Alpine Princess

In Memory Of...

2009-07-31T00:04:00.000-07:00

Jonny Copp in Joshua Tree, Photo Mark Reiner

Apres Film Festival, a great local french band

film fest

film fest

How do you honor the people in your life who you lose far too soon? How do you carry on their memory? How do you embody all the things they taught you, showed you, helped you to grow into?

My mind wanders through these questions after a week of climbing with Matt K and his mission to raise awareness and money for Climb For Kids, www.climbforkids.org, in memory of his daughter. While climbing Mont Blanc, AGAIN, isn't my favorite work, the mission, to climb it for a reason was, though still painful!!, rewarding. As Matt delved into his heart, mind, and memory on the summit of Mont Blanc, all the steps that had taken him there, both physically and emtionally, and tears poured from his eyes I had to respect his journey, his mission, and his commitment to honor the memory of his daughter and the journey of his family, and try to help others through raising awareness and funds.

My most recent loss, and I say most recent, because while we live in a life of passion, and passionate people, we embrace a lot of loss as well, was of a close friend and mentor, Jonny Copp. Jonny Copp, Micah Dash, and Wade Johnson were tragically killed in an avalanche in China just a few months ago.

The last time I saw Jonny, he and Micah Dash were living in my semi-demolished new apartment. I had ripped walls out, and doors off, but not started any renovations. Jonny asked if they could crash there. I said sure, but there is no shower and the toilet has no walls, so you might want to get a shower curtain. Ahh and there is not stove. But it fit the bill, it was free 40 square meters of roof, a flushing toilet, running water, a fridge, and a bed in Chamonix.

When I returned from Alaska there was a plastic shower curtain with blue fishies on it, hanging around the toilet. There were a handful of camping stoves set up on the counter, and stuff (mostly mine) piled in every corner. There were thermarests tucked into each corner and a guitar Jonny had found to borrow for the time he was here. My semi-demolished home was full of wine, laughter, and music. The first night I slept there, I remember meandering through conversation with Jonny perched in a corner on the floor, and me tucked cozily in my bed, as lightning flashed in the window and thunder resonated across the glacier perched precariously up the valley above my apartment. We giggled and conspired, our conversation ran deep and wide as it always did with Jonny.

We spoke of the film festival he had created and a vision of brining it to Chamonix. I was thinking small, a few films, Jonny was thinking HUGE as he always did. It scared me the thought of huge.

What if no one comes, what if it fails?
It won't, said Jonny with conviction. If you build it with your heart.

That sort of conviction in his passions, in his dreams was so large it was hard to fathom. I wanted to have a fraction of that sort of confidence. As we started working on the festival, life became too busy, too complicated and my bank account too empty. So I had to step away from working on the festival, sadly.

In the light of hearing of Jonny's death, I realized that the festival had fallen, in part, into my hands. It was up to me to carry on Jonny's spirit, dreams, work, and conviction. So I asked to re-join the team and help to finish one of Jonny's last projects.

With a lot of effort, hard work, time, a bit of red tape, by a handful of amazing people at the Adventure Film office in Boulder Colorado, Dylan Taylor (who joined the team to help make things go), Raphael LaGrange (who was already working with the Festival), the town hall (especially Cathy Meot), Patagonia Europe and USA, and many other locals and seasonaires, we sent off the first film Adventure Film Festival in Chamoinx!!!

Over two nights there were more than 500 attendees, fantastic beer and food served by the MBC (Micro Brassarie de Chaomnix) and the Vert. Paraponting air spectacles performed by the Acro-twins. After parties with local bands and DJ's. And many diverse films watched.

As the festival wrapped up, I was exhausted and satiated. I was left wondering how Jonny juggled so many balls. How he dreamed so large and made them all come true. How he inspired people into action and motion and life. And I was sadened to have lost him. But only in body, not in spirit, or action.

So, I guess, in conclusion to my own questions, how do you honor the memory of someone, you act through their inspiration and through that you keep their spirit and essence alive eternally.

So...I hope to see you all next year at the 2nd ANNUAL Adventure Film Festival in Chamonix, because we will continue to keep Jonny's spirit, inspiration, and dreams to share art, adventure, stories, erase boundaries, and just take time out of our life to be together with friends and meet new people, through Adventure Film Festival Chamoinx!

Perspective

2009-07-28T09:20:00.000-07:00

Photo: Zoe Hart
A solitary rope and a blue door...what is behind the door, what adventures has the rope participated in...I leave it to your imagination, perspective...Zawia, Haute Atlas Mountains, Morocco

Matt Kowalczyk (yes that's how you spell his name, I didn't just punch random keys on the keyboard, and imagine trying to spell that out to a French person...not easy)....back to Matt, my client for the week, here to climb Mont Blanc and take in the views in honor of his non-profit organization Climb For Kids (you can read more on Climb For Kid's mission on www.climbforkids.org).

Ok, there was no thread on where that was going, so now that you know who Matt is, on we go.

Matt and I settled into the Torino hut for an early afternoon nap. After a nice bimble across the Vallee Blanche, traversing from Chamonix, France, to the Italian side, with a few eye opening crevasses and snow bridges to cross, we decided to take advantage of the quite hut while it lasted, before the snorers invaded our room.

Dark, billowing, black clouds, that grew from whisps, to horse tails, to towers, floated in and out of the sky as the light refracted through our window like a prism.

"How can you sleep right in the middle of the afternoon? And if you sleep now, will you sleep tonight?" Matt wondered.

"Ahh, but the hut, in the afternoon is the best place to sleep. There is nothing else to do, but read, sleep, or listen to music, pod casts or books on tape. I take the opportunity to have no "to do list" guilt, and catch up on all the sleep I miss the days I wake up at 2am to start climbing."

A smile crept across Matt's face, he understood.

Before the book fell onto my face, and my breath slipped into a rythym only achieved in a dreaming state, I was reading a book called the Spell of the Sensuous by David Amram. The book is full of interesting philosophies, concepts, mental meanderings, some of which I believe in others which interest me but I haven't yet formed a perspective on, and others I don't buy at all. But fundamentally his discussion is about Ecology, and the human connection to the earth, nature, animals, all that exists outside of us as individuals, all that we affect with our daily choices, all that we experience and experiences us.

I find this interesting because Nature is essentially my job, or being in it, and interacting with it, and experiencing it.

He discusses Merleau-Ponty's description of perception
'as a mutual interaction, an intercourse, "a coition, so to speak, of my body with things."

Abrams discusses the argument of Science versus Phenomenology
'Phenomenology....would turn toward 'the things themselves,' towrd the world as it is experienced in its felt immediacy. Unlike the mathematics-based sciences, phenomenology would seek not to explain the world, but to describe as closely as possible the way the world makes itself evident to awareness, the way things first arise in our direct, sensorial experience.'

I don't want to delve too far today, but these thinkings made me question and evaluate how I perceive the world around me, specifically the natural world, and how I interact with it. My impact, my contribution, my life.

So I leave you with the task of thinking about the same thing, can you do more, can you take less (can I?)...at least think about it...I will as well.

Guides are Human Too!! The tale of the solitary crampon.

2009-07-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

Photo: Maxime Turgeon, cold, clear and windy up high in the Mt Blanc Massif, gearing up for Pinnochio (winter mixed climbing) unrelated photo of similar area.

