Installment #1
Pete Ward recently quit his job as the manager of the Northampton, Mass. climbing gym to hit the road on a long term climbing trip with Alyssa Bennett and their dog Sienna.  Pete has agreed to provide us with periodic ramblings about life, climbing, and the road.  

These are the numbers on my mind:

Alyssa and I graduated form Hampshire college in the spring of 1998 with aspirations of world travel. We had $300, no car, and $26,000 of student loan debt between us. There were logistical issue's to be dealt with.

Now it is the fall of 2002. We have $6,500 in savings. We've cut loose from our jobs to travel for as long as we can. We have a 6 month old Black Labrador puppy. We have a 1987 Dodge B250 conversion van that gets 13mpg on the highway. We still have $23,000 in debt between us, and a month ago I broke and badly sprained my left ankle playing basketball. I can't run or jump, but I think I can climb on toprope. We both feel that now is the time and we both know we may never have this chance again.

Depending on your point of view, 27 isn't necessarily old. But it's old enough to feel like it's now or never. I can feel life closing in on me and I wonder if I'll ever again be able to travel while my body can still cope with the punishment my passion for climbing dishes out.

But we made it. We're out.

What now?

No telling, but here's a list of the major players in determining the success of our attempt to live the dream for as long as we can:

The Foot:
I've been playing basketball since high school. Sometimes seriously, sometimes recreationally. Nowadays it's therapeutic. Generally speaking climbing is sterilized, PC, and supportive. PC and Supportive is good for making people feel comfortable, good for a teaching environment, good for improving as a climber. However, PC and supportive is bad for venting my over-developed competitive urges.

It's one thing to compete at climbing. You give your best friend sincere encouragement while he's trying his hardest, then try to do better. Whom ever is climbing better that day gets the send first and that day he was the better man. It's all very chivalrous, and polite. Everybody goes away feeling good about themselves.

Competing at basketball is something else entirely. You do not give your best friend sincere encouragement. You ask him if he brought some extra cash, 'cause he's gonna need it to go buy a new ball after you swat his shit into next week when he tries to drive on you. You purposely take the most difficult shot possible to win the game so that when it goes in you can ask if it hurt to lose like that. You talk shit, you dribble with your knees, you dribble between your legs, you dribble between his legs, you step back for 3's from WAY out there, you call your shots, you are not chivalrous or polite. But worst of all, at the end of the game, you shake his hand and tell him he played well so that after a day of being taken to school he doesn't even have the luxury of being mad at you. This is not how everyone plays ball, but it's the approach that broke my foot.

Rob Jensen is my friend. An ER doc, expert trad climber, excellent basketball player, and all around nice guy. Despite the fact that he is my friend, I spent the better part of 2 games trying to set him up to dunk on his head. Drive after drive I faked right and went left. Beating him with reverse lay-ups, passes to my teammate, and a few pull up jumpers. After a game my team won 11-1, I thought Rob might be getting frustrated and ripe for the dunking.

Starting at the top left of the 3-point line I faked the well established drive left, pulled what I thought was a wicked crossover dribble to the right (in my head I am Allen Iverson) and got 2 steps into the lane. Rob however is both quicker and smarter than I, so he knew what I was doing and he beat me to the spot forcing me to change my shot to a jumper in the lane. Unfortunately for me, I was overly focused on the beauty of my crossover dribble and the soft touch on the arc of my pull up J (I was later told it clanked off the back rim). So, I failed to notice someone run under me for the box out and I landed with my left heel on their foot completely collapsing the ankle joint as it rolled forwards and down. As ligaments pulled from bone, bone fragments came with them. I've since been told this is called a grade III sprain with an avulsion fracture. Whatever it's called, I don't recommend it. It hurt so bad I was sure I was going to puke. They said 8-12 weeks to heal. It's been 5.

The Van:
Somewhere along the line used car salesmen got a bad rap. Maybe this was justified, maybe not. But I know this; It wasn't Matt Roncone's fault.

