Mark Willey

Adam Brakel

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A Month of Human Power

For this month of February, I've decided to transport myself exclusively by my own power; no busses, no metro trains, and certainly no cars. Mostly, this is a simple challenge, like deciding to climb a mountain, run a marathon or watch all three Lord of the Rings movies in one sitting. It seems to me to be an interesting way to make my life, and my slightly expanded belly of late, a little less soft. But aside from the simple curiosity of whether I can do this or not, there are other angles to this challenge. Our modern society is facing urgent questions about sustainability, fossil fuels, and obesity. I'm hoping this month will be both a personal meditation and a conversation starter about these issues and about others that I will discover along the way. As a budding, amateur documentary filmmaker, I've thought it would be interesting to make a film about bicycle commuting and this challenge gives me a great opportunity to do just that. I'll be collecting and posting daily statistics and updates about my travels and shooting footage that will find its way into a short film about the experience. Now though, it's time to don some spandex, pump up the tires and hit the road. Stay tuned.

Mea Culpa

There's a little, two word Latin phrase that's underutilized in our modern society. It was once uttered, as the whip snaked over the shoulder and stung the back, as a spoken reminder of individual responsibility and culpability. Our society would be much improved if those two words were sincerely uttered more often by all of us, beginning now.

There's a sad irony in watching politicians demand swift action and accountability from others. It's equally sad and unsatisfying to see professional apologists take the blame, using phrases that have been carefully tested, and promise to make it right. We've seen plenty of both these past two months as the oil spilled from the ground a mile beneath the ocean. But through all the impassioned fist pounding about how this never should have happened and how those who are to blame will be held accountable, there's an angle that's been missed. Imagine for a moment how it would play if President Obama turned to the cameras and said "we're going to investigate this spill and take steps to reduce the chances that it will happen again, but inevitably, it will. The blame for this disaster and for those that will come belongs not only to the BP Corporation, but to me and every American who drives, flies, switches on an electric light, or sits comfortably in an air conditioned room." It would be political disaster, but it would be the truth.

BP sells a product we know is dangerous at every phase of its production and consumption. We demand they sell it as cheaply as possible to us and we elect politicians (from both sides of the political divide) who will continue our government's policy of subsidizing the costs of production so we can buy it for less than it should cost. "But" you say, "they were cutting costs by not maintaining safety devices all while showing huge profits to their shareholders, so it's their fault." Again, repeat after me, "mea culpa, mea culpa." In a very real way, we ask them to do this whenever we watch the stock market rise and fall and invest only in those companies with profitable track records. Our college funds, retirement and savings depend on them cutting corners, pushing equipment to its limits and crossing their fingers that nothing will go wrong. I'm not saying that it's right, just that we are responsible more than we like to admit. Examples of our active, culpable complacence are all around us. Turn the tag over on that shirt you're wearing. It's a good guess it's from a country where the standard of living would make the poorest in this country appear wealthy. Somehow, when we see those foreign countries listed on our clothing tags, we know it means they were made by crafted by underpaid workers in hot, humid, overcrowded conditions but we still look for the sales and buy from stores that supply what we want at a price that isn't possible without resorting to those production conditions. 

It's dangerous to ignore one's own role in the circumstances of life but in the case of the oil spill in the Gulf, I'm afraid that's exactly what we're all doing. It can be scary to stand in the mirror and see the reason for the disaster but it can also be empowering.

Reflections of a Middle Aged Athlete

I have a confession: I used to beat young boys. Now, I realize, in this post Jackson era, we're all a bit sensitive whenever the the words "young boys" come up so I'll be quick to clarify. It was a long time ago and we were all on bicycles, but the fact remains, I beat them and probably crushed their spirits a little.

It sometimes happens in life that we're at the right place, and more importantly, the right time, to have a chance for success at something we otherwise wouldn't. It was like that with me and mountain biking. as a little pre-teen boy I raced BMX bicycles, racking up a small shelf of cheap, plastic trophies and one broken hand riding my brother's hand-me-down Mongoose, wearing camoflage pants from the army surplus store. I wasn't very good, mostly because I didn't really practice and I wasn't aggressive enough to fight for the corners. Then, in the spring of 1986, a $400 dollar savings bond I'd won in a grade school writing contest matured, and I went shopping for a new bicycle. Instead of buying a freestyle trick bike as I'd planned, I walked out of the store with an aqua green Univega "mountain bike" a new type of bicycle that had just been invented in Northern California with fat tires, a flat handlebar and a wide range of gears for climbing hills.

