Trains and Witches

A couple weeks ago my friend Jeff flew in with the plan of spending a few months traveling and climbing around Europe. I was only taking one class at the time, and so the time was perfect for a couple long weekends of climbing. Being car-less we were confined to the routes of public transportation and the power of our feet. Luckily a few notable climbing spots are stops on the Tren dels Llacs (Train of the Lakes) which follows a series of lakes between Lleida and Pobla de Segur. The Tren dels Llacs is Spain’s answer to Switzerland’s Glacier Express. As we coasted along aqua lakes and tunneled through steep mountainsides, I was mesmerized with wide eyes and my nose pressed to the glass windows.

First up was Sant Llorenc de Montgai, probably best known as the new home of Chris Sharma, the world’s most recognized, and arguably best, rock climber. We showed up to a fog that would put even the pirates of the Caribbean to shame. We walked for about twenty minutes to our campsite only to find that despite the “open all year” slogan the campground was closed. The refuge in town was also closed, but we decided it would be best to climb first and troubleshoot later. Unfortunately the fog had made the rock pretty saturated, but it was a light week for me anyway so I was content to climb some easier routes. That evening we killed a lot of hours at the bar before clandestinely camping under a picnic shelter. It misted all night, and the next morning was even worse. Climbing would be impossible so we decided to head back to Barcelona and try out luck in another area. Unfortunately the next return train didn’t leave for another four hours, but more frequent trains left from a town about 8 km away. Time to hoof it! After a little more than an hour a fellow climber pulled over and drove us the remaining few kilometers.

After that trip we climbed for a day in Montserrat, spent a few days in Barcelona, and jumped back on the train for another weekend. We planned to go to Santa Linya, but that plan changed very quickly.

“You know there’s nothing there,” said the train employee as he checked our tickets.

“Well there’s some good climbing,” I responded.

“No, I mean the stop is in the middle of nowhere, 12 kilometers from town,” he said.

So, we upgraded our tickets for a couple more stops and decided to go to Terradets. I had actually wanted to go to Terradets in the first place as I had been told that one crag, Paret de les Bruixes (Witches Wall), was the best in Cataluña. We showed up at the refuge to find a sign “we’ll be back in a minute.” Apparently the owner’s watch must have been broken because that minute lasted three days (maybe longer). We had hoped to buy a fuel canister from the refuge, and so we ended up eating our dinners in the small restaurant a few minutes away. We camped out on an old train platform and walked to the climbing every day.

I’ve said this before, and I hope I say it again: best climbing of my life, period. Paret de Bruixes is tidal wave of immaculate limestone. Consistently 10-30 degrees overhanging, 30 meters tall, tufa curtains, flat edges, flowing movement, and uniquely continuous climbing. What makes the routes spectacular is that each move is as hard as the previous move, which means the climbing gets progressively more exciting. I like climbs that are mental, climbs that force me to hang on until the end, and every route I climbed at Paret de les Bruixes was an exercise in mental endurance. Also, for some reason, the specific rock formations have created the most incredible movement I have experienced outside. It involved lots of twisting, big moves to good holds, and generally intuitive climbing. It was a good weekend of onsight climbing for me. I onsighted a few 12a’s and 12b’s with surprising ease. Unfortunately I was also an idiot and blew both of my 12c onsights. On the first one I arrived at a tricky sequence, read the moves, and as I was going for it I decided to change my sequence. It didn’t work and I went flying. With the original sequence I easily climbed to the top. The next day’s 12c failure was even dumber. I started off the day with a short 11a, and I had hoped to get on one of the longer 12a’s to finish warming up. They were all occupied, so I figured I would just go for it. The sun had just hit the rock, and the rock was still very cold. After 20 feet I couldn’t feel my fingers, I managed a few more moves and then fell from good holds when my fingers simply opened. I spent several minutes wincing in pain as I re-warmed my fingers in my armpits. I then easily climbed to the top. I would have really liked to have succeeded on those two onsights because they were incredible routes. I learned my lessons the hard way.

