to the next rest for gear. I recall getting off my first lead of the trip to hear one of the guys laughing… “dude there was one point were we all thought you were going to peel off and fall for about 30 feet, good job staying on!” I’m glad I stayed on, and I’m glad I was able to keep my head cool and not back off a climb that albeit scary, was definitely within my ability as a budding leader.

    I believe we all need trips like this, where we focus on the purity of one activity, but don’t get bogged down on a specific order or itinerary. Where we cast off all the electronic ties of the everyday, while connecting IN PERSON with other human beings but still enjoy solitude and silence in the wild. Where we pick an objective that keeps us up and claws at the back of our minds while we try to sleep on a pad that’s way too thin and, when we finally find ourselves at the start, we go for it and carry doubt along with us as a silent passenger which we neglect through a positive focus. Best- spring- break- ever!

On the Joys of Doing Nothing

“It is surely beyond a doubt that people should be a good deal idle in youth….most boys pay so dear for their medals that they never afterwards have a shot in their locker, and begin the world bankrupt.”

“Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life.”

                        -Robert Louis Stevenson
                        “An Apology for Idlers”


    I had the realization when I woke up naturally with the sunlight beaming through the widows, completely refreshed, sans alarm, that nary a day-off has gone by since early December when I wasn’t climbing, snowboarding, or traveling to see family. Wow. It’s quite ironic; That I’ve been so busy living and feeling alive, now to the point where I’ve also been feeling run down, stale and sick. I think the flu finally hit me, even though my strict IPA and vitamin regimen seemed to be working flawlessly. But, seeing the good in this, I realized I needed a day or two to chill and focus on doing nothing. In fact, I decided to peruse an old favorite, Robert Louis Stevenson’s “An Apology for Idlers.” Yes, you heard it right, a defense of doing nothing!

    Years ago, as a zealous, insanely busy undergrad, I told a professor this essay was a “croc of shit,” no foolin’ I really did, and not even in a more articulate retort. But now, a little more banged up, tired, and generally worldly (both physically and emotionally), I’m starting to get at the core of this pithy little gem of an essay. I really dig what Stevey (You think he’d let me call him that in person?) was trying to proselytize. I decided to take it seriously today, and studiously set about scraping all planned workouts, planned reading, and “general” plans in general.

    I cruised the longboard down the boardwalk instead, and then just relaxed in the warm sand, fully exploiting the 80 degree SD weather. I read some Steinbeck with barely a modicum of attention- I’ll be starting it over again when I switch back to a more studious frame of mind later this week. I did ten minutes of half assed yoga and then decided to go for a walk when concentration eluded me, or a I just stopped caring to concentrate; one of the two. And, finally, I took another walk at sunset on the Sunset Cliffs in OB. This is where it really came together… I left the ipod in the car and just perambulated, to use a contemporary word from the author’s time. I realized that not having a schedule or deadline, especially for the fun, get busy livin’, YOLO stuff was just as liberating as if snowboarding and climbing had been a management meeting or a dentist appointment. It got me thinking about how important moderation is, so the fun stuff stays fun and liberating.

I’ll close with a  final quote:

“He may pitch on some tuft of lilacs over a burn, and smoke innumerable pipes to the tune of the water on the stones. A bird will sing in the thicket. And there he may fall into a vein of kindly thought, and see things in a new perspective. Why, if this be not education, what is?”


    I’m still singularly obsessed with climbing. And snowboarding is a good mental break when I’m tired of contemplating the heinous injuries some lead fall might precipitate, but I’m going to be more refreshed and ready to go after these two days spent in idleness. Always keep in mind that there can be too much of a good thing, and enjoy moderation, even if it’s forced. Thanks Stevey for the insight!

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!