Hard as I try, it's certainly a chore for me to pack my pack the night before. Max, my logical, organized, engineering brained other half encourages me endlessly to embrace this as part of my normal routine. It works when I go climbing with Max because he packs my pack, no joke, totally serious. I'm completely ok with this! But when I'm guiding, and especially guiding a lot, I usually fail.

But last night, I managed. Maybe it was because I had the house to myself and less distractions as Max and Jonno were up in the mountains attempting to climb some heinous rock route on the Italian side of Mont Blanc, maybe it is because I thought about that extra half an hour of sleep the following morning, maybe I had over ambitious ideas that I would wake early, run, do yoga, read a book, read the New York Times, write in my journal, but really I hit snooze and slept that extra half an hour. Regardless, I succeeded. I packed my pack the night before.

As I stopped to dump the trash and recycling down the road from my house I realized I had forgotten my ice axe. No stress, I was less than two minutes from my house. Upon returning I saw a lonely crampon in the front yard, close to our storage "cave's". Without much thought, I tossed it into the rest of the pile of Max's gear I had dumped from his box last night looking for my missing crampons.

A few hours later, after doing the bits and bobs in town we needed, Matt, my client for this week, and myself arrived at the top of the midi, on a stellar, sunny day, with ambitions of climbing the arete des Cosmiques. As I unloaded my pack, harness, rope, gear, helmet and CRAMPON! NOT CRAMPONS!! I instantly realized where the other one was. For a moment, I convinced myself that I could walk down the steep, narrow, exposed, icy arete, safely while keeping Matt safe, with one crampon. That dream dissipated quickly and I swallowed my pride and headed to the worker's room.

I poked my head through the door. And with the biggest, cutest smile I could muster, asked if I could interrupt their lunch and ask for a favor.

The man looked at me and told me I had gone through the wrong door.

No room left for modesty, I pulled out the stops. I pulled back my top jacket flashing egotistically, and hopefully, my Guides badge. I think half of them choked on their first bite of lunch.

I am a guide. And I arrived here with one crampon. Is there ANY chance I can borrow a pair, I will bring them back in a few hours. I asked desperate, and at their complete mercy.

The mood quickly changed with the understanding that I, a female, was also a guide! The man, once skeptical man, Jean Michel, hopped to his feet, and brandished a pair of crampons out of his locker. Another, unrelated worker popped in right at that time and laughed out loud. Ahh you are lucky you are cute!

So yes, I worked it. I took advantage and in the end, we safely climbed the Arete des Cosmiques in crampons, safely. And I promised to bake brownies for the kind gentleman in return!

The thing is most people make mistakes, or forget things, but when you're guiding it usually happens in front of an audience and it's quite embarrassing!!!

A plus, a humble zoe.,

Simplicity

2009-07-24T09:43:00.000-07:00

I ran into a friend, Cecile, on the telepherique today as we downloaded from the Flegere lift.

"Have you been working lots?" She asked?
"Ah, a bit, but not too much." I responded

"Oh I haven't seen any posts all summer on your blog so I figured you were super busy!" She giggled.

Ah right, again that category of best laid intentions. The idea to share stories, triumphs, failures, adventures, mental meanderings through a blog. To challenge my writing in a public, relatively non-critical (yeah right) forum. And, even maybe to use it to take account of my path and purpose in life. Ah, but I've been comsumed by busy-ness. Or a perception of busy-ness.

There are so many things I, we, want to make time for in our lives, and writing is always one of them, so why do I let it fall to the side.

Ok, maybe I'll save this personal reflection for my hand written journal and leave you with some stories.

Today's post is called simplicity.

After the tragic, and unexpected death, of very close friends, I am left wondering, yet again, maybe always, the purpose of mountains, climbing, climbers, in my life. Your attention span is too short and my thoughts to unconcluded to go too deeply into that here so instead I will approach my response. Simplicity.

I have been remembering the joy of running, mountain running, trail running. A day where I enjoy nature, the landscape, the mountains, from a different perspective. From a safer perspective, where I don't walk across a glacier. Where I don't traverse under a hanging serac. Where I am not exposed to rock fall. Where pushing myself means controlling my mind and my pace and my breath and my focus, not working through a pump on an ice pitch where falling could be deadly. Not fumbling with a piece of gear as my hand jam slips. Not precariously perching a front point of a crampon on a granite nub on a mixed pitch.

There is certainly value in each of those moments. Personal growth, reflection, mind control. But do we need to live in that space all the time? Do we, as Alpinists meet the criteria of "thrill seekers" that some non-climbers write us off as? Can I find pleasure in a sport that pushes me through those mental challenges without fearing for my life? I think so.

I find Ultra Running to be one of the most inspiring sports I can think of. The discipline, the commitment, the time inside your head. My interest has been peeked. I have been asking friends for the recipe to try to delve into that world. For sure I won't be entering any races any time soon. But for now, I will embark upon a new-ish sport, and see where it takes me.

The simplicity of it all. A trail, a pair of running shoes, and ME!! No ropes, rack, backpack, no partner even.

So today, despite an urge to go climbing, I joined some friends to hike a portion of the TMB, The Mont Blanc Trail. We hiked, caught up on life, on 5 or so years that saw us each leading different lives and on different paths, we laughed, we got yelled at for being too loud and "infringing" on someone's nature experience, we picked wild blueberries off of bushes, we indulged in a coffee at a hut, Dana braved the icy glacial lakes for a dip, and we laughed, SIMPLY.

On my way Home!

2009-01-20T11:47:00.001-08:00

On the 5th of January we packed our bags into my Subaru and headed to the airport. I was sad to say goodbye to all the wonderful people of Canmore, but not to the cold. I left dreaming of alpine lines, and warmer temps, so I know I will be back.

When we landed in Montrose, Colorado, the sun was shining, the mountains were plastered in fresh snow, and we had to dig in the bottom of our packs for our sunnies. Peeling off layer after layer of clothing after a month of -30 to -40 temps in the Canadian rockies, the sun made us smile.

I have lived in Ouray/Ridgway Colorado a few times over the years, and every time I come back I miss living there! It is one of the few towns in North America I could imagine living in.

The weekend was full of friends, festivities, parties, clinics, hot springs, and competitions.

Despite the cold temps in Canmore I had enough time to train at the Vision gym, where there is an awesome cave with holds for dry tooling, and Haffner Creek, the Playground, and other local mixed crags. For the first time I showed up at the competition with a bit of strength and lots of psyche.

I was lucky to draw my climbing number towards the beginning of the day, but not too early. The morning was crisp and cold with a blanket of fresh snow covering everything, and clear skies. Majka Burhart, another competitior, and myself warmed up on some easier mixed and ice routes. We forced ourselves into the screaming barfies, it was our tactic. If we got them first thing in the morning, maybe we wouldn't get them in the competition. As I climbed my first pitch of ice, on top rope, with my hands gripped as tight as I could on my leashless tools, with the lightest gloves I could find, and tons of fresh snow, the goal was accomplished. It was not fun, but it worked.

The warm up was a fun atmosphere, a handful of competitors from across the USA and Canada traded ropes, smiles, laughs, nerves, words of encouragement. I love the atmosphere. We are all super competitive, and want to do well, but mostly I think we are competitive against ourselves, and love the drive of others that pushes us.

