Summertime on the ocean

Changing mood, scenery, activity, family, continent.  Relax, the doctor said.  Enjoy life just a little bit more.  Simple, complicated.  Summertime.

Nostalgic taste of the US

Going to the MFA in Boston has woken up my nostalgia, reminiscing in the impressionists room in front of the Renoir's Dance, Monet's Peupliers, and Degas's Little Dancer.

The new, as always, impregnates the old.  Thus, MFA has built a new wing of American Art in my absence, to now proudly display several works by Sargent and Whistler, among others.  There is this portrait of daughters of Edward Boit, inspired by Velasquez or Degas, and accompanied by real-size vases donated by the family, now actually present in the room.  Loneliness but also magic transpire through the picture and make it a memorable object in the collection at the first sight.

And then the Capri landscapes with Rosina, the all-time classics, as always, beautiful and full of movement.  Dance, now immortal Rosina, dance!

Naranjo de Bulnes: Rabada-Navarro

another year is gone / a traveler's shade on my head, / straw sandals at my feet (Matsuo Bashō)

There goes another climbing trip to this amazing wall on the Iberian peninsula, Naranjo de Bulnes, or Picu Urriellu in Asturian (a language that exists, says the Wiki, despite local inhabitants arguing to the contrary when asked about it in the bar in Arenas de Cabrales).  The logistics turned out to be rather simple - after being kindly picked up at the Santander airport, my Swedish friends and I headed to Sotres, and then up to the Urriellu Refugio, to be greeted there warmly by Sergio and his hard-working team.

Majestic Naranjo coming into sight on the approach 

The approach is one of the more beautiful ones I have done in the mountains - it is flat enough to make it rather painless, and the scenery, especially in the cloudless evening light, is breathtaking.  Appreciating beauty is something mountains teach the lonesome traveler over the years.  It is worthwhile to stop and take one more picture, one more fleeting memory of the light and darkness, mist and transparency below.

Mist coming up the valley on the approach 

Then at another turn of the road, the West face comes into sight, in all its majesty and towering preponderance.  It made me think of the Civetta region in the Dolomites, and the Torre Trieste in particular.  Long time ago, in that long-forgotten other life, I climbed a route there, the proud Cassin route, where we had to bivy on the painful descent, but what a route it was!  With memories of trying to free the key 6b pitch low down on the Cassin, I was contemplating Naranjo, and wondering about this new objective, Rabada-Navarro.

The second part of Rabada-Navarro in the evening sun on the West Face of the Naranjo

A beautiful day was waiting for us, giving us all the time, all the chances on our side, to go up.  Jonas easily led up the hard 6cs at the start, while I tried to follow with some remains of dignity and perseverance.  Oh yes, it's been a while I had been on the long route, carrying the heavy backpack, jamming and pulling the tired body up.  My spirits lifted when finally arriving at the famous 6a+ traverse.  Jorge told me I had to take a picture there, just for him.  So here it goes, traversing all the way:

Leading the traverse pitch, Rabada-Navarro (picture by Jonas Wiklund)

The feeling of control, something I already encountered on Blamannen last year, came back while we scaled meters and meters of easy-ish terrain higher up.  The epic of bivying on the Cassin was not to be - in a couple of hours after the traverse we were already sitting on the top of Naranjo, that is after I almost crawled on the last looooong pitch to the top.  After a peaceful descent and some simul-rapping fun with Jonas, we were down. A lonely missile, a stone fell from the top, just as we were about to touch the ground.  It broke off into thousands of pieces a couple of meters away, a warning, a sign, a reminder back to reality.  Mountains are dangerous, although sometimes they let you pass without a scratch, they let you forget about mortality, about futility, insignificance, and the lack of permanency here down below.

Having accomplished the big objective of the trip on the first day, there was not much left to do for the remainder of the trip.  As Jonas fell ill, paying the tribute to the mountains that allowed him to do so many routes in so few days, we scaled a couple of pitches on Leiva with Joakim, and then went down due to bad weather.

