In my body, I’m a climber; in my imagination, I’m a rapper. The poets of my generation are MCs—embodiments of the modern American Dream—and the music of hip-hop is so ubiquitous with our culture that it’s hard to imagine life without them.
I don’t just listen to hip-hop; it bleeds into my soul. All music does really, but there’s something about hip-hop that gets me fired up like nothing else. The visualization of success, the Jay-Z, make room for me world, because I’m here—well, I love that mindset. That human will.
Note: this piece is an excerpt from the new zine, Volume 22, now available
Art by Kate Otte
Climbing demands confidence, but a different type of confidence. Not necessarily the Jay-Z confidence, but maybe the Kendrick Lamar type. Jay-Z would rarely directly tell us he was depressed; he makes the song cry. But Kendrick would.
Is our generation the first one to really be open about this mental health stuff? By the way, I think all young people, myself included, are the same generation—I don’t believe this X, Y, Z, Millennial bullshit, but I’ll elaborate on that another time. (Or you can read Kurt Vonnegut’s insightful thoughts on the subject.)
Though I reached the lowest lows of depression when I was young, I honestly never thought I would go back there again. And, I haven’t. But depression crept up on me during these last two pandemic years, and I knew I needed to act. To remedy it.
The heaviness usually would hit me at night. During the morning and day, I’d stay busy with climbing, getting out on the local trails, and my work, but in the evening, life felt empty, sad, and isolated. I was recovering from a breakup, and I was also facing the reality of going from working at home to living at work. That and the weight of the world. Well, it weighed heavily on my mind, body, and soul.
I feel like a chip on my shoulders
I feel like I’m losin’ my focus
I feel like I’m losin’ my patience
I feel like my thoughts in the basement
Feel like, I feel like you’re miseducated
Feel like I don’t wanna be bothered
I feel like you may be the problem
I feel like it ain’t no tomorrow, fuck the world
The world is endin’, I’m done pretendin’
Usually, I roll out on a Friday, and try to get there before it gets dark, and the chances of hitting a deer or a cow increase greatly; by morning its practically guaranteed the blood will be on the road, with a carcass just off the side. The older I get the more I dislike driving at night, even though my 4Runner is equipped with a “deer killer” on the front; one of those saved my life one time when I hit a deer going 60 on my way home from the Black Canyon, back in my Gunny days.
I hate the fact that my escape requires fossil fuels, but I feed the beast. I need the beast. I’m no longer young and idealistic; I’m in my forties and realistic. But I still have hope. Well, better said, I know where hope is. And hope lies at the end of this drive, at the trusty campsite so far back a dirt road I can almost guarantee no one will be there.
Sometimes heading into The Creek I’m all fired up about the project I’ve been working on for damn near five years, but these days, on a Friday evening, I’m often thinking about the calmness of sleeping in the desert.
I’m pretty basic when compared to a lot of other climbers these days. I just sleep in a tent or in the back of my truck—one that has zero conversions for camping. Then again, I’m a “work-bag” these days, working during the week and climbing on the weekends. To be honest, I love the balance. And even though I’m roughing it while camping, I know at the end of every climbing trip is a bed waiting at home in my condo.
By the time I hit my favorite dirt road in the world, which is more of a wash than a road, the vibes of the music have usually changed from Kendrick or Jay to Grateful Dead or Bob Dylan.
I’ve been coming back to this zone for years. For the first few years, I was hungry for first ascents, but soon one climb consumed me. A laser one-inch crack that could stack up with any splitter on the planet. And Dave and I had it all to ourselves.
Sometimes things line up so well in life, and sometimes it seems like God (or whatever you want to call her) is against us. But in this little corner of the universe, in what is now (again) Bears Ears National Monument, God was on our side.
My buddy Adam Ferro had actually discovered this climb, and I was so obsessed about it that years later he had to remind me that he actually found it. Obsession can skew the brain. All I know is that for several seasons straight Dave and I were obsessed with what would become Purple Reign, or The Queen.
If you know me, you know about this obsession. For years people would ask me how it was going, expecting to hear that I’d got it done and sent it, but alas, I’d tell them I was stuck in the dreaded “one-hang” space. If you’ve projected, you know that space.