After a few pitches my time was almost up. The temps had warmed up to a sunny day and I knew it would be a perfect day for the comp route.

We get to preview the route from a distance and get an idea of what the climbing is like before the comp, but we are not allowed to scope it with binoculars, or photos, or watch anyone climb on it.

Local Hard Man Vince Anderson put the route up this year. I was for sure intimidated!! The route climbed 20 or so meters of grade 4 ice on top rope, a good warm up, to a belay, and then you are on lead. You get two or three moves up a rocky slab, and then the route is in your face. It is a full on roof, angling at 45 degrees, traversing up and left. I could see some of the holds that were marked with green spray paint to at least give us a chance, but I couldn't figure out what you did with your feet. And I knew for sure I couldn't do twelve figure 4's!!

I get super nervous before comps or before performing for a crowd. It's kind of funny because I am by no means shy, or introverted, but the pressure of performing weighs on me. Though just like Division 1 sports at University, or guides exams, I always seem to find the groove once I start.

Full of nerves, with a twisting stomach, I dropped over the lip into the canyon, feeling like I couldn't even remember how to rappel!

I got to the bottom to find a familiar face, Bill Whitt, with a huge smile, the organizer of the comp, super hard worker, and wonderful guy. He always gives a big smile, a pat on the back and words of encouragement.

I worked my way up the wierd, ice park, ice, or snice...Without too much trouble. It felt like it took me forever, but it only took 5 minutes. While at the change over point, from top rope to lead, I took a deep breath and warmed up my hands while looking at the route. I'm not much of a sport climber, or competitor for that matter, I don't do well at working routes, or reading them. But, after a few weeks of training and some good advice from Max, my boyfriend, I decided to read the route, or at least try to see where my moves would take me. The route was steep from the start, so I wouldn't have a lot of energy to waste.

I saw the first four or five moves, my hands were warm, and I took off. I moved up the slab thinking, this would be a crap place to fall off, but easy to fall as well, the slab was not hard but insecure and an intimidating start.

I reached to the first hold sinking my tool, and testing it, up and right I found a great crack for my other tool. Looking down at my feet i found a few nubs to move on and then made my first clip. After two moves I was leaning back hips pressed in and fully IN the roof. As I tried to clip the second clip, my not a good sport climber, showed itself as I fumbled the clip and had to drop the rope. After shaking out I gave it as second go, sucessfully. Moving up a few more moves, my arms were fully pumped. I did my best to shake out, but could feel the blood pooling in my arms.

I pulled with all my strength to have a look for the next hold, but knew there was no way I could actually move, and that was me off!

In the end I climbed well, placed second, there was a three way tie for high points in the women's division, so it went to time, I was second fastest, and likely placed around 10th overall of 20 including the men. I am content with my performance, but super motivated to take the training to the mountains and climb some trad mixed lines surrounded by big peaks back home in Chamonix, where I am headed right now. And, i hope to have more time and motivation to train next year, when the hard women come back (Audrey Gipery, Ines Papert, and Jen Olsen were in nepal this year trying an alpine line) and see how it goes!

P.s...I"m not canadian, but that's not a bad nationality to be mistaken for, he he he!

Bike, Hike, Climb, Get Pumped, Suffer, Spindrift, do it all over again!!

2008-12-13T11:59:00.000-08:00

Ahh the glory of early season....Canadians have the luxury of climbing ice from October to April or May in a good year. Us non-Incredible Hulk, American types, get a few wily months in and we call it good. I would have to say that I'm not a natural born waterfall ice climber. My years of climbing have taken me through more of the Alpine Style ice, smooth couloirs choked with ice, if you're lucky, or snice (snow ice), or neive. Or mixed rock lines or crampon points teetering precariously on minute, granite edges, tools torked in small fissures, cams stuffed in ice choked cracks.

So...I agreed with Max that we would spend a few months in the Candian Rockies getting fit and strong, and me getting reaquainted with ice (if you look into the archives you will see early season ice from last year explaining my fall on ice two years ago). After a long summer of house renovations

feeling severely unfit, we made the trek to my car in Salt Lake City, Utah and drove North. We settled into our less than romantic, house, to be shared with a few local mice, a handful of dog food in the utensil drawr, an overflowing bathroom sink, a leaky bathtub, and then washed all the dishes in clorox bleach before daring to eat off them, unloaded our tools, ice screws, and bundles of kit and packed up to go play in the snow and ice.

After one day of mellow warm-up at the back of Lake Louise

, we headed up to the Trophy Wall, a huge North Facing wall just outside of Banff on Mount Rundle. The wall is full of gems, lusted over by locals, and visitors. I have always wanted to make my way up there.

We borrowed bikes from a friend and cycled as far down the road as possible

The 3 hour, 1000 m acent, approach was a long haul for me feeling desperately unfit! And, for the record biking in the snow on thin road tires is less than enjoyable.

The ice on The Replicant, was steep and featured, hooked out and fun climbing, but the snow kept falling and the wind picked up. So, we decided to bail, or maybe I convinced Max to bail. There was so much snow on the trail we ended up having to push our bikes most of the 5km back out that we had been able to ride in, NOT FUN!

A few days of drytooling at haffner creek and ice climbing on Carlsberg in Field, and we headed back up to the Trophy Wall.

This time feeling a bit more fit we woke up before light and headed in by headlamps. The snow had mostly been blown clear so the hiking was much more fun! Ok FUN is an overstatement, but not as painful.

This time we were going to try Terminator 2, the mixed start to the Terminator. Climb ice blobs to an anchor just below the daggar. From here Max traversed out onto mixed terrain, then hooked onto the scary looking dagger, and over onto the top of the hanging icicle. I luckily maanged to avoid barfing while watching. From there the climbing doesn't get any easier, steep steep, climbing, unprotectable, three fractures clean across the pilliar, freezing hands, cold temps, and windy weather coming in. It was a pump fest!!

I managed to make my way up behind him with out too much grace. We made it back to the forest before dark, and to the bikes with head lamps...Back home and could barely walk the next day!!

Facing the Dark Side

2008-09-07T00:06:00.000-07:00

Photos: Top: Jeff Banks giving a Kiss to Mark Ryle, a fun day out on the South Face of the Aguille du Midi, rock climbing sunny granite. Middle: Mark Ryle on the crux pitch, as Jeff Banks and I heckle from below. Bottom: Three Amigos Mark Ryle, Me, and Jeff Banks, at the top of the route after a day full of laughs, hand jams, and back in town for dinner!

I went down to visit my friend Mark Monday, it's weekly ritual. An hour and a half drive to Rumilly. Usually I have a small bag of his laundry, some home made treats, soup, cakes, salad, and a handful of letters. It's usually either heaving with rain as I descend the auto route, or its one million degrees. I park at the old church, and walk into the sterile building, pushing the elevator button to arrive at the first floor. Passing each room marked with a name I find my way to Mark's. He's sitting in a chair eating his lunch or dinner, or on his bed reading a book. His face lights up as he sees me. He's likely been waiting, wondering who will visit today. He smothers me with a huge kiss and I feel needed and loved. He sighs "Ahhh great, now I can take my helmet off." I"m ready for him to take his helmet off now, the first time it was a little traumatic. As he lifts the white plastic helmet off his head he unveils his injury. The right side of his head sags into a depression the size of a large grapefruit due to the fact that he is missing nearly a third of his scull bone.