Joakim following the first pitch on Leiva

Thus, another trip came to its end in Valdegobia, where we had to beg for food in this scarcely populated Basque village, living in the haunted mansion all to ourselves, sharing the space of a mystic religious abode in Angosto.  While everyone returns to their homes around Europe, memories (and a blog post) tentatively remain.

Statue of a melancholic raquero watching the weather and the sea in Santander

Picos de Europa

My first visit to Spain, 5 years ago, was actually on a climbing trip with the objective being to visit Mallos de Riglos and Picos de Europa, two very coveted objectives by long-route climbers, to the crowd of which I used to belong.  Although I managed to get as far as Riglos, Picos had to wait, and wait some more.

Maybe now the time has finally come to see the famous Naranjo by myself, and in nothing else than a Swedish company.  And not any company for that, it will be my pleasure to climb with Jonas Paulsson, the director of Crackoholic movie on Bohuslan climbing around Gothenburg, Joakim Söderström that I have seen on many a memorable fotos, such as this one by the other Jonas, and that has inspired my climbing on Gullknausen in Norway last year, and my friend Jonas Wiklund.

Let the adventure begin!

Photo-shoot at Senglar

Jaume who now also - and finally!!! - has his own blog, took me up on the proposal to have immortalized a little Senglar project of mine.  Thus, crazy people, we went up on the hottest day of this summer to shoot a couple of pictures for the project, como no!

But first things first, the first-ascensionist - all this would have been impossible without Kim Santacatalina.  Below, the main protagonists of the 20-year old story, in my more humble company:

I could not resist the temptation to fly up and down, once again, on this perfect route, the longstanding project of mine, which I still can hardly believe i managed to climb, the Sprint Final:

Up

And down (Pedro's draw still holding the fall...)

And back up again (whatever way one can...)

And last but not least, Oriol, who belayed me on the red point, and also came up, as usual, taciturn and accommodating, the man of the mountain, if there ever was to be one.

Thank you all, my dear friends!!

All good pictures by Jaume, climbing by myself, and belaying by Oriol.

Encordades, the video

Only recently someone told me that "oh, you will stop climbing, just wait and see, all girls are not that serious about it, they all stop climbing".  Funny, machismo still going on today.  Well done, the protagonists of the Encordades documentary, reminding ourselves - and our male counterparts, that girls can do it well, very well indeed.

Up Nanga Parbat

Wishing all the best of luck, good weather, and endurance to Cathy O'Dowd and her Nanga Parbat expedition, attempting to climb the Mazeno Ridge.  Expedition blog and news here, let's hope all come back safely.

Things to say

During the last two weeks of my classes i have had an interesting experience - i realized that, for once, i had things to say to my audiences.
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The interesting part about being a Professor is that through convention, norms, and rules of the trade, you earn the right to talk by default: the moment you enter that classroom, those people in front of you become students, and you have to play the role of the teacher.  By default, you get that ominous silence, that air heavy with expectations for you to open your mouth, to express THE TRUTH, to teach, to impart the wisdom to the crowds awaiting. It is funny in a perturbing way how by default they assume that you know, that for some reason you hold the keys, the solutions, the answers to all the questions. And then, in the beautiful tradition of paradoxes, what you first learn upon entering grad school is that......
no, we do not know, we cannot know.  Maybe the kitten is dead.  Maybe it is alive.

Throughout those years of training the frontier of knowledge is made palpable, the uncertainty is increased with every day in the program, with every additional reading, with each discussion and attempt at philo-sofia. Again and again, you are confronted with everything that we actually do not know, worse, confronted with the actual impossibility of knowing.  Exposed to the concepts such as causal ambiguity or incommensurability, relativism and subjectivity, the exceptionality of social sciences.  Oh you, beautiful friends, strategic conundrums.