Brooding

Alright, it’s a shift in tone for sure with this one, stay with me as I‘m in a pensive mood tonight…


I remember how useful Freud was in grad school for papers. Most of his work could EASILY be applied for those late night term papers where you happened to be short a source or two for your bibliography. All convenience aside, one theory that always resonated with me was his examination of Rolland’s “Oceanic Feeling” from Civilization and its Discontents. Religious vitriol aside, perhaps it was the most basic notion that we all need to feel in opposition to, or in harmony with, something that is greater than ourselves which I really grasped onto and kept in my mind. I still think about this quite often when I’m outside, with a good friend, or when I think of my formative years when my parents were infallible. Lately, it seems like finding this feeling, and the comfort (or trepidation) that comes with it has become more problematic.

For a long time in my life, since reading the Great Gatsby in freshman year of high school to be precise, I had the drive to teach English as a college professor. Somewhere along the way that was high jacked by the truly amazing, genuine people I met working at the Co-Op, and most days that’s exactly what I need to feel content; working with rad people who are truly worldly and beneficent. Every so often, however, I have one of those nights where I wonder what if and start to miss my program, the papers, and even the class presentations. Tonight is one of those nights. Work isn’t giving me that feeling, and it’s one of those rare dreary nights when climbing wet rock or riding muddy trails doesn’t sound that appealing. So, with no option for dilatory pursuits, I sit and brood over what I could have done. Some days are tough like this I guess, and you just have to roll with it!

I wrote the above text about a week ago, and I've decided to publish it as, within a day, I had swung back to my typically tireless optimism. We all go through an ebb and flow and this one was my own. Keep in mind that while we often are adrift in periods of self doubt, the things that mean the most to us become more apparent when we look back and see how they keep us centered in life- All it took was a good solo bike ride! I figure it will be good to look back on this to remember the low points, and their brevity...

Keats' Negative Capability or: On Being a Dirtbag Climber

Sometimes I sit back after a long day and experience that habitual thought that often comes around sunset of “if I could do it all again…” Tonight the sentence was completed with “I’d have studied the Romantic poets thoroughly and been one of those ‘hot’ professors on ratemyprofessor.com.” Seriously though, aside from my hubris about that chili pepper next to my profile, I really do think I would have made a damn good professor, mostly because I would swear a lot and make their radical behavior resonate  with my students. I mean, I already have an entry on here where I posit that they were bellwether adrenaline junkies. In fact, I’m kinda tempted to write a paper on the thesis just to exercise my mind.

But I digress- this particular evening I was reading one of John Keats’ letters to his brothers where he discusses “negative capability.” What? Never heard of it? Trying to wikipedia it as we speak? I’ll save you the trouble and give you the ubiquitous excerpt from the letter: Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason…” simple, right? Just accept phenomena and experiences as beautiful and don’t try to analyze it all away to a theory. As I reflected on the letter, which I’ve read several times since Grad School, I realized how well it complemented my experiences, and my mindset, during my week-long climbing road trip through Tahoe and Mammoth. So sit back, strap in, and enjoy (or criticize) some of my meditations from a week on the road pretending to be a dirt bag climber.

Alright, a little background here. The seven days I spent in early August driving the 395 was the direct result of my boss chastising me for carrying over a month of vacation time; yep, I was TOLD I needed to take a vacation, and had no idea how badly I had needed one until I had turned off my phone, turned up the radio and hit the road. It speaks a lot for your work when you get in trouble for NOT taking a holiday… we need more of that in the Corporate American zeitgeist! Workaholism be dammed, my buddy Gavin and I planned almost the entire trip while at a hanging belay that spring out in Big Bear. I would already be up in Tahoe for a wedding, so we just decided to meet up at Lover’s Leap, send some lines there and then drive wherever we damn well pleased.

It was one of the most uncomfortable starts to a climb I’ve ever experienced. I had started the weekend beset by decorum and ritual as a wedding guest at a large wedding where I knew very few of the people involved. I had exhausted my “thank yous,” “what do you dos,” and other platitudes of small talk. I had hidden the fact that I spent the morning before the wedding curled up in the fetal position in a meadow outside of a coffee house throwing up the $300 tequila that custom and politeness dictated I had to drink as a guest during the pre-wedding festivities. And now, I was literally sitting between two dudes arguing over the efficacy of double ropes at a semi-hanging belay station 400 feet off the ground. Gavin and Wayne had been climbing for almost 3 days non-stop and their nerves were pretty raw, along with their patience. Not the best way to start my trip but, in some sick way, it was still fun…even when you look at how fucked up our anchor was (see above photo)- definitely glad nothing went wrong on that one!

