jlawrence10

[jlawrence10]

My Favorite Place on Earth

My favorite place on earth... It would be easy to say Portland, and I guess in a way it would be the place to which I would like to always return. There is so much here, and I find here much of what I appreciate and deem significant. And I just fucking love it here, because even when it's rainy and cold and the sun sets at 4:42 PM, you can always find some friends at a bar. You can always find some music in a tiny cafe on Interstate Avenue, that you never would have gone to except some guy you heard once or twice is the first opener for two artists you've never heard of, and actually you and your friends are the only people who leave when he gets done playing because nobody is there to see him (and some people are just there for the coffee) but everyone gets quiet, listens intently, and gives at least respectful applause when he gets done with a song. And they tolerate the fact that the coffee and tea bar is closed while he plays, and the musician REALLY appreciates it, because, "Once there's a little clinking going on, then there's more clinking and then everyone thinks that clinking is ok and just starts to clink away - and this silence is a really nice sign of respect."

But I'm not going with Portland. Too narrow, even though it's not narrow at all.

My favorite place on earth is huge. But it's very specific. And I wish I could draw a picture of it, but I can't draw anything much less a picture of this. So you're going to have to picture it, and you're going to have to deal with the fact that it's huge, and accept the fact that it IS one place but that I can only pass through it, and can only visit certain tiny little parts of it, and even those not so often.

My favorite place on earth is the area just above 10,000 feet, anywhere. And this is all encompassing. It's not really a sphere, geometrically speaking, or maybe it is, but it's a relatively thin layer, maybe only about 100 vertical feet thick, and it runs all around the earth, so I guess I only get to pass through it occasionally. But I guess it's my favorite place on earth because of what is there, in some rare places, and because of what it means at the other times when there is nothing there.

When climbing a mountain 10,000 feet is a milestone. You've watched your altimeter tick up from maybe 4000 feet, through 8000 and then through the 9000s as you approach 10,000. And then the satisfying rollover, the added digit, that really means nothing because what is a foot, really, except maybe the arbitrary length of some piece of some king's throne one time, or the length of someone's actual foot back when they were trying to establish some units of measurement? But at that point it's a milestone, because the added digit means you've come so far, and because the math is so much easier now, at least briefly. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to subtract 10,000 from the height of the summit you're headed for, so now you know just about exactly how much you have left (if you can remember the height of the summit in feet, which for some of us ain't easy).

But when you're climbing in the Pacific Northwest, you're often passing that 10,000 foot mark right around sunrise, or rather just as the sky is beginning to lighten in the east. And that little bit of light is all that you need. There's a saying, "It's always darkest before the dawn," and I would guess that that saying was coined by a mountaineer. Because there are times during each climb when it's just not fun. It's freezing. You're exhausted. You can't see past the circle of your headlamp and honestly for about an hour now all the snow and ice within that circle has looked just about the same. Since maybe 2 AM it has been turn-off-the-brain-and-just-keep-putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other.

But right around 10,000 feet you start to see some light in the east, and that keeps you going. It's an emotional and physical response, rooted perhaps in our primitive brains, where sunrise meant light and heat and safety and another day. But you feel it, and it keeps you moving. Or maybe it makes you stop for a second, have a drink of water and a frozen Snickers bar and appreciate that moment, up here where that invisible 10,000 foot sphere overlaps land in one of only a few places in the Pacific Northwest.

On Mt. Hood, my first mountain, 10,000 feet is right around a feature called Hogsback, where you drop your packs for a bit, tie into the ropes, and start the real, steep climbing in earnest. At 10,000 feet on Mt. Hood you get a shocking realization that you are on (in!) a volcano, because you can smell the sulfur from the fumaroles, and you are actually surrounded by crater walls that rise 1000 feet above you on three sides; that in fact block out that sunrise, exposing only an increasingly blue sky above, until you crest the crater rim and get hit by that sun which by now has risen a few degrees above the horizon and provides you with very welcome warmth.

But there is more to 10,000 feet than climbing in the Pacific Northwest. One day I hope to visit regions where 10,000 feet is nothing, because the mountains around rise above 20,000 feet. Will that diminish the significance of 10,000 feet for me? Well, I'm sure there are a lot of siginificances that are diminished when you're surrounded by mountains that rise 20,000 feet, but it's a chance I hope to take. (Mt. Everest itself is over 29,000 feet, and the mere BASE CAMP for climbing Everest is at 17,500.)

