Life in the fast lane

"No shit, there I was, 7,000 meters up on the mountain, trapped in my tent because of a storm, and then my partner Andrei starts freaking and coughing his lungs out..." That was the smash-cut opening to a climbing story I once heard around the camp fire, and as a metaphor it is fairly representative of my situation sometime mid-semester. I was involved in no less than six separate science projects, doing a little web development on the side and trying to figure out how to be a good Teaching Assistant (tricker than it looks). Combined with a respiratory infection straight from Hell and a creeping case of insomnia, it was indeed time to give up on this particular ascent and start the retreat to Base Camp. I've since managed to get back on top of things, mostly, but I'm really looking forward to a lengthy trip to Sweden for Christmas Break right about now...

It's been a funny year weather- and climbing-wise around here. Fall came and went both quick and early:

We got some climbing in when the sun peeked out, and ran into a Boulderite or two:

And then it got real cold, real fast:

The first snow storm of the year pounded us pretty early, and surprisingly there's been snow on the ground pretty much continuously since. I've even been out winter bouldering at the Schoolyard, which really brought on some major nostalgia. I used to spend oodles of time fighting snow, ice and the odd polar bear to go climbing in the middle of winter in Northern Sweden. It's an equipment-intensive venture, but when the sun comes out and you find that one spot to climb out of the wind, it's totally worth it:

Photo by Pär Lindholm.

As mentioned above, being a TA isn't as easy as it looks. I've had my fair share of good and bads ones as an undergraduate, but I never really reflected on what they did. I guess I didn't ask too many questions: turns out they do a lot of stuff. Putting 20 hours a week into TAing a 3-credit class where I don't do much grading turned out to be necessary, much to my surprise. Sometimes you get something back for your effort - the students do well on a test, or understand a previously murky concept - but sometimes it feels like a black hole that you're tossing effort into. Much like research that way, I guess.

Toward the end of my time in Umeå I was toying with the idea of getting a teacher's certificate and having a whack at teaching high school science, but now I shudder to think of how badly that would've gone. My current students are all in their early 20's (or older), in the class because they want to be, and in some cases they're even first-year graduate students. And I still get terribly impatient with them at times. Having to deal with teenage kids while attempting to teach pretty low-level biology and chemistry would've resulted in someone's head blowing up: probably mine. That being said, it's been both interesting and rewarding to help people to "get it" this semester. Probably won't sign up again come Spring, though...

On a final and substantially lighter note, I've been listening to more and more country and bluegrass lately. Gillian Welch made quite the impression on me, and while Yonder Mountain String Band doesn't necessarily do so well on the vocalizin' they can pick banjos with the best. My cousin will be elated to hear that I'm even starting to appreciate the odd twang of the steel guitar. Today's guilty pleasure/cultural experience was Trace Adkins. He's indubitably pretty full of himself:



But funny:



And, erm, full of himself:



But according to Wikipedia, he really is pretty bad-ass. Worked an oil rig and got a finger chopped off -- no worries, sewed it back on and kept playing guitar with that hand. Bar fights? No problems. Getting shot twice in the chest by his ex-wife? Aw, just a flesh wound. And that rock-country blend sure is easy on the ears. I nominate him Dictator of Louisiana, or at the very least Real Life Folk Hero To Southern People.

Now you'll have to excuse me, I'm going to sit down and try to digest the tasty Thanksgiving meal that the Allshouse family so generously provided. Happy Turkey Day, everybody!

Americans and their guns

I recently opened my mailbox and found an envelope addressed to some unknown person (presumably the previous occupant of my apartment). However, there was no mistaking who the letter was from: the NRA. From a Swedish perspective, this is a somewhat mysterious organization and you may only have heard about it in the context of Michael Moore making fun of Charlton Heston (shame on you, Michael - you don't pick on people with Alzheimers for being confused). Americans are a little funny about their Constitution, and have kept it in essentially the original form for the last 200 years. In fact, it seems to be second most revered old document after the Bible around here - and I'm pretty sure that many people are just as religious about the Constitution as, well, actual religion. It contains a somewhat ambigously worded 2nd Amendment, refering to "a well regulated miltia" and "the right of the people to keep and bear arms". The former idea certainly helped win the Revolutionary War (a miltia is very handy when you don't have an actual army), but the latter phrase is at the center of a long-term and very inflamed debate about gun control. Essentially, should people be allowed to have all they guns they want? Coming back to the NRA, they're pretty firmly on the side of "more guns for everybody". The native Swede might find this a bit foreign, given the strict gun laws and relative lack of gun-related violence back home (American readers will likely find the high suicide rates of Finland and Sweden in line with their preconceptions). Personally I like shooting guns as much as the next man, but I'm kinda thinking that maybe people don't need more than, say, a rifle (for hunting) and a handgun (for target practice). See e.g. last year's pumpkin.