"Do you have any news about when you will have the plate put in?"

"Yeah, the 1st of October, I can't wait!! I hate this helmet, it's like having to wear a wooly cap in the middle of summer, while walking on the treadmill doing physio."

"What is the surgery like?"

"It's not supposed to be too bad. They will take me back to Geneva which is good, because that's where I was right after the accident so the doctors know my story there."

"Yeah, I remember Geneva."

I remember the whole thing, rockfall on a relatively normal day out in the mountains. Climbing a day route off on the Blatiere, just to the left of the Aguille du Midi. A dozen or so climbers on the face and Mark got hit....I sit there and face Mark, we chat, he's hopeful, he's positive, he's just taking it as it comes. I can't help but wonder if he's in denial, if he's putting on a brave face for me. I can't help but change places with him, or put Maxime, my boyfriend there, it could have just as easily been someone else.

But I am amazed, as we dance through topics ranging from literature, to physio therapy, to Chamonix gossip how "Mark" he is. I can't believe how well he is doing.

We talk about the parts he doesn't remember, the coma, the two brain surgeries, coming out of the coma, not knowing he had a head injury, being restrained to the bed, initially not being able to move his left side, and all the progress until here.

Once we have exhausted all the topics of conversation, he's eaten the tomato soup I brought him, and the fennel (wierd, but he loves fennel), we pretend like we're having a dinner party together, Mark is getting tired, visiting hours are coming to an end , and I have an hour and a half to drive back to Chamonix.

We say our goodbyes, give traditional French cheek kisses, patented Mark hugs and I go back for just a few more, before I leave, not really wanting to leave. Knowing how close it all was to not having any of this.

The drive home is hard, it leaves me to my head for an hour and a half. I process his progress. I process his deficiencies, due to the head injury. I process his bad luck. I process my chance, my luck. And I wonder.....why we take the risk? I have to answer to family, friends, loved ones, and I want to have good answers.

I go through his past two months, a week in a coma, two brain surgeries and all the progress since. And I am amazed. Mark is lucky, he is strong, he is brave, and I can't help but wonder if I would be so composed.

It's the dark side of what we do, I think about how fragile life is. I think about loving the people in my life harder, being more forgiving of others and myself. I think about the great days, the glacial sunrises, the shiver bivies with Max or a good friend, I think about the laughs, the little epics, and I think about the risk. I think about car accidents and randomness of life and balance that into the risk I take in the mountains. I think about my Dad who died of a heart attack at 42 on a run, and my Uncle who died in the World Trade Center.

I know the dark side of climbing is always there. I know we only face it on occasion otherwise, if we processed it every day, we would be too scared to go climbing. But I know the dark side of life is there too. If we processed it every day we would never get out of bed.

So I take moments and events like this to value life, experience and people more, and to be honest with myself about why I climb. And by the time I get home, with the panorama of mountains laid before me, the Aguilles, the ridges, the rock, the snow, the ice...I am excited to share another adventure with someone I love, to tie into a rope and trust my fragile life and theirs to the partnership of sharing a rope. Because that's why Mark is so special to me, because we shared dozens of days like that in the mountauns, and we know friendships that lies deep in the elements of sharing each other's fragile lives.

And that's why we climb, and that's what I'll tell those who ask me!

2008-08-05T09:35:00.000-07:00

The Other Side of the Guide/Climber Life

2008-06-17T07:26:00.000-07:00

The glory of the past few months, the accomplishments, the travels, the summits, alpine days, suffering, Guide Exam Completion, becoming a home owner (sorry I know, I'm dropping a half a dozen stories that I left untold due to slow internet, too many travel days, and too little computer time, but maybe I'll work both backwards and forwards), have metamorphosed into plain old blue collar hard work.

I'm a home owner! YAY, the American Dream, only it's in France, in Chamonix, and I managed to convince French authorities I was a good person to trust a loan to....he he he. Sometimes the arbitrary nature of the French culture works in my favor, and m I be bold enough to say the cultural massogeny?

Can I have thousands of Euros please? I begged with my sparkles and cutest Patagonia water girl skirt I could find.
Oh what do I do for a living I'm a Guide de La Haute Montagne.
Bah Non! Une Femme Guide!
Bah OUI!!
What do I make annually? How much money do I want?
Hmm they don't seem to balance out but heck why not....
Yehaw!

So that was it. Between the help of my fantastic mother, who opens my mail, deposits my checks....basically cleans up all i leave behind. After almost 10 years of trying to separate myself from my family, and become INDEPENDENT, I have digressed, I am on my mom's family plan for a cell phone, cheapest option when living out of the country most of the year. I have given her access, check books, bank cards to my meager bank account, and asked numerous favors of her in the process of procuring a home. Then there are my friends Miles and Lisa, the savy business peeps.

It started on a whim on a weekly run in the mountains, it proceeded with begging for my family to invest in the property, it continued with sweat, concrete, and tiling my step dad's chalet floor in hopes of helping him sell and convince him to support my blind ambition.

And it ended in January, with me running around Ouray inbetween ice climbing competitions, teaching clinics, unpacking from a month of climbing in Patagonia Argentina, and a day before leaving for Nepal and Oman for a month.

Papers were signed, notariezed, fed-exed to France (again by another integral friend Tony Brent), and a few days later, in the Khumbu Reigon of Nepal, in Namche Bazzar, I recieved an email saying I was a homeowner, with my new address!

A month later I stumbled back to Chamonix, my home base for the past 8 years, and found a set of skeleton keys with my name on it. The apartment 40 square meters, around 400 square feet, is small by American standards, but reasonable by European, especially Chamonix.

The work that I remembered as being aesthetic mostly as it turns out is now a complete gutting, removing a structural wall, trenching the house to dry the concrete walls that are home to dozens and dozens of earth worms.

I looked at my skeleton of a home, that is now a meager 4 concrete walls! The electric and plumbing removed too...and realized that I had devalued my home about 50,000 Euros. A brief panic attack, hyperventillation, and the commitment of my amazing boyfriend Maxime, a set of amazing and knowledgable hands, and I began wrapping my head around the idea of a mortgage, and a "working space".

To follow you will see the progress of our small home as it unfolds the challenges of working in another country, language, metric system, etc.

Ahh an adventure to begin.

Do You Really Want My Life??

2008-03-15T02:27:00.000-07:00

Ahhh the less glorious side of travel, transience, and the climber/guide/dirtbag lifestyle....Packing, Packing, and Packing again...I'm pretty sure I spend more of my life doing this than climbing.

Thanks for the help Max!

In My Own Backyard

2008-03-11T01:41:00.000-07:00

We stood on the flats, Max and I, squinting in thrashing winds and sideways snow. If I squinted, lowering my frosted sunglasses, maybe I could see which way the slope was dropping, or whether there was a crevasse or serac band beneath my skis. Max looked left and right hoping that the skies would clear for a moment and the pillars of granite we knew surrounded us would appear behind us so we could orient ourselves. My neck gaitor was stiff and frozen, basically useless. I kept reaching my frosty, gloved, hands to my face to warm my cheeks in fear of frost nip. Mentally, I inventoried what we had in our backpacks, a stove, half a small bottle of fuel, a few bars, some tea, two sleeping bags, two pads. We could spend the night out if we had to. Max and I stood silently, in our own worlds, desperate for something to appear in the white fog. We had been standing there long enough to lose track of which way was up or down. Our tracks were covered by the swirling snow and winds already, we couldn't backtrack.

