24 Hours of Gunnison Glory has passed, but for volunteers us it was more like 48 or even more, but still after only seven hours of sleep in the last two days I had to keep climbing to reach my goal of 30 climbs for the weekend.
Gunnison Glory was the most effort I have ever put into organizing a climbing event, and it was by far the most intense; imagine climbing as much as you can in a 24 hour time period. Imagine night approaching and 40 climbers scattered about Hartman Rocks with the skies full of red, blue, and purple, lightning, rainbows trying to get just one more climb in, or savoring the moment.
You may notice in this writing my thought jumping from one to the next; for the readers sake I hope you know what 24 Hours of Gunnison Glory actually is. Now, completed (it was held this past weekend June 26-28 at Hartmans) it is the Western United States’ only 24 hour climbing competition. But to me it is a verb, a memory, fresh in my mind but still blended with lack of sleep, exhaustion and euphoria.
I often wonder why humans do what they do: on one side why is it so hard to brake our bad habits why are we driven to have that extra drink or say that extra negative word in a fight? On the positive side what drives people to push limits in athletics, or to volunteer that extra hour, do everything they can to help in their community.
Thinking of 24 Hours of Gunnison Glory, why even after it had passed did I feel compelled to climb some extra routes to make my goal of 30 for the weekend?
I am a man of many flaws. I drink too much coffee and beer sometimes, I am not always the nicest too my friends and many times I say negative things I shouldn’t; typically I take things too far.
I have always said if I never came out West from Illinois and started climbing and doing other Re-Creational activities I would either be dead or in jail. Climbing has brought so much positivity in my life; friends, health, and the mind expansion to try a little harder, do a little better, if you want something put in the effort and it is yours.
With climbing one can always try harder to achieve the goal. Many climbing friends have taught me this; too many to name.
So after 24 Hours of Gunnison Glory was over, and I had only completed 20 routes, I felt compelled to achieve my goal.
Hartmans is rolling sagebrush, clouds that billow, blue sky that is the bluest you’ve seen, granite boulders that go on forever. A sublime landscape inspring, tell you that nature is king and always will be; the man-made world will never compare, and the man-made world is just us rearranging nature.
But back to the climbing; little sleep over two days, feeling responsible for the 40 climbers out and about for the 24 hour vision quest/ climbing competition. Now that the event was over the responsibility had vanished. A weight lifted off my shoulders, the euphoria of accomplishment mixed with exhaustion, fingers sore to the bone, but still climbing to achieve the goal, the goal, it’s what we put in mind so that we grow, so that we have something to work towards.
I’d maybe say that I felt the release the accomplishment when I topped out on the 30th boulder problem of the day; but the release, the zen, the feeling that we’re looking for that we had in childhood and that we find now and again if we believe in love and in magic and in hardwork; that feeling came somewhere between the 1st and 30th climb; somewhere from head to toe; of being in the moment, being aware that I am still alive and all dreams are possible, that came to me somewhere before or after or during 24 Hours of Gunnison Glory. And, if my words make sense, and you’re feeling this, well we’re on this journey together and there is much to do, to see, to feel, and please….take the time to try a little harder, see more, live this life to the fullest.
Peace.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
My vehicle as art
I've always wanted to graffiti a vehicle, and now that my 1988 Mazada MX6 has almost 200,000 miles and is getting older, the present moment seemed like the perfect time.
Since I am not much of an artist, I talked with Nathan Kubes, who 'tagged' the foundation of the Mazada; black and white swirls with an OM sign being the most striking feature.
The day after we painted the first draft of the car, I immediately felt that I had made a mistake; I even got pulled over by the cops which influenced my doubts. But it began to grow on me, and even started to make me think differently about my vehicle; for what is a car other than something to get from point A to point B?
The car attracts stares, especially from the police, I've yet to cruise it around now that it is all red, white and blue; (perhaps I will enter it as a float in the Fourth of July parade in Crested Butte).
A final thought that I'm having now is that my car is beyond just tranportation, it is art, something for the people to enjoy. Something beyond just a petroleum using, greenhouse gas emitting transportation polluter; it is a thought provoking canvas that hopefully, once the art is completed will be the coolest graffiti car in the Gunnison Valley.
