Alive 18 years, she's been competing over a decade in youth and big dog competitions. She likes yoga, parcour, and shouting hello to people on the road, where she feels at home with just a climbing bag, two medicine balls and a bar of 87% cacao (chocolate is the evil twin of white magnesium). She blogs prolifically from a traumatic overdose of literature as a child, mumbling things like where she's headed, who she's tackled, and what she sees on the surface of the world - nothing barred (but mostly climbing-obsessed). Loves roaring, circus trickery, and culinary iconoclasm (curry yogurt with goji berries?). But mostly, quietly focusing on the crux of 30-foot boulder problem. Back from a car roll-over on the way from one crag to another, newly broiled from the World Games in Kaohsiung in Taiwan, she's lately been hidden among sumo wrestlers, international sky-divers, dragon boat racers, and even the US Frisbee team (well, technically, it's flying disc). Now, you can fully stalk her on her blog - wherever she is, what's she eating (her culinary iconoclasm) and what she thinks about your problems.
Her sponsors are family, her friends the best spotters, and climbing, her life. ROAR?!
Sorry to all the great friends in El Paso, Texas, for not taking the blue pill.
Sometimes, when every plan to Hueco tanks, a girl with a horse can come along with a truck that can fit the whole Austrian team, their pads, and GG's French afro.
And sometimes, at that same moment, the aroma of coffee from the quadrillion cafes in Boulder loses its Siren-esque allure and a nasal invasion of the highest calling (microwave spicy terriyaki-flavored Thai noodle sauce) carries us to where a job is left unfinished.
And that job is a V11, a V11 that I wish a thousand years of gentle rain erosion upon, because I fell off the finish jug of the thing.
So last week, with dorky gung-ho, I packed my beloved Mad Rock Demons, threw their single pad in the back of the monster-sized truck, took some running shoes complimented with a jar of Nutella, and left the large sub-woofer sitting where it was sitting. And still sits. :(
On the drive down, we memorized a dirty song about cookies and treated ourselves to a little Pete Wingfield.
Nothing could stop us. We were going to Bishop! But that as it may be, as Five and I passed the Danish-breadspired Schat's Bakkerÿ - where they breed possibly the best kneaded bread in the world - childhood memories from early trips to Bishop roared back like a fierce vendettist! (Work with me, just imagine the fuzzy edges.) I fondly remembered a brief rest with my best friend from a hard sun, under the parent's car (and coincidentally, on a nest of fire ants); waking up early and watching the sunrise - when we forgot to put a fly on the tent, it filled with two inches of water, and we had to shiver in the cold as we hung up our wet sleeping bags; ah, and that one time we stopped at KFC on the way home, to celebrate food and life after a hard day at Owen's, and a woman came in to tell us there was a giant, dead bat on our front grill. O, the glory days. But sadly these cherished memories dwindled away as we dug into amazing Japanese food, then wandered over to Rusty's Saloon, and got amazingly drunk with the team from Austria.