 Nice view

Paret de les Bruixes

Rain in Cataluña kept me in Barcelona this last weekend, but I felt like I needed a weekend off anyway. I have managed to climb outside a ton over the last month. Between December 19^th and January 21^st I climbed 21 days outside. Over those 21 days I climbed my three hardest routes ever and tripled my hardest onsights. Now I’m happy to be starting a normal routine of school and weekend climbing. I’m setting new goals for my big climbing trip this summer, and more importantly I’m creating a path to realize those goals. Winter training 2011 has begun!

CIEE Blog

In addition to this blog over the next couple months I'll be writing some entries for the CIEE (my study abroad program) blog. They're directed at potential study abroad students. Here is my first little entry about climbing and Spain adventures:

Being a second semester student means that the first few weeks of this semester have been rather different than the first few weeks of last semester. No hours walking around lost. No more ordering “huevos”. No calling every single person “usted” trying to be respectful. No looking at a 3 oz cafe Americanos and wondering where I would find the remaining 29 oz for my daily fix (now I wonder in milliliters). Being a second semester student also means new students usually ask for some bit of advice, or at least for a bar recommendation. I can never remember bar names or where they’re located, so I opt for giving some advice. “Just do what you always do,” I say. Now that might sound like the worst advice ever, but bear with me. I’m not saying you should speak English and keep listening to that Rick Astley album on repeat. What I’m saying is that you should find a way to do what you love doing in Spain. Shoot hoops? Join a basketball team. Like doing good? Volunteer in Barcelona. As a rock climber I immediately joined a local climbing gym and have been fortunate to climb with a group of dedicated locals nearly every weekend. In addition to strengthening my fingers, weeknights in the gym gave me the chance to pick up the Spanish climbing lingo and learn how to properly swear when I fall. Weekends started at 9am in Plaza Espanya where a good friend would pick me up and together we would head off to one of the numerous world class climbing areas surrounding Barcelona. I originally hoped that climbing would give me the chance to improve my Spanish and my climbing skills, and it has, but I have come to realize that more importantly climbing has introduced me to incredible friends and has allowed me to experience Spain as few do.

9 am Plaza Espanya, and I’m still not sure where we’re going. Borja pulls up exactly ten minutes late, which is on time in Spain. I find out we’re off to Montgrony, a limestone cliff above Gombrén, about an hour and a half away. We chatted about climbing, Spain, the US, and anything else that came to mind. Somewhere along the way we stopped at a bakery to pick up some food for the weekend. Later on, Borja offered me some morcilla pizza, which looked like a dark sausage pizza. Not one to reject food, I took a bite and loved it. Borja then informed me that it was a traditional Spanish sausage made of pig’s blood, rice, and onion. Apparently it was good fuel too because I ended up climbing really well that day. That night introduced me to another local tradition: mushroom picking. Actually, I didn’t see the mushroom picking, but I did experience the pre-mushroom picking party. After climbing we went to a hermita, a small abandoned church, to cook dinner and camp. The local wine supplemented dinner, and finally with aching backs and stiff forearms we were off to sleep, or so we thought. That’s when the mushroom picking crew showed up.

Just after midnight I was getting into my sleeping bag, thinking about how happy I was to be sleeping inside instead of outside in the mist and rain. Two large thuds signaled the arrival of the mushroom pickers, one thud from the rack of beer for the adults and one thud from the rack of cola for the kids. Who knew that the tradition of mushroom picking begins with a family party until late the next morning? I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume it was a planned effort to sleep in until noon, the prime mushroom picking time. Here’s another fun fact I learned that weekend: the average Spanish picnic table, given several hours of rain, will leak onto the poor soul trying to sleep beneath it at a frequency similar to Wikipedia’s definition of Chinese water torture. Needless to say I didn’t sleep much that night, but how else can one discover the local passion for mushroom picking?

Oddly enough I enjoy those kinds of experiences, and they tend to be the memories that stand out. Several weeks later, while camping outside of Chulilla, a small town near Valencia, I had one of my shoes stolen by a dog in the night. Luckily the next morning a local man, after a hearty laugh at my predicament, invited me into his house and gave me a pair of his son’s shoes. Throughout my travels in Cataluña and Spain, I have always found myself surrounded by a group of kind locals. Unknowingly I have also had some of the best olive oil, almonds, and wine that Spain has to offer. I have experienced rugged and beautiful landscapes. But more that anything, I have been welcomed into a team of fanatical climbing friends. I have climbed a lot of incredible rock too, but I expected that. So like I said, just do what you always do, and the results will be anything but routine. 

