Standing on the railway, this isn’t the first time I get stares for my heart-shaped glasses. It happens more than one might like to admit or rather as much as one might like to admit. Maybe it’s not as often a typical middle-aged male, dressed in black, dons pink heart rave glasses. The lights on the railway wash by, strobe, strobe, strobe.

The old man makes eye contact with me again. I smile. He seems intrigued, at least 75 years of age, his skin leathery from the sun and what looks like years of adventure, or maybe, confirmation bias on my part… Hard to know. We meet, eyes again, and we both smile. He asks me if I was in the Olympics, he points to my sweater, the only visible words “American Alpine”. I say “no” laughingly, “it’s the American Alpine Institute, a mountain guiding company out of Washington”. He looks surprised and delighted, though I can tell he didn’t hear most of what I’d said. “Climbing?” he remarks. “yes”, I say.

There’s a pause. A charm in the air, a delight of connection between two humans, the rest of the railway cart just listening… “You know I was probably the first American to summit a peak in Antarctica.” His eyes filled with a spark, we both see eyes of adventure, of hardship, of perseverance, and vulnerability.

He could tell before I spoke my first word, I could tell as soon as he found connection.

“Two peaks, actually, while we were there”. He was speaking of Antarctica. I asked him “what he called them?”, and he quickly followed up with “have you climbed in the Himalaya?”, I said “not yet”. As the train came to a stop and the doors opened for B gates, his family informed him it was time to go. He made one last look at me as he made his way off the train, we both smiled and he said, “Go”.

It’s now days later, the wind is brisk but the sun, warm against my skin. Chatter all around, a centering cacophony that I find myself in frequently. That third place, not home, not work, but safe, communal.

My essence open to the world.

A coffee shop, a park, an intermediary world where my thoughts have the time for paper. I think again about this man, about my life so far. I think about a gear sling I was gifted just months ago. Purple and beautiful, the sling weathered with age and sun, not much different from the old man, his skin, his eyes, Antarctica, the Himalaya.

I’m carried off as into a dream. “That sling was carried by the first American woman to climb Annapurna”. Her eyes, her skin, Antarctica, the Himalaya.

Two stories merge, and the moments in between.

As I hold it in marvel, where it’s been, what it’s seen, that final word comes rushing back, “Go!”.

And another day begins…

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If there is one thing that I have found that illuminates so clearly the evidence of my own unenlightenment, it’s pain. A thief in the night, consuming my attention, enveloping my awareness; searing, cutting, burning nerve pain. Impossible to ignore, impossible to escape. Hours upon hours waiting for the darkness to become light.

For the past 5 weeks, I have been dealing with sciatic nerve pain. At its worst, floor ridden, unable to do anything but roll in circles and forget what it was like to have even a moment to focus on anything but pain. Rolling and rolling until sunrise. Sitting in the shower, a moment’s reprieve before the demon dread of standing crawls up my spine. Too much pain to stand and make food, so we sit on the kitchen floor and wait.

Wait for what? For things to get better? For the pain to leave? For this moment to march into the past, a procession of possible futures, alas. Hours and hours spent unable to break the spell. A presence for certain but not a presence of min(e)d. This presence was dread, the awareness, an anticipation of what it might be like to be here forever, suspended at the tipping point, the event horizon, the unknown future, and the wheel of Samsara keeps on spinning.

There were moments when I completely gave up, gave in. The twilight hours most frequently. Steeped in darkness, long after the moon had risen, the ephemorous twilight, an unknown time and unbearable place. Sadness, anger, grief, hatred. My screams muffled by the pillows, by the blankets. Reduced to my sensory body, consumed by my human frailty, my mind trying to cling to what was at once pleasant and avoiding pain. The textbook definition of suffering.

I am grateful now for those moments of despair, for the knowing gained in the presence of not-knowing. And ultimately, an unknowing of what I knew when I wasn't distracted by pain.

As I have tried to manage my symptoms and heal, I have realized that this injury is a gift. A gift to know what will be known to all of us at last, at one point in our lives, or another. When it all falls apart. In death or dying, in the inability to do something that we once loved, when we can no longer walk or see or love or even think. This pain, this injury, was an alarm bell for the war that is coming to everyone.

A war that is impossible to win.

Throughout this process of pain, I have tried to rediscover my spiritual practice. I say spiritual because it affects all aspects of life, and practice because each of us comes at it in our own way. Meditation (the catch-all word) has been with me for years now, sometimes stringent and daily, other times it falls away, unnecessary. Not in the sense that it’s unhelpful, but in the sense that there is no race that I am trying to win, or can win in the end.

This has brought me to my central point.

When we are reduced to our little selves, our I’s in our heads, the me in the mine, suffering is inevitable. There are many ways out (or should I say in?), but all require the dissolution of what is usually meant by “I”, “you”, or “me”. I have been fortunate in my life to spend time with certain practices (Vipassana, Zen, mindfulness, psychedelics) and gained an illumination towards the way things actually are, or at least a glimpse. But as times like this overwhelm I am certain that my work is never done.

In times of great pain or hardship, I am brought back into practice to be more mindful, more present, more gracious. Could I be like this all the time? Maybe. Should I be? Maybe. But alas, when the alarm bell rings some-One has to answer.

The ideas that have moved me most recently are…

1. The Core Practice of Dzogchen:

   1. Leave it as it is.

      1. Whatever arises in your mind, do not try to change it, don’t push it away, and don’t hook onto it.

   2. Look for the gap.

      1. In the moment between whatever arises in the mind, there is a clear, cognizant stillness.

   3. The instruction:

      1. “Do not invite the future, do not pursue the past, and do not be swept away by the present.”

