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Belarus Practical Guide Minsk. Balaton Budapest. Macedonian Wine Ohrid Skopje. Antwerp Flanders Top-5 Destinations. Haifa vs. DMZ Zone. Bohol Manila. Cappadocia Edirne Istanbul Kars. You're welcome. True story, but I almost forgot how happy this combination makes me. And cocaine, why do backpackers snort so much cocaine? Oh right, Colombia. When the banana-bar finally closed I walked barefoot into the self-built wooden hostel and let the sound of the waves sing me to sleep. While watching tanned beach boys running into the ocean I wondered how people could have depressions in a world where happiness is such an easy thing to acquire. Positioned horizontally under the Caribbean sun I witnessed my group of friends gradually expanding. That day we did I lay around a few hours until the sun filled up my entire face with freckles, watched the sunset-show again and spent the night drinking rum on the beach while everyone sang along with a long-haired blonde Swede playing guitar. This city has a dozen of things to do in its surroundings, but the town itself has not much to offer. In the devastating heat I stumbled around the centre a bit, checked out its unimpressive cathedral and melted away at the polluted harbour. I lunched with some fresh Guaynabo, guanabana, maracuya and granadilla and realized once again that the Dutch artificially grown green-house fruits have nothing to do with fruits at all. The art was sincerely weird though, which is my benchmark for awesomeness. After I let another laidback and completely useless day pass by I decided my life needed some physical activity. So I tightened up my hiking shoes and travelled up to Tayrona National Park. Or so I thought. As soon as I got out of the taxi also not my idea, I prefer cheap public transport or hitchhiking as my budget way of getting around I knew I THEY made a mistake. I made the mistake to swim in there with a snorkel mask on Thanks, Taganga. Every building was either a hostel, English-menu restaurant or a travel agency. So I grabbed my independence again and took the bus to Tayrona by myself. Being a cheap Dutchie I was highly upset because of the sign saying Colombians and students under 26 pay a COP entrance fee, while foreigners have to cough up COP I decided that if they like to rip me off like that, I can at least return that favour. I am neither a student nor under 26 years old, but I flashed out my 5 year old dateless Italian student card and made so many folding lines on the copy of my passport that the 7 of could easily be a 5. I passed humid forests, gorgeous beaches, jaw-dropping cliffs and spotted monkeys in the trees before I reached Cabo de San Juan. I threw my backpack down, took off my clothes drenched in sweat and ran into the ocean naked. While floating on the waves I watched the sunset and realized the beauty of the Tayrona beaches can only be levelled by Australia : absolutely world class. I only came out of the water when the sky turned pitch black and put on some mindfulness-music to meditate under the stars. What a place. Regardless of that, it took me about 7 seconds to pass out before 8PM. I slept 11 hours until the sun boiled me out of my tent again. Still wearing my bikini I marched straight into the sea again and noticed the intimidating amount of fit sun-kissed bodies. This place was a melting pot of highly attractive and oddly enough mostly Dutch -speaking foreigners. Ehmm, do you take payments by credit card, cash or my middle finger? I find it quite ridiculous that we have to pay for nature in the first place. The fact that we apparently need to turn it into some Disney-style protected park and put gates around it to make sure no one will destroy or exploit it for their own profit only shows how fucked up our world became. We think we are getting more and more advanced, but I think we can learn a lot by going back in time before the introduction of the monetary system and see how our ancestors only took from our precious nature what they needed to stay alive, instead of taking as much as they can in order to become rich and therefore powerful. The hike to the pueblito seemed to be a steep climb. I would have dealt with that unpleasant surprise if the temperature would be either 20 degrees less or shade would be existent, but neither of these scenarios could be applied. I come from a cold country and intense heat is something that drains all energy out of me. So when I was half-way after an hour of agony I asked myself how much fun I was really having. I ended up walking 7 hours in total, after which I took the 1,5 hour bumpy non-airco bus back, got stuck in traffic for another hour in a van to my hostel and walked the last part with my painful salt-scrubbed butt cheeks rubbing against each other. The crappy cold shower I took afterwards was the most refreshing one I ever experienced, the not really cold diet coke the best one I ever drank and the hard mattress the most comfortable I ever slept on. My feet were bleeding, my belly was tortured by an intense red sunburn and the UV put blisters on my mouth This service is and will remain free.
I was caught between worlds: too cool for one club and not cool enough for the other. I had no rudder, and I drifted to drugs. I still vividly.