I stood awestruck. I was lost in my own backyard. Less than an hour ago we stood, with our backpacks packed, at the tram ready to go down to town, watching the winds swirl loose snow around the Aguille du Midi from the safety of the other side of a window. We chatted kindly with the station Gurdian Nicola, in hopes that he would let us sleep again another night in the bathroom to save the $70 for a night in the Cosmiques Refuge, even though it was INTERDIT!! And maybe even give us a few more hot chocolates and espressos when we returned from a long day in the mountains and missed the last tram down. Just as the cable car arrived, the sun poked through the clouds giving false hope and Nicola pushed our buttons, with casual arrogance, and a small modicum of demeaning "Ah, c'est pas trop mal, j'imagine tu peut ski le Vallee Blanche, et peut etre avec une peu de poudre, tout seul"

Which translates loosely to you wimps, the weather is not that bad suck it up, ski the Vallee Blanche, you'll have some good snow and be all alone. In the Alps, you're never alone unless you are on some scary obscure route, a really hard route, or in super bad weather.

So there we stood, totally lost, no compass or map, and we had only skied because our tender egos had been bruised a bit. Peer pressure, complacency. I was in my own backyard. I had skied the VB more than 50 times, but not this year. And here I was completely lost.

"Maybe we should rope up Max?" I shouted in the wind. "Yeah." He agreed.

My mind flashed to the snowboarder who had just died last week on the "Salle a Manger", the "Lunchroom", falling through a snow bridge into a crevasse after unclipping from his snowboard.

Even roped, the light was so bad that one of us could easily just step INTO a crevasse.

Looking left and right, still not moving up or down, I finally shouted "Maybe we should just skin back up, it's safer. Even though we're totally turned around now, we'll eventually hit a wall of granite that we know and be able to locate ourselves."

Max tossed down his pack in annoyance, agreeing that it was the best idea, remembering the same situation last year with Freddie.

As we skinned back up, or at least what we thought was up, I thought about all the people who take the Alps lightly. Of the group of guys who set off for the committing Biannossay Ridge on Mont Blanc last summer with the worst weather forecast I've ever seen in the valley and ended up dying of hypothermia while on the telephone with the Helicopter Mountain Rescue. I thought of all the people who skied down the Vallee Blanche or climbed Mont Blanc thinking they would just follow guided groups. Or set out for routes that were far too difficult for them with the idea that they'd just climb until they got scared and call a helicopter. I thought of the few extra ounces the map and compass would have weighed in my pack, and was glad that we had bivy stuff from the night before with us, and even more glad that I was familiar with the landscape, and strong enough to skin until I hit a wall the I recognized and could orient myself.

As we got to the base of the last hill, Max finally smiled and laughed. "That was so stupid it's almost funny."

"Yeah, we stilll have to climb back up the Arete, let me know when the story get's funny." I still wasn't convinced, my legs were jello, and my cheeks stinging from the cold and wind.

"We were five minutes from taking the bin down and eating pastries in Chamonix," Max grinned.

"Yeah, and then our egos got pushed and we went for the bait. And we were a few hours away from an epic." I scolded aloud, but more to myself for being complacent and succeptible to the peer pressure that exists in popular mountain ranges.

Khumbu Climbing School Nepal

2008-02-27T05:59:00.000-08:00

2008-01-05T10:31:00.000-08:00

2008-01-05T10:28:00.000-08:00

Christmas Cracks and Kisses

2008-01-04T12:14:00.000-08:00

I think that Christmas changes lots over time. From the days as a little kid, opening each door of an advent calendar, and leaving chocolate chip cookies (which my mom definitely ate!!) and carrots for santa and his reindeer to keep him going to each good little boy and girls house delivering treats, writing christmas wish lists, hanging lights, and spending time with family and friends ( this year I sadly didn´t get to ring in Christmas with my family, but I carried them in spirit on christmas day, and thank them for their support, encouragement and understanding of all of my adventures) to what we dream of as young adults.

Santa did show up this year though, I guess I was a good enough girl not to get coal. Or, in Patagonia, it would be storms. My letter to santa wished for sunshine, clear skies, beautiful hand cracks, granite spires, and a summit with some of my favorite people. It all came true, a week of rain and grey skies parted just before christmas. We packed our bags and headed the 7 hours back up the trail to high camp, Maxime, Kirsten Kremer and myself. The day was sunny and clear, a bit windy, but nice by patagonian standard. We made it to camp around 3pm, set up tents, packed our bags and hoped the forecast was right. The alarm rang at midnight on the morning of christmas eve, we brewed a hot tea, choked down some oatmeal and set off into the warm, calm, starry night to St. Exupery to an about 20 pitch route Ciara de Luna, a striking Granite spire that rises well above Raphael, the peak I climbed last week, with a beautiful black dike stretched across its girdle.

We hiked beneath the full moon which wrapped around the edges of the peaks lighting the valley and our way. We had just a small route finding debauchle though didn´t lose much time and made it to the base of the route right when the sun began to spill across the horizon and dip the Torres, the peaks on the other side of the valley, in a pink alpen glow.

Kremer had already been on most of the route, so route finding was easy and, pitch after pitch was a glorious gift of the most perfect hand cracks, laybacks, and clean granite rock. The kind that makes my stomach flip with butterflies at how great it feels on my finger tips. We made good time, taking turns leading every few pitches. Climbing in threes is great because at the belays there is time for giggles, stories, and jokes....or if you´re climbing with your boyfriend, a few cheeky kisses, he, he, he!!

Progress was good, but the afternoon brought unforcasted winds despite the deep blue skies. Little by little we made it closer and closer to the top. The last few pitches were climbed with billowing jackets full of wind, ropes that were floating in huge arches towards the sky from the belayer to climber, and gusts that attempted to knock us off huge hand holds.
Kremer and I followed Max up the last pitch (he was our knight in shining armor, our rope gun in super strong winds) where the two of us climbed side by side, giggling at how tired we were, and how the wind might just be strong enough to knock us off! We crossed our fingers that max wasn´t shivering in the bitter winds, and popped our heads onto the summit to find him tucked in a little nook with no wind, smiling!!

We dipped our heads into the winds shooting straight up from the front face and were happy that our descent was down the other side.

We drank in the views, laughed at the madening wind, and relished a summit with close friends. It was the most amazing christmas eve i have ever had. I thought of every one of you and wished you could have been there with us. It was 6.30pm, and we decided it was time to go, descent was long and the wind would likely make us work for it every step of the way. Max yelled ¨No free summits in Patagonia¨ and we started down.

The first two rappels were in the respite of the calm, until we wrapped back down the main face. I wached the ropes as we threw them down, where we wanted to go, ripple up in the wind straight above our heads.