And then you have to somehow figure it out, find your own voice, and say something out loud to the world, write your own thesis, take a position, convincingly argue for it. On one side you are supposed to be objective and critical, but then, the moment the deconstruction is complete, you are immediately thrown into the soup and asked to swim: to contribute, to have an opinion, an idea, a research statement, a position.  Somehow, it is assumed that after all the deconstruction, after swiping the ground from below your feet, after realizing that there is no center, that even gravity is relative, that life is not unique, that all strategies are imitable because designed by human beings just like you, somehow, you are supposed to get right back up on your feet again, and defend the opposite, argue for your own immortality, carve your own niche of infinite glory and pride, say something new, something different, something outstanding, - while at the same time, if not totally blind, you have to acknowledge your similarity, the infinite similarity of human beings, of our brains, of what we do, of what we aspire to, of how we try to survive, of what we all dream about at night.  To be liked, to live a complete, a meaningful life.

How, how on earth is one supposed to reconcile the irreconcilable, to solve dilemmas and annihilate the trade-offs, the same ones that we all know to have no solution? To promise, and to sincerely try to give what does not exist, what is impossible from the start.  That, they do not explain how to do in grad school.  How to deal single-handedly with Sisyphus's paradox, paradox of being, of writing, of living.  To be different while staying the same, to take a position, to argue for it forcibly; to be convinced. While at the same time knowing the impossibility of conviction itself, the futility of arguments, the surrealism of attempts, of achievements, of goals.  Staying sane in the madhouse, staying happy in hell.
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All this rambling to say that during these last two weeks I have had a small revelation in my teaching - I realized that while in research I am supposed to say something new, in teaching it is most meaningful to simply explain well both points of view.  While the student prides herself on arguing for something, the teacher has the "permission", no, the obligation, to argue for the opposite.  Dialogue or dialectic, Socrates or Marx, but that is the power of THE teacher - that is the ultimate fun of the profession - you are "allowed", no, you have to, argue the opposite.  That's actually when the students have the "a-ha" moment, that's when they might learn just a little bit more, that's when they can surpass their horizons - because you show them that the world is just a little bit broader, just a little bit larger, just a tiny little slice more infinite then they originally thought.  And in these (rare) cases i enjoy my right to speak, i actually have fun - I do not check my watch every five minutes and try to make the class end with all the power of my intellect.  I enjoy it, like climbing perfectly my favorite line, I argue, I take the opposite position.  Do they get it?  Does it matter?  Useless questions.  But I have fun.  Teaching - another strange profession, another surreal, useless undertaking.  Will i be able to find my place in this little world?  It is as surreal and senseless as others - but if I can carve out a couple of minutes of enjoyment here and there, maybe it could just be worth the effort.  Or maybe it is just for the money, and everything else is rationalizing.

Taking lessons in overhangs

Climbing, always keeping it real.  Although like anything, it is transformed into a habit: go to a crag, find a route, try it out, top rope, commit.  Send.  Will it one day become a boring habit?  But then there is the adrenaline.  There is the challenge.  There is overcoming oneself.  There is always the beauty of the place.  Open your eyes, breathe it in.  You are alive.  That's what climbing brings to the table.  Most other activities make the "alive" feeling so much duller, so much more ambiguous, so much more virtual.  For me, only in climbing time disappears, time accelerates to the speed of light and then stops. King time itself becomes invisible.  There is the route, the moves, the rope.  The fear.  The fall.  There is everything one needs from the moment.  Give it all you have.  Fail, succeed.  Have fun, cry, kick the rock, struggle, smile down at your partner.  Go on.

Up on Nidra, 7c+, Tres Ponts, picture by Elias

And the overhang-times are rolling in - what better to do in the summer than work the muscles, try those dynos, and face the challenge: overhangs versus me.  My scared self contemplating the air bellow.  Facing the challenge, taking it up to the next level.  And enjoying very much these special places, Masriudoms, Tres Ponts, Rodellar, - with an abundance of awesome rock, friends, figuring out the moves, and flowing up the lines that gave me the chills for years in the past.

