Surreal World of Magritte

After experiencing Catalan and Spanish flags through one exciting week-end in Barcelona, my next encounter with nationalism took place yesterday during the celebration of the national holiday in another pretty divided country, that is Belgium.  Coming from the outside as i do, it is usually hard to agree and understand the need for separation and different identity in these seemingly such interesting and culturally rich countries.  Oh sure, yes, there are all the historic, although to tell the truth usually mainly financial, reasons for all the discontent. However, it was somehow a pleasure to see Belgians united for once, partying all together with their army, king, and political elite.  

My highlight was a visit to the new Magritte museum in Brussels, that for the day charged only 1 euro for its, it has to be said rather meek, collection.  Nevertheless, it was very well housed, introduced, and displayed.  Magritte is an interesting outsider to the glamorous life of painters in the XXth century. Held on a short leash by his life-long love with Georgette, he never managed to get full-heartedly accepted into the Paris circle of surrealists, and decided to live in a stand-alone bourgeois mode with his wife and friends in Brussels.  At the same time, he was a prolific artist, and a volcano of imagination and brilliant ideas for his work.  His final success came to him in the US, of all places, although now he is reveered in many an intellectual gathering.  Despite this success, most of his life he dressed like a respected banker rather than a crazy surrealist, the reverse side of the mirror to his flamboyant counter-part Dali.

One of the pictures that impressed me most during this visit was the below Art de la Conversation.  I find it a very good painting, located in that space somewhere in the middle ground between subconscience and the mind, where Magritte situated most of his works.  The two gentlemen conversing manage to build a huge structure, with the dream playing the center-stage, although simultaneously defying the laws of gravity and language.

The other picturte that left its mark on me was this, Domaine d'Arnheim, a theme Magritte followed in several of his paintings in the decade before his death (in 1967), inspired as he was by Poe stories.  Maybe because the paysage looks a lot like the North-side couloir to the left of Frendo spur, and Auiguille du Peigne is so tastefully transformed into the bird trying to get free out of the ice, or maybe because the picture also signals some possibility of hope, birth, life, coming from this austere twilight zone of the mountain.  One way or another it is a painting worth having a thought about:

These ideas go hand in hand with the book I am currently reading, Hofstadter's GEB, and specifically paintings by Escher mentioned there.  Basically Hofstadter talks about inifinite or strange loops, something Escher was really good at showing graphically, for instance in his Drawing Hands below.  The animate is born from the dead matter, hands come alive from pure imagination and lines traced by a pen.  Maybe it is just my mind playing tricks, but Magritte, his Ceci n'est pas une pipe etc. seem to be working on the same wavelength.

Alors on danse

el Vianant

Project-based climbing is about training and training again, going back to the same old route for many a time, with desperation, inspiration, and persistence, all of it a price to pay for the quick, short, and elating moment of infinite possibility and incredible lightness of being. The process is full of uncertainty, outside conditions, stress, and the enduring need for control.  Controlling your own body, or more precisely reaching this connection between the brain - knowledge of all the moves, memory of foot and hand holds, visualization of the exact feelings and sensations on the rock, - and the body, - the repository of knowledge, the willful executive agent.  The intellectual aspect of it is so full, so incredibly intense, so much about being passionately alive there and for that exact moment.  Either you can choose to agree that no ultimate attempt could be made, that it is too hot, you are too tired, too nervous, not ready, that next time might be better - or you can rebel, say no, now is the time, pain is irrelevant, absence of skin is irrelevant, tendons don't hurt, temperature is perfect, but the main thing - the vital crucial thing for me - is the pure joy of it.  To make the route not the enemy, but a testpiece that has to be tasted and cherished like a meal at a good restaurant, as a good glass of wine or cava, that has to be experienced to the fullest, giving it all the respect, and all your effort. 

Redpointing el Vianant, 7c+, Montserrat, the crux move:

Thanks to all that have supported me in this undertaking, and the many belays in the excruciating heat - Pau, Juanjo, Javi, - and most of all Uri. Thank you, again.

Things have changed

by Bob Dylan

A worried man with a worried mind
No one in front of me and nothing behind
There’s a woman on my lap and she’s drinking champagne
Got white skin, got assassin’s eyes
I’m looking up into the sapphire-tinted skies
I’m well dressed, waiting on the last train

Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I’m expecting all hell to break loose

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

This place ain’t doing me any good
I’m in the wrong town, I should be in Hollywood
Just for a second there I thought I saw something move
Gonna take dancing lessons, do the jitterbug rag
Ain’t no shortcuts, gonna dress in drag
Only a fool in here would think he’s got anything to prove

Lot of water under the bridge, lot of other stuff too
Don’t get up gentlemen, I’m only passing through

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

I’ve been walking forty miles of bad road
If the Bible is right, the world will explode
I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much
You can’t win with a losing hand

Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet
Putting her in a wheelbarrow and wheeling her down the street

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

I hurt easy, I just don’t show it
You can hurt someone and not even know it
The next sixty seconds could be like an eternity
Gonna get low down, gonna fly high
All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie
I’m in love with a woman who don’t even appeal to me

Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I’m not that eager to make a mistake

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

Granite Summer

I have decided to treat myself this end of June with a week of a granite cure. For some reason granite is my favorite rock - it is the king stone. Maybe because of Yosemite, but more likely because of New England, and my first imprinting experiences of doing multi-pitch on Cathedral, Whitehorse, and Cannon there.