We had to rappel with only one rope, so that if it got stuck when pulling we could climb back up and free it, and so that we would have no knot to get stuck. This took much more time, the rope got stuck 4 times, that we had to go back up and free it. Finally on steep walls the wind started to subside. We made it to the base of the wall without too much drama. But, the couloir leading back to our packs was icyer than we thought and we were in little slippery climbing shoes with no boots, crampons or axes. Darkness fell just as we got to the couloir and we spent a few more hours rappelling down by the light of our headlamps to the ledges where our packs were. Hungry and tired, dehydrated, and ready for camp, we all laughed in a Merry Christmas as it was well past midnight. Still 2 and a half hours to get back to camp in the dark, bouldery descent. We made it home to our tents just as the tip of rose tickled the scattered clouds and shadows of the peaks. We tried to stay up for sunrise but all fell fast asleep.

On Christmas morning, we woke leasurly to steaming hot tents, baked in the sun, and clear skies. Our minds wished us atop another peak, but our bodies ached in yesterdays adventures. Achy arms, raw fingers, tired eyes, and exhausted bodies allowed us to relish the unusally sunny, hot, calm day in camp. Surrounded by Granite christmas trees all around, and gifts of just being there. We sat in the sun, a few of us got sunburned (hmmm that would be me!), drank ample amounts of coffee, laughed with friends of all nationalities, and thought of our other friends out on adventures on chrismas day (Colin Haley and Carsten climbed a new route on Christmas day on Desmochada, and Sam and Rob climbed De La S, and Crystal and her partner maybe a new route, on Bieffeda), Our christmas feast was dried beef tortellinis, sauce from a bag, and sweaty cheese, but damn it tasted good. We slept from 6pm until the morning. Woke leisurly before the storm clouds rolled in, packed our bags, and swilled Ballentines´Scotch Whiskey for breakfast!! HA!!

THis morning we celebrated christmas as a family, a big hodge podge climbing family, with french toast, fruits, and honey butter, not the same as my mom´s pan full of bacon, and pancakes cooked in bacon grease!! But everyone was happy. tonight we will have a huge ASADA, a big beef barbque, thanks to our wonderful hostel owner, Eduardo, and have our Christmas dinner.

Not in Kansas Anymore Toto...stories from the WINDY south

2007-12-08T16:01:00.001-08:00

Jacked on coffee, I smushed my spaztically packed bags into the back of my car, heading south to Salt Lake City. I had to make it to SLC by 2:30 for an emergency dentist appointment. My new dentist joined the list of the many people who accept my passion and chaos as one in the same. Despite being my first visit, he changed and rearranged his schedule to accomodate my two half day stops in town, between Montreal and Montana and Argentina to sucessfully style me out with two crowns and a relative bill of clean healt to head off to Patagonia for a month.

Leaving in the dark at 6am should have gotten me there in plenty of time. Cruising west the winds began to pick up and spindrift began to swirl like small tornados. The combination of darkness, clouds of snow, and my horrific eye sight left me white knuckled. I was far more gripped than on most alpne cimbs. I cranked the music, some techno Mark Farina, and cracked the window, hoping for an icy slap in the face to keep me alert and awake.

As I turned from west to south the wind swirled straight at me. I quietly relished it, bring it! It was like climbing in Quebec a few weeks ago, when the winds and rain came at me sideways, just as I clipped the rope into the first bolt. Rather than descending, I looked down at Max yelling, ¨This is good practice for Patagonia next month.¨ He chuckled and shook his head, continuing to feed rope to me as i blinked the rain drops slicing at my cheeks and eyes, hoping to find the next hold.

As I turned the corner at the higway junction I saw 25 or so cars and trucks parked at a gas station. Hmm they must not be that tough. I´ll be fine I thought, again perfect training for Patagonia. I made it about 200 feet before stopping dead in the midst of a thick blanket of snow plastered across the road. Not able to see yellow or white lines, side markers or even knowing if i was moving or stopped, I thought, hmmm maybe I should turn back, at least until it is light. All I could think of was my dentist apponitment and my flights. I had to make it.

The sun rose and two brave monster pick up trucks set out, me hot on their tails. i followed the glowing red embers of their lights for the next two hours until I made it, bleary eyed, out of the squall.

Salt Lake City was my normal amount of chaos, too much to do, too little turn around time, brink of exhaustion, brink of tears. Not the romance some would like to assopciate my life with. An hour at the dentist, a list of to do´s and a gear explosion in an unknowing friend´s basement and I was packed at 2am ready to sleep, at least until 4:40am when i had to head to the airport.

At the airport I arrived, sans flight itinerary, or even knowing which airline I was on, though this is relatively normal for me. When I showed up at Continental to check in the attendant told me, Ýou have no reservation. Ok, unphased, I said, maybe I´m on Delta. He didn´t think it was funny. He gave the same look the Boarder oficial had recently, as I headed south, cross the boarder of Quebec and Vermont, with a car registered in Montreal, a passport from the USA, a liscence from Colorado, a mailing address in New Jersey, a home in Chamonix France. As I began to explain, the look said it all. I, for the first time in a long time, relaized my ´norm¨wasn´t so normal for most people. I figured the more I explained the more rediculous the story would sound and the less likely to be made up. The officer just waved me through, like the airline guy, he just kind of looked at my rediculousness, tower of bags, and dark circles under my eyes, with pity pointing me to the Delta desk.

Trains planes and automobiles, well mostly planes, and I arrived in Calafate after 30plus hours of travel and exhaustion. I spent the day wandering wide eyed around town, the equivalent of a Banff, El Calafate is a cute trendy town, a little portal to the Patagonia Mountain Ranges. I relished the struggle of remembering spanish words, the music of r´s rrrrrrolling in a way i´d never be able to shape my tounge, the kind spirit of locals, patiently answering my questions and befuddled attempts at spanish. After my last trip to Pakistan this experience was calm and simple. I revelled in the fact that despite being a woman I could do everything myself, an in a tank top and sparkles.

A few hours later head bobbing and eyes heavy I finally made my way down a desolate road to the town of El Chaletan. Just as I woke, a few hours into the ride, I saw the jagged granite spires of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy. Hmm I thought, I´m going to be the lucky one who has a month of good weather on my first trip to patagonia!!

Max met me at the bus, having left a week earlier, the tent was set, a plate of pasta waiting, a bottle of malbec, life was good. A brief kiss goodbye the next morning, there were rumors of a short weather window, so he and Colin were off. I lazily unpacked, explored town, panadaria´s, chocolateria´s, and sipped matte and coffee with some friends for the remainder of the morning. A session of afternoon bouldering and that was considered a big day.

The next morning Dave Nettle and I packed bags and headed up hill to make a carry. Just before the tyrolian traverse across the river the winds picked up, slapping me left and right, until we had to dart off the ridge, cross country but sheltered from the beat of the wind. As I tried to put on my harness the leg loops flopped left and right impossible for me to get my toe through, the wind was making its introduction to me, Finally harnessed up I followed Dave hand over hand across the tyrolean. Waves slashing at the shores told tales of what the wind was like higher up. I looked at dave and screamed í have never been here before so i dont know what is normal, you say when to turn around. All i could think was that max and collin were still up there so it must not be too bad. Dave pointed to the swirling tornado of dirt at the glacier´s entrance. That, he yelled, is evidence of the wall of hate....no way we can get through that. We will hike a little higher and cache our gear in the woods.