That afternoon Wayne left, and the tension seemed to lift. Gavin and I hadn’t been climbing and camping together for any period of time yet, thus we weren’t contemplating clubbing each other with a #4 camalot. I led my second trad lead the next morning, a 5.6 called “Knapsack Crack,” and then we headed over to get on “Bear’s Reach,” a classic TM Herbert line that a couple people have died on. I spent the night before brooding in the tent, hoping that the rain would get worse and give us an excuse to skip it, but there we were! In retrospect, what a treat it was. “Bears” was quintessential rock climbing, like the kind you dream of as a kid reading National Geographic magazines. The whole thing was dead vertical with beautiful movement and positive holds. Like Keats said, just live in the uncertainties and doubts, don’t overanalyze anything or any danger. Accept where you are and that you’ve come there of your own volition, absorb the experience like a sponge, live, and then move on. The route was a real treat that I hope to go back and swing leads on someday.

Getting restless with the area, we moved on south towards Tuolumne after we jammed our gear into every presentable crevice in the Prius. It was almost farcical, just how much stuff we had piled into that car and the disparity between the intended purpose of our gear and the economical banality of a hybrid hatchback. Tuolumne was anything but a bucolic playground, we never made it past the hundred car line just to enter the park. Instead we flipped a bitch in the middle of the “parking lot” line and headed down to Mammoth. As luck would have it, we stumbled upon a recently vacated campsite right next to Lake Mary and our alpine objective for the next day, Crystal Crag.

Within fifteen minutes of being in Mammoth, I had concluded it was a rad town; I could live there! The campsite, however, was full of families that we regularly offended with our swearing, our drinking, and our general need to point out all the pragmatic steps to camping that clearly eluded them and their not-so-keen common sense. The dude next to us was an LA county firefighter…his family ended up being fined and asked to leave because they couldn’t even succeed in dowsing their campfire in the mornings, not to mention the guy nearly chopped off his friggin’ finger because he didn’t know how to use an axe! Somehow the years of fire academy must have been lost on him? Even more humorous was the morning we were the only people who slept through a “terrifying” bear encounter. READ: The bear sniffed someone’s open bear box and plopped down next to a tree to scratch itself. Anticlimactic for sure.

The climbing at Mammoth was in complete opposition to our circus-like camping situation. We climbed the North Arête of Crystal crag. It was super classic and a couple times I could have fooled myself into thinking I was climbing in the alps. The rock itself is equally amazing, and Gavin was freaking out and gopro-ing not the climb, but the cool quartz band that he dubbed “superman’s island thingy,” like in the old movies. We traversed the ridge to the true summit, and I freaked out and cursed the gods on the heinous (apparently) 4th class walk off. I unofficially named it the death walk off and have decided I would gladly leave some gear and rap that rotting granite trough than walk/slide off the thing again. Gavin just laughed at me. We finished out our trip with some sport climbing and, just so my hipster friends don’t feel left out, a single boulder problem.

The trip ended abruptly when I finally reached my mental breaking point on “Finger Lockin’ good,” a classic route on Mammoth Crest. After seven days of continuous climbing, my body was a little banged up, but my mind was absolutely destroyed. Even Keats, or beer, couldn’t calm me down and I sat at another belay while Gavin lead a thin finger seam that had bad news written all over it- a fall factor two, but luckily he pulled through it. I unceremoniously announced my surrender and said I wanted the hell off. We got down and jetted back to Orange county that night, all the while still decompressing from the sensory overload of the week. In keeping consistent with surreal shifts in mindset, that night I came home reeking from a week of camping, climbing, and bad hygiene into a house full of drunk old people. It felt odd to clean up and drink wine in the security of a patio chair after so many dubious belay stations and awkward movements that could have resulted in a fall. The trip started with a wedding and ended with a grilling of how are sales, etc, etc from my Uncle and Father, the consummate businessmen. All the while they sipped their wine and reminisced over corporate shenanigans and victories in their glory days and expected me to play along and take my place in that ritual of American upper-middle-class manhood.