The only other time I visit 10,000 feet I probably don't even know I'm there, since I'm in a pressurized cabin sipping on a free soda and being told I can now safely use my electronics. The airplane is going to cruise at around 30,000 feet and I'll only briefly pass back through 10,000 on the way down. I've just left Portland and maybe I'm headed to see my family at the beach in North Carolina. Maybe it's my trip to Hong Kong or New Zealand. Maybe it's just a day or two in California for work. But passing through 10,000 feet; well, it means I'm going somewhere. And while the novelty of airports has worn off, the novelty and feeling of travel never will (at least, god, I hope not). Even looking down on things from 10,000 feet in the warmth of the cabin with a cold Diet Coke gives you a fresh perspective on things, if only because you can only be up there so often, and for so long. Or maybe I'm passing through 10,000 feet on the way back down, back into Portland, realizing we're still up around 15,000 feet for now because I can still see the top of Mt. Hood out the left side of the aircraft.

Well OK by me, because I'm coming home. I'm going to land soon, and switch on my phone to a text from Liz that says, "Welcome home!" because she knows when my flight lands and can't wait to see me. I'm going to walk out of the airport in Portland after one of my many 'experiences of a lifetime' (say, seven weeks in Hong Kong), with a renewed appreciation for how clean and fresh and alive the air smells in Portland in February, and with a renewed appreciation for how goddamn cold it feels here since it's been rainy and 40 degrees for a week and a half and we won't see the sun again for another two. But somewhere in this city I've got friends. Maybe they're watching an unknown singer/songwriter in a little coffee shop on Interstate Ave. More likely they're laughing or maybe throwing darts over some drinks in a dive bar in Southeast.

Shit, these days maybe it's Liz and Caitlin holed up a little bit, taking care of their 3 week old son Ren at home. And maybe I didn't get the text from Liz because she couldn't come get me at the airport and maybe doesn't know exactly when I arrive because she now has a family to worry about. And I might not even see her for a few days, but dammit good for her and Caitlin. But I'll see them soon enough, and when I do it won't have been too much time that has passed, because I've known Liz now for almost 20 years, so what's a few days or even a couple weeks between good friends?

Or maybe, as happened one night, I will arrive to a freak Portland snowstorm, sit on the plane at the gate for an hour and a half, have to dig my car out of a snowdrift, pass a burning car on Burnside and 39th (everyone was fine, I checked) and still find my friends Nick and xTonyx waiting up for me at 1 AM with some beers cooling outside in the snow. And I'll do a huge snow angel in front of xTonyx's picture window when I arrive, and those guys will give me a hug when I come in even though I'm all wet from the digging out the car and the snow angel. And at maybe 2:30 AM, driving through the snowbanked streets back to my house, I'll pass a half naked woman outside a local strip bar, having pictures taken of her as she twirls 4 little flaming pots of fuel around her body on the end of some yard long ropes because, hey, welcome back to Portland, Josh.

Ok, I just changed my mind. Portland is my favorite place on earth.

[jlawrence10]

A Spring Softball Story

By any measure other than wins, runs scored, and runs allowed, it had already been a successful spring season for the legendary Gil's Speakeasy's Box Knockers softball team. A sponsor bar had been found. Four pitchers awaited the team after every game. Four pitchers. Exactly the same amount of different pitchers used in most games by the team. In the dugout, the team continued to insure the future of Irving Park's homeless population by creating dozens and dozens of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans every week, leaving them considerately piled BESIDE the trash can, for ease of collection, and redemption. Speaking of redemption, the team's second baseman had curtailed the nasty habit of ducking when a double play ball was tossed his way, and had been turning in solid innings all season at the two bag. The uneven dirt area around third base had taken its toll on the team, already having caused two right ankle sprains, in eerily similar slide/don't slide split second decisions. Ironic that third base, a base visited so rarely by the team (at least ON the field), would have had such an impact on this team.