Matt owns a Mieneke shop, as well as his own business, Cherry Rum Auto used car sales in Greenfield, MA. Back in March I mentioned to him in passing that I might be in the market for a conversion van to use on a trip Alyssa and I were planning for the fall. He asked what our price range was and I (embarrassed at our poverty) mumbled some absurdly low number and quickly changed the subject. Thinking (rightly so) that conversion vans weren't available in our price range, I forgot about the whole conversation right away. I was therefore very surprised when Matt called me up the same week to tell me he'd picked me up a van at the auction below my requested budget. When he added that he'd be happy to spend the rest of the summer fixing it up at cost, I didn't know whether to be overwhelmed at his generosity, or suspicious of the fact that he thought it would need six months of "fixing up" to be road worthy. I chose the middle ground, thanked him, and said I'd be right up to look at it.

I'm not sure there's a name for 15-year-old white, but my submission for the most descriptive color name for our van is this: Tartar.

In 1987 Dodge Motor Company Inc.'s best stab at a serviceable, but not overwhelming, conversion van was the Ram B250 "Coach House". Mine came from it's last owner complete with a bumper sticker that says (used car buyers worst nightmare) "This car survived the Alaska Highway". The sticker had been on there so long that when I took it off I found the lettering to be permanently sun bleached into the fiberglass roof. I chose to take this as a good omen. Unfortunately right next to the Alaska sticker was a sticker for the Boston Celtics. I, have been a Knicks fan my whole life. I first learned that I wanted to play ball from watching Bernard King fight the Celtics alone. One man versus one of the greatest teams of all time. And seriously, who can like Danny Ainge anyways? What is wrong with you people? Sports fans will understand how the sticker was an issue.

The net scorecard from my first glance evaluation was one good bumper sticker (kind of), and one bad bumper sticker. Result: neutral bumper sticker mojo. I went on to more common methods with which to evaluate the vehicle.

At first glance I wasn't optimistic. The Van sat at the back of the lot under a tree, next to the rusted hulk of a broken down panel truck. Blue and brown stripes on the tartar base ran it's length and it appeared to have a nasty gangsta lean to it. A closer look didn't make me feel any more comfortable. When I first saw it the odometer said 74,000mi and change but it lacked sixth digit, so there was no telling how many times it had been turned over. The inside was dirty and smelled of something I couldn't put my finger on. A light hung from the ceiling on its wiring, and there was no stereo. There were logistical issues to be dealt with.

But Matt was optimistic, and I in no financial position to argue, so I told him it looked good and wrote him a check for the deposit. As I drove home, I thought about my job and my promise to myself and to Alyssa that I would quit on Sept. 1st. I thought about breaking that promise and continuing to bust my ass working for a boss who couldn't possibly care less what I did or how much money I made him (the word indifferent has a picture of the man next to it in the dictionary). I thought about our meager savings without which there would be no trip; and lastly I thought about The Van. The Tartar Van. I felt sick.

Sensing that I was in a situation beyond my ability to comprehend or control, I stopped thinking about the van or really about any problems having to do with getting ready for The Trip. I spent the next six months blissfully unaware. Periodically Matt would inform me of some progress made, but I didn't really listen to him or even begin think about it because deep down I thought we were screwed, destined to travel with gear, crashpads and puppy in our Mistubishi Diamante. Did I mention that I'm 6'5"? I felt sick.

Eventually around the 3rd week in August I could ignore the issue no longer and drove up to Greenfield to look at the van. It was still tartar, but the gangsta lean had been straightened out. There were new tires and good lord could it be? Yes! The Celtics sticker was gone. I was ready for a second look.

Inside The Van Matt blasted Credence Clearwater Revival on the brand new Alpine stereo: excellent! The stove worked and had a full tank of propane: great! The interior was newly detailed and didn't look half bad for a 15yr old van: wonderful! There was a gaping hole where the propane refrigerator was supposed to be: shit. It's always something.

The fridge turned into a nail-biting epic. First Matt got a propane fridge, but found out he couldn't install it and safely guarantee we wouldn't blow ourselves to pieces somewhere on I-70, or die in our sleep from gas inhalation. We found this to be an unacceptable level of risk for cold food.