My timing was perfect. The bike became my constant companion, ferrying me everywhere I wanted to go, including long rides into the hills behind my house. As I rode, I grew stronger and faster and the next summer, at the age of 14, I entered the second annual Mammoth Mountain hill climb and Kamakazi downhill race. I was one of the youngest in the class I rode in, racing against riders in their 20s and I didn't place all that well. That changed two years later, as the popularity of the sport grew and the junior class was born. For one glorious summer, I won almost every race I entered. I was good, I was fast, but mostly, I was lucky. As a 16 year old, I was near the top of the small, under 17 junior class, racing mostly against a tiny handful of 13 and 14 year olds. Before the start of the races I would rest my forearms on my handlebars staring coldly straight ahead with occasional sideways glances at the pre-pubescent racers who had the misfortune to be in my class. At the crack of the start gun I took off, leaving them in my dust on the first climb. Their spirits broken, they could only race for second. After a few races I'd established my reputation and I enjoyed the crestfallen looks on my competitor's (and their mother's) faces when I showed up at the races and took my bicycle down off the roof rack.

 

This year, at the age of 35, after a couple of active, but non-competitive decades, I  decided to follow through on a dream of racing in a triathlon or two. I had managed to stay in reasonable shape through the years, commuting by bike to work a few times a month and going to the climbing gym once every couple of weeks. I looked up the age categories; I would be at the young end of the 35 to 40 year-old age group. I was in much better shape than the mid 30 year olds I knew, better shape even than most people a decade younger than me. I couldn't help but smile as I filled out the entry form for my first race. This was going to be fun.

Pulling up to the check-in area at the XTerra EX2 Off-road Triathlon in Rocky Gap State Park on July 11 it was quickly evident that the average population I'd measured myself favorably against does not race triathlons. Looking around, I felt soft and pudgy, all 160 pounds of me. Strolling about the registration area were chiseled, toned, super athletes of all ages and the ones in my age category were among the fittest looking. My hopes of quickly reclaiming my former glory as a junior racer faded. Still, maybe I could be fifth or even third, if everything went well.

The next morning, gasping for air, I thrashed in the water along with 150 other men in my start wave, all of us wearing bright green rubber swim caps and goggles. My heart was pounding and I couldn't get a full breath into my lungs, much less settle into the normal freestyle stroke that I'd practiced in the pool over the past two months. "What was I doing here?" I thought. I wanted to quit and the race had just started.

After my dismal swim I rode a fast (for me) mountain bike leg and an okay run. My time at the finish was good for 14th place out of the 39 racers in the old timer's, 35-40 age category; hardly a podium finish. As I rested and refueled among the super athletes at the start/finish area, I wondered why I was putting myself through the hardship and time of training and the lactic acid pain and oxygen debt of competition, just to get beaten by 13 other guys at least as old as me. It isn't a question I'm willing to answer with some clichéd, pop-inspirational slogan. Maybe I'm just bored? Maybe I'm just trying to relive some egotistical dream of winning, thereby setting myself apart in a tiny way from the rest of the billions of people on this world. Based on the surging registrations at races of all kinds, I'm not the only one. When the survival of the fittest is mitigated by modern conveniences and technological advances in health care that keep us alive when we'd otherwise perish, maybe we're all just trying to live out some of the primitive struggle that once governed us all.

It will be a long time, if ever, before I stand on any of the tiers of a winning podium. With some diligent training through this coming Fall, Winter and Spring, maybe I'll be counted among the fit people, feared by the newbies. It's more likely that I'll have to wait until the numbers thin again to the low single digits like they were two decades ago in the junior class. Maybe the 65-70 year olds aren't really that fast? I have a feeling 30 years will go quickly at this pace.

Remembering Erin

This past Sunday, the 22nd of March, I slept in until 8:30, then got up and went for a run in Rock Creek Park, just outside of downtown Washington, DC. It was warm and sunny, a perfect early Spring day. On the other side of the country, Erin Jacobson drove to the Vacaville airport with his wife and three young children. There they met two other families, all of them friends. In the small airport, the seven children played together, and the adults relaxed while they waited for a small plane that would fly them to Montana. They were continuing a tradition begun by our parents: the family ski trip.

Years ago, Erin Jacobson was my first "best friend." It was the kind of childhood friendship you'd feel an emptiness all your life if you didn't have. We came together first over our shared love of G.I. Joe and Star Wars action figures. We'd combine our collections, venture out onto the undeveloped lots near my house and stage adventures to consume our shared imaginations and hours of our time. Or we'd play at Erin's house, swimming in his parent's pool, competing to see who could make the biggest splash off the diving board, and later watch the fish swim lazily in the fish tank in his room while we ate oatmeal cookies his mom Judy made. After one such perfect day, I heard my mom's car pull into the driveway and I didn't want to go home. Erin and I ran through the hallway of his house, frantically searching for a place where I could hide. "Quick, into the shower," he directed and I promptly collided with the glass door, polished transparent. Being little, no harm was done to me or the door, but we collapsed on the floor laughing. Erin was the kind of friend you just wanted to keep hanging out with.