When I started climbing, around the first week or so, I already heard the mysterious and powerful word of multi-pitch, specifically a route called Thin Air buzzing up the Cathedral Ledge.  It is a 5.6 that takes 4 pitches and a crowd of willing alpinists trying out their new shiny cams and anchor skills learned through John Long's book.  Me too, I followed the same road well-traveled, read Freedom of the Hills for a reinforcement, and eventually got on the line, generously belayed up by Kevin and Cory, my first ever multi-pitch! Thanks for taking care of me, guys!

It is actually a funny story, my climbing beginnings, when I think about it now.  Freshly out of college, I invested my hardly won money from the previous internship at Gillette to first buy a car, and second climbing shoes and a harness. I saw real climbers previously, on a trekking trip to Zion National Park.  Just before a storm when hiking down from Angels' Landing, there were these bodies hanging from the wall in front of us. I had no idea what they were doing - climbers, someone told me. After that, I was so impressed by the sight, I started looking through the internet, the newly minted medium that supposedly could answer any question one had ever had, and figured a little bit more what climbing was about. I was young and still looking for a way to define myself. Maybe reading Rushdie´s Satanic Verses at the same time had something to do with my attitude as well. Not sure, anyway, I got myself an account on rockclimbing.com, bought climbing shoes, a harness and a screw gate, and showed up at the next meeting of Mass climbers at the Quincy Quarries, the local Boston crag. And sure we go again, Quincy was granite! My first climb was a 5.6 layback, I clearly remember how strange and difficult it seemed. And somehow I was hooked right away.  Below is a picture by Nelson, aka the Pirate, from those early days, toproping a 5.9 in QQ:

Long story short, this summer, as a tradition now seems to call for it, I have gone back to the classics, the good old granite walls. And where else to find them then in the Pyrenees, close to my new found home? Now the time is ripe, the weather has settled, and the rock is calling.  In a nutshell, it is time to explore another new place - Ventosa and its wide variety of climbs on offer.

The logistics are rather simple - go up from the Cavallers dam, 2 hours bring you to the refuge, and another 10 to 20 minutes to various walls, bolted for the pleasure of occasional visitors.  The way now is somehow complicated by the destroyed bridge.  Here is Juanjo, my rope mate for the adventure, crossing laboriously the new contraption:

Ventosa climbing is incredible, but only if you enjoy slabs and crimps, and don't care about excruciating pain in your feet after many meters of crawling upwards.  Ventosa is full of it all over, just bring good shoes and enjoy.  First of all, the Eden (topo by Tranki):

Routes done: Clara Luna (onsight), Elvis la Pelvis (onsight), Gisela (onsight ***), Fan fan (redpoint ***).

Second, there is the Vermeil - it is probably the best wall I have seen so far at Ventosa, here it is, reflected in the Tumeneja de Baix lake, still full of ice at this time of year:

And the topo of the wall, again by Tranki:

Routes done: only one, called "the best" by its author - the incredible Lilita Wildstyle (in blue above).  I found a very strange, my own way of doing the crux traverse, practically in static using a foot much lower than normal, and crimping and underclinging my way to the other side of the slab.  It took me a while, and basically destroyed the rest of my climbing day, but led to success the day after during an inspired piece of climbing that took me straight up to the anchors.  One of the best routes I've ever done, a jewel!!!  Here is a close-up, with the rope hanging in Lilita:

Finally, to finish off the appetite of a hungry sport climber, there is the fascinating wall of the Tabletom Sea Cliffs, in the picture below.  The prominent crack in the middle is a 7b+ 40 m wonder, Divertim-nos fins a morir (probably in reference to the final off-width before getting to the belay chain), yes, bolted, and no, I was too destroyed to try it this time.  And as dessert, there is an 8a+ on the left, following the outside corner, the Ascensor para el cadalso, maybe a long-term project waiting for the next trip?

Experiences become real only after writing about them, at least for me.  I still have to come to terms with the awesome climbing up at Ventosa and my longing for mountains and these magical lines of granite, bolted or otherwise.  To finish, here is Juanjo, meditating, (happily?) about life in general, climbing in particular:

Destivelle on top

It sounds like a good movie, funny - i was up on Capucin with Marc when the movie was being filmed and big metal platforms were left all over the place for the cameramen. We even used one of their fixed ropes when our rope got stuck during another night rappel. After several tries, we summitted on top of a mix between the Directe des Capucines and the Bonatti route. What a place, Chamonix, when again??