2. The Subjective Experience of Having No Head (Pointing Out Instruction)

   1. See as you actually see, not how people tell you you see. You do not look out of your two eyes subjectively; there is only one boundless window.

   2. This window is not what you look out of, but where the world appears. This is an introduction to 2-way looking.

   3. The Instruction:

      1. Sit comfortably and hold your pointing hand up in front of your face.

      2. Point out towards the space in front of you, then turn your pointing finger back to the space where your head should be.

      3. Observe: You’ll find no eyes, nose, or features; just the world appearing in an open, transparent expanse.

      4. This isn’t an idea, it’s a non-verbal direct insight into the experience of being the boundless awareness or no-thing that you already are.
         

1. Dzogchen is a form of Tibetan Buddhism emphasizing nondual awareness.

2. “On Having No Head” by D.E. Harding. A Western look into nondual awareness.

3. Other Resources:

   1. The Waking Up App and anything from James Low.

   2. Dhamma.org an organization providing donation-based silent retreats.

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Images: It’s been a silver lining during this time to express myself artistically. These photos of Braxton were captured on my FujiX100V during a day out at the Sad Boulders in Bishop, California.

This poem/free write came to me many years ago, and to this day, it still rings true for me. The piece references the struggle for acceptance and authenticity in relation to one another in intimacy or society. In the years since this piece came to be, authenticity has become a central tenet of the way I try and live my life and a virtue of those I attempt to keep around me. With all of the symbols and synthetic experiences of the modern age, I believe there is a deep desire to return to authenticity. The title is a play on words, “a” as in atheist or agnostic, meaning without and “persona”, from the root person or mask or the image, idea, or idolized view of ourselves we portray to ourselves or others. “Apersona”, meaning without person or mask or caricature. Something all of us should strive for.

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Summers over. Not in the literal sense, but for me, that block of time, May-August, the “summer season” is over. I find myself in the cooling breeze of the eastern Sierra at dusk. Bishop. A place, I dare say, is becoming a home. In this transient life, it seems to be one among many, but that’s a different story entirely.

So much happens each year in this block of time. Galivanting through the mountains with old friends and new. A month in Alaska, two or three weeks in British Columbia, and the rest of the time in the North Cascades of Washington. Beautiful places all.

There’s a wholeness that you get from spending time in the mountains. Living in the dirt, breathing in the trees, even falling in scree. Life becomes so simple. Food, safety, shelter. And all the while, subjecting ourselves to uncontrollable environments, complex problem-solving in dynamic situations. Managing decisions, reactions, and the environment whilst viscerally tethered to the mortal coil. It’s a wild place to call work or play. With time, a feeling of unity and empowerment can come from testing ourselves, our boundaries, and our limits. Not recklessly but calculated, confidently and conservatively.

Climbing is ultimately a dance of risk and play. A game with a bet higher than most any other wagers and rewards both infinite and infinitesimal. Transformational experience. Times that seem, for whatever reason, to WAKE US UP. The immediacy of the present moment, unavoidable. Peak experience. Forgive the pun because it’s not about getting to the top. It’s about the space in between.

The overcoming, the succumbing, the becoming.

It might start out as X grade or Y mountain. As check boxes and goal setting, but my job is to help them fall in love with the game like I have. The discovery that it’s not about the goal at all, but the process to get there. And I’ll tell you something else, it’s not just with climbing. The not-so-secret secret to life is that this. All of it, you, me, the world, all the beauty, all the horror, is a process. Dynamic, flowing, impermanent. It’s not even a thing at all (but that’s a whole other story entirely). Climbing helped open that door for me, helped walk me inside, and promptly burned the house down.

I’ve spent almost a decade of my life professionally taking people into the mountains. To share with them just a glimmer of what I have seen. Each moment, a chance to change our lives forever. A dance of life, love, risk, and all those little moments in between. This climbing life, you might say, and I don’t see it stopping anytime soon.

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This April was my first trip to Chamonix, and after 17 days of climbing, skiing, and spending way too much time eating delicious baked goods, I have committed to coming back for a full month next year. So yeah, it was that good.

During my trip, I dropped Google Maps pins on the good stuff, figured out the shuttle situation from Geneva, and got the beta on alpine skiing and climbing using the amazing lift system. Do I wish everywhere in the world had access like Chamonix? Well, no, but it was pretty amazing if you know what you’re getting into and set expectations appropriately, which is my aim for this article. Other than that, you can jump around to any of the “KEY BETA” sections for things I thought were particularly useful. These sections sandwich all the pretty photos. Thanks to Nik, John and the Fuji for those.

On that note, this article will be pay-walled somewhere below, and in the future, any training beta, travel beta, etc., will be as well. Other, more existential pieces on mediation, God, life, and climbing will remain free—PSAs for the soul, you might say. So without further ado, here we go.

My trip was booked (tickets & lodging) by September 2024, six months prior.

Flights to Geneva: Roundtrip (RT) from Seattle ($575), later changed to Las Vegas ($750)

Lodging: Airbnb sleeps 4 - 6, 15 Days ($1700)

There were a couple of unknowns for me in preparing for this trip.

1. The lift situation was a major one; the Midi operates on its own private platform and has a steep fee of $70-$90 USD, depending on if you have an IKON Pass discount or what type of ride you would like (one-way or RT).