Anywho, with the recent ascendancy to power of a liberal Democratic President and Democratic control of the House, shooting enthusiasts everywhere are more paranoid than Stalin locked in a closet with five dudes from a Gulag. Ammo has become increasingly expensive due to stockpiling by people who are convinced that someday soon the Black Helicopters are going to come swooping down and take away their firearms. Enter, stage left: the NRA. I offer some excerpts from the 5+ page latter that I got from these nice people. This is about as American as it gets, for better or for worse:

• "We represent your 'special interest' -- YOUR FREEDOM!"


• "[...] a gun-owning voter who will work to elect the Second Amendment's allies and defeat her enemies!!!"


• "[...] you will do more to defend our precious constitutional rights in just one year than most Americans will do in a lifetime!"


• "Plus, if you join NRA in the next 30 days, you will recieve NRA's Heavy-Duty Duffel Bag [...] as a symbol of your history-making commitment to FREEDOM that few Americans can match."


• "Your commitment helps make the miracle of freedom possible."

As you might suspect, I did not send my check or recieve a duffel bag...

Playing tourist/tour guide

Recently had Mom and my sister here to visit - awesome! Showed them around the region and saw quite a few things I hadn't experienced myself. Quite a nice mini-vacation, as it were. The girls are now in New York spending Mom's money (and possibly Dad's, if they find clothes that are expensive enough).

As is customary, I took them up to the Snowy Range first:





And did a lap around Centennial, pop. 100, home to the worst kitsch in the West:



I showed them how fantastic science is:



Then it was off to the rodeo at Cheyenne Frontier Days, which was unexpectedly cool. I'd never gone to one myself, and the girls had certainly never seen anything like it. They were pretty stoked, not least because of the fantabulous hats:



I was a little taken aback at the sheer violence of this most Western of sports, though. It's surprising that these guys last more than a few years doing it professionally:



Then it was off to Rocky Mountain National Park. Arguably one of the coolest mountain ranges this side of the Atlantic, it has grand vistas:





Cute wildlife (hi, Chip! Or is it Dale?):



Pretty lakes:



Unfortunately, most of the park sits well above 10,000 feet and seeing stuff does require walking uphill frequently. Evidently, this doesn't agree with city slickers from sea level for very long:



But temporary hypoxia-induced setbacks aside, we had a blast while they were here. Hope this becomes a yearly tradition - I think it's Dad's turn next year. This time you'll catch a fish, Dad, I promise!

Georgia Boy Awareness Day

I've recently been informed by a certain anonymous reader that I'm portraying my good buddy Tom in a somewhat negative light. Admittedly, it's easy to take that spin - for one thing he photographs so very, very... curiously:



But I'm not an unfair or cruel man - especially not to my friends. So, in an effort to remedy this perceived smear campaign against one of Laramie's finest, I give you a list of Tom's recent accomplishments:

• Acquired no less than three novel and derogatory nicknames in a single weekend up in Lander, including "Dr. Felchman", "Pantene" (an updated version of the previous "Silky") and "a wig riding a chicken".


• Through diligent work at the gym, swelled his already over-sized biceps to such a diameter that the last nickname actually seems appropriate:




• Yarded on gear up numerous finger cracks, while exclaiming "I had it that time!"


• Had a local bar proclaim Wednesdays "Tommy Night". Unfortunately, only patron on Wednesdays is the aforementioned Tommy.


• Had a novel drink named after him at the above bar. Again unfortunately, the name was in fact "Buttercup".


• Fell off a route at Beehive Buttress - likely the first time any climber accomplished this almost Herculean feat.


• Frequently took intellectual high ground by referring to his level of education - his "pH level intellect", to be precise.

Of course this is only a minute sample of all his neigh-well-heroic deeds - the most impressive of which might be putting up with all the shit he gets from his friends...

In other news, I've got family coming in this week and I'm excited about that. Hopefully we'll enjoy some rodeo, mountains and good steaks. If you want to come visit at some point, just shoot me an e-mail!

People from the New Country

I've been listening to a lot of country and bluegrass lately. Both are forms of music that are pretty specific to the US, and to a somewhat limited demographic at that. I guess if you hang around the West and/or rural areas long enough you become part of that demographic. One song in particular has been going 'round and 'round in my head in the last few weeks: "American Remains" as recorded by The Highwaymen. A kind of country version of CSN&Y, this super group only made a couple of albums but put out some great material. This particular song details the lives of "the heroes of the homeland": American archetypes, you might say, all hailing from the interior of the country. From the "shotgun rider for the San Jacinto line" to the "river gambler [who] makes a living dealing cards", they all represent some aspect of the uniquely American experience. It's easy to dismiss the difference between New York City and Kansas City as insignificant compared to, say, the difference between Stockholm and Paris, but there's definitely something about the center that isn't like the edges.