El Rio, Julio Cortazar

When i was growing up in Ukraine, i was fascinated by books.  This unquenchable thirst was transmitted to me first by my father, with whom we would visit his friends and always borrow a book from them.  In Soviet Union it was difficult to find the good books - thus one would not go to a shop or a library when looking for a book - but go see a friend instead.  It was almost a tradition for the self-respecting intellectuals to amass full editions of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, or more prosaically Cooper, Defoe, or Verne.  And then my mother, who taught me French, enabled me to enjoy French authors in what i for long believed to be the most beautiful language to have ever been created by the human spirit, - Proust, Stendhal, Balzac, Mauriac, Gide, St Exupery, Camus, Sartre, etc...

When i grew up a little more, i got emancipated and started visiting the libraries, with my best friend.  There, enmeshed into the dusty and lugubrious air full of moisture and deteriorating yellow paper, we would ramble through the rows, looking for the gem stones, the gifts to us, growing up girls, from all that big full-blooming outside world.  And we would receive the gifts gratefully, sometimes stumbling upon these strange, forgotten books that would make us dream and enter into incredible, unimaginable realities of these strangers, quickly to become friends and teachers, - Marquez or Borjes.  One of them strangers managed to impress my adolescence strongly - that was Julio Cortazar.  These authors were surprisingly being traduced to Russian - the only language in which world literature was available in Soviet Union, as well as several years after independence, - because of their acknowledged sympathies to the left, and despite any other irrevocable alien thoughts they might write about in their crazy books.

My father once typed the whole "Master and Margarita" from Bulgakov as it was a forbidden book at the time, so we used to have the typed copy of this book in our small home library.  To continue the family tradition, i would transcribe my favorite pieces into a little diary i used to have.  I remember clearly spending hours writing down the Russian version of El Rio, by Cortazar.  It is somehow dizzy-like and funny to be able to read it in Spanish now... The mystery seems to have evaporated from the text, it does not seem as wonderful, intriguing, and mystic as it used to 15 years ago.  Anyway, in memory of the past, here it goes, using just the copy and paste function, and Internet search instead of hours of persistent work copying one word after the next:

El Río

Por Julio Cortazar
De Final de Juego

    Y sí, parece que es así, que te has ido diciendo no sé qué cosa, que te ibas a tirar al Sena, algo por el estilo, una de esas frases de plena noche, mezcladas de sábana y boca pastosa, casi siempre en la oscuridad o con algo de mano o de pie rozando el cuerpo del que apenas escucha, porque hace tanto que apenas te escucho cuando dices cosas así, eso viene del otro lado de mis ojos cerrados, del sueño que otra vez me tira hacia abajo. Entonces está bien, qué me importa si te has ido, si te has ahogado o todavía andas por los muelles mirando el agua, y además no es cierto porque estás aquí dormida y respirando entrecortadamente, pero entonces no te has ido cuando te fuiste en algún momento de la noche antes de que yo me perdiera en el sueño, porque te habías ido diciendo alguna cosa, que te ibas a ahogar en el Sena, o sea que has tenido miedo, has renunciado y de golpe estás ahí casi tocándome, y te mueves ondulando como si algo trabajara suavemente en tu sueño, como si de verdad soñaras que has salido y que después de todo llegaste a los muelles y te tiraste al agua. Así una vez más, para dormir después con la cara empapada de un llanto estúpido, hasta las once de la mañana, la hora en que traen el diario con las noticias de los que se han ahogado de veras.

    Me das risa, pobre. Tus determinaciones trágicas, esa manera de andar golpeando las puertas como una actriz de tournées de provincia, uno se pregunta si realmente crees en tus amenazas, tus chantajes repugnantes, tus inagotables escenas patéticas untadas de lágrimas y adjetivos y recuentos. Merecerías a alguien más dotado que yo para que te diera la réplica, entonces se vería alzarse a la pareja perfecta, con el hedor exquisito del hombre y la mujer que se destrozan mirándose en los ojos para asegurarse el aplazamiento más precario, para sobrevivir todavía y volver a empezar y perseguir inagotablemente su verdad de terreno baldío y fondo de cacerola. Pero ya ves, escojo el silencio, enciendo un cigarrillo y te escucho hablar, te escucho quejarte (con razón, pero qué puedo hacerle), o lo que es todavía mejor me voy quedando dormido, arrullado casi por tus imprecaciones previsibles, con los ojos entrecerrados mezclo todavía por un rato las primeras ráfagas de los sueños con tus gestos de camisón ridículo bajo la luz de la araña que nos regalaron cuando nos casamos, y creo que al final me duermo y me llevo, te lo confieso casi con amor, la parte más aprovechable de tus movimientos y tus denuncias, el sonido restallante que te deforma los labios lívidos de cólera. Para enriquecer mis propios sueños donde jamás a nadie se le ocurre ahogarse, puedes creerme.
 
