Thoughts on Mexico

This piece is published in today's Durango Telegraph. I plan on doing some more research about the alliance between the three Durangos in Colorado, Spain and Mexico. 

A while back I read an article in the Durango Herald about an alliance created between the three Durangos: our beloved city, Spain and Mexico. From the tone of the piece it sounds like the communication has gone by the wayside, but it got me thinking of my own connection to our neighbors down south.

            My travels to Latin America began with a three-week trip to Costa Rica and Nicaragua before the start of my senior year in college up in Gunnison. We volunteered, surfed, partied and rambled, seeing the lush, tropical countryside and returned with a changed view of the world, and a new appreciation for some of the simple luxuries we have as Middle Class Americans. I also realized I’d probably never make another international trip that didn’t involve rock climbing.

            A couple years later a January trip was planned to El Potrero Chico, Mexico, a climbing area located just a few hours south of Laredo, Texas. When we were alerted to a travel advisory warning in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico we almost bailed, but we ended up making the journey. What a revelation: only a day’s drive from Colorado was a dangerous, almost lawless land, with endless limestone, and prices just right for a dirtbag.

One climbing partner was scared of spiders, the other of snakes, and I was scared of everything. Their fears could have made for some good practical jokes, but nothing could have topped the real life situation, when my amigo who was deathly afraid of spiders hiked for an hour with a tarantula in his shoe, nestled under his arch. The whole hike he complained about his shoe feeling weird, and when he finally took it off he discovered the tarantula, screaming and sending an aftershock of terror so loud they could hear it up north in Estados Unidos.

            When we reached the border town of Nuevo Laredo, we somberly saw all the memorial crosses along the Rio Grande River, those that lost their lives crossing the border, trying to seek a better one. I may not have understood the complicated relationship between the U.S and Mexico any better, but I felt a sadness indicating some things are wrong and need to be improved.

            I kept returning to Mexico, each time getting more comfortable there, despite the fact that my Spanish wasn’t getting any better, and the drug war was getting worse. The border has the vibe of a war zone, but the hills are tranquillo, in small towns locals smile and wave, a universal language.

            Each time I get back to the United States after being in Mexico, something that was once old is again new. Sometimes it’s the grandeur of our grocery stores, other times it’s the realization that I won’t have to bribe the police if I’m pulled over. Occasionally it’s noticing that our Jesus just isn’t as sexy as the Mexican Jesus.

I appreciate the land we live in more with each visit. On those long drives home, headed north through the flat desert of Texas into New Mexico, I’ve tried to imagine what it would be like to make the decision to enter the U.S. in search of a better life, or to improve my economic status to provide for a family. As time goes by I know I could have that question answered because I have a few friends that have lived that journey, and also several co-workers.

Someday I’ll ask, but for now I just wonder. I’ll wonder about a former co-worker, a dishwasher who lived and worked in the U.S. for six years away from his family. As a longtime dish-diver myself I studied the guy, and found him to be the most Zen of all divers, working 60 hour weeks and always had a most positive attitude. Despite my terrible Spanish and his broken English we became friends, and our conversations usually involved cervesas, chicas and mota. Now he’s back in Mexico, reunited with his family and hopefully living like a king.

I’ve yet to do any more international travel beyond Mexico, as a creature of habit I just return again and again. I’m in love with the limestone, and mysterious nature of the country, and still scared of its unstable and unpredictable tendencies; standing close enough to dream, yet still escaping soon enough that some of the darker realities never quite sink in, walking that fine line between tourist and traveller. 

The Underwear Modeling Story Part 2

This is the second installment in the saga of my dream to become an underwear model. It should be posted up on Patagonia's blog sometime in the near future, but here's a sneak peak. 

word. 

When a dream is achieved a new level of consciousness can be entered. During a recent recent road trip, full of California dreaming, I achieved two personal dreams: climbing El Capitan in Yosemite, and becoming an underwear model for Patagonia.

            Both dreams were mere sparks at first. Any climber that sees El Capitan considers climbing it, if they could, and if they ever would. The first time I saw El Cap I wanted to go home and forget about climbing, the mere sight of it revealed my most inner doubts and fears; at the same time it was an object of beautiful desire, engaging and impossible to forget. Over the last decade plus Yosemite’s walls have allured me back time and time again, and after ten trips and two previous failures on El Cap, last September I finally climbed the Salathe Wall, with my dear friend Dave Ahrens.