2. Without a rental car, navigating to housing in Chamonix from Geneva and/in addition to around Chamonix proper for groceries/nightlife/climbing/etc.

3. What conditions would be like during our April climbing window, would skiing be out, or would there be ice, and how much mixed climbing?

I decided to just house all of my financials under the Chase Sapphire Reserve (CSR) credit card since I bought the tickets with that card, and that would allow me to have a good track of overall cost and expenses as well as file insurance or travel-related claims on the CSR. More on this card later (you’ll also probably want one…)

KEY BETA (Lift Access): The Ikon Pass (both variants) paid off very well in reducing the overall cost of the trip, with 5 free days included in the base pass, accessing the 5 surrounding ikon resorts was easy. It made skiing a nice free backup on days the lifts shut down or we weren’t climbing due to weather. It also gives something like 10-20% off each MIDI ticket. Buy it.

KEY BETA (Airport Shuttle): $50 EUR with Mountain Drop Off will get you from Geneva International Airport to any local address in Chamonix. Their station is right after luggage claim in Geneva and will ease your suffering without you hauling 2 checked bags and a ski bag around to/from the bus stations. Worth it to me. They also have an office in downtown Chamonix to pay/schedule your return journey with ease.

Be prepared to be jet lagged. I honestly didn’t worry about this aspect too much, but from here on out on future international trips, I will work it into my calendar. I lost realistically like 2 full days due to this, the first one I slept until something like 4 pm the next day and the following day something about the jet lag made me very anxious in the alpine enviroment above the Grand Montet lifts climbing with John I threw in the towel after the first or second pitch and was hard on myself because of it. Looking back, I realized my body just wasn’t ready to be out there.

Intuition in the mountains is everything.

After that day, it was really off to the races for our climbing, but before I get into that, a little bit about living in Chamonix proper (Airbnb or not). Our Airbnb was located across from the Olympic ski headquarters, which was cool, and within 3 blocks we had groceries, restaurants, and a bus stop right outside the door. I would say generally that Chamonix is a very walkable town; it might take you some time, but you’re probably there to climb or ski, so your legs need the active recovery anyway, right?

I was surprised to find that, compared to the cost of food and living in Washington or California, Chamonix, France, was not that expensive. Espresso and coffees for under $2-3, amazing breads and wines for almost nothing, and eating out, coming in the most expensive, you’d expect to spend $15-30 on entrees. Groceries, on the other hand, were quite inexpensive, and the produce seemed to be of much higher quality than the standards for produce at general stores in the US. We probably only ate out 6-8 times the whole trip, took advantage of weekly specials (check the Google map below), and proceeded to make most of our meals at the Airbnb.

KEY BETA (Transportation): All public transit buses around town are actually free. Everywhere you look, you will still see rates/ways to pay, but no one asks for money, so it’s probably safe to assume all buses around Chamonix (to local ski resorts and surrounding towns) are free. We did still have to pay for the train ride while we were there, but all of the buses cost nothing.

KEY BETA (Google Pins): Here is a compiled list of good restaurants, recommendations, points of interest, and/or other useful information (in the notes section) for tourist-ing and climbing throughout the city itself. Reach out if you want to add to the LIST or modify in anyway.

After all the extras (food, groceries, drinks, and lifts) I spent about $800 during my 2.5 weeks in Chamonix. I didn’t feel as though I was holding back too much at all and felt like I had a good balance of letting loose and remaining reasonable (besides all those fucking chocolate croissants, but that’s fine, who's counting?)

The climbing was absolutely incredible during the trip, golden bulletproof granite (mostly), and really to have access to the lifts is such a unique experience for us North American-ers that I think at least a single trip to Chamonix is worth it for any mountain enthusiasts.

For this trip, we ended up bringing the quiver of gear. I got it down to 2 checked bags and a ski bag. Quite a lot, but we brought everything for every type of climbing and skiing (ice screws, ice axes, ski boots, 2 pairs of mountain boots, etc, etc) and every combination therein just because we didn’t have good on-the-ground intel. We also decided for this trip that we wouldn’t commit to any overnights (races back to the midi before it closed were fun). This would allow us to bring even less gear overall but also reduce the immense number of climbing and skiing objectives to everything within a radius to return to Chamonix each night. I think this works well for anyone going over there for a sampling/beta mission rather than for anything specific.

KEY BETA (Airport Lounges): If you fly enough, airport lounges are 1000% worth it and every top-tier credit card gives access to them; it’s just the individual lounge networks/airports that vary between the cards. The above Chase Sapphire Reserve (CSR) is on the Priority Pass (PP) network and the AMEX Platinum is on additional PP networks as well as its own high-class “Centurion” Lounges. If you have an airline you use all the time, I’d check into their specific offerings (Delta go AMEX). If you don’t I would recommend starting with the CSR…

KEY BETA (Points & Travel Credits): Both the AMEX and CSR have their own incentives here. The quick and dirty is that they will both get you Global Entry, TSA Pre-check, CLEAR, etc. Each will give you a rideshare rebate, and both give you almost $300 a year in travel credits. I swear this is probably the last credit card blurb, so if you want your extra sign-up bonus points, click these. AMEX | CSR (and no, they aren’t sponsoring this post, the perks are just that good.)

Chamonix is a different kind of alpine climbing, so I think setting expectations here is a bit appropriate. Or in another way, for me, Chamonix was a very specific type of alpine climbing trip. It was unequivocally NOT an expedition.

