-Emory Capps
We start climbing the moraine at 3:00AM, long before the club kids in Buenos Ares consider calling it a night. Guillaumet is as toothy 2579m mountain on the Fitz Roy massif, and we are climbing Brenner Ridge, a 15 pitch ridge traverse, with a 6b+ vertical headwall. I am climbing with a British partner named Callum who we picked up when Ryan, Marius and I went back to town to retrieve more food for the wait in between weather windows. Callum just spent over a month further south, in Torres del Paine, where he slept for two weeks suspended on a wall while climbing the Central Tower. The approach of Guillaumet takes a steep line straight over snowfields, slabs and a huge section of steep talus. The talus, a steep field of rocks ranging from baseballs to Hummers, freezes solid during the night, making travel easy, but as the sun rises the ice will melt and the boulders become loose and treacherous. As we begin the slog the moraine is already scattered with the headlamp light of early parties. I imagine this is how an office building might seem at this hour; massive and deserted except for the few dedicated enough to forgo sleep.
Callum is fast, and by keeping up with him we quickly over take the parties who were up before us. As we get near the ridge the rock quality takes a turn for the worse and I pull off chunks of alpine granite while making precarious moves over the near vertical piles of stones. Josh and Troutman, a party form California and Colorado, join us on the ridge as they gear up for a difficult line up Mermoz. Troutman is by far the most psyched climber I have ever met, and before we split ways he gave us one of his trademark air guitar solos while screaming, “Oh my God, we are not worthy. SUMMIT! AHHHH!”
Callum and I quietly gear up in the pitch black, and though we cannot see the mountain we are about to take on its presence looms over us with lung crushing authority. Callum takes the first lead. For the first time after weeks of harsh wind I am aware of the utter stillness of the air around us. It is as if God himself has held his breath for this, and though I know it will not last I am grateful. We cruise by the first pitches and at 5:30 we are joined at the base of the headwall by Ryan and Marius. I have elected to lead the crux pitch for our party, but I was not anticipating the pain of the sharp freezing rock. It is still pitch black and well below freezing when I place my first hand jam in the eighty-foot vertical crack. At first I can feel every sensation, the bits of granite protruding inside the crack break the skin on my hands as I weight the jams, but after a few feet I realize that the pain dulls. After my first few pieces I feel as though my hands are blocks of wood with no sensation whatsoever. I don’t believe I can trust the jams anymore and take on a piece. As I lean back on the rope and shove my hands into my armpits I am consumed by some of the most acute pain I have ever experienced in my entire life. I shove my frozen hands back in the crack and make it just a few more feet before taking again. The crack continues to humble me as I hang dog my way up the headwall, but in an effort of redemption I make a go for the final section and do it without hanging.
The sight from the top of the next pitch is an image I will hold on to for the rest of my life. As the red-orange ball of a sun rises above Glacier National Park it changes all the peaks that stretch as far as the eye can see from their normal white to purples and blues, and in contrast to the golden light hitting the rocks the scene amounts to the most breathtaking sunrise I have ever witnessed. After a few more fun vertical pitches, including a pristine dihedral with a roof move, our teams meets at the summit ridge. For the next few hours we make the long traverse interspersed with some fun vertical cracks in the most amazing setting I have ever climbed in.
Just after noon we reach the halfway mark of our climb, the summit. We unrope and scramble up the slab ramp. At the top we are beyond words for a few seconds as we stare at Fitz Roy towering over us. We spend 45 minutes on the summit in solitude and peace, knowing that the descent will be a challenge all its own. When rappelling you must weight the gear, sometimes all four of us are hanging off a few unequalized pitons. I try to back the anchors up with small cams, but between the size of the cams and the quality of the rock, the extra protection does little to reassure me. The final rappel drops over an ice shelf, I coil the rope and start sliding down the snow slope, not caring that I am soaking wet. Nothing can bring us down. The final crux is descending the steep talus on the moraine. Now that the sun has been hitting the rock and ice for a few hours nothing remains still as I step down the mountain. Rocks the size of sedans rock and move under my feet, threatening to pin me.
