We wake up late on Easter Sunday, after a late night of spaghetti and beer. The plan is a lazy afternoon at the tiny local crag of Mosset, in the Pyrenees. It's a large granite block, maybe 30 meters tall at its peak. A handful of routes are equipped, and Sebastien is intent on making a guidebook. Towards this goal, we try to climb everything. It is refreshing to climb on something other than limestone, and despite intermittent storms we climb a lot of routes. In the afternoon, after a particularly violent pocket of rain, I make what I think is probably the first ascent of a decidedly not-magnificent chimney on the back side of the rock. It's wide at the start, with honest-to-goodness, do-the-splits stemming before gaining a series of large chockstones and a crack about the right size to jam a fist in. It goes for about 20 meters, and I place some good nuts and a cam on the way up.
It storms some more, we drink some wine, and we call it a day.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Saturday
Monday is a holiday, so for the weekend some climbers have planned a trip towards the Pyrenees. The first stop is Vingrau, about an hour and a half from Montpellier.
Well known for its improbable slabs, Vingrau also has a host of short multi-pitch routes and some of what the French call "terrain d'aventure". Depending on the location, "terrain d'av" can mean anything from a route with absolutely no equipment, requiring a full rack of traditional protection, to old pitons, to a mostly bolted route with a level of commitment maybe slightly higher than your average French sport route. After a couple routes to warm up and a full French lunch, Adrien proposes "Le plan incliné". It's a 70 meter route, mostly on gear, with two pitches and a bolted belay. I'm game, so we rack up and go for it.
Adrien is a very strong climber, but as I'm seconding his first pitch I'm pretty skeptical of the quality of his gear placements. I finally get to a cam that I think might hold a fall about 25 meters off the ground and about 5 meters from the belay.
"It's a good thing you're so strong," I tell him, "because until just now you were soloing."
I grab the rack and start off on my pitch. The climbing is not too hard, the crack takes good gear, and about 40 meters later I'm at the top, belaying Adrien. We rappel down and chat with some French people at the base about Montana and "A River Runs Through It."
"That's where I live," I tell them, and Adrien and I walk back to where our friends are, around the corner.
We here a loud rumble of rocks falling. We pause for a second and don't think about it.
But while I'm belaying Adrien on the next route, the road below is blocked off and filled with rescue vans. As I'm lowering Adrien we hear the unmistakable noise of a helicopter.
It's a rescue.
"I'm done." I tell Adrien. "Two helicopters in two days is too much."
The wall we had been climbing on just before had apparently lost a large block, injuring two climbers. We had been there 10 minutes before it happened, on the route just to the right.
The climbers were alive, but seriously hurt, and were whisked off rapidly to the hospital.
The drive to Sebastien's parents house, our lodging for the weekend, is done in silence.
Well known for its improbable slabs, Vingrau also has a host of short multi-pitch routes and some of what the French call "terrain d'aventure". Depending on the location, "terrain d'av" can mean anything from a route with absolutely no equipment, requiring a full rack of traditional protection, to old pitons, to a mostly bolted route with a level of commitment maybe slightly higher than your average French sport route. After a couple routes to warm up and a full French lunch, Adrien proposes "Le plan incliné". It's a 70 meter route, mostly on gear, with two pitches and a bolted belay. I'm game, so we rack up and go for it.
Adrien is a very strong climber, but as I'm seconding his first pitch I'm pretty skeptical of the quality of his gear placements. I finally get to a cam that I think might hold a fall about 25 meters off the ground and about 5 meters from the belay.
"It's a good thing you're so strong," I tell him, "because until just now you were soloing."
I grab the rack and start off on my pitch. The climbing is not too hard, the crack takes good gear, and about 40 meters later I'm at the top, belaying Adrien. We rappel down and chat with some French people at the base about Montana and "A River Runs Through It."
"That's where I live," I tell them, and Adrien and I walk back to where our friends are, around the corner.
We here a loud rumble of rocks falling. We pause for a second and don't think about it.
But while I'm belaying Adrien on the next route, the road below is blocked off and filled with rescue vans. As I'm lowering Adrien we hear the unmistakable noise of a helicopter.
It's a rescue.
"I'm done." I tell Adrien. "Two helicopters in two days is too much."
The wall we had been climbing on just before had apparently lost a large block, injuring two climbers. We had been there 10 minutes before it happened, on the route just to the right.
The climbers were alive, but seriously hurt, and were whisked off rapidly to the hospital.
The drive to Sebastien's parents house, our lodging for the weekend, is done in silence.
Friday
Thursday night I get a text message: "I'm free tomorrow, let me know if you want to go climbing. - Baptiste"
Some other friends will be climbing the next day at Thaurac, the local crag, but they're leaving at 9:30. Baptiste and I decide instead to leave at the very reasonable hour of 11AM, and when we meet the next morning we decide to climb a "grande voie". Baptiste has never done any multi-pitch, so we go to a clean, well-protected wall at Thaurac for his first time. I briefly show him how to make an anchor and how to tie in with a clove hitch, and we cast off. It goes pretty quickly, and he's hooked.
"At first I was nervous, but as soon as I started the second pitch on lead everything was fine."
"Next time we'll go to L'Hortus," I tell him.
We decide to spend the rest of the day cragging, which involves driving a few minutes down the canyon to another wall. But as we round the corner, we see a number of rescue vehicles and a helicopter overhead. We pass, slowly, and my heart jumps as I see my friend's car, the one who left at 9:30, parked just ahead.
"I hope it's not Adrien." I say, and then we're silent as we make our way away from the scene. "Jeez, that's scary."
We climb all afternoon through slowly deteriorating conditions, but despite the accident's morale-lowering effect and the gray sky, both Baptiste and I manage to climb some hard routes that had previously eluded us.
That night I send Adrien a message, to see if he's okay.
"I'm fine" he tells me. "The accident was on the via ferrata, right next to us. I don't have any more details."
Some other friends will be climbing the next day at Thaurac, the local crag, but they're leaving at 9:30. Baptiste and I decide instead to leave at the very reasonable hour of 11AM, and when we meet the next morning we decide to climb a "grande voie". Baptiste has never done any multi-pitch, so we go to a clean, well-protected wall at Thaurac for his first time. I briefly show him how to make an anchor and how to tie in with a clove hitch, and we cast off. It goes pretty quickly, and he's hooked.
"At first I was nervous, but as soon as I started the second pitch on lead everything was fine."
"Next time we'll go to L'Hortus," I tell him.
We decide to spend the rest of the day cragging, which involves driving a few minutes down the canyon to another wall. But as we round the corner, we see a number of rescue vehicles and a helicopter overhead. We pass, slowly, and my heart jumps as I see my friend's car, the one who left at 9:30, parked just ahead.
"I hope it's not Adrien." I say, and then we're silent as we make our way away from the scene. "Jeez, that's scary."
We climb all afternoon through slowly deteriorating conditions, but despite the accident's morale-lowering effect and the gray sky, both Baptiste and I manage to climb some hard routes that had previously eluded us.
That night I send Adrien a message, to see if he's okay.
"I'm fine" he tells me. "The accident was on the via ferrata, right next to us. I don't have any more details."
Saturday, March 27, 2010
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
Download here
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
Download here
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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
Download here.
Enjoy.
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
Download here.
Enjoy.
Monday, March 8, 2010
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.
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.
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