Along the next ridge, i stopped, thrashed left and right by the wind and grabbed a rock so as not to fall over. Dave in hysterics yelled I would love a photo of this, but i can´t get my camera out without falling over. I started laughing, screaming now i know why there arent too many women up here....having two brothers and being the middle child was good training!!

Back in town, beer tasted good. Winds picked up and Max and Colin were cozy in the tent, not giving er up high. They had passed another way and we had missed them. Their night up high was sleepless due to repeated slaps on the cheek from the nylon tent walls.

Yesterday was a no brainer, none of the torturous blue skies that Patagonia dangles over your head, making you feel guilty and unmotivated, only to push a few hours up the trail to find the ever present wall of hate lingering in the sun, quietly laughing at your efforts.

Tent time, coffees, movies on the computer and indoor bouldering. Fingers crossed for a window because I see the beauty that draws people back years on end with hopes of a few hours of luck and calm.

Bozeman Ice Fest

2007-12-04T14:14:00.001-08:00

Off and running after a white knuckle drive back from Bozeman to SLC, a heinous dentist visit, too long packing, and too little sleep. No brilliant words here today, just a few photos.

In an Instant (A working piece, in memory of Sue Nott)

2007-11-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

Driving down the highway, my foot detached from my body, the speedometer cranks higher and higher without me realizing. Music tears at my heartstrings. I am on the move again. Maybe if I go faster I will be able to out run all that is chasing me? Like walking through the streets of an unfamiliar city alone at night the hairs on my neck stand erect and I break into a sprint. My car, heaving at the seams, is filled with her stuff. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it. The music, a compilation of songs, was carefully selected by a friend to bring me here. To this place where tears stream down my face, and I am on fire with pain and anger. Fuck YOU!! I scream at no one…

The voice, a raspy femme exhales as the shrill notes of a piano strike one at a time. Her breath lingers as if she understands what I am feeling.

“Help
I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there’s no one else to blame”

I flash back a few hours, and I am in her closet. Shopping? Hmm, what fits? What do I like? What will I use? I am lying on the floor, sweat dripping down my forehead, trying not to vomit. A combination of the dozens of Cosmopolitans I drank last night, and the fact that John (Sue’s boyfriend), is walking me through his dead girlfriends’ belongings. Numbly encouraging me to take what I want. Someone has to, and I want it to be you.

The voice brings me back.

“Be my friend
Hold me
Wrap me up
Fold me
I am small
I need it
Warm me up

Unbreathe me”

I am floating along the highway, a pattern that has become familiar, safe. When all else fails keep moving. The precarious line between order and chaos makes me taste the salt of life. Makes me feel all that I am scared to miss out on.

I flash again, a month. We are sitting at the bivy in our pink jackets giggling, basking in the last of the sunlight. Sue is handing me a smashed Choco Pie that she carried up in her pocket. I am scared. She is laughing at me making me forget my fear.

I am in Sue’s tent on the Kahiltna Glacier. It is snowing and she is giving me a facial talking about boys, politics, business, fashion. She is laughing as I tell her about the book I am reading about Rwanda. How I need to go save the world. Tomorrow, she says, today we will climb.

We are in Chamonix and we have drunk too much wine. We are giggling in the small shoebox that she calls an apartment.

We are drinking coffee and lusting over the topo of the Moonflower, on Mont Hunter, planning trips galore.

My eyes blur. The centerline on the road begins to shake. Ears ringing, the speakers crackle. My hand reaches to play the song again and I wonder how long I have been pushing the repeat button. I cannot let go of this feeling. Simultaneously ravaging my heart and making me feel alive. I cannot let go. It hurts to remember, but what if I forget?

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost
Myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah
I think that I might break
Lost
Myself and I feel unsafe

I flash again, yesterday. I am at her memorial. A gigantic photo of her soft, smiling, face looming over my shoulder as I choke on the words. My eyes cross. It is surreal. I have stood here before. Ten years ago. Speaking about my Dad. Grasping at memories. Knowing that is all, all I have left. The familiarity is sickening.

And again, this morning. I wake in a panic, dream still lingering on the tip of my tongue. She was there. She was blue, in the snow. She told me to give her stuff back. I asked where Karen was. She said she did not know. I told her we were looking for her. She said she knew.

Be my friend
Hold me
Wrap me up
Unfold me
I am strong
I need it
Warm me up

Unbreathe me

I am on the side of the road and I do not remember stopping. Snot dripping down my face, gasping for breath. Part of me knows. It will not work. No matter how far. No matter how fast I drive. It will always be there. Her stuff still in my car. And it is not just her stuff; it will always be there until I stop. Stop running.

Early Season Ice

2007-10-31T09:47:00.001-07:00

The fall begins to bring grey weather, and we, endorphin junkies, and fresh air addicts begin to get itchy. Trapped indoors as the rock gets desperately cold on the finger tips, the sun begins to hibernate, and there is not enough snow to strap toys to our feet. So, we start pulling on plastic, or hanging upsidown from dry tooling crags, with huge aspirations of climbing HARD this winter. Whispers float through the valley, does not matter if that Valley is Canmore's Bow Valley, or the Ouray's San Juans, or the Alps Chamonix Valley. It is like the childhood game of telephone. The keeners rise early, scraping frost from the dashboards, sipping coffee enroute to the crag, juggling butterflies of excitement and nervousness at the first day of swinging tools. Keenness and ambition often out weigh reason, and long approaches are made for thin slivers of ice, half formed routes, and unprotectable climbs. More often than not the day is spent making a long drive and approach to scare the crap out of yourself on one pitch and then to boldy back off and walk away blaming it on conditions.

As the cycle begins itself this year, I find myself in Banff, Alberta. My new tools and screws still with tags hanging on them despite being a year old, due to a broken hand last year. I fell prey to the process, of keenness, versus conditions, and headspace, of early season ice and got thrown wildly off the horse. After 60 foot fall, broken into two thirty foot sections, and two impacts, the ledge and the ground, last year I am a bit gun shy. The desire is there, but the butterflies are more like monsters, than pretty little fluttering insects in my belly.

Maybe this year I will wait to hear the words fat and juicy before I set out.

The Zen of Being Trapped in an Elevator

2007-10-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

The elevator jerked to a halt. My heart lept, please no. The lights flickered back on and then complete darkness. Mild waves of panic swept over me as I fumbled around the panels looking for an emergency phone. Finding familiar shapes, minus the sense of sight was a strange feeling. I lifted the reciever only to be dissapointed by a dead phone. I slithered along the wall, dropping to the floor, huddled in the corner. At a loss of where to begin, and attempting to find a place of Zen. Being out of control is totally against my nature. But I looked it in the same light as climbing. The challenge to control the mind when out of the comfort zone. Ah, the ever detested little mechanical gadget that keeps me accessible to the world, and them to me, was in my pocket, my cell phone. I dialed David, one of my fellow course mates at the Banff Centre, and told him with a wabbly calm that I was stuck in the elevator in the power outage. His sympathy, derived from years of exeprience with a claustrophobic wife, was instant. No, I'm not claustrophobic, I think I'll be ok. Call me back if you don't get out in a little bit.

