The Journey Home (Part III)

And with this installment, this particular story is over.

The Journey Home (Part III)

1 The Mansion - The Microphones - The Glow Pt. 2
2 Neahkahnie - Le Loup - Family
3 Sleeping In - The Morning Benders - Big Echo
4 Daisy - Fang Island - Fang Island
5 Be My Girl - Smith Westerns - Smith Westerns
6 She Gone - Gonjasufi - A Sufi And A Killer
7 A Pot In Which To Piss - Titus Andronicus - The Monitor

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Lately I've been thinking about some very important questions

Just kidding. I haven't been doing anything of the sort.

Instead, I've been writing papers and itching to get outside. I've been slacklining in a park more and more frequently, now that the weather is starting to be downright estival. The park has two playgrounds, soft grass and a number of well-spaced trees. It's calm and shady and frequently filled with mothers and their young children, especially on Wednesday when elementary school does not meet. So I go to this park when I have an hour or two and set up a slackline. The not-so-subtle gawking starts as soon as I start rigging up the line.

"Look!" One kid might whisper.
"What's he doing?"

And after I've walked back and forth a few times, there's a crowd, about three deep and five wide, of small, smiling children watching me intently. I fall off.

"Are you with the circus?" One would ask.
"Nope. I just do this for fun. Wanna try?" I offer.
"Oh! no...."
"You sure? It's easy. I'll hold your hand."
And after a shake of the head from the kid, I return to the line and walk a few more laps.

I like the idea of the child at play. In the park, I feel like I'm witness to the best moments. The whiny, tired, crying and irritating child does not appear - instead, I only see the smiles. The mothers chat with each other while gently rocking their strollers back and forth, old people make slow laps around the park punctuated by the sound of canes and heavy breathing. The atmosphere is overwhelmingly positive.

It's a nice reminder, thinking about children in the context of park, non-park. A metaphor, if you like.

Go to the park, play, be happy. Pick up a stick and pretend it's a fishing pole. Watch the circus guy walk his tightrope. Kick the soccer ball around with dad, play on the monkey bars while grandmother worries that you're going to hurt yourself. Leave the discomfort and the whining at home.

All you have to do, really, is find a park that's fun to play in and go there as often as possible.

A return to form: The Journey Home (Part II)

This puts a tentative end to real blogging here at The Encyclopedia of Taste. Instead, we're back to your regularly scheduled Wednesday programming: The Anarchy Breakfast podcast.

I was really feeling the post-rock this week. As a result, this podcast is full of post-rock and falls squarely in the category of "music to listen to while waking up".

The Journey Home (Part II)

1 Settler - Balmorhea - Daytrotter Session
2 Travel is Dangerous - Mogwai - Mr Beast
3 Radio Swan is Down (Part II) - Laura - Radio Swan is Down
4 The Adjustor - The Octopus Project - One Ten Hundred Thousand Million
5 What Do You Go Home To? - Explosions in the Sky - All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone
6 They Move On Tracks Of Never-ending Light - This Will Destroy You - This Will Destroy You

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Enjoy.

Les Calanques: Day 4

Day - Wednesday - Le Bec de Sormiou
I wake up, toasty warm and surprisingly comfortable. The bed of rocks seems to have conformed to my body in the night and makes a perfect mattress. I look over at Aaron, who has his emergency blanket wrapped around his feet and the hood of my puffy coat on his head. The tent is starting to feel like home. I get out and pee and note that it has rained overnight. In our perfect spot under the overhang we hardly noticed.

The sky is still a little grey, but I can feel the sun making an effort to appear. We make no effort to hurry, but by a little before nine everything is packed away, our bags are hidden in the bushes, and we are making our way towards Le Bec de Sormiou with only what we will need to climb. The day before I had shown Aaron how to coil the climbing rope into a backpack. He wears it now and I carry the small second's pack with the topo, a bottle of water and some cashews.

It takes longer than we expect to get to Le Bec, and after a bit of downclimbing we find ourselves meters from the ocean on a strange sort of beach, looking at the departures of the first climbs.

"Do you see any bolts?"
"Not really."
"I saw one way up there," I point about fifteen meters above us.

Between us and the first bolt is a series of steep pockets and cavernous holes. We see old, tattered bits of climbing rope threaded through some of the tunnels, and I deduce that this must be the beginning of "Antecime". It looks wet and greasy. The pitches above look slightly cleaner, but not amazing.

"Wanna keep going?" Aaron asks me.
"Sure."
"This doesn't look too great to me."