Sticking my mini-dyno on Nidra, picture by Elias

But Tres Ponts is a give-away, nice version of the Tufa-paradise monster that is Rodellar.  Rodellar is not Catalunya anymore, but nevertheless the village has an awesome atmosphere, a relaxed aura, it is a "total" vacation spot, every time making me wish to stay there for just a little longer, to sip another cafe con leche and have another pastry at the Camping Mascun, or another abundant lasagna at the Kalandraka.

Learning the tufa tricks on l'Any que be Tambe, 7c, picture by Raul

Despite the pictures above, it looks like sending an overhanging 7c is still some time away for me, although I am optimistic for this summer.  I did finally climb my 2nd 7b+ in Rodellar, the nice and joyful, although rather airy Maria Ponte el Arnes (thank you Novato for bolting the line).  It took all I had, in terms of energy, biceps, and screaming.  The painful reality is that sending routes in Rodellar - first pitch of Ironman earlier this spring, and Maria now, costs me more than sending (harder grades) anywhere else.  Good lessons in humility, but also good vibes and motivation to try again and again those 7cs this year.

Desert life

One spring, long time ago, I came to the desert, and it felt home.  Directly, immediately, without any introductions, any flattery, or deception.  Brutally and honestly, it was there, it was it.  Rock, canyons, walls, towers.  I started climbing because I saw people hanging on the walls of Zion.  It was not only about walking and looking.  You could participate, you could hang.  On the wall.  Enlightened, then and there, on Angels' Landing.

If not Montserrat, Utah is another place I could happily call home.  Moab, - although I saw it just in passing, there for a few hours, - but it left its trace of paradise, if there ever was to be one for a climber, - and Steph is its queen.

  

If one day I leave Spain, I'd like to go back to the desert, that desert, the red rock, the orange air, the painful sun.  Those painfully blooming cacti.  And snow covering the Fisher Towers.  Discovering arches, big and small ones, pioneers once again, the story told all over again.  And none else bothering you, maybe that is freedom.  Maybe that is utopia.  But kudos to you, Steph, go girl!

Petzl in China

Finally the climbing community comes up with a good video, motivational example, and ...good music!!!!



Good to see the familiar faces together, our Spanish local trio Dani, Chris, and Daila, the less local but sometimes enjoying Montserrat (and onsighting my projects) Said, and the others, such as the ever-nice role models I used to look up to for many years, Lynn and the Petit family.

Nice work, for once I'm proud to call myself a climber too :)

Masriudoms, or Ode to Overhangs

And off we went South, all the way South.  Not much else to do on the day that all the gods decided to pour their rage in droplets aimed against the Catalan countryside.  What else, Masriudoms, the cave.  Still there, as I remembered it, just greener, and warmer.  No friends on the outskirts, all new crowd.  This time I lead up - painfully, from bolt to bolt, but I put up the line, remembering the scarry top-rope of ATP I did here long time ago, in different company, with different expectations, and a different vision of life.

Marcel in the stormy skies of the first pitch of ATP

Things change.  Others don´t.  I still can´t climb overhangs - but now I can fight my way up them.  I slowly get better though - I can contemplate overhanging 7cs that used to scare the soul out of my body.  I still have a deathly fear of leading them, I still can hardly face the fall - but I try.  Long, powerful moves, relaxing, flowing up.  It is fun and terrifying at the same time.  How much could it cost?  A lot.  Although I am still not doing that many pull-ups, I am slowly improving - and it´s an incredible feeling that makes me a little bit more inspired, a little bit more motivated for that extra effort, for that extra round of endurance, of campus, of pull-ups. 

Myself struggling with the second pitch of ATP, 7c

While slowly going about consolidating my 8a powers on vertical terrain, this year's other objective remains to send an overhanging 7c.  Rodellar or ATP would do just fine.  Small baby steps.  Let´s work, let´s train the core, let´s dyno, let´s climb.  Not there yet, but one day I will!