Since I am not much of an artist, I talked with Nathan Kubes, who 'tagged' the foundation of the Mazada; black and white swirls with an OM sign being the most striking feature.
The day after we painted the first draft of the car, I immediately felt that I had made a mistake; I even got pulled over by the cops which influenced my doubts. But it began to grow on me, and even started to make me think differently about my vehicle; for what is a car other than something to get from point A to point B?
The car attracts stares, especially from the police, I've yet to cruise it around now that it is all red, white and blue; (perhaps I will enter it as a float in the Fourth of July parade in Crested Butte).
A final thought that I'm having now is that my car is beyond just tranportation, it is art, something for the people to enjoy. Something beyond just a petroleum using, greenhouse gas emitting transportation polluter; it is a thought provoking canvas that hopefully, once the art is completed will be the coolest graffiti car in the Gunnison Valley.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Certified Life Savers: Western State Mountain Rescue
Matt Willis pointed to the massive scar on his head as the reason he is involved with the Western State College Mountain Rescue Team (MRT).
Willis, a 10-year veteran of MRT, was once a victim himself, the result of a nasty rock climbing accident near Washington, D.C. He said he is simply returning a favor by making his time available for those who may need help in the outdoors.
He is one of 20-plus volunteers who make up the local team, which was recertified by the Mountain Rescue Association (MRA) earlier this month. The certification lasts for five years.
Western remains the only college-based MRA certified team in the country, though community members play an important role. Ron Edwards, a Western graduate, is one of those key players. “You get as much of out this experience as you want to put in it,” he reflected.
Edwards attends weekly meetings and trainings, though as the team prepared for the rigors of recertification they stepped it up with additional training sessions starting last fall.
The areas in which the team was tested reflect the dramatic surroundings of the Gunnison Valley. In two days they were challenged in a series of mock scenarios, including searching for a lost hiker (and evacuating that individual off of a scree field), rescuing two climbers stuck on a sheer wall in the Black Canyon and performing an avalanche rescue on Monarch Pass.
“It was a great feeling of accomplishment for us to get this done,” Willis said. “There is a lot of stress involved in the recertification process, emotionally, mentally and physically.”
Adding to that stress were more than 30 evaluators analyzing Western team members’ every move. The evaluators represented rescue teams from throughout the Rocky Mountain region.
Willis noted that the normal rescue situation — whether it is a search for a lost hunter in freezing winter conditions or dangling off of a rock cliff — is something that the team deals with in their usual operations. Once they got used to people looking over their shoulder during the testing, the team performed well, he said.
Sara Lamar, another Western graduate, has been involved with the team for more than four years. She described the team as being like a family. “We all get along great and work extremely well with each other,” she said.
Bethany Marvin, the team’s president and senior at Western, echoed that sentiment. “This is an amazing group of selfless people,” she said.
Edwards noted that he is especially impressed with some of the younger members of the rescue team, which operates directly under the auspices of the Gunnison County Sheriff’s Office. “It’s really wild that 19- and 20-year-olds are involved in this, in college and with the level of seriousness,” he said.
The certification will last through 2014, and the team is proud that they are offering a service that is so valuable to outdoor enthusiasts.
“We put in a lot of hard work and it paid off,” Marvin said. “We also could not have done this without our newer members.”
“Never before have I trusted a group of people so completely,” Lamar added. “I know that we are a top-of-the-line rescue team.”
To learn more about the Western State College Mountain Rescue Team, visit their Wiki page at
http://wiki.western.edu/wp/index.php/WSCMRT1
Willis, a 10-year veteran of MRT, was once a victim himself, the result of a nasty rock climbing accident near Washington, D.C. He said he is simply returning a favor by making his time available for those who may need help in the outdoors.
He is one of 20-plus volunteers who make up the local team, which was recertified by the Mountain Rescue Association (MRA) earlier this month. The certification lasts for five years.