Pero si es así me pregunto qué estás haciendo en esta cama que habías decidido abandonar por la otra más vasta y más huyente. Ahora resulta que duermes, que de cuando en cuando mueves una pierna que va cambiando el dibujo de la sábana, pareces enojada por alguna cosa, no demasiado enojada, es como un cansancio amargo, tus labios esbozan una mueca de desprecio, dejan escapar el aire entrecortadamente, lo recogen a bocanadas breves, y creo que si no estaría tan exasperado por tus falsas amenazas admitiría que eres otra vez hermosa, como si el sueño te devolviera un poco de mi lado donde el deseo es posible y hasta reconciliación o nuevo plazo, algo menos turbio que este amanecer donde empiezan a rodar los primeros carros y los gallos abominablemente desnudan su horrenda servidumbre. No sé, ya ni siquiera tiene sentido preguntar otra vez si en algún momento te habías ido, si eras tú la que golpeó la puerta al salir en el instante mismo en que yo resbalaba al olvido, y a lo mejor es por eso que prefiero tocarte, no porque dude de que estés ahí, probablemente en ningún momento te fuiste del cuarto, quizá un golpe de viento cerró la puerta, soñé que te habías ido mientras tú, creyéndome despierto, me gritabas tu amenaza desde los pies de la cama. No es por eso que te toco, en la penumbra verde del amanecer es casi dulce pasar una mano por ese hombro que se estremece y me rechaza. La sábana te cubre a medias, mis manos empiezan a bajar por el terso dibujo de tu garganta, inclinándome respiro tu aliento que huele a noche y a jarabe, no sé cómo mis brazos te han enlazado, oigo una queja mientras arqueas la cintura negándote, pero los dos conocemos demasiado ese juego para creer en él, es preciso que me abandones la boca que jadea palabras sueltas, de nada sirve que tu cuerpo amodorrado y vencido luche por evadirse, somos a tal punto una misma cosa en ese enredo de ovillo donde la lana blanca y la lana negra luchan como arañas en un bocal. De la sábana que apenas te cubría alcanzo a entrever la ráfaga instantánea que surca el aire para perderse en la sombra y ahora estamos desnudos, el amanecer nos envuelve y reconcilia en una sola materia temblorosa, pero te obstinas en luchar, encogiéndote, lanzando los brazos por sobre mi cabeza, abriendo como en un relámpago los muslos para volver a cerrar sus tenazas monstruosas que quisieran separarme de mí mismo. Tengo que dominarte lentamente (y eso, lo sabes, lo he hecho siempre con una gracia ceremonial), sin hacerte daño voy doblando los juncos de tus brazos, me ciño a tu placer de manos crispadas, de ojos enormemente abiertos, ahora tu ritmo al fin se ahonda en movimientos lentos de muaré, de profundas burbujas ascendiendo hasta mi cara, vagamente acaricio tu pelo derramado en la almohada, en la penumbra verde miro con sorpresa mi mano que chorrea, y antes de resbalar a tu lado sé que acaban de sacarte del agua, demasiado tarde, naturalmente, y que yaces sobre las piedras del muelle rodeada de zapatos y de voces, desnuda boca arriba con tu pelo empapado y tus ojos abiertos.

Readin' - Books of the Year

My second year of serious learning is coming again to its close.  Taking stock, my favorite books this year have been:

Nelson and Winter, "An Evolutionary Theory of Economic Change"
James March, "On Leadership"

And yes, surprisingly there are only 2 books, and not much to choose from.  One of the reasons might be the concentration on reading papers - only preparing for my exam i read 198 papers lately, and much less books.  Shamefully, it has been a very long while as well since i touched any crude or good novel.  Anyway, to compensate a little, my planned summer reading list includes the following:

Viviana Zelizer, "The Social Meaning of Money"
Stuart Kauffman, "At Home in the Universe"
Duncan Watts, "Six Degrees"
Holland, "Emergence"
Strogatz, "Synch"
Karl Weick, "Social Psychology of Organizing"

New Project - Vianant, Vermeil de Montserrat

I finally forced myself to get on the sharp end, and start leading the Vianant, my project at Vermeil de Montserrat.  And there was even a photographer around, immortalizing the day! :)  Starting up the hard 7a+ slab:

Traversing to the dynamic move, first crux:

Sticking the dyno on lead:

Going through the second crux:

Unfortunately I fell after the next move.  Now i only have to redpoint through the whole sequence and get to the chains.  I surprised myself with a pretty good first lead, after several top ropes and persisting nightmares about leading this monster.  Photos by Juanjo, thanks to Pau and Juanjo for encouragement, patience, and belays!!!

Poetry Minute

Не жалею, не зову, не плачу,
Все пройдет, как с белых яблонь дым.
Увяданья золотом охваченный,
Я не буду больше молодым.
Ты теперь не так уж будешь биться,
Сердце, тронутое холодком,
И страна березового ситца
Не заманит шляться босиком.
Дух бродяжий! ты все реже, реже
Расшевеливаешь пламень уст
О моя утраченная свежесть,
Буйство глаз и половодье чувств.
Я теперь скупее стал в желаньях,
Жизнь моя? иль ты приснилась мне?
Словно я весенней гулкой ранью
Проскакал на розовом коне.
Все мы, все мы в этом мире тленны,
Тихо льется с кленов листьев медь...
Будь же ты вовек благословенно,
Что пришло процвесть и умереть.

Есенин, one and only...