Sunday, May 9th. Mother's Day. The texts started rolling in early. Milon was a no-go. Junior had to visit his mommy and couldn't make it. Carrie, such a staple of this team in right field and at home plate, would be 1700 miles away, in Washington state. And our fearless, vocal, strong kneed Captain and leader, Elliot, would be missing the game.

Four of the players and our dugout manager had just come down from a 6000 vertical foot climb of nearby Mt. St. Helens. Nick was raccoony. Bob had a dress tan and was groggy from his nappy. Josh was fighting a cold. K kept the PBRs full despite a fatigued pouring hand after such a weekend. And Carla... Well, Carla wasn't tired at all. Carla's weariness would later be recognized as a ploy to keep the opponents off guard to her sly base running tactics late in the game.

Help was enlisted. Reedy Dan came strolling in shortly before game time - "I've played softball once or twice." Not like this, Dan. Not like this.

Without guidance from Elliot, last minute changes were made. KJ was moved in to play short center field, even though she's not really that short. A last minute switch putting Josh in the third batting spot and dropping Nick into cleanup would be talked about as perhaps the managerial coup of the day, second only to throwing Scissors in the fourth and fateful Rock, Paper, Scissors round, after three draws. "HOME," we chose, realizing only after choosing that this meant we would get to bat last.

The game begins. The pitcher is getting battered. The batters are getting bitchy. The bitches are getting pitchers, after the game, at Gil's Speakeasy on SE Taylor and 7th.

In the third inning, it’s 15-2, bad guys. A snide comment to the ump from the Box Knockers' dugout: "When do you stop announcing the score out loud?" is answered, seriously, with a sobering, "Now."

A couple calls go the wrong way. One inning at bat for the Knockers lasts about 20 seconds. One inning at bat for the Purple Team lasts about 20 minutes. It isn't looking good. But then, hobbling up the hill comes TJ, crutches and an air cast! Can he really play? Is it possible!? No chance. But he does drink a couple beers and gets to hang out with K in the dugout, so that's cool.

Somewhere around the 5th inning, something is in the air. Nick has taken over mound duty and has fallen into a slow pitch groove. Bob and Brian in the outfield are making plays, catching fly balls! (Sounds easy but you try it, jerk...) Dan shakes off the rust and locks down the right side of the infield. Josh at shortstop makes a play or two without breaking or spraining anything. Liz is digging balls out of the dirt at first base, and Brian cools off the hot corner with a couple strong stops.

The bats heat up. A pre-game comment from a fan - "Is that bat from 1980?" - comes back to mind, as this 30 year old bat starts knocking balls through the legs of infielders, proving that 30 years isn't that old. Nick, swinging lefty, cracks a home run and then runs up Josh's back on the way to home plate. Hustle prevails as our two favorite C words, catchers Caitlin and Carla, reach base multiple times. Brian H. is hitting solid liners, and Dan's unorthodox, Liz inspired running swing seems to be working. Suddenly we've got a ballgame on our hands. It's 18-13, bad guys. It's the bottom of the 7th.

Something else is in the air: thunder and lightning. The Underdog League Commissioner is present and warns us that this game could be called at any moment if there is any sign of lightning in the area.

Famous hardball manager Leo Durocher once said, "God watches over drunks and third basemen." Well, we may not be great third basemen...

But the Box Knockers have paid their dues. They had been to the mountain top, and peered into the steaming, seething crater, and laughed, sipping Mimosas all the while. They had visited their mommies and taken their nappies. Faces were sunburnt, legs were tired, ankles were sprained. Boring graduations were being endured in the name of family. This wasn't just about the 10 women and men out there that day, it was about all Box Knockers, back through history. This was for Elliot, the lifeblood and founder of this team, 4200 miles away in Washington state. For K, passing out the cups in the dugout, meant to disguise the alcoholic nature of the beverage held therein, but, sadly, transparent, and labeled clearly with a COORS LIGHT logo. This was for Alex, the estranged former pitcher and second baseman, long since cut from the roster. For TJ, on the bench, crutches and aircast and beer. For under-appreciated KJ, reliably holding down the outfield week in and week out, and getting solid base hits every game. For Milon, who takes his knocks at second base and some shit from his teammates, but we wouldn't trade him for anyone, unless the right deal is offered next season. And for that guy who showed up one time with Brian, whose name I don't remember but he was wearing a green shirt and weirdly got into the team picture. This was for all of them.