To get to the beginning of the other routes, we will have to traverse out left and climb a short approach pitch graded somewhere around 4+.

We traverse the rocky "beach" and arrive at the approach pitches.
"I'll go." I say. The pitch is quick and easy, though a little bit wet, and at the anchors at the top I put Aaron on belay.

"Uh, it's gonna take me a few minutes to get ready." He informs me. I watch the waves.

Once begun, it doesn't take Aaron more than half a minute to climb to where I am, and he continues around to the left, still on belay, to find our route.

He finds some anchors and I join him, and though we are still unsure about our location, we decide to go for it. Aaron leads the first pitch, which should be 4+. It feels about right.

At the top of the first pitch, I look up at the next one. It should be 5c, and it looks like another steep, greasy flake. The movements are neat, despite the slime-covered rock, and it's quickly over. I look to the right of our route and see some scary pitons protecting a thin 6c. I decide we're on the right route. The next pitch is a long 5b, and Aaron takes it. Seconding, I am impressed with Aaron's lead. For a 5b, it's exceptionally thin and very balancey. The bolts are adequate, but not generous. As I arrive the belay, I look up and examine the 5c above. It's soaked.

"Why do I always get the wet pitches?" I demand.
"Just lucky, I guess."

After some scary slab moves on wet limestone and an airy traverse to the anchors, I belay Aaron up to the large ledge. By this time, we're more than 100 meters above the ocean and the exposure is amazing. We're one pitch from the top and I'm thrilled.

"You're up!" I say to Aaron as he arrives.
"I think you better take this last pitch. I'm beginning to feel the effects of climbing more in the last week than I'm used to."
"Come on, it's only 5a. It looks great." I tell him.
"You sure it's only 5a?"
"Pretty sure. We could check the topo."

We do, and it's not.

"Shit, it's 5c. Good thing we checked."

I drink some water and give the pack back to Aaron.

The last pitch is amazing, if a little sparsely bolted. Near the top where it gets steep I see a maillon rapide hanging from a bolt. Somebody had to escape the route, by the looks of it, only about 10 meters from the top. Must be the crux, I think to myself.

I get to the bolt, clip it, and look at my options. The holds are all there, but they're a little far apart. I stretch and grab the jug, excited to have made it, and sprint for the finish.

As I top out, the wind blasts me in the face. It's coming from the West, and we've been sheltered the entire climb. I'm thrilled and let out a yell. I put Aaron on belay and bring him up.

"Welcome to the top!" I say.

We put on some extra clothes, drink some water, and eat some cashews above the Mediterranean.

"Perfect belay ledges!" I exclaim. "Perfect belay ledges on every pitch."
"Classic."

"Did you see that quick link?" Aaron asks me.
"Yeah! I guess somebody had to rappel off. I tried to take the thing off, but it was fused shut."
"Must've been the crux."

We walk down, and as we're discussing our options for the afternoon, a storm rolls in fast and hard. The blue skies are replaced by angry storm clouds, and as we huddle under a trash shelter sorting out gear in the village, a woman offers us a ride back to Marseille. An exceptionally nice offer, but our tent and all of our gear are still in the bushes.

"Non, merci. Mais c'est très gentil!" I tell the woman, and she shake her head and gets in her car.

Instead, we walk back to the overhang, pitch the tent and take refuge for the afternoon. The storm clears as quickly as it arrived, and we decided to walk to Marseille, to see what kind of exit we're in for the next morning. It only takes an hour to get to town, what looks like a predominantly North-African suburb. We laugh as a sports car skids around the corner with the sign marked "Mosquée" and shake our heads at the teenagers riding wheelies on their mopeds. Suddenly, we find ourselves in front of a shopping center.

"Let's go the the mall!" Aaron says.
"Okay."
"If we were 13, this would be AWESOME."

But we do go in, and it turns out to be a supermarket. After picking up more cheese and bread and a glass from which to drink Pastis, we head back towards camp. In front of the store we see an advertisement for a magazine called "Votre Beauté". The cover features a redheaded model, and she's topless.

"Hold on a second." Aaron says. He's surprised by the public nudity, and no doubt interested in the feature article.

"It's our second muse!"

Our prophecy seems to be coming true, and we make our way back to the tent.

Tomorrow we leave.

Les Calanques: Day 3

Day 3 - Tuesday - La Paroi Noire to Sourmiou

I wake up, drier than expected. As I get out of the tent and walk around, I note that despite its flaws our campsite is extremely well hidden. We hang wet clothes on the bushes in anticipation of the sun and take stock. The cliff is wet from the rain but looks amazing. The rock is a dark grey, compact and beautiful.

