Getting rained on isn’t all bad

Getting rained on isn’t all bad ?⛺️ #optoutside...

Getting rained on isn’t all bad

From @simoncarter_on

From @simoncarter_onsight | See you later #redrivergorge, the climbing and company has been truly awesome, and the trees have been colorful, as always. Just how we like it. We will be back soon! This is Finish climber Anna Laitinen @annaliinalaitinen sending Gene Wilder (12d - and some) at the Chocolate Factory. | Posted on November 25, 2016

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From @coreyrichprodu

From @coreyrichproductions | Ah, the infamous Generator Crack, perhaps the most sandbagged 5.10 in the world! This short off width crack located in Yosemite National Park is deceptively hard, especially the start. I’ve heard climbers call it everything from 5.9+ to 5.13a. Here, my friend Sue McDevitt, calls this climb a piece of cake. | Posted on November 07, 2016

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From @carlodenali |From @carlodenali | Always wanted to climb this one. Upside down jamming on the roof crack of Separate Reality. Photo by Carrie McCanna. Chrissy Black @fiveten_official Skratch Labs FrictionLabs | Posted on December 02, 2016

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From @alexhonnold |

From Alex Honnold | Stride Health just released a cool video of me breaking Dan Osman's long standing speed record at Lovers Leap.I climbed in a mullet. With a classic Masters of Stone soundtrack! Link in profile: | Posted on December 08, 2016

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freakturtles: Mokuleia Wall!! Mokuleia Crag is one of two...


Mokuleia Wall!! Mokuleia Crag is one of two popular locations for rock climbing on Oahu, Hawaii. [ Rock Climber ● Maria @zeal4life_wahine ]

#WomenRockClimbing #Climber #Climbing #Boulder #Bouldering #RockClimbing #Adventures #Photographer #Photooftheday #Womenwhocrush #StrongWomen #Cliff #Climber #Climb #Mountains #Inspiration #Inspired #ClimbingArea #Oahu #Hawaii

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fotovertical:Caroline @onceuponaclimb : Macumba club 8c,...


Caroline @onceuponaclimb : Macumba club 8c, Orgon!!! #winedineclimb #climber #climbing_is_my_passion #climbing_pictures_of_Instagram #WomenRockClimbing #climb #climbing #escalada #escalade #climbinglife #climbing_France #climbingphotography #climbing_soutoffrance #climbing

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Flying over the Horseshoe

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Nicholas Milburn, who previously has done four 8B's, has done Daniel Woods' Paint in Black 8C in RMNP. "SO GOOD!!! Not sure what grade I should take, so I'll just go with consensus. Other than that death crimp hold this boulder is perfect." Picture from 2014, when he was #10 in the Youth Lead World Championship. This year he was #33 in the Vail Boulder World Cup.

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Black Diamond S14

2016 is over, and it was a bleak year indeed, but there was some last-minute good news thanks to President Obama’s declaration of two new national monuments, as well as the protection of large parts of our oceans from off-shore drilling.

In particular, the declaration of Bear Ears National Monument, 1.35-million acres in southeast Utah, is great news for climbers, not just because this declaration forever protects such world-class climbing areas as Indian Creek from nefarious kleptocratic business interests, but also because this is the first national monument declaration to specifically name rock climbing as an appropriate and valued recreational activity.


This huge win came largely thanks to the Access Fund’s tireless work in Washington and Utah on our behalf. If you’ve never joined the Access Fund, or need to re-up your membership, now is a good time to do so and say thanks.

The Access Fund has also logged a diplomatic win by forging a new alliance with the Native American community, who, through the Bear Ears Inter-tribal Coalition, has acknowledged their support of rock climbers and rock climbing.

You likely know all of this, though, and that’s not what this post is about. This post is a reminder of the disheartening reality that, although battles may be won, the war is never over. With threatening, dark days looming ahead, it has never been more important for all of us to pitch in and, to paraphrase Gandhi, become the change we seek in this world.

Climbers are motivated people—at least when it comes to getting up a piece of rock. I have a ton of goals for myself this year, especially now that I’ve all but fully rehabilitated two painful shoulders back to full mobility. I wonder what would happen if I use even 1/10th of the dedication I bring to training and climbing and apply that to donating my time, money, and energy to political efforts that are going to help us preserve the environment, halt climate change, and provide opportunities and assistance to those who need it? What if we all did that?