After over an hour of hiking straight down the group rejoins at the base camp. We share a celebratory cigarette and rejoice over our success. I feel battered and tired, my hands have long since stopped bleeding, but are mangled nonetheless. I sit and let the summit high sweep over my body like a drug. It will have to last. For the next five days we will wait for our next shot at a climb. This time Ryan and I will venture out alone on Mermoz to climb the Argentina. I feel ready.
To My Readers
These past few months have been a whirlwind. My experiences in Patagonia will go down as some of the most memorable and cherished times of my life. I met so many great people, and climbed some of the most scenic landscapes I have ever been lucky enough to see. In that time I was so busy trying to make the most of my experience that I allowed my blog to fall to the wayside. I apologize for the delay in putting these stories up, but I hope you will still find time to take a look every now and again.
I am currently in Colorado, on one last climbing trip to Utah before I head back to North Carolina for a summer of guiding in the Appalachian Mountains. I don’t know how I have been so blessed to have amazing groups of people, which I consider more than friends, in two parts of the country. I am homesick for the South, I am homesick for the West, but it is a burning in my chest that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Thanks for reading, and make the most out of every day.
Emory Capps
Asado and Alpine
Last night I went to my first asado, where Ryan and I cooked outbehind the Hostel del Lago with about fifteen of our friends. We
spent quite a few pesos on beef and Filipe, our Brazilian climbing
friend, grilled everything to perfection. Gaby, an Argentine
backpacking guide, sliced up all the steak while we ate it right off
the chopping block topped with the famous chimichurri sauce (a
semi-spicy garlic pepper sauce). There was a lot of wine and whiskey
consumed and we all felt it the next morning.
That morning Ryan and I began planning our second trek and first
alpine climb. We were to be joined by Marius, a 22 year old
French-Canadian, who is traveling around South America for a year as
he trains to be a mountain guide. The first mountain we decided on
was Guillaumet, a 2574 meter peak on the Fitz Roy massif in Glacier
National Park. A three man team is highly recommended for beginners
in alpine climbing, and with our new partner hopes of success were
high. Safety and speed go hand in hand in the mountains, and when
less weight equals more speed a light rack is essential. However,
less gear, though it allows for faster travel, can make for more
run-out climbing where falling is forbidden. That, combined with high
winds can prove very dangerous. I hoped the team has enough synergy
to make unanimous decisions that are both prudent and lead to success.
Personal Goals
1. Return to Chalten alive and well.
2. Learn more about alpine climbing.
3.Have fun and remain friends.
4. Summit Guillaumet.
We hiked the gear up to Piedra Negra, the base camp on the North-West
face of the Fitz Roy massif in a five and a half hour slog. We look
up and Guillaumet towers over us, shrouded in a layer of fog. This
image would haunt my dreams until I attempted the climb. The next
morning we woke covered in snow, but stashing the gear and hiking to
Poincenot was the game plan anyway. I do the hike alone, an amazingly
aesthetic trek along the Rio Blanco. I snapped pictures of our
descent, and clear my head before I have to return to town and wait
again for the weather window.
Argentina Part 1
Wake up early. I come out of sleep easily with the anticipation of travel. Coffee, car, check my bag, move through security. Sleep. I wake up the second time in Miami. Retrieve bag, check bag, security, lunch. Plane, running, another plane. I sleep i an airport in Chile. One last plane. I arrive in Mendoza, Argentina.
My bag is still in Peru so I catch a cab to the main square and walk until I can check in to the Hostel. Mendoza is beautiful and vibrant. Trees create a canopy over every street protecting the pedestrians from the summer sun. The days are long, and the nights stretch into morning. Ryan and I find ourselves staying out until five in the morning a couple times. We drink wine and eat steak preparing for the bus rides ahead of us.