Western remains the only college-based MRA certified team in the country, though community members play an important role. Ron Edwards, a Western graduate, is one of those key players. “You get as much of out this experience as you want to put in it,” he reflected.
Edwards attends weekly meetings and trainings, though as the team prepared for the rigors of recertification they stepped it up with additional training sessions starting last fall.
The areas in which the team was tested reflect the dramatic surroundings of the Gunnison Valley. In two days they were challenged in a series of mock scenarios, including searching for a lost hiker (and evacuating that individual off of a scree field), rescuing two climbers stuck on a sheer wall in the Black Canyon and performing an avalanche rescue on Monarch Pass.
“It was a great feeling of accomplishment for us to get this done,” Willis said. “There is a lot of stress involved in the recertification process, emotionally, mentally and physically.”
Adding to that stress were more than 30 evaluators analyzing Western team members’ every move. The evaluators represented rescue teams from throughout the Rocky Mountain region.
Willis noted that the normal rescue situation — whether it is a search for a lost hunter in freezing winter conditions or dangling off of a rock cliff — is something that the team deals with in their usual operations. Once they got used to people looking over their shoulder during the testing, the team performed well, he said.
Sara Lamar, another Western graduate, has been involved with the team for more than four years. She described the team as being like a family. “We all get along great and work extremely well with each other,” she said.
Bethany Marvin, the team’s president and senior at Western, echoed that sentiment. “This is an amazing group of selfless people,” she said.
Edwards noted that he is especially impressed with some of the younger members of the rescue team, which operates directly under the auspices of the Gunnison County Sheriff’s Office. “It’s really wild that 19- and 20-year-olds are involved in this, in college and with the level of seriousness,” he said.
The certification will last through 2014, and the team is proud that they are offering a service that is so valuable to outdoor enthusiasts.
“We put in a lot of hard work and it paid off,” Marvin said. “We also could not have done this without our newer members.”
“Never before have I trusted a group of people so completely,” Lamar added. “I know that we are a top-of-the-line rescue team.”
To learn more about the Western State College Mountain Rescue Team, visit their Wiki page at
http://wiki.western.edu/wp/index.php/WSCMRT1
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
On a Train, Waiting in Vain
Random notes from my journal today…..
Everyday city confusion, more questions than answers, more information than one person could digest in a day, a lifetime…..
On a quest for material to use to make my fiction writing enjoyable and popular, I comb the streets of Salt Lake City in an attempt to further understand the complexities of this diverse city; a Crossroads of the West.
A Train, Waiting in Vain
The third cup of coffee is always potentially dangerous, a vain attempt to compromise the body for the desires and hunger of the mind.
I’m on Spring Break and I wander the streets of Salt Lake City, wondering what the hell am I doing here? My friends of the city are at work or at play in the mountains, I search the streets alone, take notes of the landmarks, hoping that this material will be useful for a writing project; one that may or may not come to life.
The train took me here crossing the Colorado border past Grand Junction into the lonely desert of sage, the tumbleweeds and red rock, past the bricked buildings of Mormon towns that have seen better days, broken down, bricks missing, windows of cracked glass. Abandoned cars along side the rail road tracks make one long to hear the story of how the car ended up there, so I fantasize how it all went down….
The train sways, with travelers that have both seen better days, and others who have their best days ahead. But we all have the day that is in front of us.
I am the lonely stranger, usually too shy to speak to my neighbors, but this train ride is different. Just as one adapts quickly to the style of walking necessary on the moving train, we can think of things to say to start conversation.
I sat down in a seat in front of a girl with a metal prosthetic leg, ironic I think to myself because I have just met a climber-friend, Chad Jukes, an Iraq Veteran, who also has a prosthetic leg and lives in Salt Lake City.
I settle in for the ride, and let the desert and the train tell its story. I feel happy to discover the train, and have thoughts of Kerouac and taking a voyage far west. But I am on a mission….
Eventually I ask the girl behind me a question that I don’t really need the answer to just to talk. Why is it such a hard bridge for me to cross to speak to someone I don’t know? I have so many wonderful friendships that all began as two strangers speaking. Her name is Sydney, she is a climber, and had just returned from climbing in Ouray with Chad and many others. Synchronicity and some unspoken force seem to be at hand in this train ride.
