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Matthes – Moments, Mistakes, and Mileage

Saturday, 16 September 2016. 5:31 AM.
Sitting in my car at the Cathedral Lakes Trailhead in Tuolumne waiting for the sun to rise and begin to warm everything, I watch hiking groups and climbers come and go. I had driven into the area late the previous night and struggled to find an available campsite. The season in Tuolumne was coming to an end, campgrounds would be closed in a week or so and I would be embarking on a two month roadtrip across the U.S. within that same margin. If Alwin and I hoped to climb the Matthes Crest Traverse before next summer, it had to happen this weekend. The original plan was to meet Friday night in Tuolumne. I arrived later than I’d hoped and Alwin was running even further behind. His last message said he would be sleeping in Oakhurst and would meet me at the trailhead between 5:30 and 6:00 AM. My phone buzzes. I raise it to read Alwin’s text, “I slept here in the valley just woke up I’m on my way please wait for me.” I chuckle because I have no intention to solo the route, waiting for him is my only option. The Sun rises. More groups come and go. I take various photos. I read a magazine. I contemplate napping, but think it could be a bad idea as it may make me more groggy. I use the porta-potty. I sort my rack. His mini-van arrives. 7:30 AM. I didn’t suspect I was two hours into a 21-hour day.

Tuolumne Meadows is the Eastern portion of Yosemite National Park—the high country. Accessible from the meadows is the Cathedral Range where you’ll find many higher altitide climbs including Matthes Crest, a nearly mile long fin of granite rising at its highest point 900ish feet above the valley below (nearly 11,000 feet above sea level). Many hike the 4-5 miles to its base to climb its face and traverse its thin—occasionally knife-edged—and featured ridge line.The most common route is to traverse from its South face two-thirds of its length to the North Summit where the climbing gets harder, rappel off, and hike back the 4-5 miles to the trailhead. This was our plan.

As we sorted the remaining gear in Alwin’s van, the full story of his tardiness was revealed. He had been battling a bout of food poisoning the night before and crashed in his van near a restroom. The night alternated between attempts to sleep and emergency sprints to the toilet. He was finally able to relax in the early morning and slept through his alarm. His stomach had settled, but he was operating on very little sleep. We collectively did not have a full night’s rest between us and we were now 2 hours behind schedule. We shouldered our bags, stashed Gatorade and snacks in a nearby bear box, and began the hike into the backcountry.

Cathedral Peak is a beautiful 700 foot granite triangle protruding from the Earth and demarcating the boundary of the Cathedral Range. We hiked past it reminiscing about when we had each climbed it in the past. The valley dropped below us and we hiked down towards the Cathedral Lakes where we briefly joined the JMT (John Muir Trail) and were greeted by campers and a family of deer.  We had missed an earlier side trail skirting Budd Lake leading to Matthes more quickly. The views we were absorbing, the deer, and the perfect weather were worth the added mileage. At this point. We began heading uphill towards a long ridge partially obscured by trees. The contours didn’t seem quite right and it appeared less imposing than I expected. We forced our way up the slabs and the closer we grew, the more I doubted the formation. I stopped to remove the guidebook from my pack. As I turned, I saw an unmistakable ridge line—beautiful and intimidating—directly across from us. On. The. Other. Side. Of. The. Valley. We were near the foot of Tresidder Peak, a mile away from Matthes  and with 3,000 or so feet of elevation change to navigate between the two points. Neither of us would be applauding our navigation skills for the day. With a collective sigh, we began our descent.

Saturday, 16 September 2016. After 2:00 PM.
After 6 hours of hiking, a laborious scenic detour, and never-ending ascending slabs, we found ourselves triumphant at the base of Matthes. I snacked, Alwin took the world’s shortest power nap, and we tied in. Matthes is notoriously crowded. Not if you start after 2:00. The only other group we would see was already transitioning from the climb into the long traverse.  9 hours in and I was finally ascending rock. The climb of the Southwest Face was straightforward and uneventful. We each lead a pitch and were on the summit in a reasonable time. 2 pitches with a 70 meter (230 feet) rope, our only rope—a decision we would regret.