Art Minute

Van Gogh, so the story goes, used to be afraid of painting faces.  He found humans so strange and inaccessible a species, that he first attempted painting them without taking up the challenge of depicting their facial expressions at all.  In this vein, he obliged himself with a painful and diverse life, working as an art dealer, studying to become a minister in Amsterdam, failing to get a post in the church, living as an independent missionary among the Borinage miners.  Things changed when he discovered color in Paris, where he also met Seurat, Pissaro and Toulouse-Lautrec.  However, color did not help him to sell his paintings, and he committed suicide after managing to sell only one of his works.  The sign of the new times - his work is highly appreciated now, maybe because it somehow keeps us within the illusion of sanity, contemplating Van Gogh that crossed the limit in trying to understand human beings, losing his head in the process, but leaving us with the dowry - his loud and clear, unbounded and imaginative accomplishment.  At the threshold of eternity :

All this was a prelude to post one of my old-time favorites from Toulouse-Lautrec, another weirdo, a product and anti-product of the French culture of the time. Son of an aristocrat, at 12 he broke his left leg and at 14 his right leg.  The bones failed to heal properly, and his legs stopped growing.  His adult height was 1.5m. To escape his handicap, he invested himself wholly into his art and alcohol. He stayed in the Montmartre cartier of Paris, the center of the cabaret entertainment and bohemian life that he enjoyed painting so much. Circuses, dance halls, nightclubs, and racetracks - a new theme for too formal and romantic an art before the loud arrival of this short character. One of his most striking paintings, Alone:

I have been thinking recently about writing a paper on the institutionalization forces within French art development in the 19th century.  It seems to be a nice example of institutional entrepreneurship, where impressionists, such as Monet and Manet, having their paintings refused at the most legitimizing event - the Paris Salon, managed to convince the public during their lifetime about the value hidden in their paintings using alternative Salons and other 'social movement' tools.  Others, such as Van Gogh or Gauguin, simply refused to participate or play the game - and were left out of the legitimate art community.  Thus, the choice within society is either to conform, to try to change the rules, or to refuse to play the game altogether.  The outcomes seem to also be predetermined in a way...

Rodellar, or Egocentrismo Struggles

I am starting to appreciate more and more the overhanging climbing.  It impresses me maybe because of my previous alpine experience and the well-established belief about my total inability to climb overhangs.  When in Belgium, i struggled with both, the lack of physical strength, but also mental problems any time i tried serious overhanging routes - on toprope - and in the climbing gym (the country being Belgium...).  My evolution as a climber has been long and painful - i repeat myself, but it is still hard for me to believe i am leading these incredible overhanging monsters.  Even though they are easy by the sport climber standards, labeled 7as and 7a+s in Rodellar's guidebook, for me they represent huge steps on the moon.  Gravity does not seem to be the same in Catalunya, and finally the years and years of experience on the rocks and high mountains make me feel a little bit - just a little bit more comfortable on the sharp end.  Training hard in the gym accounts definitely for a big chunk of it, however the other part is oh so psychological, and here i notice all the groundbreaking impact of my last year with the new identity - the sport climber.

So yes, out of the eternal hole of my ego, and back to Rodellar - after a conference in Rome, it was a plane, and then a car ride that brought me for the second, and probably not last time to the Sierra de Guarra.  The little village of Rodellar this time was overflowing with people, cars, and dogs.  We managed to find a spot at the campground, have a bite at the Florentino, and after a due rest start the projects at Egocentrismo.  Concentrating on the projects was very good, however not very productive this time.  I spent one day giving battle to the appropriately named Porque, supposedly a 7a+ at the Boulder de John, to the right of incredible sector of Egocentrismo.  The below pictures are from this route:

After a toprope, i dared myself to a lead.  I did give it a couple of decent tries, however the bouldery crux resisted all the attempts.  Pau made good of the route at his first try, whereas i remained closed to the dynamic move, however proud of my leads anyway.  Below Pau working his next project, Pequeno Pablo - another mega-jug-fest rated an incredible 7a+ in the guidebook, hard 7b for most mortals, comparable in endurance requirements to for instance CalifatoCoach in Margaleff:

As a consolation prize, i managed to go up the near-by de 8 a 14 route on the second try, whereas the inspiration to lead Pequeno Pablo and to send Porque will have to wait for another visit.  Egocentric as i am, i stay amazed at myself, and have to look again to believe this image - incredible heel-hooking me on lead, i never thought i would, but there:

Pictures by Pau, great work, and interesting music discovery - Elle Lefant with No Moon.

Another route, another climbing day...

Amenece que no es poco, a cool 7a+ for the strong at La Riba, sector Xina.  Despite nice pictures by hard-working Pau, it still remains a project for me - 1:0 for Pau, the strong man back in the game!