There would be no lightning on this Mother's Day, but around Northwest Portland that day, the reports of thunder would come rolling in from all corners. Some described it as a cracking sound. Some thought it had a sort of 30 year old, aluminum feel to it. I guess by now you've figured out that that wasn't thunder that people were hearing. We're still actually not sure exactly what people were hearing that day, but we do know this: Gil's Speakeasy's Box Knockers started getting some hits.

Down by 5 in the last inning. Brian H. smacks a home run. Caitlin hustles out a grounder to reach first base. Dan gets into the action with a base hit. Brian A. legs out an infield single to keep the inning alive. KJ goes down (if you know what I mean) but goes down swinging. Josh turns in his 5th single of the game, and Carla sneaks home, narrowly beating the throw to cut the deficit to 2. Up steps Nick. 2 outs. Runners on second and third. Down by 2. Well, Nick's having a pretty damn good weekend. He climbed his first mountain the day before, enduring thigh cramps and a beating sun that has turned his forehead the color of Purple Team's t-shirts.

An observer standing on second base, representing the tying run, remembers thinking not merely, "This is going to happen," but actually feeling as if it already had. We had already won. We had been down 15-2 to a team that wasn't drinking any beer, probably hadn't climbed any mountains the day before, likely wouldn't be hanging out playing shuffleboard after the game, and had definitely weeded out some of the weaker players to get a team of folks that had played before, and could play well. But, no matter what happened with Nick's at bat, we had already won because damn it we're a bunch of friends out there on a Sunday having a hell of a good time. That's what I felt standing out there on second base as Nick's hit sailed over my head, then over the head of the right fielder, and that's what I felt as I defiantly stepped on that goddamn third base with one of my two braced ankles, and that's what I felt when Nick crossed home and we all ran over and hugged the team as they poured out of the dugout to greet us. And perhaps it's appropriate that we weren't totally sure if we had won the game or just tied it, but who cares? We had already won by being out there that Sunday, by hustling out the grounders down by 13 runs, by drinking the beer and climbing the mountains and visiting our families and having some fun. And, well, it IS more fun when you win actually as well as figuratively, so that was like icing on the cake. Now, who's coming to Speak?

[jlawrence10]

This was our summit on Thursday morning, and it was a good one. 2:30 AM, a full moon rising over boiling clouds, as climbers trickled out of the RMI Expeditions hut at 10,000 feet to come to terms with the fact that we weren't going any higher.

--------------- I have made no attempt to keep this short. ---------------

As many of you know, I was honored with an invite to join the second Climb for Clean Air Rainier Team on a summit attempt with RMI Expeditions this past week. It's a 4 day program of learning about gear, mountain techniques, and snow climbing, with a stay at their hut halfway up the mountain at Camp Muir, and one shot at the summit on Thursday morning.

I always advise new climbers not to obsess over the weather forecast, because all it does is cause stress, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. So as I obsessed over the weather forecast for a week prior, I could tell that it wasn’t looking good. But you've got to stay in the frame of mind that a window might open up, so you're ready for a shot at the top if it comes. That can be difficult; a few of us camped in the rain on Monday night, but for Tuesday's snow climbing class the weather was mostly acceptable. No view of the mountain, but some sun breaks, and hardly any rain at all.

I guess the rain was saving itself up for Wednesday, when we had to climb from the Paradise area of Mt. Rainier National Park, 4 miles and 4500 vertical feet with full overnight packs, weighing in between 40 and 50 lbs. As we pulled into the lot at Paradise, the windshield wipers were going strong, and instead of hopping out into the rain to gear up, our guide Win Whittaker asked the bus driver if we could pull up to the lot in front of Paradise Lodge to go inside and gear up instead. Neither Win, the longtime guide/bus driver/partial RMI owner Joe, nor 7 year guide Mike knew if there was space to turn the bus around in the lodge lot. They had never had conditions that warranted pulling up to the lodge to get geared up. I took this to be a pretty bad sign.