To attempt to belay all of the half-mile traverse would be ludicrous. Most simul-climb or solo the traverse. We were unsure when we could comfortably stop belaying and start simul-climbing. The answer was almost immediately. Alwin belayed me as I began the traverse and ascent up a short slabby crack section. I placed one piece, stepped above it and yelled back that it was much easier than it appeared. “Let’s simul.” Simul-climbing is precisely what it sounds like: simultaneous climbing. There is no belayer. The leader places occasional protection, the follower stays a safe distance behind cleaning the gear as he also climbs. It is far less safe, but the right call in certain situations such as this one. To be fair, most of our “climbing” was careful walking and scrambling with periodic technical moves. The rock face did fall several hundred feet straight down on either side of us so the “walking and scrambling with periodic technical moves” could be intimidating and the consequences were severe. The wind blew constantly, the view was spectacular, we took turns leading, enjoyed the featured climbing, and moved at a steady pace past the halfway point steadily working in the direction of the South Summit and towards our worst decision of the day.

I was carrying two cameras: an old Panasonic GX7 in my pack and a small GoPro Session on my helmet. Each was fairly new (to me). The GX7 was purchased on ebay and this was its maiden voyage. I would often pull it from my pack to grab photos and videos (such as the one embedded above). The GoPro Session was on its second adventure, the first having been a route called Fingertrip on Tahquitz in Idyllwild a week prior (also with Alwin). I have been using GoPro cameras for seven years in all sorts of environments. The only time I had ever lost one was years ago when I stupidly told a friend to throw it to me while I treaded water in a frigid dark pothole in Eaton Canyon. Otherwise, I had abused the shit out of these cameras with minimal consequences. A small latch on the Session would be my undoing. I was leading again and moving into a tricky section with an awkward downclimb into a thin backwards traveling traverse. I hugged the rock, shimmied along, and turned my head to check my surroundings. Scrape. Pop. Whoosh. A small latch on the Session had popped open, the camera shot off the back of my head and bounced down the slabby face below. I completed the traverse and settled onto a much roomier ledge. I built an anchor around a small bush and squinted searching the ledges below where small flecks of rock twinkled as if from a tiny camera lens while awaiting Alwin’s arrival.

We reviewed the situation. All of the most interesting footage of the day (feet walking knife-edges, thin traverses, expansive vistas surrounding intense exposure) was on that camera plus the camera was practically brand new. If we finished the route and descended at the North Summit, we’d never make it to the base where the camera may lay before dark. Besides, it was probably on one of the many ledges directly beneath us. As I struggled with a decision, Alwin’s words surprised me, “We have to find your camera.” It is said you can retreat at many places on the West face and there was evidence someone had done so before—tat decorated the shrub I had slung. To get off the North Summit only required two or three raps with a 70 meter rope and we expected this section to be similar. We’d be down before dark and we could search each ledge along the way. Logic had left us. And so we descended.

Two raps down. No sign of the camera. We continued expecting each rappel to be the last. The Sun was rapidly disappearing. The rope sometimes wouldn’t quite reach the next ledge and so we found ourselves at dusk down-soloing a 40 foot crack. If only we had carried a second rope. Anchor options grew less ideal with each ledge and I was always concerned the rope would snag on the pull. Alwin had forgotten his headlamp in the van during the tumultuous morning. We continued in the dark sharing my headlamp or using the flashlight on Alwin’s phone. 6 raps in lead to another down-solo through choss and dirt piles, our supply of quicklinks and emergency webbing dwindling. As we sacrificed my cordelette and one of Alwin’s carabiners on rap 8, we hoped once again to be embarking on our final rappel. The fates smiled upon us. The ground flattened, the rope pulled, and we scrambled down into the dark woods, the Session visible nowhere. I estimate we had been rappelling for over three hours.

