Ode to The Crested Butte Townie

A version of this piece is published in the Summer 2013 issue of Crested Butte Magazine. It's an honor to be a part of that wonderful publication again.

Stoked to visit Crested Butte on Friday, July 5th for a book reading from Climbing Out of Bed at Rumor's Tea and Coffeehouse/Townie Books. The book is also available for sale there now!

Once they are awakened from winter hibernation, the townies rule Crested Butte. In no other place on God’s green earth are they respected more than here. Watch how they command traffic: a seasoned CB driver will slow down from their already crawling pace to let one cross the street, waving the townie on to its destination. Its as if the normal rules of our industrial society were flipped upside down. Human powered transportation is given priority. Nearly everyone has one, some use their townies more often than their cars. Certainly within town limits CB is better experienced at the slow pace of the townie.

Some are a bit flashy; others are equal art and mode of transportation. The best will stop someone dead in their tracks, to just admire its uniqueness and beauty. Some townies barely function for more than the few blocks they are needed. Rarely locked, even in front of a bar, which increases the chances it might be stolen, and they are occasionally stolen, followed by a plea in the newspaper to be returned. And, they are even often returned, found discarded by the drunk in someone’s yard, who may know the owner, or read the plea in the paper and recognize it. This is a connected community, and the townie is one connection we all share.

Like many who are a part of this community, I don’t actually live in Crested Butte. I used to, but even when I did CB was basecamp to bigger adventures, to the backyard, the rocks and the trails. A couple years ago, my last summer living in CB, I saw the townie in a different light, that of the night.

With some friends we’d signed up for the 24 hour Bridges of the Butte endurance townie extravaganza. This was an extreme idea; see how many laps around Crested Butte you could do in the hours of a single day. Our warm up was the Chainless Race that took place earlier in the week, an equally insane event involving a couple hundred costumed freaks, descending seven miles into town without a single stroke of a pedal. Physically it might have turned out to be much of a warm up, but metaphysically it was.

 Our team was the Chihuahua Chasers, named after a harrowing incident where we chased a tiny dog around the town of Gunnison for several hours as it cheated death by running across the highway and nearly every major intersection of town. We draped ourselves in costumes, and assembled several townies that we hoped could last for several laps around town.

The daytime laps were fun, being cheered on by bystanders, fueling our stoke for this ridiculous test of stamina. The nighttime laps were unforgettable, bikes lit up like spaceships, not recalling what lap we were on, and not caring because what mattered was our presence on the townies, and the stars looking on in approval.

Our team traded townies, and my personal favorite was a lowrider, borrowed from a friend of a friend, mine for the moment, smooth flowing, sitting comfortably in the saddle, I felt like a kid lost in play, enjoying the simple pleasure of riding a bike for what it is, one of man’s finest inventions.

On the east side of the course, where there were no houses, and the town turns into dirt roads heading to the mountain, another crew had stopped. Decked in a hundred lights with townies of all variations they had obviously spent some time preparing for this moment. A small stereo played tunes that softly serenaded us more into the moment. It was a classic moment, very out of this world, but very Crested Butte. No words needed to be exchanged; we just soaked it in, and then pedaled some more. 

The full Crested Butte Magazine can be read for free online, or in the printed version found everywhere in Crested Butte. 

The Modern Man's Hustle

This piece appears in the La Vida Local section of today's Durango Telegraph. 

I have a confession to make: bookstores make me feel insecure. Well, at least until two weeks ago they did. Ever since I started being published as a writer, ten plus years ago, I’ve had a strange feeling, ever increasing throughout the years, about the fact that when I walked into a bookstore or library I didn’t have a book of my own on the shelves.

That all changed when I finally got my first book, Climbing Out of Bed, onto the shelves of Maria’s Bookshop and the Durango Public Library a couple weeks ago. I feel like I finally lost my literary virginity, and when I walked into Maria’s the other day and saw my book, well, it was a first time I’ll never forget.

Bob Dylan once said, “there’s no success like failure and failure’s no success at all.” Of course Dylan, he said it all, and along with some of my other favorite artists: Jack Kerouac, Ed Abbey, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, John Long and Jay-Z, I realized long ago there was nothing new under the sun. If I were to become an artist myself it would only be through imitation, after the first artist, only the copyist.

I had the dream about my book a decade ago, and mostly used it as a conversation piece while flirting with girls. I was a climbing bum, who wrote every once and a while, calling myself a writer, but hardly dedicated. Girls seem to be impressed by my aspirations, but I only really got serious about writing when I had tendonitis and couldn’t climb full-time anymore, stranded in Salt Lake City, Utah for a winter. I decided to start applying for a full-time job as a writer.  