El Capitan

            It was the best of times kind of climb, with the perceived fear worse than the actual fear, and off-widths so humbling even the grade of 5.7 was intimidating. At one point I found myself hanging on a #6 Camalot in a 5.7 pitch known as The Ear. I would nominate this pitch for consideration of ‘Hardest 5.7 on The Planet.’

            After succeeding on our lifetime goal Dave and I had a couple of days in Yosemite to loiter and be thankful for the fruits of the horizontal. We participated in the Yosemite Facelift cleanup with our local homies Mark Grundon and Scott Borden, and both agreed that picking up trash was probably the only thing we were capable of after the physical, emotional and mental intensity of El Cap.

            I may not be much of a climber, but I love it, and to have achieved that dream to climb El Cap left me in a state of contentment, almost. There was still one dream I wanted to realize in Yosemite, my dream to become an underwear model for Patagonia.

             This dream, first suggested to me by my friend Amber Jeck, originally seemed just as improbable as climbing El Capitan. (For the full backstory read The Underwear Story here http://www.thecleanestline.com/2012/01/the-underwear-story.html.) I mean an underwear model is the king of all male models right?

            My dream seemed like a joke for years, a conversation piece at parties, something I thought I’d talk about forever, but never get to actually do. That all changed last year when Patagonia published the story about my underwear dream on The Cleanest Line, which is an excerpt from my book, Climbing Out of Bed. Shortly after this my buddy Shaun Matusewicz started an online petition for me to fulfill my dream, which motivated me to write a formal request to Patagonia. To my delight, they thought I had what it takes to be an underwear model, and agreed that I could indeed model their undies!

            The only catch was that I needed to visit the Patagonia headquarters in Ventura, California to do the shoot. I live in Durango, Colorado, a days drive away from Ventura, so the dream was still somewhat improbable. Dreams are always improbable, impossible, or difficult though, improvisation would be necessary. Then it hit me, we could do the shoot during my upcoming trip to Yosemite, in the most iconic of all places for a photo shoot, the El Cap Meadow. I contacted my liaison at Patagonia, Kasey Kersnowski to see what he thought of the idea. Always one to go out of his way to help me out, Kasey realized that some Patagonia employees would be in Yosemite at the same time for the Facelift.

            It happened our last morning before leaving Yosemite. Dave and I met up with Jenning Steger, a photo editor for Patagonia. I explained to her my dream, and she was more than happy to take some time before climbing to do the shoot. We talked climbing for a bit, and then I stripped down to a new pair of Patagonia underwear. I was jacked on coffee and the air had a brisk autumn coolness to it, but I managed to keep my swagger. I couldn’t help but think about that Seinfeld episode where Kramer takes pictures of George in his underwear: (with Kramer’s voice in my head: “Give it to me, work it, you’re a man, you’re a loverboy,”)

photo by Jenning Steger

Then, lying down in the cool grass of the meadow, I did the pose I imagined underwear models do, with one hand on my hip, and the other on my head, elbow stretched to the sky. I felt so at home in front of the camera, in the El Cap Meadow, that I realized, maybe I really do have a future in modeling. We talked climbing and photography some more with Jenning, and then we were on our way back to Colorado.  

My dream was finally achieved, I did a real underwear modeling shoot with Patagonia! The whole drive home we laughed about it. Then the cosmic coincidences continued.

            My first day back at my day job, working at a Mexican restaurant, a customer grabbed my attention. I thought I’d done something wrong, after all I knew my mind was still in Yosemite. She started off, “Now, I’m not trying to be weird or anything, but I used to work in the fashion industry… have you ever considered doing any modeling?”

            Too surprised to really answer the question I just stood there, jaw on the floor, wondering what else might be in store for me in my underwear.    

Serendipitous Paradoxes (wedding season)

This piece appears in today's Durango Telegraph. 

Serendipity is love, love is serendipitous. This is one of a hundred quotes scribbled on my beloved writing desk, the only non-recreational possession I’ve held onto as I’ve floated from place to place over the last ten years. Now that I write that, I looked across my room and remember I also own a bed, which I acquired last year, so I now own two major possessions not related to outdoor recreation. I guess its all downhill to domestication from here.