Spring

A cloud shadow

A breeze discovered my open book
and began to flutter the leaves to look
for a poem there used to be on spring.
I tried to tell her "there's no such thing!"
for whom would a poem on spring be by?
And breeze disdained to make reply
and a cloud shadow crossed her face
for fear i would make her miss the place

by Robert Frost

la BuscaBrega, Vermeil

The first time I came to Vermeil it has been a little bit less than two years ago, with Gabriel, another of the guys I meet at random on the internet when looking for climbing partners in a new place.  I believe the plan was via larga, the Aranya, but finally we ended up sport climbing, and he showed me Cara Sur of the Mother Mountain.  We walked the walk and did a couple of 5s and 6as to the left of San Agustin.  Then he told me there was this awesome 6b, pretty hard but awesome, technical, dihedral climbing.  I went for it, and onsighted the climb, the highlight of my day and probably week during those dark ages of my climbing career.

It was the time when I was starting to recover from my mountaineering adventures and painfully taking up the sharp end again.  Coming of age, one might say - after the too quick beginning and end of an alpine career, I arrived - at least for some time.  I arrived to the climbing paradise on this planet, the little province of Catalunya I continue enjoying in rain, snow, and mainly good weather.  I started my recovery journey climbing long, epic, and fun routes with Cathy - and in the end of the circle have arrived back to where it all started, the sport climbing, the measured head, the technique and the flow.

Vermeil has become second home by now, two years later, especially after numerous thoughts about moving to El Bruc.  After working the Vianant for some time and having trouble reading the crux move there, I decided to change the objective to the near-by BuscaBrega, another route with some fame for being hard and contrived.  Although some people say it is 7b+, such as Luichi and his guidebook, others such as MacKay (aka Bou Major) and Fernando have it as a 7c if one does not touch the crack for rest or the last moves out of the slab.  I did not find it exceptionally hard,  but challenging enough to try it out this week-end.  Finding the easiest solutions to most of the moves was not too difficult, and the last dynamic moves left the good taste in my mouth of being able to do them pretty well after the harder dynamic reach at the Rush.  BuscaBrega did cost me much less effort than la Rush (a total 4 tries on lead, and 3 topropes), and appeared definitely easier than the (wet) Vianant for these rainy days of spring we are made to enjoy.

Saturday was a long, not very productive day.  As my friends stayed on the right trying various routes there, I chatted with some, belayed others, even met the famous boulder-master, Ferran from Rotpunkt&Holds.  Finally making up my mind, I moved to the Busca area, where Alex already had the route equipped and ready.  I dared the first lead, working slowly my head back into leading after some days spent toproping various projects.  There were three of us, so it was one of the fortunate times for me to get pictures taken of my attempts at the route.  The head switched on, and I managed to go for it as one should, hard and flowing.

After falling off at the dynamic crux at the exit of the slab (just after the clip at the picture above) twice, I left the draws and went home for the needed rest.  The route went first thing in the morning, Sunday.  It was another strange day, nevertheless the celebration was had with the classic pies de porc in El Bruc.  Thanks for the pictures to the tireless Remi, and the belays to the vigilant Pau!!

Amapollas are back, my lead head is back on track, the spring is here for sure despite the weather that is tricking us to say otherwise, and climbing is as good as ever.  A muerte, and listening to el diable, la princesa & yo (more here).

Roger Mas

Last week-end at Rodellar we spent listening to the pretty good new album by Roger Mas, a Catalan singer that is also known for putting to music the poetry by the Catalan Baudelaire, Jacint Verdaguer.  This is the shameless promotion of Catalan culture, and I have to say I do enjoy getting to know it a little bit better each time.

(from new album)


(from old album)

Rodellar or the spring is back!

This w-end saw the team go out of the Catalan limits, despite the abundance of climbing in this little province, to visit the near-by Sierra de Guarra, famous for not only its canyons, but also good wine and excellent climbing.  Rodellar is another of those, last villages at the end of the road, - similar to Val di Mello or Cavallers, where the road abruptly stops after many a curve, and the nature takes its toll.  The village is the small, touristic type, like the ones in Switzerland or les Ecrins, where for instance the wild St Cristophe-en-Oisans wakes up only with the tourists, mainly in summer.  There are several campgrounds in Rodellar - most still closed at this time, and a big free parking for the rest of the crowd.  There is the camping shop, the village bar, and a couple of old inhabitants, still wide-eyed from the 'progress' or whatever other name they might give to this invasion of dirty, noisy, mainly punky-lookin' climbers on their way for useless self-accomplishment, grade ticking, and project sending.  Whatever way we might use to rationalize, legitimize, and socialize this sport, it remains another one of the absurd, self-centered activities, similar to Internet or Web 2.0, a byproduct of the advance of our modern times, or as one of the names of Rodellar sectors well summarizes it all pretty well - Egocentrisme.