I eventually landed a gig with my alma mater up at Western State, in Gunnison, writing public relations stories for the college, learning that writing nearly every day is the only way you’ll ever make it as a writer. I had access to all sorts of academic types that had been published, and saw the vision of my dream coming to fruition, if I really wanted to write a book I could make it happen with dedication and discipline.

The ironic thing about my situation: my co-workers were some of the same ones that mentored (and tormented) me through those awkward young twenty-something years of college. My brother has this theory that when a young man is say, 20 years old, he is like a one year old puppy. The puppy may look like a full-grown dog, but he is just stumbling around, making a mess, and making mistakes along the way, until he learns how to be a dog. I couldn’t agree more, at least for my own former self.

Looking back more, perhaps my greatest collegiate accomplishment was an English class I got an F in. No joke, it was called Bob Dylan 301, an entire semester of studying Bob Dylan’s work. I loved the idea of getting credit for listening to Dylan, but didn’t exactly enjoy having to analyze another writer’s work, I never have. I’d rather create my own art than analyze another’s.

Instead of dropping out, I just stopped going, hence the F. I later joked with the professor of the course when we were colleagues, “You know Bob Dylan would have been proud of me to get an F in that course.”

Without hesitation he replied, “I think you’re right,” with a big grin.

About seven years ago I compiled a list of drafts for my book, untitled, unorganized, but a draft nonetheless. One summer I managed to get into a writer’s conference at Western State for free, and one professor who had been brought in to instruct at the conference was particularly impressed with the way I wrote words. “I work these writing conferences all summer,” he said. “Usually most of the people don’t belong here, I’d say only one percent are actually going to make it as writers. You are part of that one percent.”

Ego swelled. I went on to pitch him on my book. (The professor had twenty-some books published.) It would be a collection of climbing and mountain town stories, covering topics ranging from buildering (climbing buildings) to couch surfing. He quickly replied back, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. It won’t work.” Ego deflated.

My dream of getting my book done only came to fruition when I left the 9-5 gig. Like Forest Gump’s mom said, “God works in mysterious ways,” I had to leave my writing job to truly write what I was destined to create. After two years of solid work on the book, writing and editing every day I wasn’t on a climbing trip, I finally had a draft. Then the process of pitching to publishers began.

Writing a book is one thing, getting it published is another ball game. It’s like getting into a nightclub when you’re not wearing the right clothes, or with the right people. If you’re a dirtbag-climbing bum-writer like myself you have to sneak in the back door.

I do have some connections in the publishing world, mostly with magazines, and I solicited each and every one for advice. They gave a surprisingly short list of companies that publish writing from the climbing culture. I submitted my manuscript the most recommended first, and after four months of waiting got my first ever rejection letter, on Valentine’s Day! I was single that particular V-Day, adding to the sting. Ouch. After submitted to a couple more publishers and getting rejected, I eventually decided to self-publish.

I discovered that back door is increasingly open, and all types of new technology are making it easier and easier (not to mention financially feasible) to self-publish. The process wasn’t easy, but the story has a happy ending, and my dream was finally realized.

Being a writer is something I have to do now, rather than something I’m trying to become. It’s in my blood and if I go a little while without writing, I’m simply not myself. Just ask those close to me. In the end, that’s the reward, my work doesn’t feel like work most of the time. 

Like usual I’m struggling how to wrap up my La Vida Local for the month, so I’ll leave you with some words from another artist, Macklemore, who after years of struggling, finally made it in the hip-hop world, in his own way, without the support of a major label, “A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”

Book Tour and the Dirtbag State of Mind Gear

Though I feel like I'm late to do this, and I've already imagined it for years, my first book tour is about to happen in less than one week. My stoke-o-meter is just getting started, and I'm anxious and excited to present my first book, Climbing Out of Bed, in a real and tangible way.

Yup people that are this stiked will be at the presentations!

It has been available as an e-book for almost a year now, but its fresh off the press with regards to the printed version. It is cool to have an e-book and the technology is great to have the work available on e-readers, but something is missing if a book is only available electronically: the human connection. We cannot virtually make love, or experience nature in front of a computer; the best things in life will be the pastimes, the things that were great a thousand years ago will still be greater than any electronic or virtual experience. Just a thought, I am so psyched to interact with an audience on the Western Slope of Colorado during this first stint of the Climbing Out of Bed book tour. This land is where I found my passions and reasons to live, and to present my book in Durango, Gunnison and Telluride will be a dream come true. Here's the information about the events, as well as a link to our new "Dirtbag State of Mind" gear via Adayak. Mallory Logan designed this logo, inspired by Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" and people have been loving it. I do too. Everything from Adayak is 100% organic cotton, good style and good karma!