I sat in the dark, relishing the contact that I had through my cell phone. I started texting Max, my boyfriend, seeking a little more reassurance. I saw it as a little mountain of Zen to try to keep my calm. Just then I realized a few things. We spend almost NO time absent of stimulation, in the dark, or just with our thoughts. Hmm I need to start meditating was my frist thought. This space is really uncomfortable, being helpless, out of control, and completely in solitude in the dark. I thought I saw a sliver of light which was a relief because those urban legends, like air tight elevators, began to seep into my head. The light turned out just to be my cell phone. Images of James Bond breaking through the roof pannel to save me from suffocated made me smile a little. I laid my cell phone open in the middle of the floor to cast a little light in the room. What if I have to go to the bathroom, and I am in here for hours? Then they open it and I have soiled myself. Deja Vu from being 8 years old locked in the bathroom at the library or in the closet at my house attempted to consume me. The irrational imagination is an amazing thing. Rational fear, I have found from experience, is a much calmer state. When I was avalanched in a serac fall, or when I fell 60 feet hitting the ground without a rope ice climbing. Those things were calm and rational. This thought process was far from that.

Maybe I better call someone I thought. So I called the switchboard, which was of course totally jammed with questions and complaints about the power outage. After 10 minutes on hold and rediculous surcharges from my out of country cell phone I thought, maybe i'll try the emergency phone again.

I called the emergency center who immediately dispached a handful of security crew and maintenance workers to save the day. Upon arrival the man yelled to me
"Are you ok?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Ok, don't panic."
Hmm I thought, now I surely won't panic, thanks for the support.

The task at hand seemed as intense as neuroscience and quantum physics making me laugh. But also realizing that I was comforted by the fact that there were others around, and that they knew I was here.

The power switched back on soon after a screw driver pried it's way between the door and the wall attempting to open the door manually. I floated up to the 6th floor and got out, deciding to walk back down to the lobby.

It is funny how these little moments teach us about ourselves, our fears and our weaknesses.

Commitment to Coffee

2007-10-27T07:10:00.000-07:00

Some people call it an addiction, a bad habit, a crutch, I call it a commitment. If you knew my mom you would know that if she had to choose between her kids and coffee it might be a hard choice! My commitment to coffee ebbs and flows with peer pressure, criticism, Catholic guilt infused so deep in my upbringing that it runs through my blood. I try to take a hiatis each year when I feel like my commitment has become more of a codependant relationship than a healthy one. When I feel like I am surfing a wave that peaks and crashes with each cup of joe.

I love going to sleep because that means I get to drink a steaming cup of coffee in the morning.

Today my cup of coffee is a Kicking Horse Espresso, a brand local to Banff, Canada, my home for the next month. I ground the shiny beans just yesterday. Between the supermarket and home the bag got temporarily misplaced. A minor panic attack ensued but a friend had already located the missing item and stuffed it into my mailbox. A short mission in town landed me a shiny new glass bodum. A few packets of cream pinched from the cafeteria, my mug, and an alpenglow sunsrise that is spilling across the Canadian Rockies outside my window.

I take a deep wiff of the soft, silky, grinds as I fill the base of the glass pot waiting for the water to boil. Steaming water marks the beginning of the dance between water and grinds. I lay the plunger atop the mix and sit waiting for the water to turn a deep brown, wait for the smells to tantalize my nose long enough. Coffee cup and cream are already situated next to the press. Now I threw in there the coffee cup as though it's a thoughtless part of the process, but the reality is that it is quite complicated. The vehicule through which the coffee is delivered, that first precious cup in the morning, the heavenly ritual, is quite important to the sentiment it brings. My dad was an avid coffee drinker, with a similar guilt complex, who at times abandoned his commitment shifting it to tea. But I know his heart sided with coffee. He had a gammut of hand made pottery coffee mugs. Looking back on it I am not sure if this was somthing he loved, or grew to love from the endless christmas and brithday boxes filled with different mugs given by kids, inspired by mom. He was a University Professor and spent many days in his study, sipping tea and coffee, reading and writing. Some of my assosiation with coffee comes from this childhood image; The assosiation between artist, intellectual and coffee. Hence forth, I can not drink coffee out of a factory made mug, it steals some of the creativity of the process. A predictable joke my little brother likes to play when serving me coffee during my visits back home, is to fill my mom's Starbucks mug, choosing the most beautiful, unique, ispring mug for himself. Sporting a huge grin, fighting the laughter, he delivers me the mug saying "Take That!" It never fails to leave us in stitches, and I always drink it up, despite the mug, because of the history of the joke, the mug feels special none the less.

Now, more on the history of my commitment to coffee from my mom's side. I have never met someone more comfortable in her own skin. Growing up in the shadow of this encouraged us to express ourselves, whatever our wierd eccentricities were. Sure, granted, at times I got ridiculed at school, when I carried a Waldo Lunch box to school each day at the age of 17, or my ecclectic outfits adorned with one of my mom's pairs of plaid Chuck Taylor high tops. But once set free from that horrible time in life where kids are cruel, judgemental, insecure, and cutting, I found that this was one of the most amazing gifts a parent can give a kid. Despite my dad's fluctuations with his commitment to coffee, despite his guilty conscience, my mom stayed strong, and committed, as she always is. I once asked my mom if she ever aspired to cut back her coffee habits. She smiled and laughed and said no way. She derives too much pleasure from this habit why change?

Many of our family jokes revolve around my mom's coffee habits.

"Mom, do you want a coffee?" Brendan, my little brother.
"Yeah, get me a ddddddouble esspresso, tttttrrrrriple if they have it!"
My brother could barely breathe as he related this story to me over the phone.

We are in the process of making a Cofffee-o-meter to attach to our telephone. When it rings and MOM flashes on the caller ID there will also be a caffiene rating from 1-10. Anywhere between 1-5 is safe to answer. Anywhere above, it may take some consideration of what space you are in.

So, my coffee commitment is not a problem, or an obsession, mererly an inherited passion, that as long as it gives me as much simple joy as it does this morning I will embrace!!

A Waking Dream

2007-10-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

it is one of those moments where you sit looking at the world and feel like it is a film unfolding in front of you. Or that you are a "voyeur" peeking through a sliver in the door and seeing something you were not meant to see, were not meant to be a part of. Then you step back, or maybe forward, back into your body and realize, this is not a waking dream, this is my life. The reality seems almost too perfect. You sit, and wait, for it to crumble, crash, burn, but it does not happen. That is what you have grown accustomed to, struggle, suffering, obstacles, and you almsot yearn for it. This perfection, the beauty that lies across the landscape just outside the 360 panorama of glass windows can not be real. The rugged mountains are plastered in early season snow, striations of white filling in the gaps of the crumbling limestone. At sunset the mountains are cloaked in clouds save one small fenetre of blue. A rabbit hole in Alice's Wonderland, tempting you, tantalizing, showing what is there behind the encroaching cloak of clouds. Reminding you that behind lingers beauty, hope, that will return tomorrow or the day after. And, just before the sun dissapears behind the mountains, as though someone has taken a tube of pink lipstick and outlined the edges of the cloud, the edges of the window catch fire like a smoldering paper, molten red seeping. I look around and no one seems to notice the beauty that is unfolding outside the window. Consumed by food, conversation, complacency. I am new here and present, in transition with heightened senses. The space I love best.