The sun makes a tentative appearance and we decide to climb. The tent is so well hidden that we leave it pitched to dry, surrounded by our wet clothes.

"What do you want to do?" Aaron asked me.
"Let's start with this one, nice and easy" I say, pointing at a route on the topo. It's the original route, called La Paroi Noire. It consists of four easy pitches following the most obvious weakness right up the middle of the face.
"Let's bring the little backpack with an empty water bottle," says Aaron, "and I'll walk from the top back to the trailhead to get more water."

The line was first climbed in 1941. While France was occupied, notes Aaron. But not the South, I correct him.

Maybe this is why the French army gets such a bad rap: all of the brave Frenchmen were in the South, putting up rock climbs over the Mediterranean with pitons and hob-nailed boots.

After we finish Aaron goes for water and I relax at the tent. It is hot now, just as predicted, and I'm sweating in my t-shirt. Perfect. While we climbed it seems that the cliff has become crowded.

Our goal for the afternoon is another four-pitch line called "La Chaloupée". The name means "The Swaying". But at the base we see a pair of serious-looking Frenchmen gearing up.
"Excusez-moi. Vous faites laquelle?" I ask.
"La Chaloupée."
"They're on our route," I tell Aaron.
A quick glance at the guidebook reveals a line to the right.
"Looks like a 4b, then two long pitches of 5c."
"Beauty. Let's do it." He looks at the guidebook again. "I'll probably give the last two pitches to you."
"Okay."
We gear up, tie in, and start off. The first pitch goes quickly, but the the party to our left seems to be having some trouble. I'm not listening to their conversation, but there seems to be some question as to whether or not they are at the right belay.

At the anchor, I'm not totally sure that we're on route either. I start off on the only obvious options for a second pitch. It's a steep, greasy flake with horrible feet, and feels pretty stiff for 5c. I get to the belay, breathing hard, and belay Aaron up the pitch. I look up, and the next pitch looks a little easier, the line of bolts following a weakness up and left.

But as Aaron puts me on belay and I start up, I note with dismay that the line does not follow the weakness, but instead follows a rather spaced-out line of bolts directly up the clean face. It's beautiful, following small but positive face holds and technical footwork for 35 meters on amazing rock, almost to the top of the cliff.

I arrived at the next belay, surprised. If we had been on route, this should have been the last pitch. Instead I find myself on a huge belay ledge with what looks like a short pitch of relatively easy climbing above. I bring up Aaron and inform him that the last pitch is his.
"Your turn." I say.

It turns out to be short, as expected. There is only one bolt, at the 5.9 crux, and the rest is super easy all the way to the top.

We walk off, I retrieve the topo from the base of the climb, and we pack up our things. I look at the topo one more time, and discover that the party who was doing "La Chaloupée" ended up off route and at the belay of the climb we had decided to do, "L'eperon de droite." Instead we had done the first two pitches of "La Bavaroise" (a 4b for Aaron followed by a 6a for me) and the last two pitches of "Andromede" (a long 6b for me and a short 5c for Aaron). No wonder it felt stiff.

We've decided to go to Sormiou tonight, with the objective tomorrow of climbing one of many long routes over the ocean. It takes all evening to get to the next calanque, and as we descend towards the village we note that the cave I had spotted in the topo is fairly removed from anywhere we want to climb. From a vantage point we scan the large cave and decide that it does not appear hospitable. Our adventure the night before has instilled a certain urgency in finding a good spot, and we begin to scan frantically. We examine a few options and find nothing, but just before the village I see a small side trail. I check it out, and it's perfect. There is a mostly-level bed of pebbles underneath an overhanging cliff and a wall of bushes about shoulder height hiding the perfect rectangle of pebbles from the trail. It seems to be exactly the dimensions of my tent.

"Hey, check this out." I say to Aaron. "Is this good enough for you?"
"Does the pope shit in the woods?"
"What?"
"It's a mixed metaphor. Is the pope Catholic, does a bear shit in the woods."
"Oh."
"It means yes."

We hide our packs and make our way to the village. It's not quite dark, and we decide to check out the beach.

The beach is mostly rock and the ocean pounds rhythmically against the boat ramp. We sit down nearby and look at the waves. As I look at the photos that Aaron has taken on the trip, I notice one of a painting in the Louvre. It depicts three women, naked. One, a redhead, is turned away from the viewer and has especially rosy cheeks. I ask Aaron about it.