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Follow friends and authors, share adventures, and get outside. The rope arches in an unbroken loop from me to Lucho, 30 feet above. Now, the good times are on hold. With accelerating gasps and groans, Lucho weasels in a small RP behind a suspect flake. He hurriedly clips a draw to it, gives it a tug, and promptly rips it right out. Lucho grew up in a rough neighborhood in the concrete jungle of the Mission District in San Francisco, and by age 11 had joined a gang. He had gone with his crew to face off against a rival gang. We all just started running. One dude got hit in the back. We dragged him into our car and blew every red light to the hospital. I can hear the scratch of his fingernails against granite as he puts the death grip on a micro-crimper. When I was young, things were fine— great, in fact. I was a lucky, happy kid. But somewhere along the pathway to adulthood, I got lost. In high school, I buddied up to the cool kids, who reluctantly allowed me to hang around, though I felt more comfortable reading comics and playing Dungeons and Dragons with the geeks in the library. I was caught between worlds: too cool for one club and not cool enough for the other. I had no rudder, and I drifted to drugs. I still vividly recall one low point: A mysterious smoke filled my year-old lungs. For a moment I was indestructible; then I was a ghost. I watched my body fall backward into the street. My head made a loud thwackkk as it bounced off the blacktop. I awoke to the sound of a car horn, and sat up face-to-face with blinding headlights. After high school, things got worse. Without my geek friends to bring me back to Earth, I floated away completely. I remember one evening watching a mob of drunken partygoers tip a car up on its side. This was not an isolated event. I became more morose and isolated. One morning I woke up covered in vomit in a ditch outside a frat house with no idea how I got there. By the first semester of my second year, the Feds were digging in my dumpster, and my breakfast came out of a blotter. After a particularly bad trip that left me bedridden for several days, I slipped into a dangerous depression. Having hit rock bottom in Chico, I managed to start a slow climb out of the darkness. I cleaned up my act, quit everything, even coffee, and transferred to Humboldt State. Walking Moonstone Beach one day, out on the mythical Lost Coast, I saw climbers dangling from the beach cliffs. From my first climb, I was hooked. I spent my money on ropes and gear instead of bags and bongs. I climbed every day. I climbed in the blazing sun, and I climbed in the rain. Soon after, I met the hardman Sean Leary, and I received a sandbag crash course in runouts, free soloing, and bolting from hooks. For the little bit of cash I needed, I began working as an outdoor educator, sharing the passion that had saved my life. And why not? I was living proof that life on the rock was powerful therapy. I recognized myself in many of the kids: the insecurity, the aimlessness, the hidden potential. And I saw it work: The physical exercise, the teamwork, the beauty, and the separation from the influences of their daily life worked their magic on at least a few kids every trip. I pushed through the grades and honed my crack climbing skills, in J-Tree in winter and Yosemite spring, summer, and fall. By my third year of full-time dirtbagging, I moved from outdoor educator to a spot on Yosemite Search and Rescue. In my eyes, these athletes were truly living the dream, a dream that soon became my own: to become a jet-set sponsored rock climber. A few speed-climbing exploits with Ammon McNeely and Chris McNamara put my foot in the door, and with a bit of luck and unadulterated desire, I started to pick up my first sponsors. Spasmodically, he pushes the hook far above his head. It latches something unseen. Lucho eases, hyperventilating and wide-eyed, onto the blind placement. A half hour later he slumps with infinite relief onto a bolt. A school counselor suggested a program called Urban Pioneers, which gave kids school credits for a mix of classes and wilderness experience. Lucho was dubious, but felt he had no other option than a dead-end on the street. Soon after joining, he was taken on a two-week backpacking trip into the Sierra. Every day on the trip, when we got in to camp, I wanted to explore. Everyone had some piece of equipment that we needed for the trip to function. After that outing, Lucho and a couple friends from the trip returned several times to explore further into the Sierra. The small posse of ex-gangsters was quite the sight. The world had expanded for Lucho, and he was getting the same good tidings from the mountains that John Muir had gotten when he ventured out of the Bay and into the Sierra so many years before. Lucho discretely tapered off his gang activities, and finally the crew approached him. But Lucho just wanted to be free. All that desperation came out in a flurry of fists. Unlike most of his friends, Lucho graduated from high school. Several of the employees were climbers, and they gave Lucho his first taste of rock, on Bay Area crags. He has done some badass shit. After the show, Lucho raised his hand and urgently asked Bridwell how he managed to defy the regulations and live in Yosemite full-time. We just stayed. I met him in the parking lot of Camp 4 three weeks after Bridwell inspired him to quit his job and move into his truck in the Valley. Though Lucho was a wide-eyed newbie, I was looking for someone—anyone—to help me out on my Gravity Ceiling project, a huge roof I wanted to free climb, many pitches up, near the top of Higher Cathedral Rock. I heard Lucho might be game. In the year I met him, he went from epics on 5. I established new routes around the world, fell in love, became a writer and filmmaker, and basically woke up feeling like a lucky bastard every day. Lucho, meanwhile, continued to live the dirtbag dream, hanging tough in Yosemite, free climbing El Capitan, putting up obscure new routes, and only working as much as he absolutely had to. We kept in touch, and I think we were both a little envious of each other. Fast-forward to An old college friend from Humboldt, Bennett