It is all about the "I" and the sending.  And if you don't send it is pretty hard to remain happy and sociable about it.  One of the challenges of the sport, that makes one work a little bit more on oneself, or refuse the work, and enjoy the routes.  The perspectives are many, however the climbing is one.  And routes are abundant, good, overhanging, and hard.  Rodellar has this rumour, this curtain of smoke about being a hard destination I have already heard about.  Thus, I was not surprised when getting there and being spanked on one climb after the next.  The stage was set by an already challenging onsight of a 6b+ at the Camino sector.  However, I saw the sectors on the other side of the canyon and could not keep my feet to the ground of Camino for long.  We quickly descended to the canyon floor, where full of illusions, I directly went for Capriczos de Luxuria, a diffiucult, bouldery 7b.  Despite several tries, I humbly failed to solve the bouldery crux, and fell over and over on toprope even before getting to the crux.  Below myself, working the route, the one in red..:

(picture by Pau, incapacitated for the w/end by his back pain)

Despite Josep's patience, the route took over, and I kept my motivation to try a 7a+ at Ventanas de Mascun sector, the awesome Juan y Fran se nos van.  This factor is probably more known for the incredible 7c, the Delphin - picture below.  But it was not exactly in my league yet, so I lowered my expectations and was very proud to get to the top of Juan y Fran, although the cheat-stick (Trango's sextoyish squid...) had to get out of the toolbox as well.  The day ended too quickly, and left me with another project and lots of humbling thoughts about my incapable feeble self and the tough overhanging climbing at Rodellar.

Sunday started well with the warm-up at Roxy la Palmera, an awesome 6b+, unfortunately getting a little polished.  The Mother-chorrera of this climb reminded me of my fight with Amazonas, a great and hard 6c at Kalymnos.  This time I prevailed, and got to the top after many encouraging words by Pau below.  Below me, flashing the route:

After a quick pass by the Nuit des Temps sector - it motivated me more for the name than for the actual routes there - not bad but not enough overhanging for Rodellar standards, we quickly moved on to Egocentrisme.  This sector was made to convert me to overhanging bouldery roof climbing.  With the Pequeno Pablo in the eye of the storm, I could not resist anymore and decided there and then that I had to go back.  

Although Pequeno and Gran Pablo were busy, other routes nearby seemed very well suited for the purpose, and I went for a 7a+ on the right, apparently called Porque?.  A boring name for a very good route - with an explosive crux within a small crack, and an interesting exit to the anchor.  Again, despite another try on toprope, I only managed to get to the anchors and was left with a strong good feeling in the watering mouth.  This is definitely a project within my reach.  

So...when are we going back??? And who wants to spend a week, or two, or three in Rodellar this summer??

Spectator of the world

Sometimes I wish to remain only in the role of a spectator in this world - it is something my training as a scientist does not emphasize enough, but standing outside the boundaries is an interesting experience and not practiced enough by many if not all.  Boundaries we face are oh so many and oh how varied - private property for instance is one, culture is another. 

Malinowski was one of these rare observers that managed to step out of his frame and take on the role of an observer, or then again, did he really?  Because of World War 1, he was strangled for many years at the Trobriand islands, from where he gained insights that helped him subsequently change anthropology - but also the way research has been conducted since.  The method diffused first within anthropology, where active participant observation has become the norm, - and later in organizational science, where qualitative research and in-depth case studies as basis for grounded theory have been gaining wider legitimacy during the last 50 years.  However, brought to light in his diaries discovered after his death, the prejudices of his Victorian society shine through the fabric of a well-meaning scientist, and tarnish the immaculate reputation so painstakingly built.  (An interesting video that inspired the above paragraph about Malinowski's life can be found here.)

Following this example, it is probably impossible to become an unbiased observer of our societies given all the conditioning we are given throughout our lives.  But the goal might be laudable and beneficial for research.  It is also intellectually challenging to uncover institutions underlying the sense-making of everyday activities, the hidden goals and assumptions of how we engage with this game of life, how we write our own stories, and choose our own path.  Observation implies stepping out of the picture, acting less oneself but analyzing the actions of others - an attractive position, bringing one somehow outside the human condition of accepting the events and reacting upon them.  Observation gives one the illusion of getting rid of the emotions, of only applying reason, of attempting to see the light, the pattern, the position.  An ideal-type, that maybe should be somehow taught in PhD schools, or other invisible schools of life?  While looking for my thesis topic, I try hard to keep my eyes and ears wide open to the unidentified objects that one day might be converted from a garbage can to a full paper through the black box of my brain.  I polish my observing skills, getting inside the matrix of artificial reality.

Today is Saint George's day, or day of St Jordi here in Catalunya, celebrated as a national holiday with some analogies to St Valentine's day.  The streets are full of people buying roses for the women and books for the men, creating the spirit of a festival, a marketplace, during this already warm spring day.  The roses date from medieval times, chosen for the most beautiful lady, whereas the custom of giving books was initiated by a brainy bookseller in the beginning of the 20th century as a way of increasing his own, as well as his neighbor flower shop sales on this day.  The legitimizing reason was the near-by anniversary of death for both, Cervantes and Shakespeare, - and the hidden one that Barcelona is the publishing capital of Spain.  Today, in a funny twist of fate, roses are being sold in red and blue - for the colors of the so far loosing FC Barcelona, but books also are in fashion, at least during one day in the year.  Relentless Wikipedia reports that "by the end of the day, some four million roses and 800,000 books" are purchased.  Half of the books sold in the whole year are basically purchased in this one day - a little bit sad for the reading, but interesting for industry dynamics.  The last fun observation - today it is even possible to send a virtual rose through the website of Generalitat, although I have my doubts about evaluating the added value of this incredible innovation.

