Hardwear Sessions

I looked into the psychology behind my dogma, and came across the 'Yerkes-Dodson law', which presents the following theory: Adventure is a pursuit that is comprised of perilous or uncertain outcome that are undertaken at least in part for the sake of both physical and emotional exhilaration. Quite often these activities have potential for danger. Adventurous experiences create psychological and physiological arousal, which can be interpreted as negative (in the form of fear) or positive (in the form of Zen). The Yerkes-Dodson law demonstrates an empirical relationship between arousal and performance. It dictates that performance increases with cognitive arousal, but only to a certain point: when levels of arousal become too high, performance will decrease. A corollary is that there is an optimal level of arousal for a given task. If this idea were to be graphed as in inverted U, the upward part of the U can be thought of as the energizing effect of the stimulus, whereas the downward section is caused by negative effects of the stimulus (or stress) on cognitive processes. This whole idea struck a chord with me. Is it possible climbing has become my medium for stimulus? Furthermore, will the constant advancements I make with climbing continue to increase my arousal? And how much will it take for me to feel the negative side of the Yerkes-Dodson curve?

I can recall the early climbs at the old hometown crag and remember the exhilaration that I found while trying to scrap my way up my first 5.6, with my hexes falling out below me, and my strength all but gone by the time I reached the anchors. After I mastered all the local climbs, I begin to search for the classics at other crags. I'd load up the truck on a Friday after school, and drive through the night to into the neighboring states, and provinces in search of a 4 star route that I read about in the latest climbing magazine. Monday would come around, and I would be falling asleep at my desk with a grin on my face bigger than anyone else in the class. After a season of this, I figured it was time for my first real road trip. I had finished high school, and had a bank account full of money. I made the several-day drive to the infamous west coast, with nothing but time to kill and gumption to feed. The quest for classics turned into a quest for test pieces, and then the medium turned from single pitch to big walls and long frozen water falls. According to the Yerkes-Dodson law, this progression is quite natural and demonstrates the observed relationship between stimulation and performance.

So why do I climb first ascents? Early in my climbing career, I read an analogy by John Long that used a musician and music to illustrate the relationship between a climber and climbing. Long said that a musician must first start with learning the theory of music if they wish to understand how to play a song. Once the idea of notes and composition are understood, the musician can begin to play songs. The first songs learnt are usually quite simple and predicable, and gradually become more involved and intricate. Eventually the musician will want to express themselves in the form of their own song; each note chosen with care, and each lyric reflective of themselves. Establishing a new climb can have the same intrinsic connection for the first ascentionist as with the composer and their song.

Since I moved to the Canadian Rockies this past winter, I have gotten my hands involved in several new routes. Earlier this winter I began a project which was greatly underestimated. It will still take several return trips to complete, and upon it's completion it will be a story unto itself. More recently, long-time partner Brandon Pullan and I completed a new route on Mt. Yamnuska. My involvement with this particular climb began when Brandon broke into my truck and stole my supply of bolts and half my rack. He then hiked it several miles to the foot of an unclimbed route at the base of Yamnuska, and proceeded up the first pitch. Realizing I may never see my gear again and afraid that my bolts might be going to waste, I decided it best to join him. From there in we swapped leads to the top. It was a spectacular day to say the least. At the top we were feeling pretty full of ourselves for completing the route in such a fine ground-up fashion and decided to name the route "Hot Doggin It" 5.12b IV.

This was just one from the handful of new routes that I have been involved with over the years. In retrospect, it seems that each of the routes holds more than enough memories and adventure for a lifetime. I can recall winds that blew my rope sideways, and blizzards that blew straight up, drinking whiskey in front of the campfire, and rolling cigarettes at the belays. I can recollect humping in endless loads of gear and supplies, rope eating marmots, and bagel stealing squirrels. I can stir up countless sunrises, sundogs, and sunset. And I can promise that anyone else who ventures onto my routes will come away with at least one story to tell.

It seems for me, however, that once the climb completed, and the story told the original thrill soon fades, and I am off again in search of another new route; one that will redefine my character, and prove my abilities yet again; a route that will be a test-piece in every sense of the word. I will pull together all of my past experiences together to push myself forward. And from my past experiences my Mountain Hardwear gear has always stood the test of time, and will always be cornerstone for any of my future endeavors.

(for more information on Climbing on Mt. Yamnuska and my route "Hot Doggin It" check out upcoming issue of Gripped)