See you on the road, and if you can't make it to this part of the book tour, I plan on hitting up more places in Colorado, Utah, and beyond this year...word!

Tuesday, May 21st at 6:30, Maria's Bookshop, Durango, Colorado 

Thursday, May 23rd at 7:00, The Firebrand, Gunnison, Colorado. Sponsored by Deuter and the American Alpine Club

Sunday, May 26th from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., Mountain Film Reading Frenzy in Telluride, Colorado

Check out the "Dirtbag State of Mind" on Adayak! 

Writing and Raining, Yurt Living

When I want to write and I cannot I am not myself. I’m not talking about writer’s block here, writer’s block is a hint to take a break, do something else, or dig deeper; there is no such thing as writer’s block, it is an illusion.

I am talking about not having the time, or space to write. This has been my issue the last few days, but here I am, at a new house sitting gig, a yurt more specifically, and I have the time and space to write.

Writing is exercise, an art that comes to fruition when one is destined and dedicated. One of the most important ingredients though is something to write about, experience. I think that is why it may be foolish to study writing in college if you have not experienced much. A better bet may be to take a year off and move to another country, or ramble our own countryside, doing what you love: playing music, writing poetry, climbing rocks, floating rivers, or skiing mountains, etcetera.

Where I am, at this yurt, just outside of Durango, the rain is coming down, and my thoughts are centering, forming onto this page (screen). Rain is a blessing in the desert, and its timing is perfect. We are nothing without rain.

Living is simple on this seven acre piece of property. Each amount of energy is thought of as it is used. The water tank has only so much water, the computer can only be used when the generator is fired up, and candles are used for lighting. It is romantic. We get our eggs from the chickens, not the store, and have to feed the other animals (donkeys, sheep, cats, dog and the llama) twice a day. I am falling into a groove with this place and falling in love.

I am trying to turn my life into one where I can eat based on what I write. What a privilege that is. I am not there yet, but I am getting closer and closer. Closer to living the dream. I write my dreams and I write my experiences. The rain continues to fall, as I slip deeper and deeper into the moment, the groove, my destiny. What is yours? 

A Mexican Wedding, Tufa Limestone, and Airport Benightments

(This article appears in today's Durango Teelgraph.)

Sometimes the best way for me to realize how much I love Durango is to leave it. I’m writing these words, right up to deadline, from the lovely Denver International Airport (DIA) after a cozy night of sleep on the floor, surrounded by flustered travelers, socked in by a late spring snowstorm.

These are far from ideal writing conditions, I typically prefer a quiet room with a hot cup of tea to compose my prose, but alas deadlines are deadlines, and at least I’ve got an adventure to reflect upon.

My last four days were spent near Monterrey, Mexico, attending the wedding two dear friends, and sampling some of the finest climbing I’ve ever seen in my fifteen years of searching God’s green earth for vertical adventures.

I worked hard and saved my pennies all winter long for this one. I renewed my passport, which blew my mind to recall that it has been ten years since my first international travelling experience that changed my life when I helped build a small concrete house in Nicaragua for a family in need. On that trip I learned when one gives a gift he also receives something in return. Also, I learned that roosters don’t simply crow in the morning.

I’ve always had good luck with plane travel and that ended with this adventure. With more delays and missed flights than I care to write about my first night I found myself sleeping on the floor of the Houston airport, devising an archaic sleeping arrangement involving a backpack, a climbing rope, and a light sleeping bag. At six in the morning I was hungry and trying to resist the sweet smell of coffee, a habit I’ve recently given up. I ate some food and listened to a good ol’ boy Texan complain to strangers about not being able to bring ammunition on the plane. Only in Texas.

Eventually I flew into Monterrey in the morning, greeted by my friends at the airport, ninety-degree temperatures and a woozy state of mind. We drove to the town of Hidalgo, where my friend Mark spends his winter climbing and guiding, and had a few lazy hours soaking in the heat at his casa.

Hidalgo is small town Mexico, straight out of the movies. Everyone moves slow, and it feels like walking back in time. People smile and wave. The main form of industry is a cement factory and the two thousand foot limestone walls of El Potrero Chico loom in the distance. Our first move is food, always food, we spend a modest amount of pesos on lunch, 40 tamales for the three of us, and then like climbers do, make our way to the cliffs.