If that was the norm, we probably wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in now.

As a side note, Alex Honnold has been an inspiration to me on this level. I’m honestly not even that impressed anymore that he free soloes the warm-up grade of 5.12. What’s impressive is that Honnold has leveraged his celebrity for good. He says he gives away 30 percent (!) of his income each year to causes, including his own non-profit the Honnold Foundation, which is doing cool work with solar energy and environmental causes.

We’ve seen what can be accomplished when people come together, take action, and really, genuinely, and meaningfully make their voices heard. The #NoDAPL victory last year is one such example of this.

But already, the people with a lot of money in their pockets, a lot of greed in their hearts, endless disdain for those below them, and a lot of shortsightedness about our environment and the future of our energy sources are determined to ram that pipeline through any way they can … because wars are never won.

Look at Red Rock in Las Vegas. Clark County has recently filed a lawsuit against Save Red Rock, a grassroots organization of climbers and outdoor enthusiasts, to silence their opposition to fuckwad Mc’developer Jim Rhodes, who wants to rezone rural lands adjacent to Red Rock and build 5,000 homes and make a billion bucks. Red Rock would no longer be a wilderness oasis just a short drive from Vegas—it would be Vegas. This dude has been fighting to rezone this land since he bought it in 2002, and he has already been shut down once after public protest forced his negotiations to expire.

Now, of course, he’s back at it … because wars are never won.

With arguably the most fossil-fuel/big-oil friendly administration ever coming into office, there are going to be many more battles for those who care about the environment. Already guys like Newt Gingrich have suggested that if Donald Trump finds himself in violation of a law, he should just change it—in other words, how can you break the law if you re-make the law? Also, on Tuesday, Republicans made it easier for members of Congress to cede federal control of public land, which is a sneaky ploy that will subsequently allow state representatives, who are sycophants for big industry, to open up backdoors that will allow them to exploit what was originally supposed to be cherished and loved by the people.

So if you think that Bear Ears, or our oceans, or any of our National Parks are “forever protected,” it’s time to think again. These are all just proclamations on pieces of paper. They mean nothing. The real power is found in our collective vigilance. This is a responsibility we can’t ignore. It’s time to get motivated and carve off a little bit of that legendary climber stoke that we all have, and dedicate to fighting battles in a never-ending war.

This week, I called my Republican representative’s office and voiced my concern over their plan to dismantle the ethics committee. So did thousands of other people. And it worked. And it only took me 5 minutes. Your voice matters. Speak up—especially when it’s important.

If you want to help out Save Red Rock, they’re only halfway through their fundraising campaign. You can donate here. They’re also looking for folks to sign a petition and write letters.

The post Fight Back and Become The Change You Seek appeared first on Evening Sends.

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Fatbike Testing - Biked 15 miles to gain access to some snowy...

Fatbike Testing - Biked 15 miles to gain access to some snowy hot springs - well worth it.  


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Fall 2016Fall 2016

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Extreme strength. #t

Extreme strength. #thepursuitofprogression#Lufelive#Rockclimbing#Rockclimb Pic via: Hammock Town

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Rockbusters invite you to a very exclusive training camp in Siurana and Margalef where Adam Ondra will be your personal onsight and redpoint coach for two days. For the first two days you will have Patxi Usobiaga as your personal coach analyzing your strengths and weaknesses. "Expect a lot of climbing with a focus on strategy and mindset. The goal? To send a route first time that’s above your normal level. Not only is there bucket loads of hands on coaching from Adam but all the typical Rockbusters fun." The camp starts on the 11/3 and the week before Rockbusters will run a one week mental coaching course with Hazel Findlay.

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estrangedadventurer: I am super duper excited to be working...


I am super duper excited to be working with this amazing lady Monique Forestier @moniqueforestier and World Expeditions @worldexpeditions (one of the world’s leading adventure travel companies) this year! In February Monique and I are doing a speaking tour of Australia, then in October we are hosting World Expeditions first ever rock climbing trip – which happens to be to Sicily for 10 days. To get the ball rolling World Expeditions just did an “On the Couch” interview with me; follow the link in my profile. At the bottom of that page are the dates for our Australian speaking tour in February PLUS links to where you can book tickets – and bookings are essential! Also linked from that page is information about the Sicily trip that we’re hosting. On this trip Monique and I will be sharing our skills and experience whilst you enjoy a ton of climbing on some of the 1000+ routes in the San Vito area. Hope you can join us, it’s going to be a whole lot of fun in a beautiful Mediterranean playground. I can’t wait!