I sneak Colorado beers on board, and probably have one too many. Eventually the expanse of the desert leads to the sprawl of Salt Lake City; lights of the city and falling snow are the landscape. I walk around sure to grab onto the backs of seats as the train sways, an old gray haired couple shares a red blanket with checkered black stripes, the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I sit down as a man, obviously in pain takes his seat in front of me. He asks an employee of the train for some Motrin, I offer up some Ibuprofen, and he accepts gratefully. He’s just been in a truck that has flipped; he’s got some broken ribs and is returning home to Los Angeles. His eyes tell me that though in pain, he’s glad to be alive. As I eavesdrop on his phone conversation, he’s got a woman at home who will be glad to see him upon arrival in California.
I’ll never see him again, yet he’ll stay with me forever.
My lonely day that followed digging Salt Lake City is nearing a close, on the heels of night, the time I prefer most in cities. The computer in the library I’m writing from tells me I only have a few minutes, the buzz and focus of the coffee will be wearing off, its time to enter the world of friends after wandering the city alone. Time to listen to stories firsthand over a beer and dinner, rather than making up stories looking at things from afar, time to flow with the time of life, on a planet flying through space, in a world that provokes infinite thought and possibilities…..
Everyday city confusion, more questions than answers, more information than one person could digest in a day, a lifetime…..
On a quest for material to use to make my fiction writing enjoyable and popular, I comb the streets of Salt Lake City in an attempt to further understand the complexities of this diverse city; a Crossroads of the West.
A Train, Waiting in Vain
The third cup of coffee is always potentially dangerous, a vain attempt to compromise the body for the desires and hunger of the mind.
I’m on Spring Break and I wander the streets of Salt Lake City, wondering what the hell am I doing here? My friends of the city are at work or at play in the mountains, I search the streets alone, take notes of the landmarks, hoping that this material will be useful for a writing project; one that may or may not come to life.
The train took me here crossing the Colorado border past Grand Junction into the lonely desert of sage, the tumbleweeds and red rock, past the bricked buildings of Mormon towns that have seen better days, broken down, bricks missing, windows of cracked glass. Abandoned cars along side the rail road tracks make one long to hear the story of how the car ended up there, so I fantasize how it all went down….
The train sways, with travelers that have both seen better days, and others who have their best days ahead. But we all have the day that is in front of us.
I am the lonely stranger, usually too shy to speak to my neighbors, but this train ride is different. Just as one adapts quickly to the style of walking necessary on the moving train, we can think of things to say to start conversation.
I sat down in a seat in front of a girl with a metal prosthetic leg, ironic I think to myself because I have just met a climber-friend, Chad Jukes, an Iraq Veteran, who also has a prosthetic leg and lives in Salt Lake City.
I settle in for the ride, and let the desert and the train tell its story. I feel happy to discover the train, and have thoughts of Kerouac and taking a voyage far west. But I am on a mission….
Eventually I ask the girl behind me a question that I don’t really need the answer to just to talk. Why is it such a hard bridge for me to cross to speak to someone I don’t know? I have so many wonderful friendships that all began as two strangers speaking. Her name is Sydney, she is a climber, and had just returned from climbing in Ouray with Chad and many others. Synchronicity and some unspoken force seem to be at hand in this train ride.
I sneak Colorado beers on board, and probably have one too many. Eventually the expanse of the desert leads to the sprawl of Salt Lake City; lights of the city and falling snow are the landscape. I walk around sure to grab onto the backs of seats as the train sways, an old gray haired couple shares a red blanket with checkered black stripes, the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I sit down as a man, obviously in pain takes his seat in front of me. He asks an employee of the train for some Motrin, I offer up some Ibuprofen, and he accepts gratefully. He’s just been in a truck that has flipped; he’s got some broken ribs and is returning home to Los Angeles. His eyes tell me that though in pain, he’s glad to be alive. As I eavesdrop on his phone conversation, he’s got a woman at home who will be glad to see him upon arrival in California.