It’s a short drive on a slightly bumpy dusty road. Mining is evident on the cliffs just before the park. We talk about the mass murder that happened just months before. Seventeen people from the band, Kombo Kolumbia were taken from a bar in Hidalgo and were beheaded, their bodies dumped in a nearby water well. As we drive into the canyon Mark points out the bar, one he was warned awhile back to never go to.

We are the only climbers in this limestone paradise, and it feels like having our own Yosemite, all to ourselves. Trash and graffiti litter the canyon floor, as my mind adjusts to how nature is treated in Mexico. I feel dead to the world and struggle up the hike, as limestone swirls above me. Two slender towers to the left, and an eight hundred foot wall of orange and white stripes to the right, which we set up under and prepare to climb. The first climb is awkward and I feel like an instrument that is out of tune. Something amazing happens after our warmup, I am inspired to try a route at my limit, and I come alive. I am the climb, one hundred percent in the moment, and my body and mind are tuned. More friends from The States arrive and the fiesta begins.

After some more climbing the next day it was time to prepare for the wedding. We drive back into Monterrey. Forget murder, climbing, poisonous snakes and spiders, driving in Mexico feels like the most dangerous part. Stop signs are ignored, and the shoulder is always being used to drive on; it feels like a collective insanity.

The wedding is up in the hills, where the temperatures are cooler, there’s less trash, and it generally feels like paradise. Mark and his bride Norma are married in a small, quaint Catholic Church. Mark is one of the biggest dirtbags I know and to see him move into this lifestyle is serene. Tears are cried, happiness is abundant and soon it is time to party.

This was not a destination wedding, everything was authentic. The band rocks the house for five hours and all sorts of rituals are performed. I dance hand in hand with strangers, take shots of tequila, drink pina coladas, and generally get wild. Mark and Norma are decorated from head to toe in colorful costume. Hats, balloons and kazoos are handed out to the crowd. Later the band organizes a kissing contest between the bride and groom.

The next day climbing again on our minds. Mark takes us to a newly discovered cave. It is the coolest climbing area I’ve ever seen. Stalactites and tufas dangle from the overhanging limestone wall, some twenty feet long as if held on by some mystic prayer. Hung over, but psyched as could be we climb until dusk. It is my last day and I wish for more time.

The journey home goes well until the snowstorm hits Denver. We get on the plane, only to sit there for two hours and have to de-plane. I’m dreaming of being in the arms of my ladyfriend, but alas I’m destined for another night on the floor of an airport. I try to keep my cool and manage to do so, after all, life is but a dream, and now my greatest dream is to be back in Durango. 

More Airport Reflections

Seven hours into a layover in the Denver International Airport with an unplanned bivy ahead of me (that's climber speak for sleeping somewhere unexpected) these are some things I've seen and noticed. I'm stoked to arrive at my destination of Monterrey, Mexico for my dear friends Mark and Norma's wedding. 

An old woman tells me her story
An unexpected landing in another place other than my destination
Finally, we arrive in Denver, my plane long gone
Tickets rebooked, time to chill, kill

Snow falls in April
It's always winter somewhere in Colorado

A young black man pushes an old white woman in a wheelchair
People get their shoes shined, I've never owned shoes that needed to be shined

The New Belgium Brewery restaurant is a haven for lunch
A brief intoxication of one beer
I don't crave any more
I eat really bad Chinese food for dinner

I dream of the woman I've been loving lately

I people watch and think how did we kill time without these glowing rectangles

I watch TV shows, movies and read newspaper headlines
Here today, gone tomorrow

The most fascinating sight of all
A kids basketball team in wheelchairs
One kid has only one full arm, no legs
They are smiling tossing two basketballs between the eight of them
They are smiling more than any of the other travellers I've seen
So much of life is perspective

The next plane is here
I'll sleep terribly tonight
I hate sleeping in airports
But the sweet reward: climbing tomorrow in a Mexican limestone paradise
Then on Saturday a wedding of two people who love one another,
and friends who love one another, and more new friends to meet
The pie in the sky leads somewhere...

My Book is Now a Real Book!

Last night I got the final proof of my book, Climbing Out of Bed, and it is now available in print! So stoked about this! It's been available as an e-book for awhile, but its much more meaningful to have it available as a real book.

Here's the link for the book in print, and I'll be doing a small book tour in Colorado this late May, starting with Maria's Bookshop in Durango on Tuesday, May 21st and The Firebrand in Gunnison on Thursday, May 23rd. More dates to be announced.

Thanks for the support everyone!

peace,
Luke