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estrangedadventurer: Check out my friends website...


Check out my friends website Cool contests, stories from climbers, you can contribute stories too. Great climbing community and awesome photos. If you’re a climber and haven’t checked it out yet, sign up! It’s free and fun. Also today is Day10 of their Polartec daily giveaway. You could win a cool jacket. Click the link in their bio to win it ➡ Photo by @derekmichaelphotography . #climbing_is_my_passion #iloooveit #climbing #rockclimber #rockclimbing #climb #escalada #escalar #escalade #klettern #climber #fitness #climbingwall #iloveclimbing #climbingrocks #loveclimbing #wow #impressive #awesome #climbing_pictures_of_instagram #beautifuldestinations #adventure #outdooradventurephotos #wildernessbabes #womenrockclimbing #timetoclimb #climbingisbliss #doyouclimb #topropetoughgirl

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I love climbing in all its incarnations. Although we pursue different avenues within the sport, we’re all united in our affection for seamless harmony with the rock and dynamic movement in nature’s most stoic context. Any day spent climbing is a good day. Sunshine, rainbows, prAna logos, etcetera.

Having said that—if we can be candid for a moment—I really hate bouldering.

Allow me to rephrase that: I have a strained relationship with bouldering. My body isn’t built for it. It’s not something I excel at. My bouldering ambitions have mostly resulted in stress fractures in my proximal phalanges and a bruised ego. It’s not that I don’t like climbing hard—I enjoy pushing grades as much as anyone. But repeatedly throwing myself at five grunting moves to get to the top of a head-high overhang does little to inspire me. Somewhere along the line, my reptile brain was miswired into thinking that hanging off of my fingers from a 100-foot crack line is the height of aestheticism (and perversity).

It’s pointless, of course, to split hairs within climbing. From the perspective of the greater populace, rock climbers as a whole are a maligned tribe pursuing arbitrary goals, and this stance is absolutely correct.

When I was in college I somehow made all the wrong decisions and fell in with a group of pebble wrestlers. We spent our rainy Oregon winters tucked away inside the pallid confines of the climbing gym, bouldering constantly to maintain strength for the spring climbing season. It might have been a deeply traumatic experience for me if we weren’t such good friends.

In 2011, during spring break of my senior year, we traveled south to chase a more arid climate in Joshua Tree. We spent most of the trip wandering amidst boulder problems, punctuated by the occasional trad climb when I could convince someone to don a harness and belay me. During the evening of our third day, we found ourselves working a problem in Hidden Valley. Most of my friends flashed it as a cool down. The crux moves didn’t relent so quickly for me.

The problem started on an undercling jug with no feet. The opening move involved a campus to a higher side pull, then finding dime-edge feet on a 45-degree overhang. From there, a series of powerful, dynamic moves on crimps led to a vertical hand crack and an easy mantle. I tried the first moves repeatedly, but fell every time after the side pull. I sat back on a spare crash pad and watched as another friend stepped up and sent it on the first try. It was late in the day and my fingers were sore. My elbows hurt from repeatedly torquing on the campus move. I wanted to stop to save my skin for a crack I wanted to climb the next day. But for some reason I couldn’t step away.

Every fall led to me analyzing the moves again from the crash pad.

It’s just a boulder problem.

It’s not even that great of a boulder problem.

I don’t even like bouldering.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Do I … do I actually care?

I found myself standing below the undercling once again. I pulled through the campus move and stuck my left foot on a nub, this time flagging with my right. I bumped up to the first crimp and fought through the remaining moves to the base of the crack with waning strength. I had nothing left. I couldn’t feel my hands. I had two solid hand jams, but I was too weak and afraid to let go and make the next move. My options were limited, my doom imminent. The end result would be a broken ankle or petrifying highball commitment.

Give me rattled pin scar fingertip jams.

Give me insecure bone-grinding fist cracks.

Give me run out slabs.

I fucking hate bouldering.

The crowd below offered unconvincing support. “Come on, Sam!” Not happening. “Yeah Sam, you got this!” Doubtful.

Dude, you’re a crack climber, you love this shit!

This time they struck a nerve. God damnit he’s right. I am a crack climber. This is the best part of the whole problem.