We had some great adventures, Erin and I. One warm Spring day we walked back into the hills behind my house and found an ant hole thick with busy, red ants. A few feet away was another ant hole, teaming with black ants. Before young boys notice girls, they dream of the glory of war. Looking down at the miniature animated world at our feet we wondered aloud who were the better warriors: the red or the black ants. We gathered a few black ants and put them down the red ant hole, then held our breaths and waited. After a few seconds, some of the black ants emerged, missing legs and still fighting with the reds. We were enthralled, and passed the day in the dusty hills with our red and black warriors.

One day, when we were in the third grade, I got to school and looked for Erin, but he wasn't there. Carmin Wacker, the hottest girl in class and the one girl we would actually play with at recess, had heard he was very sick. He didn't come to class the next day, or the day after. Everyone liked Erin and the days felt longer and grayer without him. We made him cards out of colored construction paper and wished he was with us. It turned out he'd been bitten by a spider and gotten an infection. In the third grade, getting bitten by a spider was almost as cool as surviving a shark attack and Erin became legend. Even in misfortune, he had a way of coming out on top.

Young boys can be cruel, heartless even, but Erin was different. He had a kind heart and a way of making you feel like you were important. He remembered the stories you told and stuck by you when it mattered. Being a child of recently divorced parents, I craved stable people and peaceful places in my tumultuous world. Spending time with Erin filled both needs. His family welcomed me into their home and took me with them on ski trips to the mountains. Even as a young boy of eight or nine, Erin was a great skier, fast and fearless. The rides back up the hill were almost as good as the runs down, as we replayed the best jumps and worst wipeouts, our cheeks red from the cold, speedy air.

Two years ago, I played a concert at the Pacific Union College Church, in the Napa Valley where Erin lived. After the concert, Erin was there to say hello. He was the same as he always had been, with an open smile and kind eyes. He joined us for pizza in St. Helena and we caught up, as much as two old friends can do in a couple of hours. He told me about motorcycle trips with his in-laws, about his growing family and his thriving medical practice. We talked as good friends, separated years ago only by distance. At the time I was looking into a job nearby and we dreamed a little about how great it would be to live near each other again. Talking with Erin that night over pizza, I got the feeling we could pick up where we left off, perhaps with different toys and more grown up concerns, but it was something I hoped could happen.

This past Sunday, my childhood friend Erin, survivor of spider bites, master of ski jumps, and child general of armies of ants, boarded a small plane to fly with his wife, three young children and a handful of friends for a week of skiing near Yellowstone. After a two and a half hour flight, just a few hundred feet from the runway, the plane mysteriously dove to the ground and burst into flames. There were no survivors.

I can't claim that I was a great friend to Erin all these years between our childhood and now, or that my life has been deeply touched by this tragedy. That unenviable honor goes to his family and to the close friends who are feeling truly unspeakable sadness at the loss of Erin, his beautiful family, and the others on that plane. I can say that I am a more complete person for having had a friend like Erin Jacobson. The world was a better place with him in it and I wish I could see him again, shake his hand and thank him for being my best friend those years ago, when life was simpler and we didn't know the meaning of the word tragedy.

One day, in the early Fall of my fourth grade year at Loma Linda Elementary School, near San Bernardino, California, Erin and I sat perched in a green metal pod at the top of some playground equipment. There, a few feet above the ground, I told him that I would be leaving Loma Linda to attend a small school in the next town over. I asked him if he would come with me, but he liked where he was and wanted to stay there. That was Erin, peaceful and stable. I wish he had come with me, or that I had stayed. We didn't see each other as much after that. He moved to Napa, then life took us both in different directions. I would like to have made more memories of his friendship, but the ones I do have are so good, and that will have to be enough. Thank you Erin. Rest in peace. I'll never forget you.

Four years later

Four years ago, my brother Bruce and I climbed the East Face route on Mt. Whitney. It's a classic climb and includes one of the quintessential pitches in the Sierras, the Fresh Air Traverse, named for bringing the would-be climber out left over the face and 1000 feet of fresh air. At a rating of 5.8, the climb itself isn't that technically demanding, according to today's double digit pushing hyper-athletes, but it's a beautiful, alpine adventure that should be on every climber's tick list.