Then he found a fridge, but thought we'd have to spend 16 hrs a day plugged in with an extension cord so as not to kill the battery. Near as I could remember there's no outlet at The Pit in Bishop. That and I wasn't about to stop for 16hrs a day to recharge on the drive across the country. Chilling at RV parks in Nebraska was also an unacceptable level of risk for cold food.

Finally Matt tracked down a fridge he thought might work, but it was in another state and it was Thursday the 29th. We needed the van on Saturday the 31st. At no extra cost to us, Matt had the fridge overnight delivered to his dealership Thursday night. And then, after a full day of business on Friday, pulled an all-nighter (he slept in the van with no blankets on a 45° night) and got the thing done and delivered on Saturday morning.

No time for a shake down cruise, my last day of work was Sunday the 1st. So without organizing we threw our stuff in a huge pile in the back, grabbed the puppy (who appeared a bit confused by the whole ordeal), and headed out, unpacking and organizing as we went.

The Van is our new home.

The Puppy:
From the outside, Sienna the dog is appears to be a Black Labrador Retriever. However I am personally sure that a closer analysis of her DNA would reveal that she is also part Great White shark. I've heard stories of people dissecting the stomachs of dead Great White's and finding all manner of refuse, from old car tires to gasoline cans.

While I can't be totally sure, I think that if we were to look inside Sienna's stomach right now we would at least find the following:

The plastic cover for the handle of our refrigerator door.
Numerous chew toys which were advertised to provide the puppy with, "Hours of fun". I guess digestion is a blast for dogs.
No less than $1.50 in change.
One of my two therabands I use for rehab on The Foot.
The Ark of the Covenant

When we came up with the idea of traveling in a conversion van, one of the selling points was that whoever wasn't driving could be resting in the back. The reality is that whoever isn't driving gets to chase the puppy around the back of the van trying to wrestle her away from her present chewing obsession. It's not actually very restful at all. Fortunately Ken Majka bought me one of every energy drink he could find as a goingaway present (those who know Ken will think of this as an appropriate gift for me to remember him by), so I've been able to stay awake 23 hrs a day wrestling with the puppy in the back of The Van. I've found that if I let her chew on my hands it keeps her away from my socks. This also has the unexpected benefit of making my hands feel and look as though they've been used for climbing. It's been great making up stories about horrendous one-footed crack climbing to tell my friends so I can explain the bloody flappers covering my hands.

Sienna the dog is 6 months old. She weighs 60 pounds. Dogs are supposed to be half their adult weight at 6 months. She can already fit my whole arm in her mouth. (Aside: does anyone else remember the old nursery rhyme about being eaten by a Boa Constrictor? Oh sigh, it's up to my thigh. Oh fiddle it's up to my middle. Oh heck, it's up to my neck. Oh dread, it's up to my…Gulp!) I feel sick.

Alyssa tells me that chewing won't be a problem for her as an adult. I trust Alyssa. She is an Animal Behaviorist. She has studied dogs since her second year in college. I'm thinking about buying some health insurance just in case.

Sienna will be a determining factor on the trip. Does each area we visit allow dogs? Can we leave her in the car? Did I really need that hand anyway? These will be the questions she generates. Alyssa and I will find out the answers.

The Van will be a determining factor on the trip. Will it hold up? Will the fridge work out or will we eat pasta and oatmeal all day every day for the next 6 months. Will Tartar become fashionable? We will find answers.

The Foot will be a determining factor on the trip. Will it heal? Will I be able to restrain myself and let it heal? Is footwork really as important as I've been led to believe? I'm not sure I want to know, but we'll find answers.

As I began writing three days ago, I had numbers on my mind. Now I'm sitting in The Van, in a sunbeam, looking at a deep crystal blue sky of the kind that you only see after a Rocky Mountain thunderstorm. I'm about to get a tour of a bouldering area in the Flatirons from a new friend. The Puppy is asleep on the bed. Not chewing anything at all. The Foot is up on a chair and doesn't hurt.

Sitting here, now. I wonder what I was thinking three days ago. I'm not sure, but already the trip has reminded me of one important thing we all know, but too often forget. And another thing I'm just coming to understand.

Climbing isn't about numbers anyways.

Neither is life.