But gear up we did, and out into the rain we went. There's not much choice. If you want a shot at the top, you have to get to Camp Muir at a decent hour to rest up, eat, and hydrate. The hike out of Paradise and onto the Muir snowfields was... well, it was a little bit fun to be honest with you. But it was also pretty horrible. Our guide Mike would later say that it was the worst day on the snowfield he had ever experienced, and he's been guiding for 7 years. (I’m sure he says that every time it rains, but whatever…) It was basically a recipe for hypothermia. Temps hovering between 35 and 42 degrees, heavy rain, and winds gusting to probably 40 mph.

This team was amazing.

We put our gear on, put our heads down, and just took off into the clouds. At times it was just breezy and moist. At other times we were nearly blown off our feet. And at times the rain was just soaking. Our amazing guides Win, Mike, Abby, Drew, Avery and Matias kept checking in with each and every one of us. Are your hands ok? Is anybody chilled? Do you have plenty of energy? I realized later that these check ins were also our chance to bail out. Mike said that 9 out of 10 teams he has guided wouldn't have continued up into such conditions. But for this team, it never even came up. They've all raised a ton of money for the American Lung Association, and unlike many who call themselves mountaineers, they weren't climbing for themselves. They were climbing for the friends, families and colleagues who had donated to the cause. They were climbing for the husbands and wives who had held down the fort at home while they hit the trail every damn weekend since February. They were climbing, and I was climbing, for the loved ones we've lost to lung disease and fucking cancer, and we weren't going to let a little rain slow us down.

In fact, the rain sped us up. Usual time to Camp Muir on a nice day is about five hours. We did it in just over four. We didn't take any sit-down breaks, and in fact I only took my pack off once, when I decided I needed to sacrifice a valuable pair of dry gloves, because my hands were getting chilled to the point where I couldn't really use them anymore.

At about 9000 feet, as we hit a very exposed snow field with steady winds and near-freezing rain, our guide Avery looked back at us, and said, "You guys are gonna have to keep up with me. We are not going to go slow." This made me pretty happy because I knew a faster pace would warm me up. I'm not sure if all my fellow climbers shared this sentiment.

We pulled into Camp Muir, ditched our packs, and piled into the RMI hut, which is a small room filled mostly with bunks. Those of us that had any dry clothes changed into them. Those that didn't stripped down and climbed into their sleeping bag. Those that had a leak in their trash-bag-pack-liner shared a sleeping bag until the guides rustled up an extra, warning that, "It probably smells like guide."

It was about 3:00 PM, the wind kept howling outside, the rain and snow and sleet kept pounding the hut, but we were safe and comfortable for the time being, as Win and Mike came in to brief us on tomorrow's summit attempt. Win started in to his usual, "We'll wake you up between midnight and two..." but then stopped, got a sort of "fuck it" look on his face, and said, "I'm gonna be frank. It's not looking good." We'd all seen the forecast. We all had layers that were soaking wet. Some didn't have any dry gloves, and others had boots that had either soaked through, or filled up from the top. Efforts to hang clothes to dry in a hut in a rainstorm filled with 18 warm breathing bodies were mostly a kind of charade. The best technique was wringing out a layer, hanging it for a couple hours, and then either putting it in your sleeping bag (bad!) or just putting it on (worse!). We all knew the situation, and I think we all appreciated Win's honesty. He and Mike still briefed us as if we might give it a shot, and Win insisted later that he hadn't actually ruled it out until 2:00 AM because dammit he was weathered off on his last attempt too.

After a lot of hot water bottles, some bad jokes (Mike), some good riddles (Matias), some enthusiastic chatter (Charyl), we settled in for "quiet time" at about 6:30 and tried to sleep a bit as the wind kept pounding the hut.

2:00 AM had to come. I guess I slept a bit because before I knew it, Win was in there. "It's not in the cards, guys." He reiterated that winds up high were forecast over 60 mph, temps were dropping, and drove the point home by grabbing a couple pieces of hanging gear, which were still dripping wet. He knew that putting on wet gloves and wet boots and climbing into freezing winds is a recipe for disaster.

I think we all knew it. For me, it wasn't a surprise, and the disappointment had settled slowly rather than punching me in the gut. But I've been up Rainier before. And I have a good chance to go up again. For some of these folks, this was their second attempt after raising a ton of money, twice. For others, this may have been their only shot. And I was feeling pretty devastated for them. I took in the news, laid back for a few minutes, and decided that since I was up I might as well head over and use the smelly bathrooms. I put on some layers and slipped into my damp boots. I got to the door, lowered my head and stepped out into the presumably howling winds and rain. As I got out there and looked around, these words came to my mouth:

"Fuck. It's perfect."