We bushwhacked through the wooded area and emerged into the open valley. We could see headlamps high on the North side of Matthes. Others were sharing a similar fate. We wished them luck and continued into the night. Discussing our options we agreed on a sound plan of action, perhaps our first of the day. We didn’t dare try to take the shorter route back to the trailhead. We had missed it by day, our chances would not be better in the dark. Yet, we knew where to find the JMT, and although a longer route, we knew it would lead back to the trailhead without a doubt. We shuffled for hours and I often fantasized about the Gatorade awaiting me in the bear box. We had both run through our water and were finishing our meager snacks. Tuolumne is still beautiful under moonlight, but we were exhausted and the trail never seemed to end. Our breaks grew more frequent and progressively longer.

Sunday, 17 September 2016. 2:30 AM.
Finally the bear box mirages I kept imagining formed into a tangible solid form—a real bear box. I swung open the door and was greeted by a fresh Gatorade. It was not long for the world. We emptied our contents into our vehicles and caravanned to the campsite where we promptly collapsed and slept until noon. Our plans to climb more on Sunday now seemed ludicrous. We grabbed lunch at the Whoa Nellie Deli and discussed how we need to return this year and properly finish the route. 19 hours seems like an easy time to beat. And that camera is probably still waiting for us. Right?

Five Packed Weeks

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July 14 through August 19 is a bit of a blur. A convergence of events laid the groundwork for five weeks of productive travel. 35 days on the road split by 2.5 days at home. It began as a plan to attend a wedding in Puerto Morelos, Mexico (near Cancun). Erika and I decided it would be a good idea to do some additional exploration in the area since we would already be flying to the Yucatan. Thus, we visited Belize and Guatemala after leaving Mexico where we did a fair amount of diving, cave tubing, ruin touring, chicken bus riding, sweating, and swimming. We then returned to Los Angeles. I had been hoping to shoot some canyoneering footage in the Pacific Northwest and had made some loose plans with folks in the area. I also had begun recording several interviews for an outdoor podcast I was developing while simultaneously working on ways to bring more outdoor related video business to Butcher Bird Studios (that’s my business with some other dudes). The fates alerted me to the fact that the Outdoor Retailer Show and Ouray Canyoning Festival were occurring in succession this summer around the time I was hoping to go to Oregon. The idea for chinnyroad2015 was born. Upon returning from Central America, I would head out on a 4600 mile road trip 2 days later. I piled a large amount of gear into my car and left for San Francisco.

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Over 21 days, I travelled from Southern California to Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and Arizona. I ran 11 canyons (shooting several), recorded 6 podcast interviews, attended the Outdoor Retailer Show, Attended the Canyoning Festival, learned to line dance from elderly strangers in a park, visited many new places, slept in campgrounds, slept in my car, tried Airbnb for the first time, acquired my first smartphone, flooded my new instagram account with photos, made dozens of cool new friends and business contacts, won some prizes, saw a dog standing on a roof, visited a cool science museum, ate dinner at Twitter, spied a “Bigfoot Research Vehicle,” fought the smell of mildew from wet gear in my car with the urinal rich smell of a “new car scent” air freshener, reunited with many long-distance friends across the West, listened to every type of radio program available, slept in a murder motel, visited the shop in “The Middle of Nowhere,” appreciated my hammock, hoped rain wouldn’t turn into flash floods, watched Alden cut out his own stitches, shot footage of the no longer orange Animas River in Durango, watched fawns nursing at a campsite in Silverton, paid for a straight-razor shave, and never once got to climb any of the awesome rocks I saw.

The aftermath of these two trips will sporadically appear in this journal for some time I imagine. And often at chinnyroad2015flashback.

Canyons ‘n Climbs

canyonsandclimbs_thumb001Spring. Flowing water. Tolerable heat. Rampant poison oak. Road trips.

Post Red Rock Rendezvous, life has been a flurry of canyons, climbs, driving, tabletop war, jumping, riding in cars, camping, recording interviews, and work squeezed into the cracks. After learning our descent of the stellar San Jacinto was unfortunately illegal and thankfully avoiding any fines, we headed to Arizona where the Canyons Gods toyed with the weather. Rainy nights and occasional day-time drizzle did not impact us in the end and we were able to run Punchbowl, all of Waterslides, and Christopher Creek. The latter two I highly recommend if in the area. Highlights included stealth rappelling to avoid further scaring a baby mountain goat perched precariously on a ledge, superb natural slides, short rappels that transitioned into jumps, and a roadside sign for “Adult Cabaret” topped by a cow sculpture.