In the Summer of 2024, as I started to ignite the spark of international travel with a thought problem about time and life (see “L’appel du Vide”) I had a few boxes left to check on my road to becoming an “Alpinist” and ultimately my dream trip of going to the Karakoram (Summer 2026 anyone?). Patagonia and Chamonix were on the page, staring me in the face. As most of you already know, as a climber, these are two very different locations, though the climbing is very much the same, steep granite, glacial protected, and unknown conditions. One is remote and expeditionary, where you may get 1 to 2 tries a month for something huge due to weather and circumstances (Patagonia), and the other is much more flexible in its access, closer to reality, and offers more opportunities to try a lot of different things (Chamonix). All of these factors, plus my first international climbing trip with John (he had been to Cham in 2024), drew me to the day mission style alpine climbing trip in Chamonix.

With access comes populace.

Chamonix is no different. Make no mistake, you can get into big terrain quickly, but you are not in any sense remote. Paragliders and helicopters are constant on the skylines. For me, it was inspiring, but also, I can see if you had expectations of not dealing with crowds in these “wild” places, you would be sorely mistaken. These wild places in Europe are not in any sense the same as the wild places in British Columbia, Alaska ot the lower 48. It feels much more like a gorgeous adventure theme park over a precious and sacred locale of Mother Earth. I think this comes down to a major difference in cultures and philosophies at the core level, but we won’t get into that now. Mostly, I just want to say don’t go to Chamonix for the wilderness. Go for the access and with that come the people, and here some might be turned off by the lift system, particularly with the Aiguille Du Midi or the Midi for short. For getting your lift ski/climbing access secured each day, you have really two options.

1. You can go online and prepay for a day pass and a time slot on the Midi website.

2. You can show up early each day 6:30-7:30 a,m depending on the day, and stand in line.

I think either way has its pros and cons, depending on what pass you purchase or if you purchase a Midi-specific pass, which they also sell (For those without the IKON this might be a good choice for your money). We opted for just showing up between 6:30 and 7:00 am each day and were first or second every time.

KEY BETA (Mornings at the Midi): Arrive earlier than you think to secure your spot. It goes from zero to HERO here real fast with the lines and if you are there early (which we always were) you can send one person a half a block away to buy more espresso and baked goods for your big adventure.

KEY BETA (Closing Time): Supposedly, it’s a badge of honor to spend a night in the heated bathrooms at the Aiguille Du Midi’s top station; we missed our chance by about 30 seconds one day; the party behind us got theirs. The last lift goes down at 4:00 pm. Don’t miss it.

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Sunset over the Northern Pickets, the most remote mountain range in the lower 48. North Cascades, Washington. August 2024.

Over a decade of experience teaching novices and experts alike the ins and outs of technical anchor systems has brought me to use a new acronym over some of the more traditional EARNEST or SRENE systems.

Here’s what it is and why you should, too… S.T.E.A.R.N.

S. Strong: No matter the system you are using, this is the most important component and should be considered first. If your anchor fails, it's catastrophic, so whether it's a one-piece (monolithic) or a zillion pieces, it needs to be “unquestionably” strong. Evaluate the macro and micro features alike. How attached is this feature to the mountain? How bomber or not is the rock quality itself, etc.

T. Timely: Your anchor should be appropriate for the application you are using it for. Discipline, style, medium, and ability are all factors that play in here, and your anchor should reflect the needs of the moment. Climbing in 5th-class terrain to a secure stance, climbing steep snow, or protecting a move of exposed 4th class are all different scenarios that demand a different level of protection. Your anchor choice should take that into consideration and your choices should reflect the needs of your anchor. Choosing the right solution for the application should be timely and effective.

E. Equalized: Are all components of your anchor system receiving more or less equal amounts of the hypothetical load? Is the direction of pull adjusted for? Even if equalization is a myth, we should aim for doing it, and when we don’t, we should have a good reason why not.

A. Angle: Is the angle between my anchor's outermost “legs” less than or equal to 60 degrees? Less than 90 degrees? The wider the angle (above 90 degrees), the more force the anchor components will receive.

R. Redundant: Do I have redundancy in my protection and/or my joining fabric? i.e., more than one cam in the system, or closed loops of fabric, so if one part fails, it will not be catastrophic. Of course, these can be violated, but I need a good reason to do so and/or appropriate application to terrain/skill.

N. No or Limited Extension: If a component of my anchor system fails, how far will my Primary Point drop, and how much shock loading am I willing to accept in any given application? Remember, the more you limit extension, the more you limit dynamic range or dynamic self-equalization, and the more you have, the more the anchor can adapt to a load shift. These properties are directly inverse to each other.

No matter where you go or what you are doing, STEARN provides a systematic approach for critical thinking and decision making while anchor building in dynamic terrain. This is by no means a “re-invention of the wheel” for anchor building guidelines, but I do think it’s better than what’s out there.

And with that, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite (and appropriate) quotes:

“Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Fun Facts: The AI Overlords define, “The surname Stearn means "severe" or "strict." It originates from the Old English word "styrne," which also meant the same. The word "stern" itself, with the same root, is used to describe someone who is hard, severe, or strict.”

Know the rules so you can break them well.

What do you think? What did I miss? Leave a comment and let me know.