A few weeks ago a co-worker of mine asked me if I had any adventures planned for the summer. With a quick mental scan of my calendar I realized most of my travel plans were wedding related: four total. I’m in my mid-thirties, and since 30 is the new 20 and people are getting married later in life, especially the dirtbag climber types I surround myself with, its prime time for my friends to be tying the knot (pun intended).

Fortunately my friends are cool, so they get married in cool places. And that’s why three weeks ago my girlfriend Ashley and I packed up the Subaru and headed out to Yosemite, California. On the way out we stopped off at the Mountainfilm festival in Telluride for the Reading Frenzy, an event I was a part of for my recently published book. Telluride is such a trip, and we immediately got disoriented and lost in the ritzy-ness of Mountain Village. I tried to explain the nature of Telluride to my girlfriend best summed up as, “things are either free or expensive here at these festivals.”

Like many Durango-folk I wear multiple hats of employment, but one job I never get sick of is my work as a creative writer. I sat and soaked it in at the Hotel Madeline, where the Reading Frenzy was held, and recalled all the previous festivals in Telluride I tried to sneak into (some more successful than others). Here I was as a legitimate guest.

Sitting to the right of me was Rob Story, a brilliant local ski-mountain town culture writer, and to the left was Tom Shadyac, writer and director of films such as The Nutty Professor and Ace Ventura, who works with people like Jim Carrey, Eddie Murphy and Morgan Freeman. Most impressive of all Shadyac has given up the baller lifestyle. He recently sold his Hollywood mansion and moved into a trailer. Shadyac has changed his focus to spirituality, and his most recent film I Am, as well as his new book, Life’s Operating Manual reflect that.

After our dose of Mountainfilm we went downtown. I bought a really expensive smoothie and Ashley found a sweet hippie style duffle bag in the Free Box, and we made our way west.

Of course the bulk of our drive took us through the strange paradoxes of Utah and Nevada, and we finally made it to Yosemite Valley. It was Ashley’s first trip to “The Valley” so of course we stopped at the El Capitan meadow to gaze at the majestic 3,000 foot chunk of golden granite. Amongst the mindless meddling of gaping tourists we watched a mother and son climb up on fallen tree, only to witness the mother freak out in fear a mere five feet off the ground, while much braver human beings climbed on El Capitan. Yosemite shows the best and worst of America and Americans.

 The wedding of my dear friends Taryn and Scott was an all-time tearjerker. Held at the Green House, in the Big Meadow, just a few minutes west of Yosemite Valley, it was a simple and beautiful Quaker-style wedding. Minutes before the wedding I found out my Grandmother was undergoing emergency surgery, making it even more emotional, and bringing forth the always lesson of the preciousness of life; perhaps that is why we cry so much at weddings. (Grandma ended up having successful surgery.)

 In the blistering California sun we took cover under white umbrellas and the bride and groom exchanged vows. Both dedicated environmentalists their passion for love and life was evident in the ceremony, and true to the Quaker tradition the audience was invited to share their stories, thoughts, and poetry during the ceremony. I was in tears so often I thought I might not be able to speak, but since so many cried during their speeches I got up anyways. I managed to keep it together and thanked my friends for always opening up their home in Yosemite, and more importantly sharing their love with all of us; love is an exponential force, and like the song says, something in the world that there is just too little of.

At the reception we danced and drank like there would be no tomorrow. The highlights were experiencing contra dancing for the first time, followed by a late night synchronized MC Hammer dance with 20 of my best friends in the world. The next day we recovered and eventually did some mellow climbing.

As we drove to our destination, located right next to El Capitan we noticed a helicopter flying above, not a good sign. Soon the helicopter was obviously performing a rescue on a route called the East Buttress, and we quickly learned from other climbers that it was a body recovery. A climber had been killed by a rock dislodged from his partner. I wondered if it was someone we knew, and waited for the inevitable phone call if it was. In the end we found out it was not one of our friends, rather a visiting climber from London, England.

 We cautiously climbed in Yosemite for a few more days, and watched tourists do the silly things they do like feeding squirrels, while taking pictures of them (right next to signs that say don’t feed the animals). 

Then it was time to get back home, traversing the weird desert of Nevada and Utah, until we hit that Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign. It’s never a bummer to be back home when you live in Durango, and soon enough we would be packing up the Subaru for more knot tying. 

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?