Chulilla

After flying back from Sella, I took two days off before meeting up with my friend Victor and heading south once again. Before becoming a climbing fanatico Victor was a near professional soccer player and competitive arm wrestler. Yes, a competitive arm wrestler. This time the destination was Chulilla, a small mountain town just west of Valencia. Chulilla itself is incredibly charming. Perched between mountains and at the bend of a great canyon, Chulilla is small town Spain at its best. In the only store the owner proudly sells the local honey and welcomes climbers to enjoy his home. In the bakery the bread is baked fresh in an old wood burning oven, and the bakers themselves seem to glow with pride and fulfillment, particularly so when they threw in a free bizcocho (sweet bread) for us to try. In the evenings everyone meets in the square where the kids kick around a soccer ball and the parents share coffees and glasses of wine. When I tell someone that I am studying in Europe I am often asked where I have traveled. Feigning embarrassment I reply that the furthest I’ve gone is a couple hours from Barcelona, but the truth is that discovering a place like Chulilla is as much of an experience as flying abroad to a new country. I may not be writing new chapters in my travel log, but my Spain chapter is growing increasingly thick.

To be fair Victor and I did not come to Chulilla to eat bizcochos and sample honey, we came for the sweeping limestone walls that tower over the nearby river and stretch for kilometers in all directions. On a favorite climbing website that I frequent all too often Spain is described as having an unfair amount of perfect limestone and Chulilla alone verifies that statement. A recent article in Desnivel (the climbing magazine of Spain) has brought this world-class buried area into the spotlight, and it has quickly become the latest cool spot for climbers. I know it’s the latest cool spot because it was raining in the Basque Country. I never checked a weather report, but I know it was raining in the Basque Country because climbers can be like drug addicts and seemingly all the Basque climbers had made the several hour drive to Chulilla to escape the rain and get their limestone fix. The Basque entourage even included Spanish stars Iker and Eneko Pou who recently climbed all four of the hardest big wall routes in the Alps. So what could possible be this good? 30-40 meter routes climbing vertical and overhanging limestone, thought provoking movement on continuously difficult rock, perfectly sculpted tufas and edges, sun and shade aspects which could both be climbed in the always perfect weather, and hundreds of routes throughout the immense and beautiful canyon. Also the area was stacked with fantastic 5.12s, which meant it would be a great place to do a lot of onsight climbing (trying to successfully climb a route first try). Previously my best onsight was a 5.12c and I had only done one. Over the course of the six climbing days I successfully onsighted three more 12c’s! Each one was unique in its own way. One was a rope-stretching climb of consistent difficulty up to a crux move at the top. One involved powerful moves lower down and sustained climbing to the anchors. The last was an easy climb to a very thin four-move crux. A big part of the difficulty is mental. Tying in for a 12c onsight attempt when I have only succeeded on one or two out of many was butterfly inducing. By the end of the trip, after succeeding on three out of six 12c onsights and both 12b onsights my mentality was completely different and my confidence was much higher. One of my short term goals to complete by April was to onsight 3 12c’s, and I’m really happy to have finished it one week later!

On most climbing trips rest days are a necessary evil. To climb hard routes the body needs to be rested, and after three days (with four left) a rest day was mandatory. The average rest day consists of a shower, a little extra coffee, maybe some reading, and -in the worst case scenario- school. This rest day started of the same, sort of. Victor’s van has a showerhead attachment, so we decided to use it. However, the showerhead feature does not come with an actual shower, so in the parking lot of Chulilla we took turns stripping down and taking quick, cold showers for all the locals to see. Next up was rest day entertainment, and instead of literature we drove to Valencia for a tour of the aquarium, an Imax movie, and a showing (dubbed in Spanish) of “The Tourist.” I used to hold the notion that Valencia was an industrial city lacking character and interesting sites. One day at the Oceanografico and the City of Arts and Sciences changed that completely. First of all the architecture of the place is astounding (dude I live in Barcelona, that’s saying something!), google it! The aquarium was the best I have ever seen, showcasing rare species like...