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Now I’m not saying nothing is worth fixing in practicality. Lives involve making decisions, and some things really do need to be mended: a broken relationship with a loved one, unnecessary bloodshed and famine, wealth inequality, and the broken healthcare system in America. As a human living in the modern world, these are things that really matter and decisions, actions, need to be taken, but by far and away, most people’s day-to-day “problems” aren’t problems at all. They are fabrications, creations, thoughts about a future that hasn’t happened or a past that never did pass. Contortions of the Present that isn’t presence at all.

In the winter of 2013, I took my first international trip abroad. I was 25. I flew from Arkansas, my home, to Tanzania to guide Kilimanjaro expeditions (about 8) for Alaska Mountain Guides. I lived there for a little over three months. It was the first time I saw poverty on that scale. I saw no post office, no electricity, no potable water, no shoes, no money. No social safety nets, and it’s not like Arkansas was a shining, progressively liberal area in the United States, but compared to Moshi and the surrounding rural villages, it was. I had never seen anything like that level of survival and poverty. Trash fires everywhere because there was nothing else to do with it. People in the streets begging me for money because I was white, and that made me rich and despite all of that, all the poverty and the struggle to meet their basic needs most of the Tanzanians I encountered were the kindest and happiest people I had ever met, have ever met to this day. For three months, I ran expedition after expedition, I saw all number of wild things and met all sorts of amazing individuals, despite what they had, what they didn’t. I came away from that experience with one simple thought, one simple idea: What is necessity?

For years that affected me, after my master’s degree and in pursuit of my mountain guiding dreams, I lived in a vehicle for almost a decade, insane to some, but for me it made sense, reducing my cost of living so I could follow my dreams. I had everything I needed: food, water, shelter, relationships, and meaning. You can strip away almost everything from a traditional American lifestyle without losing much at all.

For that era of my life, I think Biggie said it best, “Mo money, mo problems”. Or at least something like that.

As I aged, the fixation problem I saw around me morphed from material to spiritual. From the body to the mind, and since then, I have followed those same questions in both realms. “What is necessity?” and “What are we trying to fix?”. Two guides for me in living a better life, and themes I will continue to explore with this Substack and with everyone I meet. I don’t have the answers, and I won’t pretend to but I will continue to ask the hard questions and share them with you.

So I ask you again, dear reader, to look at your life, your day to day, your happiness or lack thereof, and ask yourself what it is that you’re trying to fix, or if it’s really worth trying to fix anything at all.

Maybe it is, or maybe it’s worth letting go.

Even for a second, a minute, an hour of your day.

Sit with your breath, and for this time there’s nothing to do, nothing to plan, nothing to fix. There’s no before and no after. There’s just this. This breath, right now. It’s coming and going, it’s rising and it’s falling.

Just this.

And another day begins.

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As my trip to Chamonix comes to a close this week, I’m reminded of what brought me here. Like almost any relationship of cause and effect, it’s almost impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Was it Ian and Andrew talking about their trip to France during our Denali expedition last summer? Was it the call of any aspiring alpinist to come here and cut their teeth? Was it the first time I walked into a climbing gym some 17 years ago? I would say yes, yes, and yes. But that’s not the whole story.

Somewhere around a year and a half ago, I started to trick myself in thought, something I have noticed I am very good at and have been doing since around seven years of age (more on that later). I italicized the word trick to reverse its meaning. Usually reserved for malicious or mischievous intent, I have always used it in a positive light. At seven, I tricked myself into believing that the monsters couldn’t hurt me if I was breathing. I’d focus on my breath and create an imaginary force-field, something I find that happens to me instinctually to this day in times of intense danger, duress, or decision making. Calm, focused, breathing... But, I digress, this time it was a trick of time, yet another trick of the mind.

I have started to think of my life in summer and winter seasons until I’m 50. I don’t know why I chose 50 other than a goal close to midlife, some may say old age at this point, but that’s neither here nor there. Let me explain; I’m 37 years old, my birthday is Christmas Eve. As of right now, I have 13 years until I am 50, 13 summers and 12 winters (since this winter has now passed). Think about that for a second, maybe even try it out for yourself. How many summers do you have? How many winters? The realization shook me to the core, it showed me emphatically that I won’t live forever, and that if I want to do something, I need to do it now. Time never stops and yours too is running out.

There is only so long that each of us have to do the things we’ve always dreamed of. For me, to be able to run in the hills, to climb the most technical mountains in the world, to travel, to breathe in the fresh air of life and love without limitation. That little thought problem, that little trick of the mind, made me go for it. It gave me the push I needed to book a trip to a place I’ve never been without knowing if anyone would join me.

Now I know that life doesn’t end at 50, but for me it was a good starting point to show, yet again, the finite-ness of life and a benchmark beyond which I might not be able to push my mind and body to their breaking points. Something that I’ve been doing since I can remember. What happens if I make it to 50? Well for one I’ll probably celebrate, I’ll probably look back and say, “damn I really did go for it”, at least that’s what I hope. Then? Then I’ll take a breath and trick myself into something else, “9 summers till I’m 60”.

And another day begins…

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No matter how much of the world seems to be shrouded in darkness, I know that there is always light.

Open your eyes and let the world in.

”As something, I am merely that thing. As no-thing, I am all things”. - Douglas Harding

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The only sign of civilization high on this mountain’s flank are the satellites as they arc across the sky. Dancing among the constellations. Eight of us, bivouacked in our stone rookeries are at once like the satellites in the sky, wholly alien to that which surrounds us, yet absolutely home.