The bus to Bariloche, the Western gateway to Patagonia, drifts by over 21 hours. Bariloche is in the Lake District, and the views are spectacular. We stay for three days waiting for a bus to Southern Patagonia. The second day we climb. We walk a few miles above the city and find a set of cliffs perched on the hillside. We start to climb, and as we rack up single pitches the wind increases. I am standing on top of the cliff line preparing my descent and the wind is almost enough to knock me over.
The next bus ride takes 27 hours. It is windy and bumpy and tightly packed. We are truly thrilled to arrive in Chalten. We meet our friends; Nixon, Josh, and Miranda. They start the beta spray down of how to get around Chalten for cheap. As we are setting up camp for the night the cloud cover breaks and we see Fitz Roy. I am overwhelmed by the sight of the jagged mountain range. They are the mountains from both my dreams and my nightmares. Nixon and Josh tell us the stories of this year´s ascents, including a first ascent they put up.
We climb around town a few days and head up to the mountains. On the second day out we hike across the Torre Glacier with a perfect view of Cerro Torre towering over us. This is truly one of the most impressive mountains in existence. I am terrified by it, especially the winds surrounding it. The gusts literally bring life to the lifeless terrain of the alpine. I am nowhere near ready for an ascent of Cerro Torre, but nevertheless inspired. We hike to base camp to retrieve gear.
The granite monsters surround us on all sides enclosing us in an unworldly chamber of rock. I remember how minuscule I felt upon arriving in Yosemite in September, but this is a different level. These mountains have claimed lives, and look as dangerous as a loaded gun. This may not be the trip that I go toe to toe with these Goliaths, I have neither the gear nor the experience, but I know I will be back. We hike back to town the next day in time for the annual bouldering competition. I spend the next afternoon meeting climbers, and testing my strength on Chalten´s boulder problems. That night there is a concert and dance party that again stretches far into the morning. This is an incredible place and I have much to learn before I leave and before I return.
Pre-Patagonia
I lay in bed squeezing my eyelids together trying to force myself to sleep. My mind is racing with the knowledge that I will be boarding a plane to Argentina in a few hours for a three month journey of Patagonia. Sleep is important, but I’ll have plenty of time to sleep once I’m dead. Now the emotions at the forefront of my mind are excitement for the adventure ahead, nervousness that all arrangements have been taken care of, and guilt, crushing guilt.
This trip comes at a strange time in my life. My parents are splitting and the weeks preceding my trip have been spent packing up my childhood home. The house has been sold, but that is the only certainty in the equation. Where everyone goes and how they get there is still a mystery. The task of moving a lifetime of things is one that will fall on the rest of my family as I am off climbing the rocks that haunt my dreams. How can I leave the most important people in the world to me to shoulder this responsibility? The separation of parents is strange for the children no matter the age. I am grateful that it comes at a time when I am mature enough to realize that it is in no way my fault, and in fact my be for the best. However, this does not change the fact that I am lying in my bedroom for the last time. That perhaps never again will I sleep under the same roof as both my parents.
To go on this trip I had to make the conscious decision to end a relationship with a girl with whom I had a good thing, perhaps the best “thing” I have ever had. Guilt and uncertainty invade my thoughts again, wrestling sleep fro my grasp. Good relationships aren’t easy to come by, and I will never have one quite like the one I left behind again. When I return life will be different.
I understand that this is by no means the most pivotal point of my life, but when I get back I will be different and the place that I left will have ceased to exist. I feel the memories of this house wrapped in a melancholy film being electrocuted by the anticipation of what comes next. Every moment is the culmination of our entire lives leading up to the present, but sometimes we are more aware of the changes at hand. In the end all of this time tossing and turning amounts to nothing, because in a shorts while I will be on a plane and — for all intents and purposes — in another world where I can’t control anything that happens in Atlanta.
So with that thought in mind I begin to breath deeply and slowly, allowing my eyes to relax and my mind to slip into fuzzy unconsciousness. When I open my eyes again the next chapter of my life starts, and I will try my best to leave behind what I cannot change. Going on a climbing trip, gonna climb a big one.