Four years ago I was climbing to forget an unexpected and difficult personal tragedy. I'd set the summit out in my mind as an accomplishment that would purge my memory and reset my life. When the first clouds came over the top, sprinkling hail and suggesting a much darker near future, my mind was already too set on reaching the top that I ignored the signs. A few brief moments captured on my fathers handicam show my brother asking "shall we go down?" accompanied by the ticking bounce of tiny balls of ice. I was leading the pitch at the time, sidestepping out onto the Fresh Air Traverse. Nothing was going to stop me and I said so, on camera. This is important because it isn't often that one's turning point mistakes can be immortalized on magnetic tape. When they are, you are left with no way to deny them and it's cathartic in a way, being forced to take total responsibility.

From that point on it was an epic. Accumulating hail turned the rocks slippery. Lightning struck so close we could smell it burning rock and feel it humming under our feet. We tried waiting it out, hiding from the lightning by crouching down as small as possible. When we got too cold, we moved between lightning strikes. Somehow we climbed out onto the summit and ran crying into the hut. The descent continued the epic with sketchy rappels down slippery rocks, but we made it.

Four years later, last Thursday, I returned, this time under very different circumstances. Time has passed, I'm a different person, healed and grounded. Life is also different for my brother Bruce. Two years ago he met Caroline, a professor from Emory University. They climbed together, fell in love and were married in a meadow, 100 miles North of the Whitney Portal. Caroline would come with us this time. Rounding out the climbing party was Ryan, a friend of Caroline's from Georgia. The plan was to climb the East Buttress route in two rope teams, Caroline with Ryan, Bruce with me.

We started the approach hike on Thursday afternoon. I brought too much of everything, including a plush but heavy sleeping pad (I like my rest), and my newly acquired, but also very heavy Sony XDCAM video camera and monopod. In all, my pack weighed 55 pounds, not that heavy really, but not exactly light considering an approach hike of six miles rising four thousand feet to the foot of the mountain. The effort of hauling all my gear, my sea level address and lack of aclimatization combined to give me classic altitude sickness. I managed to crawl into camp, thanks to my brother's encouragement. Mercifully I slept through the night and felt good enough to climb the next morning.

We climbed fast, with no hail or lightning this time to complicate the journey. The climbing was clean and beautiful; challenging enough to be fun but not gripping. We reached the top just after noon. After lounging for a little while, we started down the mountaineer's route, a couple of long snow gulleys that flank the mountain's North side. We had hauled our ice axes up the mountain for this, in case we got going too fast but I didn't really need mine. I skied down on the soles of my boots, making it to the base in about an hour.

Four years later the mountain gave me a very different day of climbing. The routes were of similar difficulty, the granite was the same. Four years ago my life was stormy; complicated, and so was the climb. There's no connection. I didn't cause the weather four years ago, or clear it up this year. But I did get exactly what I needed on both climbs. It isn't always that simple, we don't always get what we need from our experiences, in the mountains or otherwise.

Climbing in Pine Creek

My brother Bruce, writer and summertime resident of the high sierras, took me climbing on Friday, July 13 to a place called Pine Creek, known only to a local few. Located just a few minutes drive outside of Bishop, California, many of the routes are new within the last couple of years. This is mostly sport climbing, with nicely bolted routes scattered all over the beautiful granite walls. The approach was just a short walk up a rocky, dirt road and trail leading to the base of the climbs. Bruce started the day's climbing leading the first pitch of a two pitch climb rated 5.10c. I can't write the name here because the guide book is in the final stages of publication and I was sworn to secrecy. The climb was classic, leading up and through a short crack system to the fishhooks at the top of the pitch. I followed my brother, still feeling tired from the altitude and long plane flight. When I reached my brother at the belay anchor I rested a moment and then took the lead on the second pitch. The crux of this pitch came right at the beginning and it didn't seem possible to me. I fell twice and even begged to be relieved of the leading duties, a request my brother repeatedly turned down. With a move that was more desperation than good technique I managed to get past the crux and continue up onto a face that required delicate moves over crimping holds to a small ledge at the top of the pitch. It was a good warmup.

We rappelled down the face, not back to where we started but to the top of a 5.11b climb that Bruce wanted to do on top-rope. That was the next climb and it was quite a challenge, though psychologically much easier on top-rope. After that climb we walked a few feet down the wall and climbed another 5.10b route, followed by another 5.11d climb on top-rope. At this point, mostly due to my desperate moves at the crux of the first climb, my hands and fore-arms were shot. With the light in the canyon fading into evening, we did one more climb (a lovely 5.9 with a distinctly mountaineering flavor) and called it a day.

It was a great first day of climbing. Bruce and I each climbed five pitches of beautiful granite and came home happy for some relaxation by the river.