For you, mi ilusion

An End to the Unending Project Saga

Senglar, picture by Carlo

Never had I thought myself able to try a route of such vigor and difficulty.  I started seriously considering Sprint Final as a potential project for me about a year ago, when finally topping out on Ben Petat, its worthy sister, that obsessed me for the whole previous winter.  Trying out the two neighbors, Somni Diabolic and Sprint Final, then and there I decided Sprint was it - a bit harder than Somni, it had it all, bouldery, resistance moves, intricate sequences, a roof instead of the cherry on the cake, and a sloppy, heart and nerve-breaking exit.  Keeping the route in the back of my mind, I went happily through another summer, another (less happy) autumn, while the incessant time kept creeping closer for Senglar to be cold enough in November.

My confidence boosted by my latest successes on the rock - destroyed somewhat by failures in other domains of this complicated life of ours, I was back.  Surprise surprise - I could not do the lower crux anymore, although i distinctly remembered having figured it all out during the first top rope in spring.  The roof felt harsh, although with some hope in the air.  After a break due to the torrential rains, a dark trip to the sunny Miami, and the start of my training season, a month later I was back on the route.  Old friends giving up on me one by one, new friends miraculously appearing  to keep me and Senglar some deserved company.  Life continues, always, with or without us, with or without our stupid tears, with or without our unreachable objectives.  Climbing, the true friend, hinges there, in the shadowy cracks of reality.

I hit the pavement, hard, on the Christmas-sy street in Andorra, the only thought when lying on the hospital bed running through my oxygen-deprived mind being about Sprint.  "I will not be able to climb Sprint!".  The body gave in, the training took its toll.  Live and learn.  A month later, there I was, so close, so far again.  Figuring out more moves, still falling off the lower sequence, and unable to clip the fixed draw.  But I was making progress.  Slow, but straightforward project progress.

Then, just before the dream was about to come true, the Aussie fell through the air, straight down, right onto me.  It was a perfect day until then - I managed to finally send Ultravox, although tired from the previous day's work-out on Sprint, then I onsighted a 7b near-by - another rare gift from the Mountain and Carlos, who left me draws on the route for the happy ending of my day.  But the Aussie's weight had to hit me, directly on the left shoulder, as my telling him to "CLIP THAT DRAW" was slowly dying off on the deaf ears.  Stupid accidents, not more, not less.  And there I was, ignoring the shoulder, over-training, and getting injured in Siurana on a 6a, not less.  While not being able to put on my own cloths, in rage, I kept thinking "I will not be able to climb Sprint!"

That low point strikes once in a while.  And sure, everyone knows the mantra - it has to be overcome, the only way from there is up.  For some, it's death of a loved one, it's bankruptcy, it's divorce, it's all these pains life keeps throwing our way.  For me, it was the stupidest shoulder injury ever.  I mean, yes, sure, I also managed to kick my pinky into my bed and almost break it, but that did not make me stop climbing.  But the shoulder, on a 6a...that was just too much.  Oh yes, another stupid accident, another blip on the (in)finite timeline, not more, not less.

After another month, some fisio-therapy and mileage on easier routes, there I was again, all new, all intelligent again, all striving for the way upwards, out of my cage.  I felt happy, I dreamt so much about shaking the pump off at that last rest, just before the last sloper, of breathing in the air and watching the scenery - that beautiful, undending scenery that inspired, that kept me feeling warm and fuzzy.  The first time I enjoyed the scenery of Montserrat for real was on the rest of Vianant, when in the beginning we used to time those rests with Pau's phone.  Then, there was no more timing, there was just breathing in and feeling alive, feeling the world around, being totally consious, living the moment.  No appearances to manage, none to convince, only the rock, the body, the rehersed moves, and listening to every cell, to what it has to say, concentrating on making this whole big mass of a mammoth to move up.  Incredible, but possible, the body listening, the mind performing the creation.  Although the body stumbles, cries out, irritates itself and the onlookers, in the end the mind prevails.  But then there are the rests, those incredible rests of long difficult routes, where one stops, breathes, and becomes one with living.