It was on a whim that I decided to load up into Matt’s van and head down to Baja Mexico for a 16 day surf trip. Ryan and Matt had been planning to meet Alex down there for weeks now in a place called the point. I had never been surfing before, and after thinking it over I decided it would be a good use of the time I had before I headed to Atlanta. Almost the very same minute I decided to commit to Mexico I bought a ticket for a three month adventure to Argentina, and I was ready for a break from climbing. So on a Thursday morning we loaded up the site at Joshua Tree and drove to San Diego.
In San Diego I got a great deal on a Hank Warner surf board, a stylish 9 footer that would be my learning stick for the next couple of weeks. I also picked up a wetsuit and some surf wax from a super cool couple at a shop in Oceanside. The night before we took off we packed up at a local climber Josh’s house. There were five of us in all; Matt Bento, Ryan Baker, Ashley Helms (Alex’s Girlfriend), and Josie (strong climber and surfer we picked up in Joshua tree). We were a little nervous about everything we had been hearing about the situation in Mexico, but decided everything would be fine if we got an early start and drove straight down there without too many stops.
Crossing the boarder was a cinch, but the traffic soon condensed and we began to realize that we take for granted the roads we enjoy in the United States. In Baja the roads were two lanes, narrow, with a speed suggestion rather than limit, and filled with drivers that passed very liberally (i.e. on blind turns and hills). I will say that sitting in a van packed to the brim with food, surfboards, water, and people felt a little like being put in a death trap as we sprinted down the Mexican highway. The trip was only interrupted for stops for tamales, and the few times the military had us exit the vehicle to inspect the van for guns. It was a little unnerving having a kid younger than me with an assault rifle order me around in a foreign language, but all in all the guys didn’t hassle us and were actually quite friendly.
The road off the highway was just a dirt road that lead us miles into the dessert, and already hours from the nearest town, I felt as secluded as I ever have in my entire life. When we reached the ocean it was with a great sigh of relief to be out of the van and finished with the 400 mile drive.
The next morning we got a chance to see our home for the next two weeks, a rock filled beach overlooking a beautiful surf break. The point has been a surf destination for decades, walls and other structures have been built by industrious (or bored) surfers over the years litter the beach.
It was a tough learning curve trying to figure out how to surf on the 5 foot waves that broke at the point. I caught my fair share of waves, but on a few bigger days I got the beat down of a lifetime. Most of my time out in the water was spent battling my way out past the break where I could catch my breath and let the blood return to my arms. Alex helped my out a lot when it came to judging a wave, and finding the right place at the right time to drop in. It was an incredible thrill to be paddling manically and then feel the wave steepening below you. All of a sudden you are standing on a board flying across an incredible force of water, the sheer power of it is almost overwhelming.
The rest of the time we spent fishing for Halibut, which we would devourer like it was our last meal on earth. We read books, played chess, went on long runs along the beach and into the desert. We ate some authentic Mexican food on the couple of occasions we found ourselves in town, it was unbelievably spicy, and I decided I much preferred the tex-mex I had back in Austin. I took the time to do some searching of the soul, thinking about my religious views and reading the Bhagavad Gita.
Every morning we woke up with the sun and went to bed soon after it set. One morning I awoke to Matt shouting my name telling me to get up right away. When I got out of my tent we were in the middle of a lunar eclipse. The sunsets were amazing, and the nights spent around the fire under a full moon were unforgettable. I can see why people could turn this into a way of life, and yet I felt a burning desire to return to the States. I felt as though I was somehow wasting time. I would never call that lifestyle meaningless, but I think I was feeling the itch that you get when you haven’t worked in a while. With no schedule and no positive impact on the world I was yearning for some kind of responsibility.
When we made the decision to leave I was unsure of my feelings. I am ready to leave, but sad to go. The world stops here, and some kind of life happens. Maybe I am not ready to be this still, maybe I will never be.
This is a piece I wrote in Joshua Tree sometime in November,
From the spot in the sand where I chose to throw my sleeping bag down the night before I can see my daily obstacle; a physical, solid object sitting proudly on the horizon. I want to drop to my knees and thank God for the simplicity of it. GET TO THE TOP. No rules, no route, no ropes, no partner. A goal that I may accomplish within hours of its creation.
