Just got back from Mato Tipila. Or Bear’s Lodge. Or, most commonly, Devils Tower.
The 1,000-foot-high thumb of rock in northeastern Wyoming goes by a few names. But all refer to this geologic masterpiece, a monolith of pillars and cracks and six-sided columns. As I wrote in the blog last week, Devils Tower was a waypoint for wagon trains heading west in the 1800s. It’s a sacred place to Native Americans. In pop culture the Tower has long been associated with the strange and the otherworldly, its vestige forever burned into the American consciousness via Steven Spielberg’s classic 1977 movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”
For me, stretching back to the days when I edited Vertical Jones magazine (www.verticaljones.com) this has always been my favorite climbing area, with finger and fist cracks streaming hundreds of feet from the talus. I have climbed a dozen routes, up to 5.10 in difficulty. Once I took a 40-foot whipper here—my longest climbing fall so far (and hopefully ever).
This past weekend, on assignment for New York Times (and testing equipment for Gear Junkie), I retuned to the Tower with photographer TC Worley (www.studiobluempls.com) for one day. We climbed just one route, as we were on a time crunch and had another assignment in the Black Hills. But “El Cracko Diablo”—as the climb is called—was a good line to get me to jump back into the saddle.
The climb, which goes at 5.8, involves an approach pitch, two long fist-crack pitches, then a couple hundred feet of fourth class to the top. The main climbing involves sink-your-hands-in-and-pull cracks, just gorgeous and safe expressway routes into the sky.
We climbed with Frank Sanders, owner of Devils Tower Lodge (www.devilstowerlodge.com) and head guide of his eponymous business. I am rusty right now in the climbing department, so Frank led the two meaty pitches on El Cracko. He led with just two or three placements of gear on each pitch. Basically, he’d climb 40 to 50 feet between cam placements, solid and calm. (He’s free-soloed the route several times.)
We climbed on Monday evening, leaving the trail around 5:30 p.m. It was a sunset cruise, and night fell right as we made the top. We watched the last rays from the “island in the sky” summit and then rappelled off in the dark, a halo of LED glow our only illumination on the moonless night.
Here are a few pics of the ascent as well as a couple close-ups of the Tower. Watch for gear reviews on the equipment employed during the climb in the coming weeks as well as a full narrative on the ascent in New York Times later this year. . .
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The Gear Junkie: BPA-free Water Bottles
By STEPHEN REGENOLD
BPA is in the news again. That’s short for bisphenol A, a controversial compound found in polycarbonate plastics that some studies have shown mimics the hormone estrogen and can cause medical ills in lab rats.
A new study and a continuing push by anti-BPA groups prompted several health-related organizations earlier this year to call for a moratorium on BPA, which is widely used in baby bottles.
For outdoorsy types, the fuss has been over water bottles, namely of the translucent type made by Nalgene Nunc International, which for years employed BPA-containing polycarbonate in its ubiquitous 16- and 32-ounce cylindrical bottles.
No longer.
Last month Nalgene (www.nalgene-outdoor.com) announced that it will cut BPA from all its bottles. In the place of the popular polycarbonate vessels, Nalgene has introduced a BPA-free line that embodies the characteristics that made its original bottles so popular: The company’s Everyday bottles are made with copolyester, a clear and colorful material that is seemingly a cousin to polycarbonate—just without the BPA.
The copolyester bottles—which come in three styles, starting at $8.25—are strong and leak-proof. Drop one from head height onto rocks and it will most likely survive, not an ounce of liquid escaping. The Everyday bottles are dishwasher safe and made to withstand temperatures from minus-40 to 212 degrees Fahrenheit.
Though Nalgene is getting all the attention this month, CamelBak (www.camelbak.com) was actually first in the copolyester game. The company announced its Better Bottle line—also polycarbonate-like vessels that do not contain BPA—a couple months back.
Starting at $8, the CamelBak Better Bottle comes in three iterations, including 0.5-, 0.75- and 1-liter sizes. Later this month, a new Better Bottle will launch with a flip-open valve that distributes liquid via the bite-and-sip method first encountered on the company’s hydration-bladder backpacks.
Like Nalgene, Camelbak markets its water bottles to hikers and outdoors users as well as the general water-toting public. Both companies offer the copolyester bottles in multiple translucent colors, your water tinted inside and sloshing in a solid—and BPA free—container.