G.O. Get Outside is going to become more than just a video web-series and I am actively recording an audio podcast to accompany it. Ten interviews are currently in the can, the first was recorded in Yosemite’s famous Camp Four featuring a wacky Aussie traveler I met earlier this year in Red Rock. During our short stay in Yosemite, Jeff and I climbed The Grack on the apron of Glacier Point. It was a great confidence builder and a chance to test out the newish GoPro Hero 4.

I ran back to L.A., knocked out a bunch of work, squeezed in a few climbs and a few podcast interviews, then hopped back in the car for a long day of driving, canyoneering, and car shuttling (and a little bear spotting as well). Salmon Creek features a spectacular ~680 waterfall that can be rappelled in multiple stages. We tackled the wall by posting a man at the top of each stage, rigging each rap, then descending in sequence leaving the option to ascend and escape if necessary. This led to a fun-filled hour of standing on a small ledge watching each person rap past while entertaining myself by badly singing bad songs. Hanging 500 feet up on a wall while belting out “Hooked on a Feeling” is something you should all add to the Bucket List. Five stars. The unfortunate part of the canyon was the never-ending bushwhacking during the egress and the poison oak that covered my torso afterwards.

Early June brought a quick trip to one of my favorite climbing spots, Tahquitz, where Brian and I climbed Angel’s Fright and The Trough. The exposure on the last pitch of Angel’s Fright was exhilarating. Brian forgot his climbing shoes in the car and had to lead The Trough (and follow Angel’s Fright) in approach shoes. He does not recommend it. Climbing two multi-pitch routes (even easy ones) in a single day is exhausting, but good practice for my longer term goal to ascend El Cap’s 3000 foot Nose.

A week later brought me to the fabled Jump Trip. It wouldn’t be a true Scott Merrill trip if weather didn’t threaten to interfere. Thankfully, despite the forecast, skies were clear during the day and we were able to descend the upper Section on a Saturday, followed by the more intense lower section the next morning. The two-part Jump Trip is beloved in the canyoneering community for many reasons: gorgeous scenery, interesting wet rappels, copious jumps of varying heights, ample swimming, easy approaches and exits, and the occasional waterslide. Two features I particularly enjoyed in the upper canyon were a stemming section and a twisting, dark, and wet boulder tunnel. Jump is notorious for injuries. There are several down-climbs and traverses that can end in tragedy if the canyoneer doesn’t have the experience to navigate them or makes a mistake. Also, some of the jumps, slides, and rappells can be tricky. After my shake-up last year from my egregious error leading to a 50 foot fall, I was a little intimidated. It was odd seeing myself approaching many of the jumps without my trademark zeal, but with a little trepidation. It was a great prescription for rebuilding my courage and confidence. One in our group twisted his ankle a bit, but we otherwise descended without incident.

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Spring is nearing its close. Temperatures are rising. Summer is beckoning.

Ben Pelletier carried a camera through Jump Trip with us and got many quality photos. A few are featured in the second half of the gallery below.

Across Oceans

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The Emerald Isle. The Alleged Milligan Motherland. The Land of Frightening Backroad Driving. The Realm of Numerous Castles and Cattle. The Place Where My Aunt Discovered Castle Beds Eat iPads. The Island Wherein Erika Passed 30 Years. The United Kingdom. The Even Larger Island of Castles and Varied Accents. The Place Where My Father Celebrated 55 Years of Life and 37 Years of Marriage With My Mother. The Kingdom of Impressive Universities, Fabled Rock-piles and Butter-beer Tours.

Two weeks. Good Times.
Even more photos on Facciabook.