 Beluga Whales!

 Bob Esponja! Sponge Bob!

Even Rock Climbers

The rest day was great, and I’m really happy to have changed my opinion of Valencia. Make me wonder how many places I’m missing out on because of stupid assumptions.

The fifth day I awoke to a surprise: of the four stinky sneakers that we had left outside the van to air out, only three remained. I spent a while hobbling around on one shoe trying to find the missing shoe. One of the stray dogs must have snagged it as a prize. I asked fellow climbers and parking lot residents but without luck. I saw a man walking back to the group of houses behind the parking lot and figured I would ask him too.

“Hi, I left my shoes outside last night and I only woke up with one of them, have you seen a shoe around?” I asked in the “usted” form

After a good laugh he responded, “It’s ok come with me.”

A short walk later we arrived at his, Vicente’s, house and he walked me down to his garage. After ruffling through boxes and all the other crap that exists in garages (Spaniards have just as much crap in garages as Americans!) Vicente produced a pair of old indoor soccer shoes. I tried them on and found them to be too small, but realizing the gravity of my situation –no shoes, no walking to the climbing- I responded, “they’re perfect!” After a conversation I found out that the shoes belonged to their son who used them when he visited from university every now and then. Happily they offered me the shoes and shooed me off to go climb.

The next few days of climbing were great. I climbed “Los Franceses” 12c which was one of the best onsights I have every done. We enjoyed the long routes, and drove back to Barcelona content and very, very tired.

In the last week I’ve sampled some classes back at Universitat Pompeu Fabra. My friend and climbing buddy Jeff Mckinnon just flew in today and we’re off to Sant Llorenc de Montgai tomorrow for a long weekend of climbing. Who could have guessed?

El Oasis, lots of good rock 

 Chulilla

El Oceanográfico

Recap. Relax. Repack

Two weeks in Sella, living on the Wildside.

Wildside Sector: On the left are my Czech climbing partners Cuba "like country" and Jan

I spent the last couple weeks camping and climbing just outside of Sella, which is a small town in the mountains near Alicante, Spain. I climbed 10 out of 13 days, and every day went to the “Wildside” sector to climb steep, golden limestone. Life was a simple rhythm: wake up late, coffee and breakfast, climb several routes, return exhausted, cook, drink a beer or two, sleep for eleven hours or more, repeat. No technology, no showers, just climbing. In other words it was a relaxing vacation! I climbed with Jan, the owner of Rockbusters, Czech expat, and climbing bum as well as a host of locals. Armando, the forty-year-old climbing monk, lived on a diet of rice and “porros” (explained later) while he dedicated every bit of his being to the routes. Jimmy, despite the nickname, was Spanish to the core. He rocked the dreaded mullet and smoked profusely. The local teenagers shared the refuge in an attempt to get away from their parents. They climbed during the day, but most of their time was spent... well I’ll just say that thanks to them I expanded my Spanish vocabulary to include “porro” and “verde” (aka “spliff” and “joint” respectively). I was the first American one of them had ever met.