And then after that awesome first day back on the project, after four tries, after all the good sensations - my skin was gone.  Just like that, my fingers split.  Two of them.  I taped, I cried.  But there was not much to do.  The  moves kept becoming harder, the friction kept pushing me off.  Although those were the two coldest weeks in February, I had no skin, I missed my time again, I was off to train, to dream, to wonder.  In the meantime the temperatures went up, way up, making it unbearable during mid-day there in March.  Pedro sent Lourdes, life was moving on.  I was not.  My life stopped there, in Senglar, with this route I had to do, for no apparent reason but for the drive, for the surreal need to do it, to show to myself, to the world, what I already knew deep inside - I could do it, just because I set off to, because I really wanted to, because...

Finally, after months of falling, of starting over, of falling some more, - finally, I started to see some progress in late March.  I changed the clipping hold for the crux, doing one more move, I changed the sequence for reaching the rest, I finally managed to get to the roof in one go.  And again, it was all over again - how to get to the roof in a good shape?  How to get out of there?  I changed again, I finally managed to use the undercling (invertido!!!), unlocking an incredible levitating move to do the roof sequence.  It was not enough.  Down, and down again I went, swirling through the air, down.

And then it came: on an April Friday I climbed the best 20 meters of my climbing career.  I was floating. It all fell together, astonishingly, easily.  The high, the peace, the calm.  I got to the first rest totally incredibly un-pumped.  My heart rate was normal, my breathing was there, no signs of fatigue.  Unbelievable!  For three months I struggled with the first bouldery crux, I fell countless times trying to clip the draw, not finding a way, not seeing it.  I changed the moves, I worked on my two-finger strength, I pulled up for my life on crimps over and over and over again.  I fell, for the first time in my climbing life, with the rope in my hand, just mili-seconds before clipping.  I dared myself, I flew.  It became normal, the swishing, the air-miles on and on, one draw, two draws.  Thanks to all for catching me with a soft landing, doing it so well as to teach me to belay better, to jump more, to give more slack.  Pedro, Carlos, Uri, Xavi - you are all as part of my success as my own hard-headed persistence.

I got through the roof move as if I've always done it that way, as if it was an easy warm-up journey, as if gravity was not around, as if body did not exist, only control, breathing, accuracy, and a free mind.  I went up, through the roof, through the traverse, up.  At the last rest something happened.  I realized I did not care that much anymore, the air, the mountain, they were with me, the wind was pushing me up.  And there I was again - thoughts starting to flow in the wrong direction, my will became less strong.  Txema's "despegue" did not work - or it worked too much.  I rested too much, or too little.  I was disconcerted by the water in the holds, I was...there I was, flying through the air, again, going down in an endless pull.  It was not over yet, the route prevailed, once more.  Once more, my illusions were betrayed, I was not strong enough, I went down, failing that one last dynamic move.  One last two-finger pocket, I saw it right in front of my nose.  Without a sound, I was in the air, and flying down....once again.

Up! Picture by Laia

Although it was my best try ever on the route, best piece of climbing I have ever done to date - it was not to be.  I had to go through just a little bit more.  Then, on a perfect sunny day, things came together.  I was strong, I had that ultimate chunk of rage.  I looked that last two-finger pocket right into its scary eyes.  I doubted, for a mili-second, I doubted.  And then it was mine.  Clipping the chains, and not feeling anything.  The usual.  Project times, dark times.