It is this play of Man and Nature, this cosmic masquerade that we as “I” have been struggling with since the birth of time, since the birth of “I”. What is our place? Our role? Our home? What is this “I” that knows me? It’s here, in these moments when climbing isn’t actually about climbing anymore. When we’ve moved past “escape” or “challenge” or “adventure” and into the realm of spirit and soul.

Climbing allows me to feel and to touch what is real, to live in the moment. To exist, to fear, to love, to thrive. So instead of drifting along lost in symbolism, simulation or artifice, I know viscerally in an embodied way that I am real, I am fragile yet strong, I am alone yet connected, I am different yet ultimately the same.

It shows me time and time again the earth, the stars, the waxing and waning of the moon, and the coming and goings of the sun. It calibrates my soul with the diurnal shifts of night and day rather than the endless ticking and tocking of our mechanized clocks. This transformative process of climbing has allowed me to align “how the world is” with “why the world does” and amongst steep cliffs and heather meadows, falling seracs and shouts of “on belay” and “off belay”, the mountains have shown me that we are all one Happening - a single beautifully complex process that started some 14 billion years ago.

Sometimes the climbing isn't about climbing at all.

What does climbing do for you?

Originally written for the Livsn Sunday Soapbox.

Pictures of our Bivy high on the flanks of Mt. Goode in the North Cascades National Park, on assignment for the American Alpine Institute.

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Now, now seems like a very good spot indeed. It’s spring conditions in Bishop, CA despite the time of year and I’m in front of the fireplace, home beaming with coziness.

I live with three others, Lauren, Tavis, and Nick. Each of them beautiful in their own way. We have a house of animals (Arjuna, Suki, Zala, and Xenu) a dog, three cats. It’s been this way all winter, and the winter before that. Splitting my time between summer months in the North cascades and Alaska, and winters in the foothills of the Eastern Sierra.

We’re in Bishop now and the Buttermilk Boulders are only 15 minutes away in Nick’s Toyota.

I frequently enjoy the ride.

It’s my slow season for work (winter) and I’m doing mostly private work in the Sierra (ice/mixed, alpine/rock guiding & instruction) and it will be that way more or less till April, bouncing between work in Bishop and Red Rock (rock climbing) outside of Las Vegas.

In the recent past, ahem, December, I had a life-changing experience during a 10-day silent meditation retreat and I officially became a certified rock guide, separate occasions of course but a pretty good month indeed. There will be a whole podcast dedicated to talking about the Vipassana retreat, and why you should too, and continuous themes of impermanence oozing out of writings to come, that I’m sure of.

And speaking of things to come…

If all goes well I’ll be accepted into an alpine exam in August. The final test of the alpine discipline and a measly $5000 later… Yikes. I thought climbing was for dirtbags. And speaking of dirtbags (and studying)?!? I’m pretty stoked about a two-week trip to Chamonix in April. Those lovely lovely European lifts, the antithesis of the Cascadian schwaking. I can start and end my alpine climbing day with a latte? Hopefully, a trade war with France hasn’t begun by then…

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Oh yea it’s Feb…

I started this Substack for a chance to write longform, for an audience who would appreciate it. I deleted my Facebook, for a slight against the oligarchy however feeble that will end up becoming… Say hello Bezos, here’s $16 a month because I live in Bishop, CA, and Meta via Instagram will continue to take many hours of my attention, for work and play.

I don’t think all of it is such a bad thing either, the digital ecosystem, life as a whole, our place in the cosmos, etc. Sure there are a lot of people thinking the “whole world is going to shit” and for good measure but, at a certain point you have to have a notion of how the world “should” be to be upset by the one you’re given. It’s all one big Happening and those expectations, judgments, and grasping aren’t going to do you any favors in the long run. On the other hand, I think now more than ever, our civic responsibility is to stay informed and stand up for the things we believe in.

Contradictions & clarity… (more on this now, and later)

Anyways, FEBRUARY.

I’ve got about 5 days left in Bishop until heading to Vegas where we (the American Alpine Institute) will be working with the Navy SEALS for 10 days teaching them all sorts of climbing-related shenanigans from lead climbing through Aid. Other than that, it’s “hard” climbing, weight lifting, building relationships, and #foreverbulking in between.

Most of it seems to be working at least… Progress is progress?

Wrapping this rambling up, I have a few specific pieces of writing in the works for the next couple of weeks; nutrition, meditation, climbing, life, the usual shit. I’ll also be bringing all of my writings under one hood, here to Substack, so expect a wide variety of subjects that span all sorts of space and time. And one of these pseudo-free writes 6-8 times a year on monthly/recent meanderings. Some essays will be free, others paywalled, thank you no matter which side of the spectrum you fall into.

We’ll see how all this manifests together.

No matter what, I’m excited to be here, to share the things I care about and see what Happens.

“Annica, Annica, Annica.”

And another day begins.

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Since my retreat, I have fallen in love with early mornings. Steeped in shadow, the world still sleeping. The sun not yet risen, magic everywhere. I wake more or less each day between five and six am, light a candle, meditate, sometimes on the cushion, sometimes just seated by the fire, watching the world revealing itself with each flicker, each moment. No expectations, nothing to do, nothing to fix.

Just this.

That beautiful co-emergence of the world and of me, each moment, shifting, breathing, revealing. This gorgeous symphony, the chorus of “things”, and the silence between.

Just this, and another day begins.