Our routines before every attempt became more specific as time went by. First the trail had to break in. We found the coolest way to go through massive boulders that would leave Chris Schulte drooling. One of them we called the biggest boulder in The Creek, which was somehow barely situated on a chunk of dirt, destined to collapse and roll down the talus.
But that boulder still stands, and it almost seems suspended in time. A miracle of sorts. Once we walked by that, the rituals began. The first one was finding a cool-looking little rock and adding it to a stack of rocks we dubbed the friendship cairn. The bands of rock we hiked through had some really cool petrified wood and crystal-like rocks that apparently flew out of a volcano aeons ago from the Abajo Mountains.
I always state a prayer or intention at this cairn, located on a plateau, which we labeled phase three in the hike. Most Creek hikes are short, but this one is about an hour or so—the reason why these cracks are just now getting climbed.
When we arrived at the cliff, both Dave and I would unpack our gear at the same spot every time. We’d do the same warmup every time, a combination of two routes, Shorty Got Low, a fun little hand crack, and The Pawn, a varied crack system. Dave would usually do three laps, and I would do two.
Then we’d crank some music and tape our fingers. The second pitch, the crux of the route, was so steep that it would often make our tape “roll” on our fingers, which is a miserable feeling and basically shuts down any attempt. So, Dave suggested we put super glue on each end of the tape. And it worked perfectly.
We’d each usually slam a yerba maté, and buzzing from excitement and the caffeine, we’d start up the climb.
Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The last ritual was to hold what we called the “moki ball.” A baseball-sized rock that must have come out of a volcano too; supposedly it had crystals inside, but we never dared to break it. We held it for good luck, and then the pregame rituals were complete.
I can’t exactly recall how many times we did this ritual, but I do know if either of us missed a step, things felt off. Perhaps the more we tried it the more superstitious we became. To quote Michael Scott from The Office, “I’m not superstitious, but I am a little ’stitious”
The only difference in our ritual was that near the end Dave would do three warmup laps, and I would do two, but then I would do some warmup finger boarding at the base of the route. The Queen is gently overhanging, so I really felt it helped to put more pressure on the fingers before embarking on it. I’ve noticed everyone seems to warmup a little differently.
We were out there pushing ourselves for years on this rig. After many sessions of failure, I realized I needed to start training specifically for this climb. I’ve never really been into training, more into just the act of climbing, but soon the training became really fun. I learned crack climbing training exercises from local hardman Marcus Garcia. During the early lockdowns of COVID, I would put all my energy into garage exercises, getting way too amped for hang boarding, which eventually led to a finger injury.
I reached out to Pete Whittaker, one of the best crack climbers in the world, and asked him for some beta on training. He sent me a series of lock-off workouts and told me to do them until failure. I couldn’t do a single one, but I got the concept and modified them to suit my needs.
During that early 2020 time period when it seemed like the sky was falling and the ’rona was going to get us all, like many others, I found myself watching more Netflix, and through the documentary The Last Dance, I rediscovered my childhood hero, Michael Jordan.
I feel like
Mike Jordan
whenever I’m holding a real mic
—Kendrick Lamar, “Feel”
As a kid growing up in Illinois in the 1990s who loved basketball, Air Jordan was an obvious hero. I even had the fortune of attending his basketball camp in the suburbs of Chicago, just a couple blocks from my grandmother’s home. That was probably the peak of my time playing basketball. It was awe-inspiring to hear Mr. Jordan talk about the game and to be in his presence. The biggest star in the world, my hero, and the hero to all kids, was right there, in front of my eyes. My basketball career never took off—I wasn’t good enough to make my high school team—so I abandoned those dreams.
Watching The Last Dance brought back all that excitement. I was surprised because for the last 25 years I could have cared less about ball sports. I preferred nature sports where one competes with themselves. My best climbing always takes place when I am only in competition with myself.
The story that The Last Dance told transcended so much, and to my surprise, I found a deep well of inspiration from MJ and the 1990s Chicago Bulls. Success comes from pain, dedication, failure, hard work, and a love for whatever craft you’re practicing. Plus, during the early lockdowns, it gave me a place to escape to within my head, just as basketball itself did when I was a young teenager playing in my driveway.