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I wrote some time ago about projecting here - mentioning my 3-factor model (inspiration, persistence, training), but now I realize I (on purpose?) excluded the other important part - the people, those who inspire for the project, those who come with you over and over, those who listen to endless complaints, those who belay in the rain, in the sun, those who smile and cry with you.  Thank you, my friends, those who stayed with me and helped me during this project.  It has been a pleasure, and I hope I can reciprocate all the favors you gave me freely and happily, the precious little gifts of life, that strange amorphous creature, that is sometimes simultaneously so cruel and so insanely beautiful.  May the painful process of learning and unlearning continue. 

Some emails should just not be sent, should never arrive, and if not - should never be answered.

Flowing in Rodellar

It's been a long time...but flowing is possible, giving it all, flying away, living the moment, dreaming the dream.  Enjoying the company of others and the incredible place that Rodellar is when empty, when dressed up in spring colors..  

Everyone flowing in his own way. Myself getting through some unfinished business first attempted last summer with Sarah, the awesome and intense Ironman, first pitch:

Marcial getting his headwork back to normal:

And Laia learning the art and getting infected with the fanaticus gene among the crazy hippy bunch of us all:

The day V

And finally today was the day!!!!  After many a day in the wild, watching only crazy goats hop from one vertical wall to the next, listening to the wind howling in the trees and bushes below, breathing in the smell of the cave at the base, Pedro finally did it!  Cruising the hard moves, clipping the last hard draw from above, resting, and going all out for it.  And there it is - Lourdes, the classic 8b of Montserrat, finally became his friend.  I almost feel sad not to have to go to the base of this beautiful wall anymore, sitting with feet dangling off the small ledge, as if belaying on a multipitch again, in the wild setting with the Penedes on the horizon, and sculpted rock faces around me.  What a place...have I finally arrived?  Or is the journey only starting?

Another dream come true, hope you have a great week, Pedro, and enjoy the moment, the mountain has left you a beautiful present, a precious memory of touching, not the void, but its soul.  Felicidades, bou!!!

Relax in Bruixes

Breathing fresh air and pulling on large holds on a crag away from home for a change - Bruixes, a little gem in the vicinity of Lleida, perfect for endurance-improving, tufa-pulling, yellow-colored start of spring.  Bruixes actually means witches in Catalan, this is supposedly a bewitched spot, and for me it symbolizes all the overhanging tufa climbing that I once ago discovered in Kalymnos, and so far have been totally unable to master.  

Following my strategy of antagonist forces, I flailed over all the untried 7bs of the area, trying not to get injured as I did a month before in a similar situation of recovery from training in Siurana.  Tufas were nicer to me, only trashed skin and tired muscles resulted from the trip this time.  It was also the week-end of too much food, over-eating dinner, breakfast, and dinner again at the Hotel du Lac, nothing like the local "cerranito" sandwich to get all the energy back in a mouthful.

Pau getting more than warmed up on Ansia, a polished 7a+

And Pau again, battering power-endurance on Orient, a classic tufa 7c+

{ rant }
Oh, one day, one day, I will come back and send those overhanging projects.  One day, I will not be tired, I will do Energia, try Primera Linea, cruise Occident, and maybe, oh, maybe, even have the power-endurance to go floating over the moves of Orient.  So far, those dreams remain dreams, and the hard reality made up of few pull-ups, insufficient core (body tension), limited endurance, and generally low power combine to make it another dream crag for the un-foreseeable future I still dare to dream of. Maybe a long stay at Rodellar during the upcoming season will help, maybe my training efforts will one day convert me into an overhang-climbing machine, maybe one day... I will give up on dreaming and start climbing long routes and serious mountains again instead of obsessing about 30 meters of juggy limestone.
{ end of rant }

A little of everything (una mica de tot)

A friend on the rocks

Strange ironic winter this is...Just when the cold finally arrived for a couple of weeks, bringing the un-hoped-for good friction to the project, i hurt my shoulder.  Just when i recover from the shoulder and get psyched for the project again, my skin gives way to bloody meat.  Unhelpful body, temperatures, and humidity going over the roof force me to digest the patience and humility pill, while contemplating (defeat) the possibility of climbing the project next year.  Oh well, maybe March will be colder, and maybe i will miraculously get stronger, or maybe like all the other mortals i will have to call it quits this time and look for another project for the spring time.  Not that there are few options.