I observe traditions, and also climb.  Hopefully more about the climbing next!

Meteora

Over with Kalymnos, but not with Greece - i headed to Meteora to finish off the vacation.  This is a lesser-known climbing destination, although a popular touristy spot in northern Greece.  Kalampaka is the last train station, and it takes around 4 hours of train ride to get to this, seemingly end-of-the-worldly place.  I discovered the walls in all their beauty turning my head while sitting in the train, and my jaw went down with an 'ah' sigh.  

Meteora is known as one of the biggest Orthodox monestary centers, with 6 functioning monestaries that tourists come to visit from all over the world.   These monestaries were ideal refuge citadels for the monks after the fall of the Byzantine empire and Turkish envasion of Northern Greek plains.  Acces to some was limited to climbing a vertical rope hand over hand, and the older monks were directly lifted up in a home-made net!  Provided that ropes were replaced 'only when Lord made them brake', vertical risk-taking must not have been a problem in those days.  Monestaries and caves became again what they were originally, refuge sites, during the WWII.

Meteora is also a spectacular climbing destination, first climbed by the Germans in the 70s.  They published the first topo, and pushed the development of routes and summit registries, similarly to Elbsandsland.  The rock is conglomerate, like in Montserrat or Riglos, although with more black overtones prevailing.  Meteora also has a fame of being rather run-out due to the nature of the rock and the old ethics of not using too much protection, or chalk for that matter. 

The village of Kastraki, Ioulietta's home, and the Tower of Holy Ghost below:

We went off on a bucolic photo session at the base of the Holy Ghost tower, full of spring flowers in bloom:

Ioulietta in action:

And myself discovering the inhabitants of Meteora's plains:

We were rahter careful choosing our route with Ioulietta, given that we did not have helmets or any other trad gear, and run-outs are not favorite with any one of us.  We finally decided to try Action Directe (yes, the name had something to do with the choice!),  a beautiful line going to the top of the Holy Ghost Tower.  There is actually a mystery about this tower, as a cross was found on top of it, and supposedly it was put there in the 14th century - however to this day it is unclear how and who climbed this tower to put the cross on top of it as no remains of any artificial climbing have been found there so far, and all routes going up it now are at least grade V...Action Directe, going up the water streak in the middle of the pic:

Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves very much on this new-style, bolted, and very recommendable route.  The second pitch proved the hardest, around 7a(+), Riglos style crux on big boulders.  The third and fourth pitches were very good as well, at about 6b and 6c respectively.  We rapped after the 4 pitches as the second part has not been freed so far, and we did not feel like pushing our aiding on these beautiful rock formations.  Below Ioulieta, getting to the last belay, ascent all in red - starting with the rope, backpack, and trousers - and finishing with the nailpolish. That's how girls do it!!!

And myself keeping up the red tradition, with a monestary half way down the wall in front:

In a nutshell - Greece is definitely worth putting on any climber's map - for sport or long route climbing.

Kalymnos - Last Days

Our journey through the rock walls of Kalymnos continued with more days, more sectors, and more routes.  After the impressive Cicati Cave, we spent another day at Ghost kitchen, where I managed to do the first 7a onsight of the trip - Axium, maybe an easy grading for once.  The other routes were not that easy though, and both 7a and 7b to the right of Axium remained only as tries, and routes worth coming back to.  Below myself working out the start of Thimari, supposedly 7a, but felt harder in the burning sun:

After a due rest day, we spent 2 days at Odyssey.  It is a less impressive sector, with more 'usual' limestone pockets - reminding me of Camarasa and my struggles with Maugli there last fall.  This time i struggled with another 7b that kept pushing me off, the Daphne.  A technical line on almost whitish stone, with good rests and slippery sections in between, it motivated me to give it 3 tries, despite the burning and crushing the route offered to my tired fingers.  Nevertheless, it went on the first try, next day, making it one and only project accomplished of this trip.  Below myself being lowered, Pau and Luis below, and the endless Greek islands in the background, picture by Ioulietta.

And an incredible picture of Pau (by Ioulietta, again and always) has to appear here as well.  He is climbing Amphora, 7b, another climb worth getting on soon before it gets too polished:

The last day of the trip we went to yet another sector - the powerful Spartacus.  Another cave, tufas were waiting there for us, to leave a good taste in the mouth and a strong desire to come back to this enchanting place, and maybe work Spartacus or Gladiator routes there.  Below myself on top of Amazonas tufa, hard for a 6c:

And i managed my best onsight of the trip - a real 7a this time, pumpy pockety Kerberus:

Kalymnos surprised me and went above my expectations in many ways - especially with the quality of routes, but also the beauty of the lanscape and the sea.  It was also much less commercial than i expected.  For instance, the approach and climbing at Cicati is very rewarding for the solitary ramblers looking for the wonders of this world.  Kalymnos also confirmed my change from an alpine to a pure sport climber - i realized how much i really enjoy this sport, pushing my limit on the rock.  Hopefully, i will come back - and thanks to the team for a great climbing vacation!!