Like the second time I got cut from the junior varsity
Fighting back tears, I promised to switch gears
And said to myself, Whatever you do, you won’t do it partially
—J. Cole, “Heavens EP”
The other motivating factor for me was Father Time. I turned 40, and rather than seeing declines in my climbing, I was seeing gains. So was Dave. We were both getting better at crack climbing, and we had our magnum opus to motivate us to continue to improve, together.
This was also just after Kobe Bryant and his daughter died in the tragic helicopter accident. I wasn’t into basketball when Kobe was playing, but I soon went down the rabbit hole of learning about him. In The Last Dance, he talked about people who wanted to debate whether he was better than MJ, and he hated that because the basketball player he would become was, in part, due to Jordan’s mentorship. “What you get from me, is him,” Kobe said.
I watched Jordan’s tearful speech at Kobe’s memorial and cried along with him. All of that made me love Jordan more, how human he was.
Then I learned I shared a kinship with Kobe as well. After he retired from basketball, he became a storyteller. Unlike many professional athletes who don’t know what to do after they retire, Kobe knew exactly what he wanted to do. He even won an Oscar for his animated short film, Dear Basketball. If I’m looking for inspiration these days, I often turn to Kobe’s interviews near the end of his career and in his retirement.
I was not born to be an athlete that performed in front of an audience; perhaps many of us climbers are that way. I also loved that the hardest crack climb I’d ever tried was so far away from where other climbers were. For some reason I am able to try the hardest and quiet my ego when no one but my partner and the birds are watching.
Usually it was just Dave and me, and on occasion, another friend or two. We wanted to document it, and we’d have photographers and filmmakers out there from time to time. But I never felt any pressure other than the pressure I would put on myself.
My favorite climbs to really push myself are first ascents. Not just for the obvious glory of establishing a new route but also for the freedom of trying hard without the confines of a grade or established beta. I understand why Chris Sharma and Tommy Caldwell had an era in the early 2000s when they didn’t rate their climbs. I also loved trying hard with Dave. Maybe we were just perfect climbing partners for this moment in time, but there’s something about him that inspired me to try my hardest, while he stayed with me through my failures.
For a while there, Dave and I were neck and neck; our fitness was almost exactly the same. Then, during 2020 Dave pulled ahead. He was able to get out more than I was, and I also had injured myself being an overstoker in the garage on the hang board.
By a twist of fate, I wasn’t on the other end of the rope when he sent the crux second pitch. I’d gone sport climbing that weekend, and he went out to The Creek. When I returned that evening and was getting ready for my ritualistic shower beer—taking a hot shower while sipping on a cold beer—I got a text that he’d sent it. There was zero envy; I was only proud. He even sent a short video that some friends had taken. The scream that he let out at the anchors was classic Dave. A yell of excitement and electricity, as he mumbled with disbelief, “I did it. I did it.”
I thought that my success might come shortly after Dave’s, but again, I was one hanging this thing over and over again. My fitness just wasn’t quite there. In fact Dave managed to do the link up of pitches one and two—40 meters of .5 purple Camalots—while I was still one hanging (or more) that second pitch.
Obsession is a strange thing. It’s often given a negative connotation, and of course in many ways, it can be negative. With this climb, there had to be a shared obsession for Dave and me. Sure, the best of the best would be able to do this pitch over the course of a weekend; shit, Whittaker might be able to do it first try, but Dave and I had to elevate our climbing levels on a similar time period, though obviously Dave shot ahead of me in fitness.
Of course, obsession will almost inevitably result in success, especially something so simple yet difficult as a finger crack. There were times when I’d question our obsession, and one day in particular highlights that more than anything.
The shoulder season in The Creek can be referred to as the time period close to the “on season.” Late winter, early spring, late spring, early summer, and late summer: often at the right place and the right temperature, these days can be surprisingly pleasant. The Queen gets a lot of shade, so in reality the climb could be done in the morning on a day that might reach 90 degrees or higher.