I’ll never see him again, yet he’ll stay with me forever.
My lonely day that followed digging Salt Lake City is nearing a close, on the heels of night, the time I prefer most in cities. The computer in the library I’m writing from tells me I only have a few minutes, the buzz and focus of the coffee will be wearing off, its time to enter the world of friends after wandering the city alone. Time to listen to stories firsthand over a beer and dinner, rather than making up stories looking at things from afar, time to flow with the time of life, on a planet flying through space, in a world that provokes infinite thought and possibilities…..
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thoughts on New York City, and the Gunnison Valley, Colorado
As I write this I’m on my way back to the Gunnison Valley, fresh off my first trip to New York City. Currently writing this from Chicago, at least starting the piece, so I’m at a mid point in this journey; a good place to stop and reflect.
Though I always enjoy returning to the Valley after being away, and the brief visions of clarity that always seem to accompany the return, in some way leaving New York City I felt myself longing to stay there longer; to bathe in a sea of humanity that pervades the streets and buildings of the city.
I find some irony in this because in my younger days I loathed cities, and always found myself trying to escape once I’d arrived. I dreaded a visit to the city that would seem to come; a result of further travels or family visits. Life I suppose even for the mountain person, always leads to a visit to the city sooner or later.
I was at a stage in my life, during the college days, where I was perpetually drawn to nature, appalled and dismayed by the consumptive culture that seemed to fully manifest itself in the Cities of the United States.
But, somewhere along the way, the Cities of the US began to appeal to me. Just like the Wilderness of the United States they contain their own magic and charm. I prefer the nighttime; thoughts of Frank Sinatra’s music floating through the air like clouds of smoke used to in a dark bar, the unknown women of the night, plentiful in New York City, knowing where you are you will only be there that night forevermore. Only the moon is visible over head when you spill onto the streets, but you know the stars are still there from your days in the wild.
New York City is the complete opposite of the Gunnison Valley, Colorado. Perhaps that is why I long for it, and it appeals to me. I think I’ve rid myself of a naïve belief that mountain people are somehow superior that city folk, and that just because one lives in a city means they are being more consumptive than me just because I live in a place on the edge of the wilderness. Most of us, the Citizens of the United States live off the same system for our food, our energy, our clothing, entertainment etc, and we’ve all just ended up where we are because that’s where we are supposed to be.
In the spirit of procrastination I’ve finished this very small essay up in Gunnison. I used to never feel at home anywhere that wasn’t close to nature. I don’t know if I can explain this but maybe it was just that I needed nature to find out who I was; and not knowing who one is can make things awkward while traveling through life. Now that I know a little more about who I am I’m curious about humanity, fragile and precious as it is, from that beautiful city girl of the night in New York City, to my mountain people here in the Gunnison Valley.
Though I always enjoy returning to the Valley after being away, and the brief visions of clarity that always seem to accompany the return, in some way leaving New York City I felt myself longing to stay there longer; to bathe in a sea of humanity that pervades the streets and buildings of the city.
I find some irony in this because in my younger days I loathed cities, and always found myself trying to escape once I’d arrived. I dreaded a visit to the city that would seem to come; a result of further travels or family visits. Life I suppose even for the mountain person, always leads to a visit to the city sooner or later.
I was at a stage in my life, during the college days, where I was perpetually drawn to nature, appalled and dismayed by the consumptive culture that seemed to fully manifest itself in the Cities of the United States.
But, somewhere along the way, the Cities of the US began to appeal to me. Just like the Wilderness of the United States they contain their own magic and charm. I prefer the nighttime; thoughts of Frank Sinatra’s music floating through the air like clouds of smoke used to in a dark bar, the unknown women of the night, plentiful in New York City, knowing where you are you will only be there that night forevermore. Only the moon is visible over head when you spill onto the streets, but you know the stars are still there from your days in the wild.
New York City is the complete opposite of the Gunnison Valley, Colorado. Perhaps that is why I long for it, and it appeals to me. I think I’ve rid myself of a naïve belief that mountain people are somehow superior that city folk, and that just because one lives in a city means they are being more consumptive than me just because I live in a place on the edge of the wilderness. Most of us, the Citizens of the United States live off the same system for our food, our energy, our clothing, entertainment etc, and we’ve all just ended up where we are because that’s where we are supposed to be.