The winds had calmed. The clouds had lowered. A full moon was rising to the south over a boiling sea of clouds that were rolling rapidly east and, as one climber later put it, "Looked alive."

I turned and looked at the upper mountain, and it was lit brightly by the moon and looked so cold and beautiful set against a sky of stars that shone strongly despite the overpowering moonlight.

I'm not gonna lie - My first reaction was anger and frustration and doubt and questioning of the decision to not climb. The night seemed ideal. But I was being a selfish idiot. Win has climbed this mountain 140+ times. Mike has climbed 35+ times. There were six incredible guides with years of experience agonizing over this decision for hours, and if I'm not gonna trust them to make the right decisions to keep us safe, then I certainly shouldn't tie into their rope and put my life in their hands at 14,000 feet. But I DID trust them to make the right decisions to keep us safe, and I would have trusted them with my life at 14,000 feet, and as they proved to us during that trip and later on in the warmth at Base Camp back in town (warmth provided by hot showers, central heating, and a few beers), they wanted that summit as much as we did. And not for themselves, but for us, and for our donors, and for our family members and colleagues and husbands and wives and girlfriends without whom none of us would be here.

But here we definitely are, trickling out of hut at 10,000 feet at 2:30 in the morning, eyes adjusting to the bright moonlight and taking in the rolling clouds below us and the bright moon above. Tears were shed. Hugs were shared. Someone brought out a decent sized flask of decent bourbon and that someone was me. Someone else went back in to the hut and whispered that if anyone was awake, they should really come out and have a look. Pictures were taken, and there was some half-joking discussion about finding a rope and going up anyway, but overall the mood as I read it changed from one of disappointment and sadness to simple and sincere appreciation for where we were at that moment. Not many people ever got to see what we were seeing, and got to be part of a team like this. We looked around at the people we had met earlier that week, earlier this year, or in some cases over 12 years ago because of this program, and we felt good about what we had done and where we were at that very moment.

Eventually we had to go back inside, grab a few more hours of sleep, and wait for the time that the rest of the world knows as morning; actual sunrise. The sun rose on a brilliantly clear morning, clouds still churning below us, as our guides shuttled enormous fluffy pancakes down from their quarters, and we started to pack our things. We descended back down into the clouds, but it was merely foggy and a little moist, nothing to worry us mountaineers.

Back in town, we had some showers and some food and some beers, and gathered for a little ceremony to get our certificate of (the carefully worded) “Participation in an ascent of Mt. Rainier.” Everyone spoke a bit about what they had learned, and watching people shrug off the disappointment and tell stories of gratitude and joy and learning and accomplishment just drove home my love and appreciation for this team and this program.

When it was my turn to speak about what I had learned, I kind of cheated. It’s something that I re-learned and that I re-learn every time I’m out there.

Signing up for some weird fundraising, mountain climbing program after hearing a radio ad in 2007… Getting out of bed on a dark, rainy February morning to do some training hike you’ve already done 17 times… Heading out to the mountains even though the forecast isn’t great and it might be too cold or wet or windy to go very high… Heading out to Ashford, Washington with a bad forecast and a low chance at a summit, and diving headlong into a cold soaking rain to slog up some snowfield to spend a wet night in a leaky hut at 10,000 feet…

What I re-learned was this: It’s always worth it.

Because you may end up with some lifelong friends.

And you may end up in a newly built yurt on a smooth concrete floor, as Win Whittaker plays guitar and forgets lyrics, while newly minted mountaineer Steve plays a damn good backing drum and Paul strolls in with a strong clear voice and I think a Nalgene full of ice? that sounds surprisingly good as a shaker. And he’s especially adept at looking up lyrics so we can all try and mostly fail to sing along.

And you may end up at 10,000 feet, gazing at the most amazing moonrise you’ve ever seen, feeling life in the form of disappointment and sadness and gratitude and love and awe and wonder and burning whiskey and a dull headache and tears drying on your cheeks.