Natural Waterpark

My favorite canyons are wet—preferably with flowing water. Throw in a variety of rock formations/obstacles, some slides, and a few interesting drops and I’m happy. I’ve run a fair number of canyons this year, but one that particularly stands out is Seven Teacups in Kernville, CA. It is a natural waterpark with no lines.

Leading Pitches

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Throughout my entire life, when I’ve seen tall things, I’ve felt this insatiable desire to be on top of them. My childhood included lots of console TV and refrigerator summits. Growing up in the flat, marshy South meant the only things climbable outdoors were trees. Rock climbing didn’t register as an option. After living in California for a few years surrounded by mountains, I realized that attempting to sate that inner yearning could be a reality. It has been three-and-a-half years since I decided to pursue my interest in rock climbing. Before then, I knew almost nothing about climbing.

In 2010, I took every climbing course I could find, read several books, and harassed any friend with a modicum of interest to go climb with me. I bought gear I needed, gear I thought I needed, and started attending climbing events and outdoor film festivals. I became proficient at setting up top-ropes, bouldered a little, and toyed with leading bolted sport routes. I even went to some indoor gyms a few times, although I still haven’t developed a taste for climbing on plastic under a roof. It was fun and, at times, an obsession. Yet, when I think of climbing I think of big walls stretching into the sky decorated with tiny people a thousand or more feet above the ground being gobbled whole by fractured, hungry rock. I think of trad climbing, I think of big wall climbing.

I knew from the beginning that leading trad routes was not something I could jump into. It was a goal to work towards. Thankfully, I was able to start following on multi-pitch trad routes early last year when I met someone who was willing to take me along. Earlier, this year I took the frightful first steps into leading my own single-pitch routes. At first, it was terrifying. It became a little less so with each subsequent lead. Yesterday was another seminal moment in my climbing pursuits. I led my first multi-pitch trad route on Tahquitz in Idyllwild (home of Erika’s beloved childhood camping memories). It is a low grade route called “The Trough.” It went well, I learned new things, and—best of all—I felt confident during and afterwards.

Big walls are still a ways off into the future, but climbing hundreds of feet up smaller rocks in a single day are pretty damn great in the meantime.

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Tradman Begins – The Trad Knight Rises

My First Trad Lead

It’s been nearly three years since I decided to start actively pursuing rock climbing. I’ve been building my skills and knowledge while acquiring experience in the various disciplines. I began with basic toproping and bouldering, then moved into leading moderate sport climbs. Last year I tried ice climbing and began following on multi-pitch trad routes. This has all been part of a process building to trad leading. I finally took that precipitous step this weekend and became a trad leader.

Most of you reading this aren’t climbers and may have no idea what I am talking about. Trad is “traditional” climbing. It’s what most of us think of when we picture rock climbing. Two people standing at the base of a route tie themselves together with a rope. The leader begins scaling the wall, the rope trailing beneath him. The follower stands at the base belaying him—feeding him rope and preparing to soften his fall if one occurs. Periodically the leader places gear (protection – pro for short) into cracks and features on the wall and clips the rope to it. The climbing and pro placement continues until the route is ascended. He builds an anchor, attaches himself and the rope to it, and belays the follower up the wall. The follower removes the pro placed by the leader as he climbs so they may reuse it (on a future climb or the next successive pitch). Leading trad takes more skill and knowledge than toproping and the potential for injury can be much greater. Knowing this, I had no intention to begin leading until positive I could handle the risk and responsibility. It also meant buying a lot of pricey gear to build a rack (a collection of the pro and assorted accessories used to trad climb). As of a few days ago, I had finally built that rack and felt confident I could successfully lead some low-grade routes.