In the spirit of procrastination I’ve finished this very small essay up in Gunnison. I used to never feel at home anywhere that wasn’t close to nature. I don’t know if I can explain this but maybe it was just that I needed nature to find out who I was; and not knowing who one is can make things awkward while traveling through life. Now that I know a little more about who I am I’m curious about humanity, fragile and precious as it is, from that beautiful city girl of the night in New York City, to my mountain people here in the Gunnison Valley.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A Story with No Title
“You’re only as good as your last piece.”
These are the words that a photographer friend of mine shared with me recently and I’ve been coming back to this phrase time and time again in my thoughts.
I don’t feel this phrase applies to all artists in the sense of their careers, but rather the way the artist feels inside. Or, more individually the way I’ve been feeling about my writing.
I love writing and I am dependant on that feeling I get when I’ve put together something that I feel is good. It is as fleeting as the sunset, but the satisfaction of creating something that one feels proud of is heroic and once an artist has experienced this repeatedly it is a good foundation for a career, and a healthy outlet for emotions.
This year I’ve had many articles published, fiction and non-fiction, profiles of all kinds of interesting people, articles that were boring to write, and essays that wrote themselves. Yet because I haven’t done anything I feel proud of in the last couple of weeks I feel a sense of emptiness. Some call this writer’s block, but I’ve been writing long enough to know that writer’s block is natural. Eventually the magic comes back, and when it does after it’s been away for so long it’s a powerful feeling, one that at times makes me want to get down on my knees and pray with thankfulness that I am alive.
So what am I writing about here? I am not too young to be writing about writing? That’s something for the Stephen King’s of the world to do, those who have enough experience to actually write about writing.
I suppose I’m trying to get the juices going, to write a prayer to the writing gods, to be thankful that people read what I write, that someone might even read this.
All in all I’m realizing that writing is a humble path, and when the words just aren’t coming onto the paper it’s a blessing to remember that they have flowed on the paper before, and that they will again. The words will once again come with an ease that seems like they are writing themselves. Someday I will have a book on the shelves, but for now I am only as good as what I have recently composed.
I’m just a young man who dreams of being a writer and living the writing life, and that seems like something valuable in itself.
These are the words that a photographer friend of mine shared with me recently and I’ve been coming back to this phrase time and time again in my thoughts.
I don’t feel this phrase applies to all artists in the sense of their careers, but rather the way the artist feels inside. Or, more individually the way I’ve been feeling about my writing.
I love writing and I am dependant on that feeling I get when I’ve put together something that I feel is good. It is as fleeting as the sunset, but the satisfaction of creating something that one feels proud of is heroic and once an artist has experienced this repeatedly it is a good foundation for a career, and a healthy outlet for emotions.
This year I’ve had many articles published, fiction and non-fiction, profiles of all kinds of interesting people, articles that were boring to write, and essays that wrote themselves. Yet because I haven’t done anything I feel proud of in the last couple of weeks I feel a sense of emptiness. Some call this writer’s block, but I’ve been writing long enough to know that writer’s block is natural. Eventually the magic comes back, and when it does after it’s been away for so long it’s a powerful feeling, one that at times makes me want to get down on my knees and pray with thankfulness that I am alive.
So what am I writing about here? I am not too young to be writing about writing? That’s something for the Stephen King’s of the world to do, those who have enough experience to actually write about writing.
I suppose I’m trying to get the juices going, to write a prayer to the writing gods, to be thankful that people read what I write, that someone might even read this.
All in all I’m realizing that writing is a humble path, and when the words just aren’t coming onto the paper it’s a blessing to remember that they have flowed on the paper before, and that they will again. The words will once again come with an ease that seems like they are writing themselves. Someday I will have a book on the shelves, but for now I am only as good as what I have recently composed.
I’m just a young man who dreams of being a writer and living the writing life, and that seems like something valuable in itself.
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