This post was originally written around my 37th Birthday just after my first Vipassana silent meditation in December of 2024. A journey that no doubt changed me forever. A journey that will forever ripple into my writings and thoughts to come. You see, what is so unique, is that we take so much for granted, there is in fact nothing “normal” or “just” about “this” moment or any moment, the ever-embracing now-ness all around you, the now-ever you will never escape from. This, right here, this very moment right now, wherever you are, is beyond comprehension, beyond magic, beyond time and you are IT. The most beautiful and precious gift of conscious awareness and you never even had to try.

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Be safe but not so much that you never take a risk.

Be good but not so good that you are never evil.

Go crazy but don’t go insane.

Be the center piece but don’t always grab attention.

Be a wallflower but not against the wall.

Live life but don’t fear death.

This is happiness.

Joy.

Love.

This is the middle Way.

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We reach the base of the diamond. It’s enormous and towers above us. Now, the real climbing starts. As we basque in the morning light I’m freezing. I have on all of the clothes I brought and I can't feel my hands. We change from our approach shoes to our climbing boots. Strap on our crampons, eat a powerbar, sip some water, and grab our axes.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

We clap to keep the feeling in our hands, or what’s left of it. This sound breaks the silence for the rest of the day. All the while Long’s Diamond looms beside us. Its summit, nearly 2,500 feet above. I realize we have only just begun but now my heart races, excitement for the climb ahead. The hike-in is always the worst part. Or so I’ve come to think. A monotonous trek of one foot in front of the other. Nothing to do but think of the burning sensation in my legs.

Doubt. Doubt. Doubt…

It enters my head and I can’t seem to shake it. Am I strong enough? Will the ice and snow hold? Will we make it? If not to the top at least back to the car? Behind us, the so-called Lamb’s slide rises 800 feet. The path, a colouir of ice and snow. With both axes in hand, we climb. Our hands and feet deep in snow. Not yet ice. The rope doesn’t yet leave my back though there is no room for error. This is my element. I love the snow, the cold, the challenge. Move your hands. Move your feet. Nothing else matters. Nothing else can matter. Not here, not now. We continue to climb to the top of the colouir. It turns to pure ice and we must cross it. From here on there can be no falls. No errors. Freddy is up first. I kick in a ledge as best I can and anchor myself to my axe, wedged deep in the ice. I belay him across. He moves effortlessly or so it seems. Our target? a 1,000 ft traverse that will gain us the leftmost edge of the diamond. “The Broadway Traverse”. Freddy gets across and it’s my turn. I tie in. From here till the end, we are connected. A bond of brotherhood. A bond of survival. All the while trusting our lives to one another. ​My first step. I slam my pick into the ice. It goes in effortlessly and feels solid.

Repeat.

Don't slip.

It’s easier than I would have thought. One after the other, the pick, the crampons, they stick to the ice and I climb. Before I know it we are across and onto the traverse. It’s easy going for a time, stepping in the snow and around the rocks. The wind howls and snow whips at our faces. All the while, the call of the void gets louder and louder, the ground further and further below us. It will be this way for the rest of the climb. 1,000 ft and more. The farther you climb the farther the fall. Right at your back. You know you can never let your guard down. You can feel it. I don't even have to look to know it’s there. The void. Always pulling. Always calling. Always there…

Focus.

For however long we are on this mountain we must be alert. Stay sharp. Stay strong. I can see the sun lighting up the face of the mountain. Its warmth I can only imagine. It will never touch us, not this day. The mountain is cold and the traverse becomes thinner and thinner. The void, ever closer. My heart races. This section of the traverse is the most dangerous. Most exposed. At least from what we’d read. My ass hangs over the abyss, my senses heighten.

Don't slip.

Don't fall.

Slow and steady.

The handholds are hard to find with gloves. Time stops, my heart races, and then we are through. We let out a battle cry, a sigh of relief, a sound of victory. We are the only ones on the mountain and our yells echo in the distance. Our victory, a short one for we still have a long way to go. After the traverse, we find a slot canyon and start to climb it. The snow is powder and up to my waist. Fred is so far away I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything but the deafening silence. I clap and try to keep my hands warm. It’s almost pointless. As the rope runs out we begin to simul-climb.

Not too fast.

Not too slow.

We are connected.

Slow and steady we gain elevation. Pitch after pitch. Hour after hour. What was supposed to be a fourth-class scramble, The “homestretch” turns into an eternity. We are forced out of the snow and onto the rocks. Crampons and all. The snow is pure powder. Every foot forward we would fall a half foot back. Unconsolidated. Unsafe.

The rocks were a haven. Our haven. The going slow. We split a cliff-bar. We hadn’t had a drink of water or food in hours. It wasn’t hunger. It was necessity. Every pitch I belayed Freddy I stood uncontrollably shaking. Cold. Mind numb. We had to keep going. We had to reach the top for it was our only way down. Nearing the top the sun started to wane. We had to hurry. We had to find our rappel while it was still light. If not we would be out here all night.

The summit. A lifeless place of rock and wind-packed snow. The setting sun and snow-capped peaks were breathtaking but I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I was relieved but only momentarily. We were only halfway there. The sun was setting fast. I could feel the tension in the air, in our situation. Then as his voice shattered the silence, the tension. Freddy calls out that he had found the way down and I am relieved once again. A rollercoaster of emotion.

At the rappel, I eat another bar and have a drink of water. I feel like an animal. A shell. Drooling as I shove the bar in its entirety in my mouth. I don't care. After two rappels we are in the boulder field. We head left. Head right. We walk into the dark. Into the night. We know the trail is here somewhere but we can’t find it. I see things in the shadows out of the corner of my eyes. The rocks. Is that a sign? A trail marker? My mind playing tricks on me in the dark. The boulders seemed to never end. The trail never to come. We walked through the night for what seemed like an eternity. Sharing light once again.