I nervously bumped up my right foot to a small dish. I was shaking, exhausted, terrified. But I went for it. Some form of mangled guttural roar escaped my diaphragm as I threw for a higher jam with my left hand. It stuck. General chaos and cheers erupted from below, but I was too far down the rabbit hole to notice. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My entire psyche was committed to holding each jam and sinking the next one. It took everything I had left, but I slowly worked my way up the remaining five feet of the crack and over the mantle.

Let my cams collect rust. I stood up. I relinquish my nut tool forever. I turned to face the sun as it dipped below the desert horizon.

I am the golden God of all that is V3!

My hands were shaking from fatigue. Blood dripped from a clean crystalline puncture in the pad of my left ring finger. But in that moment, standing there 15 feet above the desert floor, I was unstoppable.

In that moment, I absolutely loved bouldering.

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The post Essay: With All Due Respect, Boulderers appeared first on Moja Gear.

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Five years ago my girlfriend and primary climbing partner cheated on me and we broke up. I couldn’t sleep for a long time, instead lying awake in a cold sweat, plagued by images of her with someone else, mentally playing out on repeat the happenstance situation induced by little more than a bottle of cheap wine and a lonely evening.

With the central pillar of my life in pieces, I reverted to the only other thing that occupied my heart at the time: I went rock climbing.

That spring I embarked on a solo journey from Oregon down the California coastline on Highway 1, eventually breaking with my solitude and turning inland to meet some friends at Joshua Tree. When our hands could no longer tolerate the coarseness of the archaic granite, we ventured east to Red Rocks. After two weeks of bloodied fingers, fabled sends, and a much-needed reprieve from the depths of heartbreak, I drove twelve hours back to Oregon and collapsed, exhausted, into bed.

Climbing is always the best medicine.

Joshua Tree

The following afternoon I was biking home from school when my left foot decided to abort its propulsory duties, slipping off the steel pedal and shooting forward. This would have been a perfectly resolvable circumstance had my hands been on the handlebars at the time. They were, however, dangling uselessly at my sides while my mind pondered topics far removed from the steering of my bicycle.

With hands, mind, and now my left foot all set completely adrift, I had nothing left to catch myself with. The pedal came down straight behind my foot, driving it into the concrete. The resulting entanglement caused me to flip headfirst over the handlebars, limbs still fully intertwined with the bike as my face met the pavement. I managed to escape my mangled bike frame and hobble to the curb.

Something was very wrong with my left leg. It was completely numb and oddly insecure, as if walking upon spongy, sodden turf. A brief checkup ruled out a compound fracture. Great. No visibly protruding bones. Must not be broken. I’ll walk it off and ride home. Nothing a PBR can’t fix. 

The onset of lightheadedness prompted me to remove my helmet and sit on the curb. It was then that I lifted my pant leg and saw black blood slowly oozing from a deep cut just above my heel.

What should have been a fully taut Achille’s tendon was now a nauseating flaccid indentation.

I lacked any sensation of stability in my lower leg. My foot dangled from my ankle like a piece of raw, lifeless meat. Maybe two PBRs.

A family who had witnessed the wreck stopped and attempted to usher me into their minivan, despite my insistence that I was fine and just needed to sit for a minute. I stood up to demonstrate my physical wellbeing. See? I’ll put my chain back on and be on my way. 

Then everything began to fade.

A roaring static came on, consuming my senses, obscuring my vision, filling my ears with a deafening whir. It was somehow comforting, sweet, like being draped in a warm blanket. Somewhere a woman was yelling frantically. The last thing I remember was trying to hold on to the edge of the van’s doorframe as I fell backward into the void. I didn’t stick the move. The ground rose up to hit the back of my head very hard. There was a brief white flash, then only silent blackened nothingness.

Nine hours later my housemates wheeled me out of the emergency room with a partially severed Achille’s tendon, a broken clavicle, a high-dosage painkiller prescription, and the heavy news that I may never walk normally, let alone climb, again.

Sam in the hospital
Torn achille's tendon

Once more I entered a chronic period of sleepless nights, this time kept awake by a Percocet-induced haze, tortured by the thought of a life without climbing. I craved verticality. I needed to touch granite. I wanted to mainline chalk straight to the vein.

In a span of four weeks, I had lost the two things I loved most in this world.