The bugs are the first indicator that, as a climber, you’re there too late. Nothing too wicked but just annoying enough. In June in The Creek, the crowds are completely gone, and the place is a ghost town. But for some reason our obsession led us back for one last attempt before the summer heat kept us away for months.
I can’t exactly recall how our attempts went, but in the shade, the conditions were surprisingly decent for early summer. One thing I do recall is that I didn’t send, and we knew when the sun was coming it was time to get the hell out of there. Highs were predicted to be in the mid-90s.
We did indeed get the hell out of there, jogging down the trail, headed for the temporary comfort of truck air conditioning and cold beers that awaited in the cooler. The temperature on my car thermometer read 104 on the drive back to camp as we contemplated how much shade we’d find there amongst the cottonwood trees.
When we got back to camp, the sun was so high that there wasn’t much shade in the cottonwood trees, and it was midday. The cold beers weren’t cooling us off, and neither was the air conditioning in the truck. What. The. Fuck. Are. We. Doing. Out. Here.
The rest of the day is a blur of heat, but I do remember I went to bed before it got dark. A dust storm had also rolled in, and the last picture I have in my mind of that day is a swirl of red-desert dirt engulfing us as I snuck into my tent for a hazy night of hot summer sleep. Obsession has its price.
This fall was going to be it, I told myself. It was over five years since I first aided up that magical line, and it was time to get it done. We went out early, again, nothing near that summer heat of our final June trip, which may have prepared us to endure the desert heat a little more. I expressed to Dave that I was reaching a breaking point, that after years of failure a certain discontentment was arising. Dave understood exactly what I was feeling, “You stop caring,” he said.
I had tried to stay fit over the summer by sport climbing. Luckily most of Durango’s sport climbing is overhanging, and it always provides a good base level of fitness if you keep at it regularly, kinda like Popeye eating his spinach.
In the late summer, I made another overstoker move and got on an overhanging, fingery route without properly warming up. I immediately felt a tweak in my middle and ring fingers. By a simple twist of fate, I had an acupuncture appointment scheduled for right after that climbing session, and my acupuncturist concluded that it was the nerves around my fingers that I’d injured. When I went to bed that night, I could feel those nerves, and I wondered if it might be another season of failure on the project.
I still went out with Dave. On some days I’d just toprope, but on others, when I felt better, I’d give it my try hard. It actually wouldn’t bother my fingers until I was sleeping, and then I’d wake up and my hand would be numb. I had a combination of passion for the climb and a nagging injury telling me to rest.
Perhaps out of obsession, I listened to my mind and not my body. Perhaps there was a void to fill. I don’t really know, but I do know I was fit but also injured. I carried on anyway.
On a mid-October weekend, I rolled out in my usual Friday-evening fashion. This time I cruised through the Creek Pasture campground, looking for a friend who works for the Access Fund, but he wasn’t there. Then, all of a sudden, I saw someone walking toward me, and I recognized him. It was an old climbing friend, Esteban. It was like something emerging from nothing; one moment I was thinking I’d spend the night alone, and the next I was realizing I’d be catching up with a friend.
We sat around a campfire and caught up. Later that night, a friend of his arrived, and they agreed to come out and join Dave and me as we worked on the project.
They followed me back the winding dirt road, and there was Dave in his Subaru. We walked up the hour-long trail and performed the rituals. That day I was psyched, but when I climbed, I felt simultaneously tired and nervous. It was one of my worst attempts all season, but I knew I had another attempt coming the next day.
On Sunday I went back up with Dave. How many Sundays had we spent together at the base of this climb? I wish I’d kept track. I did start keeping track that year, and this was my ninth lead of the season and sixteenth of the year.
Just Dave and me. He would always say, “Nobody’s home,” when we’d gaze across the expanse of our view, the Six-Shooter towers in one direction, Canyonlands unfolding in another, and the Henry Mountains countless miles in the distance yet still visible on the horizon.
I did all the rituals and even added a new one: cleaning off my shoes with an alcohol-based cleaner—that actually works a bit of magic on old rubber. I jugged up a static rope to reach the second pitch. I loved the routine and tried to remain in the moment with no expectations for success; I guess that’s one great thing about repeated failure: it lowers your expectations. Sometimes before starting up a project, I’ll think about this Wide Boyz quote, “Focus on the performance, not the goal.” But this day I had Kobe Bryant in mind.