Relief.

And then. There it was. The trail. Safety. The way home. I read the sign, 4.7 miles, at that point, it was just a number. I couldn’t tell how long I had been walking or how far. Mile after mile we walked in the dark. Slipping on ice. Falling on rocks. Switchback after switchback. How long had we been here? It felt like a dream in a darkened forest. I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore. Numb. Thirsty. Tired. And then there it was, the car. We had made it. Finally our last sigh of relief. We had pulled it off. We threw all of our gear in the back and guzzled water. As I sat in the passenger seat and watched the headlights beam into the night. I lost myself in my head. Into exhaustion. What had we done? Anything? Nothing? Was it all just a dream? I didn’t know. I still don't. 16 hours from car to car. A gaze into the abyss. Now. Now I know what it’s like to be alive and soon enough I will again.

Alpinism:

Wind.

Cold.

Silence.

“Off Belay!”

This passage was written years ago, my first real foray into the mountains. Freddy Mondale was a mentor and idol to me and his impact on the trajectory of my life is more than I can imagine. All these years later our climb of Kiener’s route on Long’s Peak holds a special place in my heart and though I have learned so much since then I am beyond grateful for the experience Freddy shared with me that day in the mountains.

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The malevolence of the Mountain, a woman’s eyes.

I have this love for the brisk cold air.

I don’t know when it started or where.

Perhaps it was the night the wind took your hair.

What makes these moments so impactful, such a direct conduit for true seeing? What is it that wakes us up and makes the world appear actually how it is?

The more I've chased these rabbits, the more I'm thrust into experiences that force me to look and not look away, nor pass by the present moment.

Peak experiences, near misses, flow state, breathtaking vistas, psychedelics... All of which brought me in one way or another to HERE, NOW. A forced vision, forced perspective. That worked for me but maybe not for all. That showed me what the world really is and how often we let it pass by.

These days I still do most all the things that have forced my vision before, my clarity filters, I might call them, but now I spend more and more time practicing true seeing, breath by breath, minute by minute, day after day, so that it won't take me almost dying to wake me up, it might be a shadow cast on paper, a birds song from a darkened hollow, or a waterfall deep in the forest that I will never see.

Each time reminding me that I am here, I am home and a witness to this beautiful complex happening.

Maybe one day I'll truly wake up but until then I'll be grateful for each and every moment I get to truly see, whether alone or with friends, in traffic or my inbox, in sunken misery or on top of some majestic peak in the middle of nowhere. For without darkness, there can be no light.

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I wake in a blur, in the abruptness of a moment. As my eyes try and focus those are first numbers I see.

Altitude.

My brain strains to make sense of the world around me.

Catch yourself. Just breathe.

It's daylight but not yet morning.

Denali.

Camp III is basked in the soft light of dawn but there is no warmth yet to speak of. I wake to a dusting of ice on my face, to the silence of the morning. I drift back to sleep.

6,614'

The plane jolts with turbulence, my knuckles whiten as I squeeze the seat in front of me.

Catch yourself. Just breathe.

An irrational act of survival, fear of the unknown.

What would it be like, my last second to my first?

That instant between breaths when you are inevitably cast upon an unknown voyage.

I see a child in the seat next to me. Her eyes ignited with the joy of life in this newfound world. Oblivious to the millions of mechanized parts currently synchronized in the impracticality of maintaining a pressurized metal tube in flight. She is in bliss, in ecstasy, in the moment. I, on the other hand, am losing my breath just before impact.

17,075'

The numbers glare at me under frost. My lungs burn as I gasp for air.

Catch yourself. Just breathe.

The 7mm cord between us stretched taught in the freezing wind. Its yellow sheath, a stark contrast to the ice-covered ridge below. I can't feel my hands but I shake them anyways. The immediacy of descent paramount. At that moment, in many, I feel alive. We descend towards safety. Little humans cast upon that mountain ridge.

20'

Steam from my mug rises swiftly in the cold sea air. The feeling of the Pacific between my toes. I walk the beach and lose myself in the dance of seagulls, in the crashing of waves, and in the warmness of my summer skin. I do not know if it's my mind, my life, or my climbing that reminds me of the impermanence of what I've made. Of life or of moments. I feel fortunate though, to be reminded of the fragility of life. To be thrust headlong into adventure. To lose myself in the little things. In the moments between breath and breathing, or the scattering of dawn across snow. In labored muscles and perfectly balanced ice tools. In the sag of Hilleberg guylines at dusk or grain sacks filled with snow. In the feeling of aged paper pressed just between my thumb and forefingers. There's just enough moisture to separate the pages but not smear the ink. The unconscious progression of futures into pasts.

There's something about the presence of mind that is created in the pursuit of mountains, that for better or worse, spills over into all aspects of my life.

Maybe its the change of glaciers over the summer months or the change of friends or of lovers. Maybe it’s the change of self, voyage after voyage, into those sacred lands.

Maybe.

Or maybe it's in capturing moments and in letting them go.

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My eyes enchanted by a falling leaf. A dance, a swaying, this way and that. No presumptions, no destination.

I watched that leaf for a while. Watched it fall to the water, not a care in the world. I watched the stream.

Both carried on their Way. Neither pushing nor following, trapped nor free.

I knew in that moment that my course was no different, that it never could be. ​

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