My Trad Rack

There are many places to climb traditionally. Two hours away from L.A is an enormous park full of great trad climbing—Joshua Tree. My friends Al-Insan and Steve were foolish enough to put their confidence in me and agreed to share a JTree weekend where they would aid me in attempting to lead trad (and brave a 24 degree night in a frigid tent). Saturday afternoon, Al-Insan and I found ourselves at the base of a route named False Lieback in a shady and cold grove next to Cap Rock. It seemed like a good choice. It is rated well below the grade I am comfortable climbing (although JTree grades tend to feel much harder than at other climbing areas). We tied in and up I went. The first several feet were easy. I placed a small nut in a tiny flaring crack, attached a quickdraw, and clipped the rope. My first piece of protection was set. I continued up, placed a second piece and found myself in a dilemma. When you are leading, every move matters. You don’t want to slip or commit to something you aren’t positive you can pull off. I had reached a corner that jutted out ahead of me. I would need to traverse over and around this bulge. A mistake would potentially pitch me down onto a boulder and make for a really bad day. When building my rack, I opted to wait on the large size 3 and 4 cams thinking there would be many routes I could climb that wouldn’t need them. Here I was staring at a flaring corner with a size 4 crack above it yet no size 4 cam to place in it. At least twenty minutes passed as I wrestled with committing to this move without that piece of protection (Meanwhile, Al-Insan patiently stood below in the growing cold as his fingers grew numb). I looked for every solution to climb around it and place pro elsewhere—to no avail. I knew it was a move I could do, but I also knew the consequences were bad if I flummoxed it. I considered bailing—quitting. I reached around the rock, stepped onto the face, and chanced it. I stepped up and there was no longer an escape. I was either going immediately up or immediately down.

I had thoughts of an experience I had after moving into sport climbing (lead climbing on walls with pre-placed protection—bolts drilled into the face) on a beachside crag called Point Dume. I once made the mistake to lead a  route on that rock when it was wet. I assumed only the base would be damp. I sadly learned that nearly the entire 90 foot face was dripping wet, so damp it would turn the chalk on my hands into milky riverlets. That wall was 90 feet tall with only 4 widely-spaced (somewhat suspect) bolts. It was a slow frightening ascent, but through persistence and precaution I reached the top that day safe and shaken. Now, I was in a similar predicament on a measly 5.4 climb (half the grade of the aforementioned wet climb when dry) called False Lieback.

With my hands wedged in the crack, I worked my feet around the corner, and moved into a body-sized ascent gully. I was focused and frightened, the crack still seemed too wide for any of my gear and I wasn’t in a position where I felt comfortable pausing to place pro anyway. A toe briefly slipped off a nub. Terror shot through my body. I needed to keep moving! Now! I fought to keep my cool, but also fought to make my way up that incline as quickly and efficiently as possible. Huffing and puffing like an asthmatic, I worked my hands up the crack and my feet up the face gunning for a promising feature I could see ahead. I grabbed a firm hold, slid a cam into a bomber crack, clipped in, and released a triumphant yell. One day school teachers will replay recordings of that yell when teaching students the definition of catharsis. I looked back and saw the previous piece of pro I had placed— 20 feet below me.

I continued on, worked past a less-intimidating bulge, placed a couple more pieces of pro, and stepped onto the summit. An immense sense of accomplishment and relief washed over me. I grinned like a moron and jubilantly waved hello to strangers also atop the rock. Years from now this ascent will likely seem comical and unimpressive. At that moment, it was a victory unlike any I’d had before. Small steps can be immense. As if on cue, Steve walked past and saw us. He had arrived just in time to share in the celebration and take photos. I built an anchor and belayed Al-Insan. I would lead two more less stressful routes on Sunday. Hopefully I will lead many more in the future. Yet, the words “False Lieback” will always hold a special place no others can in my stupid little sentimental heart.

Success

Don’t Forget 2012 Just Yet

Before you get completely cozy in the quilt of 2013, take a moment to watch lots of people jumping off of rocks back in that ancient year of 2012. Maybe you’ll even catch a glimpse of yourself. It’s that time again – annual GoPro compilation starts now!

Basking in the Big Island

Big Island Silhouette

It seems like I am always hearing people in California talk about how they are going to or returning from Hawaii. Even though the flight is only a little longer than a flight to the east coast Erika and I had never been. Finally, that has been rectified. We spent eight days there in the middle of May—specifically on the Big Island.