“Always give it the effort, every time.” I don’t think this was a specific quote, more of a general sentiment of his. Do the workout, no matter how you feel, but do the work, always. In climber speak: always give the climb the try hard.
I started up through the first moves, finger jams with good pods for the occasional hand jam and good feet. Then the overhanging crux section, where we figured out it was best to bump the purple Camalot three times rather than place a new piece. Yes, I had this one memorized, but I’d always make a mistake. In my head, I knew I had to keep performing; finger cracks don’t allow much room for slippage or mistakes. As I passed the crux, I remember Dave yelling something up to me about keeping my jams secure. I remember an imperfection in the process, one jam that wasn’t as secure as it should have been, but I got away with it. I clipped the anchors in success, and then just slumped there in disbelief.
“I love you, man,” I yelled down to Dave. It was truly the first thing that popped into my head. I was so happy and proud of myself, but the first instinct was that the friendship Dave and I had led me to this moment.
I was on cloud nine; it didn’t feel exactly how I imagined it—life never really does—but the feeling of deep satisfaction was immense. This moment was akin to what I think a basketball player might feel with the championship trophy in hand or a rapper who has just laid down a track that they put everything into.
The reality of it being a late Sunday afternoon kicked in. Dave had to work the next day, and so did I. There would be no champagne showers or anyone else around to celebrate with. We drove back to camp, picked up the poop bucket, and then we were on our way back to the paved highway.
At the last gate, at the highway, we gave each other a hug and one more congratulations. It all felt very abrupt, how a six-year project could end so vapidly. Then I remembered Esteban was still camping in Creek Pasture. Instead of the right turn back to Durango, I took a left and headed to their camp.
When Esteban and his crew got back to camp, they asked me how things went, and I was excited to tell them I finally had success. That night we celebrated. When I’d had enough, I snuck away from the campfire to crawl into the back of my truck to pass out. I remember having a smile on my face as I drifted off with the cosmos. Later I’d find out that two friends had gotten engaged that weekend, and another couple welcomed the arrival of a daughter; I guess magic was in the air.
The emptiness that comes after completing a long-term climbing project was compounded by the fact that I still hadn’t healed my fingers from that nerve injury.
My Creek season was over in mid-October—when others were just beginning. I went out one weekend and just tried to climb hand cracks, but it was still bothering my injury. I stayed away, up until Creeksgiving, when I went out there just to hang out and do our annual memorial run to the South Six-Shooter, something we do to remember our friend Adam Lawton, who died in an avalanche a decade ago.
That morning I woke up at a campsite I’ve spent so much time at that it feels as much like home as home does. There was a bit of sadness because so many friends that used to come out weren’t there. But there were new friends, and Dave and I rallied a few to do the run. This was my first time back to Creeksgiving in a few years, and I hoped I had enough running fitness for double-digit mileage.
A group of maybe eight of us took off from camp—going for a run on a sunny day in a place where everyone else is going climbing. The oddness suits me and our misfit group of friends. Just as a passion for hip-hop and basketball can inspire my climbing, this run is a juxtaposition of the America I love.
While climbing is my favorite and perfect high, running has its perks too. By the time we reached the South Six-Shooter, that old, reliable runner’s high kicked in, and I was grateful to be up there with Dave and some new friends.
At the base, I dabbled in some plant medicine. Much like the mixture of hip-hop, The Dead, and inspiration from basketball, it all felt right, and it all felt American. Depression felt distant. All of this in our beloved Bears Ears National Monument—a protected (for now) landscape.
After the time to chill had passed, we began our descent down the talus, the oneness of this special place bleeding deep down into our souls.
This was a special day at the end of a season where I finally achieved a goal, one that I know is meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but I also know it was completed with dedication, humility, and the most important ingredient to me in all things climbing: friendship.
Luke Mehall is excited to release his first-ever mixtape this summer. The Microdose Mixtape will be produced by Devin Dabney. And, yes, we plan on producing some actual tapes and hopefully some vinyl.