It is difficult to truly understand how these rounded granite formations were created by wind and water. Boulders the size of houses are perched precariously on top of domes like giant birds frozen just before taking off into the desert sky. I began my trek across the sand towards Echo rock trying to spot an obvious line to the summit.
My first attempts are worthless; I make it only a short distance off the ground before getting shut down by a move I personally deem too sketchy. I continue to circumnavigate the rock. Streaks of white clouds stretch across the bluest of skies, and the wind whistles as it passes through the Joshua Trees.
I see the line. A convoluted vertical maze of massive boulders leading to a series of ledges that must contain a weakness that I might exploit. I am overcome by the energy of this place and before I know it I am running as fast as I can, leaping from rock to rock in a frantic scramble upwards. As I gain altitude I slow my pace to admire the beauty of my arid surroundings.
I traverse across hidden sandstone bridges, and pull on sloping handholds. At every terrace I find myself faced with three different choices, but isn’t that life? Choices with destinations obscured by twists, turns, dips and obstacles in the path. We make decisions with a level of uncertainty of the outcome and ramifications, but beauty can be found all around when searching with the right kind of eyes. Here the search is simplified by the landscaped, stripped down to the core, beauty in homogeneity.
I backtrack several times, but then the rock begins to kick back and I can see the summit is within reach. I start to run again, the caution I should demonstrate is carried off in the wind. I reach the top to discover an astounding 360-degree view of the park. Droplets form at the corners of my eyes from the wind whipping across the summit, but perhaps more than the wind, the blame falls on the joy of accomplishing this simple goal. These are the days worth living.
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]Source: SoundCloud / theblackmamba
As I drive through California I am overwhelmed by a strange sense of nostalgia for a place I have never really known. The landscapes and architecture seem so familiar though I have never seen it before. I feel as if this place has been burned into my subconscious since childhood, when I was drenched in the California pop-culture, starting with E.T. and Point Break. I instantly pick up on the vibe of L.A. and appreciate it for what it is, a city so sprawled that you are simultaneously centralized and separated, but constantly surrounded by the unique energy. Now that I am walking the streets of Venice Beach I think about how bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Sublime were shaped by this place, and went on to contribute to a style that has shaped me. I sense a connection to this place and when I stop to think about it the nostalgic sensation wells up inside of my chest to the point that I can physically feel the connection to a place that should feel strange to me.
I visit an exhibit of 1960’s California art at the Getty Museum, an incredibly futuristic piece of property set in the hills above L.A. The buildings are all white stone connected by paths and stairways that make you feel as though you have wandered into an M.C. Escher sketch. The artwork itself was enough to make anyone long for the West Coast.
The mindset of L.A. is different than what I have encountered in Yosemite and Kernville. The people here are driven, and most of them strive to succeed in the most superficial form of the American Dream, fame and fortune. Depending on the circles conversations can quickly turn to, less than subtle, competitions of who has spent more time in the spotlight. I stayed with Amir, a high school buddy, who has been in L.A. since he left Atlanta in 2006. The city has started to wear on him, but he seems to be making a career out of show business by working on the Conan show. He got me into a live taping of Bill Maher, and we saw some great live music with his friends.
Due to my ankle that I sprained climbing on some boulders just north of the city I decide to extend my trip to just over a week. As I leave L.A. I wonder if I will return soon to this place that seems strangely familiar. I toy around with the idea of moving here to become a stuntman and surf bum. It could be a life worth living, but for now I continue south to San Diego to meet Jeremy, a fellow snowboard instructor from Vail.
Jeremy has spent the past five months traveling all over Europe, running with bulls, drinking beer at the German beer gardens, and seeing the sites. We catch up and walk around San Diego. I enjoy staying at his house a little more knowing that for the next two weeks I will be sleeping on the dirt again, this time in the Mojave Desert at a place called Joshua Tree.
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