"It's the three graces." He tells me. "There were a million paintings of the three graces, but I really liked this one because one is blonde, one is brunette, and one is a redhead."
"And they're naked," I add.

To our right three people come down a rocky trail carrying large packs. There is a man and two women, one blond, one brunette, and the brunette appears much younger.

"That's totally mom, dad, and daughter out for a hike." I tell Aaron.

But as they get closer we notice that they are wearing harnesses.

"Cool. Other climbers."

They pass behind us and I think we've seen the last of them, but in a few moments they return without the harnesses, instead carrying soap and towels. They approach the beach and begin to strip.

The man is first. He's built like a climber, maybe a little short, and once down to his underwear he goes in the water with what looks like body wash. He starts to scrub, obviously cold. The brunette seems to be shy, though she has no reason to be, but the blonde, unreasonably thin and wearing dreadlocks, takes everything off and jumps headfirst into the water.

"I love that. Take a bath in the Mediterranean."
"I wonder if they're camping?"
"I saw a VW van in the parking lot." Aaron tells me.
"That must be it."

They continue to bathe, and it occurs to one of us: "That's the first muse!"
"We're totally gonna see all three on this trip."


"Cool."

Les Calanques: Day 2

Here's the report from day 2, and the usual disclaimer applies: what follows is mostly true, and I certainly haven't made up anything except for the dialogue or the story.

Day 2 - Monday - Les Goudes to Morgiou, or "le bivouac de secours"
Motivation is low. I wake up early, as I tend to in a tent, to the tranquil sounds of the cave. I walk around the rock face. The sky is cloudy, it's humid and windy. The South face that I had hoped to climb is blasted by fierce sea winds, and the three-pitch moderate following a crack system is oozing with wet, black, calciferous scum.

It is the first day without coffee.

We climb a few single pitches, mostly 6a, dodging rain drops and trying not to be blown off the rock.

"I'll just keep this warm for you," Aaron says, putting on my coat as I tie in.
"Tomorrow is going to be beautiful. It's going to be hot." I tell Aaron and myself.

I'm hoping to climb a formation called "Cret St. Michel" the next day. Specifically, a face called "La Paroi Noire". According to the guidebook, the face is covered in four-pitch sport climbs with pitches graded between about 4c and 6c. Perfect. And what's better, I'm pretty sure that in the photo of the cliff I spot a cave.

So at the end of our feeble climbing day we make our way towards the village of Morgiou, the location of "Cret St. Michel", by way of Marseille and its bus system. I elect the Reseau de transport de Marseille for several reasons. First, I know that we will get there. The alternative is a faith-guided 15km hike over rough and unknown trails in the general direction of our destination. Second, it is 4pm, and we have almost no water. Third, I want to go to a grocery store for bread, cheese, and candy.

We get off the 19 at Rond-Point-de-Prado, in central Marseille, and wait at the cross walk. My climbing shoes are strapped to my backpack.
"Vous escaladiez dans les Goudes?" a woman asks.
"Oui, c'est ça." She must have seen us get off the bus. "C'était bien, mais il y avait du pluie."
"Quoi?"
"De la pluie?" I try again.
"Ah. C'est Luminy où il faut aller."
"Oui, on y va maintenant." I assure her.
She looks at her watch, almost disgusted. "Ça va être la galère. Prenez le 21, après il faut marcher."

I buy some cheese and bread and Haribo gummy bears, which I am thrilled to find, and we get on the 21 for Luminy. At the trailhead we go on a thirty minute detour into a university to find water, only to discover upon returning to the trailhead that there is a large water fountain marked "eau potable" that we didn't notice the first time. It is rapidly getting dark and starting to rain.

As we begin our march I explain to Aaron, "That woman told me 'ca va être la galère', which means 'that is going to be the galley.' Galley, like a Greek ship rowed by slaves. It's the strangest bit of modern slang, but basically she said that this was going to be a pain in the ass."

"She was right."

It is getting colder and wetter by the minute.

We make good time and find the cliff quickly. The guidebook says 30 minutes of approach, it has been 20. But as we approach the cliff in the dark it becomes clear that what appeared to be a cave in the guidebook is only water-stained overhang. The rocky ground beneath is is too steep for a tent.

It is well into the night now and raining harder. The cave vision will not be fulfilled tonight, and as our priorities change so do our criteria. I dash along the base of the cliff, looking for any clear spot that might be big enough for our tent. In some bushes, I find something. It's too small, the ground is rocky and sloping at least fifteen degrees, and the foliage enveloping the miniscule space will pose problems with the fly.