The Big Island (the one island actually named Hawai’i) is big, larger than all of the other Hawaiian islands combined. It is also less developed than Oahu and the landscapes are more varied—all but 2 climatic zones exist on this one island. We flew into Kona on the Western side (the dry side). I’m not one to fawn over airports (and I haven’t been to all that many), but the Kona Airport is pretty superb. The entire facility is outdoors and each gate is a thatched pavilion. We stayed at the Royal Kona Resort primarily because half of our nights were free thanks to a time-share presentation we had attended in January. There are many nicer upscale resorts on the island, but—as folks used to sleeping on the ground—it was more than sufficient for us. Besides, we didn’t intend to spend much time in the room. We didn’t.

We squeezed as much into those eight days as we could. We spent a day on the Eastern side of the island, but most of our time was on the Western side. I’d like to return and spend several days exploring the lush jungles and forests (full of waterfalls and enormous trees) on the Eastern side of the island. Much of our time was spent participating in water activities: scuba diving, snorkeling, kayaking, and beach bumming.

SCUBA: We went on four dives during the week. The reefs and life in the area are beautiful and the water is a bit warmer than California, but the big draw in Kona is manta rays. Our last dive was the famous Manta Night Dive. This is a surreal experience. For roughly 45 minutes, we sat at the bottom of the ocean while various lights attracted plankton, in turn attracting several mantas. These alien-looking creatures not only swim near you, but often brush across your head as they eat the plankton your dive light attracts.

Snorkeling: We tried various spots, but nothing beat Kealakekua Bay. The hike in and out can be rough, but it is absolutely worth it. If you can only go snorkeling once when in the area, go there. if you don’t want to hike an hour or so down and up the steep trail, you can launch a kayak from the end of NapoÊ»opoÊ»o Road across the bay or go with an outfitter.

Beaches: Big Island has an enormous variety of beaches of all types. The ones we especially liked were:

  • Makalawena – no crowds, sand and rocks, turquoise water
  • Mahai’ula - near and similar to  Makalawena, but easier to get to, great trees for climbing
  • Punalu’u – gorgeous black sand beach, plants growing out of the lava flow
  • Waialea Beach (Beach 69) – easy access, but not crowded, similar to Mahai’ula, but smaller

 Pololu Valley: We drove North until the 270 ended. There we found Pololu Valley. It is a spectacular green valley that opens to the ocean. We hiked down a winding trail at the end of the road leading down to the valley and beach. My words won’t do it justice so I won’t bother. If you are in Northern Hawaii, make the drive to Pololu.

We also had a short visit to Volcanoes National Park where we saw an active caldera and hiked through a lava tube—a cave created from hardened lava. There is clearly lots more to see and do there than we could manage in a few hours. We had a short visit to Hilo, saw Rainbow Falls, visited a macadamia nut farm, and climbed a huge banyan tree. We even attended a luau. It is hard to do everything in eight days on Hawaii (we’d probably need eight years). Now that I’ve been, my list of places to see has only gotten larger.

As we drove to the airport to fly home, we pulled to the side of the highway and explored one last lava tube as the Sun set. We checked our baggage, then sat under the moon as a cool breeze wafted past and planes rolled down the tarmac. I doubt I’ll ever again be so content while waiting for a plane to arrive.

Makalawena Breaks

Gallery is below, but there are even more photos on Facebook.

Canyons and Crags

LSA

Yesterday I headed out to Tahquitz again and climbed six pitches. It looks like I’m moving steadily into trad climbing. That makes me stoked.

I still have a special place in my heart for canyoneering—it combines two of my passions after all: rocks and water. Sunday, Karl and I ventured into Little Santa Anita Canyon. It is filled with several short falls and a few slides. Apparently, it can be a very wet canyon when conditions are right. Unfortunately, rainfall has been lackluster this year. Thankfully, it had rained a few days before and water levels were adequate.

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I received a new GoPro HD Hero 2 a couple of days before. I tested it out in the canyon. So far, reports that it is optically superior to the first generation camera seem to be true. We shot a fair amount of video and I’m sure some of it will end up in an edit some day. Below are a few select screengrabs.