Christmas was good too, even though Santa was late, because the present was worth the tardiness. On December 26th after 7 tries over two days, I climbed “Mediterraneo” my first 8a (5.13b). In Europe the climbing grades are different and here 8a is the most coveted level and the benchmark grade for the big leagues. When I finally linked the climb from the ground to the anchors without falling it felt effortless. I knew the moves and executed them perfectly without hesitation, and seemingly without gravity. For the rest of the day I felt like I was floating, delirious, the moments of the climb etched into memory, relived over and over. It was a stark contrast to my pre-climb thoughts. Two days before I had fallen from the last move, my hand latched the final jug, but I watched, powerless, as my fingers slid open and I peeled away from the rock. I had been exhausted halfway up, I mentally gave up, my body surprised me and took me to the last move but no further. Back on the ground I knew I would succeed if I were fresh, so I took a rest day. On the day of the climb, I warmed up and gave Mediterraneo a try only to find I wasn’t really warmed up. I got pumped and fell from easier moves. Second try of the day I felt good, I made it to the final moves. This was it. 8a was mine. Cocky, I lunged for the final jug. I don’t know what happened, but next thing I was hanging from the rope swearing. The trip back to the ground seemed endless. I wasn’t tired but had failed. The next hour was agonizing, I was furious with myself. I vowed to give up climbing because I was worthless. I would fail and I knew it. I would go home empty handed. I wouldn’t accomplish anything. The weight was sickening. After belaying, and spending a few minutes alone in the sun warming up, I tied in. I had one, maybe two tries before I would be tired. Again and again I pictured myself falling from the final move. I couldn’t clear my head, so I started climbing. The first half is a 12b that I had wired, and I flowed through the moves mindlessly. I soon found myself at the final rest before the extended crux. I closed my eyes and just breathed. I smiled and something clicked. I saw myself catching the final jug. With a forceful exhale I pushed all thoughts from my head. Move by move, I stuck the crux, smoothly climbed the thin tufas, and caught the final jug. Everything changed when I clipped the anchors. It was without a doubt my proudest climb. I was happy, content, and had a laugh at the thoughts that had poisoned me before the climb.

The next morning however, as is always the case, I woke up hungry. I had tasted hard climbing and wanted more. I set my sights on “Ergometría” the most classic 8a of the sector. The climb is perfect. The hardest moves are just off the ground, but the remaining twenty meters of extremely steep stone will quickly send the indecisive climber to the ground. All the moves are difficult, but are separated by a few good kneebar rests. What’s a kneebar? Well you use your foot and knee to hold on. The following photo will explain.

After trying the route a few times and figuring out the moves I felt exhausted. I took a rest day, and came back to fire the route on my second try of the day (4^th total). Here are some photos.

Last few moves

I spent the last two days trying “Celia” another 8a that I had no expectation of finishing. On my second to last day I felt exhausted on every try, on my last day I felt even more exhausted. Somehow I still fell higher and higher with every try. As the sun was setting on my last day of the trip, New Year eve, I tied in for a final try. No saving energy, no holding back, one last try. I climbed through the lower section and rested. I launched into the crux and soon found my forearms exploding. I was staring at the final bolt, but was too pumped to pause and clip in. “It’s overhanging, I won’t hit anything” I quickly reasoned and kept climbing. A few moves later I stuck the final hold, and with a lot of rope between me and the last bolt, I pulled up slack to clip the anchors. Six days - my first 8a, second 8a, and third 8a. 365 days from 5.12b to 5.13b, not a bad finish to 2010.

Sella itself was quite an experience. A small town, it seems like a place locked in the past. A place where all faces are familiar. Where Bar Paco and Bar Casino each has dedicated patrons, between which mingling is prohibited. Every few nights we’d head into Bar Casino to try our luck at the fickle Wi-Fi, and while one of us would attempt to connect to the rest of the world the other would enjoy the people watching. A usual group of old men would show up every night for their beer or two, and their cigarettes - a pack or two. I went to the panaderia one evening hoping to find something sweet to celebrate my first 13b. I saw what appeared to be a delicious fruit filled pastry. I asked what it was and received the peculiar answer of “oil and salt.” I figured he must not have understood what I was referring to, and it looked good, so one slice of that please. Mouth watering for a bit of sweetness I immediately chomped down. My tongue quickly discovered my mistake. Instead of a sweet fruit pastry, I bit into what can only be described as a soft, giant, and even drier Saltine cracker. Drier than a Saltine, not possible you say? Well, I quickly coughed in up and ran back to the bar to get a sip of beer. Bienvenidos a España, I guess I’ll call it a cultural experience.

I’m back in Barcelona for a day. I’ve been productive. I woke up at eleven, drank coffee in bed for a couple hours while watching “Lethal Weapon” and I did some laundry. As much as I love being away from my computer, sometimes a soft bed, a warm coffee, and mindless entertainment are just what I want. Besides I’m about to be off for another week. My friend and regular climbing buddy Victor has this next week off and has invited me on a climbing trip! Obviously I’m going, so we’ll be camping in his van for another week of climbing. 2011 y más fanatico que nunca! Venga!