"I think I've got something" I holler at Aaron. He comes up to where I'm standing.
"You think we can fit the tent in there?" He asks.
"It's either this or we keep walking around looking for something else."
"I'm getting pretty wet."

We set up the tent with amazing rapidity. The fly goes on, we get in, and in the foggy dampness of the inside I see that the fly is already sticking to the walls.
"That's not good." I note.
"It's going to be stinky in here." Aaron warns me. "I just want to make sure that we're going into this with our eyes open."
"I know."
I go back into the storm and stake out the fly to the best of my ability. I cut holes where I feel I need to in order to place a stake or tie an edge to a bush.

I get back in the tent where we are both oriented sideways in order to keep our heads uphill. We remove wet clothing and try to get comfortable.
"This might be the closest this thing will get to its designated purpose." Aaron says, breaking out his emergency blanket. I break out the bag of wine and the gummy bears, and we prepare to feast.

"What do you think it's gonna be like in the morning?" I ask.
"I think it's gonna be wet."

Les Calanques: Day 1

I'm back, but The Anarchy Breakfast is still on vacation. Look for Part II of "The Journey Home" next week. Instead, I thought I'd do some actual blogging between now and then, with a little trip report from climbing with Aaron in Les Calanques. It's mostly true.

Day 1 - Sunday Morning - Montpellier

We are looking for a grocery store.
"I forgot about Sunday mornings in France. There's actually a law against big stores being open on Sunday, except by government approval. Hey, look at that, Monoprix's open."
We go in. "What do you need?" I ask Aaron.
"I dunno. Some sandwich cookies. Whatever strikes my fancy."
We left with four packages of sandwich cookies, two baguettes, a box of wine, a bottle of Pastis, some cashews, dry sausage, and a hunk of Roquefort. "This stuff is like $50 a pound in the states!" Aaron exclaimed, holding up the 2 Euro package. We were ready for adventure.

The train ride to Marseille went quickly and shortly after noon we are navigating the Marseille public transit system. I'm squinting at a map at the bus stop, trying to discern whether or not we're on the right sight of the street.
"Where are you headed?" A gentle and very American voice asks me. I turn and it's a short blond girl who looks like she might blow away.
"I think we're going to Callelongue."
"Are you guys hikers?" She looks at my backpack.
"Climbers."
"Oh! The climbing there is really amazing!"
"Are you a climber?"
"No." She apologizes. "You should take the 21 to Luminy, though. I think Luminy goes the farthest south."

We plan to, in a couple of days.

"You must be American." I insist.
"No, Canadian."
"Where in Canada?"
"It's kind of a small town, you might not know it. It's called Nelson?"
"No way!" Aaron pipes up. "I lived there for a few months. Nelson's great."
"You must be a student, then." I say.
"No, a nanny."

I'm clearly not very good at this.

"Well, have a good climb!" She says, walking away. I turn to Aaron.
"That's the tightest pair of Carhartt's I've ever seen."
"Yeah. I didn't know they made 'em like that."


On bus #19, an old man sees me squinting at the list of stops.
"Vous déscendez où?"
"Au terminus, je pense."
"Madgregue de Montredon." He assures me.
"Oui. Et après on va prendre le 20 pour Callelongue."
"Vous allez dans les Goudes, c'est ça?"
"Oui, c'est ça."
"Le 20, il va très peu les Dimanches. À peu près toutes les heures."
"S'il y a pas de bus, on marche."
He rolls his eyes, wishes us, "Bon courage," and gets off at his stop.

We have no trouble getting on the 20 and started our hike from Callelongue into the rocky hillsides covered in cliffs. In one, a large cave is prominent.

"There's our hotel." I say. "I got the beta from one of my climbing friends. Fabrice told me, 'Là, tu peux dormir tranquil.'"

Our first climb is the four-pitch Arete Victor Martin above a couple enjoying a romantic lunch. "Man, that looks great." Aaron says. "They've got a bottle of wine, some nice food. They worked up a little sweat getting up here, now they're enjoying a great view. I hope they do it twice tonight."

The climb had been re-equipped in the early nineties and we find the bolts to be in good condition. The rock is far from perfect, but serves as a nice introduction to the climbing in Les Calanques and it's cool to be able to summit a formation on the first day. We do one more pitch of 6a and call it a good afternoon.

We set up camp in the cave. With a roof, lots of space, and a relatively flat and soft dirt floor, and an opening pointing away from town and well-hidden from any passers-by, this would prove to be our best camping spot of the trip.

Stay tuned for day 2 tomorrow.