Emotionally and physically, I was completely devastated. I didn’t leave the house once during the first week and a half. My broken collarbone made the use of crutches impossible, so my roommates had to help me move around the house. I spent my days on the couch with a head full of painkillers, blinds drawn, devolved to an apathetic state of lethargy while basking in the dim glare of South Park reruns.

I couldn’t think about climbing anymore. I couldn’t reflect on my recently imploded relationship. These were pieces of a life that I used to live; things that had been ripped away from me.

Weeks later some friends stopped by and insisted that I needed to get out of the house. My futile protests fell on deaf ears. I rode shotgun with my crutches to the crag, my eyes squinting in the sun. Emerging from the car I felt like a strange pallid shell of something that once walked in the daylight. They took turns piggybacking me up the approach trail. Climbing again proved to be good medicine. I spent the evening sitting on a crash pad watching friends clip bolts, take falls, and send projects as the colors of the waning spring day ignited the basalt columns around us.

I soon discovered that being injured didn’t negate my love for climbing. It galvanized it. Stepping back for the first time transformed climbing into something bigger than a linear ascension through the grades. There would be Herculean finger strength and godlike sends. There would be more injuries and time on the couch. It became not so much something that was taken away from me, but something I was lucky enough to have in my life to work back toward.

Once my collarbone healed to a tolerable degree, I started doing hangboard workouts every morning before school. I found solace in climbing blogs and Facebook updates. Again I lay awake in the dark on those sleepless nights, still crippled, still heartbroken, but this time distractedly crimping the edge of the headboard while staring at the ceiling, envisioning the execution of movement, the silent release of breath, and the composed quieting of the mind.

Mobility didn’t come easily. To regain trust of something that was torn apart in such an abrupt, violent manner is not a quick process. I spent hours with physical therapists and orthopedic specialists doing strength building exercises, rehabilitative massages, electrical muscle stimulation, and range of motion workouts, delivering improvement only in barely perceptible increments. The process was agonizing and discouragingly slow, but determination won out in the end.

Six weeks later I sat, terrified for my fate, in the office of my orthopedic surgeon. He pinched my tendon. He moved it from side to side forcefully. I instinctively withdrew, fearing it would rupture between his fingers. You sadistic son-of-a-bitch. I could feel my nerves tighten. I attempted to relax, remembering why I was there. He was not the enemy.

As much as I wanted to project my insecurities and frustrations onto a central symbol of evil, there was no villain behind my fate. I couldn’t blame my bicycle. I was, after all, the one who had been riding it with no hands.

At the same time, I also realized that I couldn’t fault my ex-girlfriend. Even when I knew that our relationship was falling apart I refused to let go, ignoring obvious signs while attempting to steer the failing wreckage back on course. I was too invested in my idealized versions of our future to see the flaws in our present. For her, cheating became an obvious (if inelegant) line of exit. When the opportunity presented itself, she seized it. Sever the limb to save the body.

The surgeon continued to eye my pathetically atrophied leg. Finally, his eyes darted up to meet my own. “Would you like to leave your crutches here or take them home with you?” Deliverance.

The physical sensation of standing up off the examination bed was akin to rebirth. In that moment I had no thought of my distant return to climbing, or of how quickly I would regain my past contact strength, or when I would be able to sink my hands into desert sandstone. I was concerned only with the moment, the carrying out of each movement, the focus on the breath, the deliberate silencing of the mind.

Although I no longer required the support of crutches, I did not take those first steps alone. In my grasp was the hand of someone new. As with climbing, letting go of my attachment to my romantic future allowed space for the opportunities in my present. This is a good thing right now. She led me on my first walk outside the doctor’s office, six-inch steps at a time, her concerned gaze never leaving my left foot. Ten minutes later, after being passed by two young children who were also learning to walk, she had to go to class, but promised we would celebrate that night.

Months later at Smith Rock, with that same hand providing a confident, watchful belay, I made a cautious return to the vertical world.

* * * *

Shit happens. Girlfriends and boyfriends cheat. Dogs die. Beater cars break down. Partnerships strain past the point of civility. Injury and heartbreak, however, are now old beasts. They are no less painful, but I know these waters well. Whether free soloing to mend a wounded heart, sweating out hangboard sessions through the off-season, or watching The Sharp End for the third time between Percocet naps, the broken climber is no less a climber, and the brokenhearted human no less a lover.

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The post Essay: A Bad Month, Or, The Broken Man’s Guide to Climbing appeared first on Moja Gear.

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