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In the meantime, between injuries and skin destruction, my journey of self-discovery continues, between empty spaces and full-blown inspiration, sunshine and icicles of short days and unending nights.  On the good side, i have started to enjoy running much more, as a relaxant rather than an obligation.  Having finally bought a map of my mountain, i have been exploring new places close to home.

Mysteries of the Collbato caves

Despite most of the time spent concentrated on the project (and my thesis), I managed to get on a couple of good lines outside it, such as the awesome Panxa del Bou in Desdentegada - a very highly recommended 7b+, one of the few overhanging lines in Montserrat.  The first part is very Margalef-like, and the surprise comes at the top, where a couple of heel hooks save the day when arriving at the anchor.  Or the classic Ultravox, another 7b+ in Vermell, much more of a pure Montserrat style.  This route used to be an eliminator project when a climbing competition was held once upon a time in Vermell.  Hard bouldery start leads to more relaxed, looong slab climbing past a roof, to the far-away anchor.  I am still not sure why the route has been prolonged all that way up, one has the time to count all the sheep and think about the history of the universe before reaching the top of this one - although the pure difficulty is concentrated at the bottom three bolts.  Finally, during a couple of cold days in Siurana, i sampled awesome 7as in el Pati and Coral Nou, and also tried the moves on yet another 7b+, Prado del Rei, that was less inspiring than i thought, with a boulder move at the bottom, and a crimpy escape 2/3s up.

Working Panxa del Bou, Desdentegada

Joan Maria on Prado del Rei, el Pati

Let's hope spring will be more relenting in terms of reaching the chains and finding new energy and inspiration for finishing old projects and starting new ones.  Let the game continue. In the meantime, thanks for belaying, sharing, and dealing with my good and bad humor days to Pedro, Andreu, Javi, Juan, Laia, Joan Maria, Robert, Albert, Patricia, Pau, and all other (virtual) friends.

 A random view on the run around my  mountain

Books of the year - 2011

These are the books I have enjoyed very much during last year (and probably most of the few books I got a chance to read, given the strong paper-focus of my current career), worth remembering and giving a 2nd and a 3d thought...:

- Rorty, "Contingency, irony, and solidarity" (1)
- Douglas, "How institutions think"
- Kunda, "Engineering culture" (2)
- Glaser and Strauss, "The discovery of grounded theory"
- Kidder, "The soul of a machine"
- Rumelt, "Good strategy, bad strategy"

A very diverse bunch again, from philosophy, to anthropology, to ethnography, to strategy, but then again there is also a common thread to them as well.  Interesting to see the progress from 2009, 2010, and another 2010 as well (at least for me) - one of the big ones is the total lack of fiction, for good or bad that is.  As Mary Hatch says, academic writing strips us from any kind of creativity...Let's see what the future holds :)

and some of the more memorable quotes:

"To say that truth is not out there is simply to say that where there are no sentences there is no truth, that sentences are elements of human languages, and that human languages are human creations" (1, p. 5)

"The process of coming to know oneself, confronting one's contingency, tracking one's causes home, is identical with the process of inventing a new language - that is, of thinking up some new metaphors (1, p. 27)

"The ironist spends her time worrying about the possibility that she has been initiated into the wrong tribe, taught to play the wrong language game.  She worries that the process of socialization which turned her into a human being by giving her a language may have given her the wrong language, and so turned her into the wrong kind of human being" (1, p. 75)

The “organizational man, Whyte (1956) says, “must fight the Organization…for the demands for his surrender are constant and powerful, and the more he has come to like the life of the organization the more difficult does he find it to resist these demands or even recognize them” (2, p. 227)