The third verse of "American Remains", sung by the inimitable Willie Nelson, recounts the worries of the Midwest farmer who "rides a John Deere tractor" and who's main concern is that "the rain it hasn't fallen/since the middle of July/and if don't come soon [his] crops will die". I recently attended a scientic conference in Iowa City, smack dab in the middle of the biggest collection of corn fields in the known Universe. The official reason for going was to present a poster with some of my work, but at the same time it provided an opportunity to see something different. And different it was: we drove straight through Nebraska and most of Iowa to get there, and the gradual shift from Wyoming prairie to Nebraska flatlands to the rolling hills of Iowa was surprisingly shocking. I stepped into the car at 7,700 feet and semi-arid desert, but when I stepped out again I was a scant 300 feet above sea level and the humidity was hitting 80%. I hadn't seen that much green, or moisture, since I left England. And I've never seen so much unbroken farmland in my life. The area devoted to food production is almost inconceivably vast, and there are at least five more states that contain more of the same. Conversations with the locals provided some interesting perspectives as well: from corn-fed farmboys to PhD students, they all had a slightly different take on life. For instance, one girl who studied the evolution of reptiles was from a tiny farming community. Her parents and relatives were dyed-in-the-wool conservatives who didn't even believe evolution occurred, much less was worth investigating. However, they were firm believers in practicality, decency and taking time off work to help bring in the harvest. Iowa is known as a pretty good political predictor (particularly of presidential elections), and I guess that Midwest farmer represents something fundamental about the American "folksjälen". I'm still not quite sure what, though...

As for the river gambler, I can't say I have much experience with the South. I've been to Kentucky, which is right across the river from where I used to live, but that's about it. Instead I'll illustrate with a little story that the only Southern boy I know (Tom) told me recently:



Imagine, if you will, a summer day at a lake somewhere outside of Atlanta, Georgia. Kids are swimming and playing, adults are by their picnic baskets eating fried chicken and drinking iced tea, and good ol' boys are enjoying the sunny day on their porches with a mint julep in hand. In fact, one of the little kids is Tommy, zipping along on water skis with his equally tiny cousin driving their Uncle Dimmy's boat. Now Uncle Dimmy has a big old outboard engine attached to his boat, and the boat's going at quite a clip. Tommy's cousin decides to mess with him a bit and starts swerving back and forth, dragging Tommy through the wake. Unfortunately the outboard engine is significantly more powerful than well-attached - a testament to the "ambition over safety" school of Southern engineering - and on a sharp turn it comes loose, jumps five feet straight up in the air, splashes down and sinks like a lead case full of gold. The boys now have two problems: they're stuck in the middle of the lake, and they've just killed Uncle Dimmy's boat. The former is easy enough to solve, but the latter involves informing Dimmy, a gigantic man with a short temper and high blood pressure, that they've managed to lose an entire boat engine. Predictably, Dimmy looks like his head is going to explode when they make it back to tell the story. His already sweaty, balding pate now shows bulging veins and has turned an unmistakable purple color. "GodDAMMIT, Tommeh! How intarnation couldja lose mah engine?!" is only the beginning of an impressive, if slighly unintelligable, rant. However, this is not the first time the engine jumps ship, and Dimmy quickly materializes some help and several wetsuits. The huge engine is somehow salvaged from the lake bottom, dripping with mud and now completely useless. The following days are spent listening to Uncle Dimmy's loud cursing and the sight of engine parts flying through the air as he roars "GodDAMN this engine! Kathy, bring me more Dewar's!" after the umpteenth attempt of a rebuild. The hot, sticky Atlanta weather isn't exactly cooling him down, and as the croaking of frogs and buzzing of mosquitoes signals evening, his drawling curses keep ringing out across that little Southern lake, while little Tommy and his cousin wisely stay out the way for the time being...



In more local news, I've finally recouperated completely from my injury and I'm climbing up to spec again. It feels like I'm significantly weaker than before, but somehow the climbing is going better anyway. I have a sneaking suspicion that loss of arm strength actually forced me to stand on my feet a bit and finally acquire some footwork. Or I got used to crack climbing - either way, I managed to lead my first 5.11 on gear recently. Unfortunately that's all the easy success that's likely to come my way this summer, as the ante must now be upped. This involves the horrendous notion of trying Vedauwoo's signature wide cracks - well known for turning better men than I into quivering piles of bloody flesh. A recent bout with Worm Drive (5.11, #5 Camalots through a roof) left me incapacitated for a few days. Little did I know it was possible to bruise your hips climbing, or that you could actually lose skin on your feet while they're covered in thick leather climbing shoes. And for the ultimate in hubris, 8 miles of switchbacks up to the Red Wall (the poor man's Diamond of Long's Peak) capped by 10 pitches of alpine climbing is scheduled for next weekend. If that doesn't crush me, nothing will...