Barthelemy, invited me to participate in a Big City Mountaineers fund-raising program called Summit for Someone. Bennett and I planned to put together a custom trip, using our industry connections and media savvy to raise a nice chunk of cash. My buddy Scotty Nelson had made the first ascent of the south tower. The project quickly built momentum. But then, last minute, Bennett had to back out. I scrambled to find a replacement. I thought of Lucho. He had just finished a proud 5. He was in the best shape of his life—psyched, but broke. With my end of the trip fully funded, I figured we could work that out. Lucho had never been overseas. Our arrival on Tioman Island was surreal and abrupt. The jungle felt… pissed off. Every plant had a thorn on it, and we were thankful for our leather gloves. Huge ants swarmed everywhere. Some mystery bug was emitting a continuous, deafening shriek like a car alarm. I was immediately on edge. During our journey to Malaysia, Lucho, the ex—street thug, had confessed that he was deeply afraid of snakes. And bugs. He had not been exaggerating. At every turn, he screamed and jumped at some real or imaginary critter. For me, the humidity and heat were the bigger battle. Sweat stung my eyes. My glasses fogged up. It was like hiking in a sauna. We could see huge sea birds playing in the thermals far above. Realizing we might actually get to climb, I was overcome by summit fever and began forging ahead through the jungle. Suddenly, something that sounded like a hummingbird buzzed by my ear. More buzzing ensued, and then I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my side, then another in my leg. I scrambled madly through the vegetation, reduced to a frantic, screaming kid. I reached back to a burning spot on my shoulder and snagged a huge, writhing object between my fingers. It was a hornet, but larger than my thumb, with wild orange stripes across its pulsating abdomen. It squirmed as it tried to maneuver its stinger for another attack. Thirty yards of frantic thrashing later, vibrating and hyperventilating, I was out of the swarm. A mix of poison and adrenaline surged through my body. Lucho had screamed and run in the opposite direction, beating a long retreat into the jungle. Between us, dozens of pissed off mega-wasps divebombed their territory. I lifted my shirt to reveal a huge red-and-blue welt. Once we roped up, one pleasant surprise followed the next. The rock was bulletproof granite, with wild flake, knob, and pocket features, plus incipient cracks for protection. I tried to ignore the throbbing pains that were radiating from the stings while Lucho stretched out a sixth pitch and set up a belay under an overhang just as a bone-shaking crack of thunder announced a sudden downpour. The rain actually offered respite from the heat, and the stone was gritty enough to climb when wet. I found Lucho soaked but psyched at the belay. As quickly as the rain had come, it went, and by the time I led the seventh pitch the sun had dried me out. My hornet stings began to throb as I belayed Lucho up. Then the clouds blew back in while Lucho led the eighth, and crux, pitch, with a hard 5. Wild cloud-to-cloud lightning began to flash around us, and another downpour hit as I started following the pitch. Was it possible to get struck by cloud lightning? By the time I reached the crux, a waterfall covered it. Facing a nasty pendulum, I held my breath, submerged, and somehow stuck to the crimpers that led to the other side of the cascade. Past the hardest climbing now, we simul-climbed to the end of the rock. The rain subsided, and another few hundred feet of bushwhacking took us to the summit. We climbed a spindly tree to get a view. The swirling clouds were on fire with oranges and reds, and we could see far into the interior of the island, where more wild towers protruded from green ridges, too far into the jungle to probably ever be climbed. The idea of rappelling at night into the hornet-ridden jungle seemed less than awesome, so we open bivied on the summit. We awoke in the middle of the night and noticed that our bed of leaves was glowing, covered in a phosphorescent mold. At around two in the morning, a new display of lightning convinced us to head down. All I could think about was hornets. But we made it down the wall and through the jungle without incident, and retired to our bungalow on the beach to enjoy a couple of rest days. After completing the North Horn, we began scoping the south tower from various angles, consulting our notes to figure out where the three existing routes went. Eventually we realized that arguably the most beautiful line, an impressive Nose-like buttress, was unclimbed. After three days of work, using fixed ropes to regain our high point each day, we were nearing the top on our South Horn dream route when Lucho ripped his hook and yet somehow managed to stay on the rock. A few days later we completed our new route to the top. During our forays we had freed every pitch, but the in-a-push free ascent remained. The monsoon was now upon us, and the weather socked in for several days. Lucho made earnest prayers to the mountain to allow us one last moment of passage. Just before a month of nonstop fog and rain, we were granted a five-hour window of dry-ish weather, allowing us, just barely, to complete a free climb to the summit. We stood smiling on top of Tioman Island, looking out over the South China Sea, with a mass of clouds and lightning quickly approaching. We let it all sink in: the surreal setting, the incredible climbs we had established, the many mishaps and mistakes in our pasts—all had somehow led to this moment. Complications of modern life fade away. We are revealed to be fragile animals, in a beautiful and mysterious landscape. Climbing is dangerous, but for Lucho and me the alternative was infinitely more perilous. Climbing had saved our lives. A hard day out followed by a night under the Milky Way was our therapy. Learn about Summit for Someone fund-raising expeditions and the Big City Mountaineers programs for urban teenagers at summitforsomeone. Photo: Jimmy Chin. Heading out the door? How to Return to Climbing After Pregnancy. A Work-Life Balance.
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