In that moment I felt a nagging sense of discomfort as if I didn’t belong but, in all absurdity, I knew this was my family. It was something more oblique than that, and it didn’t materialize into something palpable until this evening when I sat down with Keats to read some letters and bitchin’ poetry. That’s when I realized that both of these events that beset my trip, and my work life that circumvents my days off and vacations, only helped to magnify the sense of accomplishment, wonder and rejuvenation that holistically materialized while I lived purposefully, simply, and without the reductive judgments we are constantly forced to make in modern existence. Keats himself once wrote “O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts,” I don’t think I could find a more pithy way to sum up my trip. So, my final thoughts: Live in uncertainties and doubts, knowing full well that if you embrace them and accept the dangers (physical or emotional) rather than defaulting to scrutinizing every wonder, fear, or love into oblivion, ad absurdum, ad infinitum, you will feel alive. Get outside!

Spring! And why dudes who’ve been dead for 600 years matter!

Spring is fast approaching! The sun is slowly starting to burn me again when I forget sun block. My atrocious cycling tan lines are returning. I feel like being on the ocean and adrift in the swells with a good brew. Spring. It’s bursting with nothing but promise for some epic trips, terrifying but refreshingly new experiences, and equally epic moments. Though lately, I’ll candidly admit, I haven’t been at my best. So, as usual when I’m disappointed with myself, I fall back on something familiar to remind me of who I am and what I value. This morning I found myself over-caffeinated and perusing Chaucer’s General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales. It sounds like quite a stretch right? Yet, that often quoted opening passage is not only wonderful, but quite apropos in describing the current state of my life, and also that little buzzing we all get in the back of our head when we smell the Jasmine blooming which tells us, “Go and play outdoors, do some crazy shit, and add some more scars to the canvas!” I’d say that alone merits a mention in the blog.

***DISCLAIMER*** For those of you that had this passage crammed down your throat by rote learning in grammar school, I’m sorry for conjuring up bad memories of evil teachers. For those of you pissed at me for not offering a translation, TOO BAD! Spend some time and figure it out, as most things worth learning or doing are not easy (or take the “millennial” way out and just Wikipedia that shit! Sad but true. Ha ha!).

Whan that Aprill with his shoures sote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne;
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye-
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Than longen folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes….

Ok, I guess I have to explain myself now, given that it has been over 600 years since this was written and I need to convince y’all that it’s still relevant. Here goes, stay with me. I happened to notice the smell of Jasmine one warm night while at my friend’s house. We talked about how it reminded us of Spring and, even though we grew up a hundred miles apart and never knew each other until recently, I’m sure at least some of our memories overlap. Mine are of Chino Hills, stars, building bike jumps, crashing, not wearing helmets when I promised my parents I would, boogie boarding, beach runs, sunburns, camping, the ocean, beer and good stories. She and I could both tell that Spring and Summer were on the way by the life in bloom. Give Chaucer 1 point there!

Spring also makes me ambitious. I might not feel like heading down to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, but I sure as hell have some plans for this season! I definitely want to travel to “strange shores.” I have some grand plans for last-minute road trips over a long weekend. I’d like to get out and do some longer paddles on my SUP board. I want to learn to surf, keep up on a skateboard, and maybe even jump out of a fucking plane. Nature has definitely pricked up my courage and ambition, and I hope it does for all of you too! I’d say Mr. Chaucer is spot-on again.

Chaucer’s pithy opening passage is wonderful in the sense that it has been written over and over and over again in the last six centuries, and written centuries before too. It’s constantly rewritten and relived when the days get warmer and longer by all of us. Chaucer’s panegyric to Spring reminds me that my life is most fulfilled when I’m outside with good friends. I hope some of you take the time to read a great narrative by a rad dude who died in 1400... or at least get outside and get some new scars. Happy Spring!