(Stephen Regenold writes The Gear Junkie column for eleven U.S. newspapers; see www.THEGEARJUNKIE.com for video gear reviews, a daily blog, and an archive of Regenold’s work.)
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As America’s first National Monument—and a top destination for American climbers—the sheer-sided, 1,000-foot-high monolith of Devils Tower in northeastern Wyoming is among the most stunning geologic displays in the West. It was a waypoint for wagon trains heading west in the 1800s. It’s a sacred place to Native Americans. In pop culture the Tower has long been associated with the strange and the otherworldly, its vestige forever burned into the American consciousness via Steven Spielberg’s classic 1977 movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”
For climbers, Devils Tower stands among the most unique summits on the continent. The formation, which is the hard basalt core of an eons-old volcano, attracts thousands of rock climbers each year to shimmy up its skyscraper-proportion routes. All sides of the tower are sheer, making the summit unobtainable by hikers. But climbing routes as moderate as 5.6 (intermediate level) provide passage to the top.
The summit—a unique “island in the sky”—is an acre-size chunk of desert, flat with scrub brush and some wildlife, though rung with dizzying vertical drops hundreds of feet down all around its sequestered circumference.
This weekend I’m heading west to climb the Tower. A photographer and I will climb with local guide Frank Sanders, a veteran who has ascended the Tower hundreds of times.
Our climb will start late in the day in the parking lot, hiking in, roping up, then climbing cracks and corners, reaching and pulling on the ancient and strange rock for hours as we ascend into the sky. We plan to summit at sunset and rap off in the dark.
If all goes well, this will be my 10th time up the Tower. But it’s been several years since my last visit, and my forearms are not what they were.
I’ll be testing a full arsenal of new climbing equipment, including cams from Black Diamond, Scarpa shoes, a rope from Metolius, and an Arc’teryx harness—among several other pieces of equipment.
Watch for the full trip report—and gear dissection—upon my return late next week.
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After riding a self-proclaimed “Frankenbike” around the streets of San Francisco for several years, Mike O’Neill designed a new take on the stodgy old “Costanza” wallet. His plastic wallet—called the Jimi—is one that you can throw in your bike jersey, or your pants, as it’s slim and unobtrusive.
And if you get a bit frisky and sweat through your shirt, your cash will not get soggy.
O’Neill says to think of the Jimi as a more robust, stylish and greener version of the ubiquitous snack-sized Ziploc bag. Good to stash a license, credit cards, and a little cash, just the essentials and nothing more.
Indeed, the company slogan is “The Wallet for People Who Hate Wallets.” It’s about 9/16 of an inch thick and a smidge taller than a credit card. There’s an integrated money clip, which is removable for times when you only want to bring cash.
Bonus: The Jimi wallet is also a recycled/recyclable product that’s made in the USA and sold in bike stores around the country.
Cost is $14.95.
See more at Mr. Smith Inc., http://www.thejimi.com/wallet/demo.php
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The Gear Junkie: Reclaimed Material Messenger Bags
By STEPHEN REGENOLD
Recycling is Rad. That’s the name—as well as the mantra—of a one-woman business in Minneapolis that makes bike messenger bags out of plastic grocery store sacks. Through experimentation over the past year, owner Bekah Worley developed a process that employs an iron and parchment paper to weld plastic sacks into a durable material that serves as the base for three messenger bag styles sold online via www.soulsister.etsy.com and at independent retailers around the country.
The bags employ a ubiquitous messenger style, with nylon shoulder straps, plastic buckles and large internal compartments that close under a flap. But what has made Worley’s creations popular—in addition to their homemade, though artsy, aesthetic—is the bags’ built-in nod to sustainability and resourcefulness: Each Recycling is Rad messenger is made from up to 100 would-be throwaway plastic sacks.
The Minneapolis company is hardly alone in its niche. There is now a cottage industry—somewhat inexplicably—of tiny companies that design messenger bags out of reclaimed materials, including sources as diverse as vinyl sheeting from billboards; feed bags; bicycle and automobile innertubes; old clothes; highway signs; industrial tarps; and discarded rice paper.
Bike tire valves and old seat belts serve respectively as zipper pulls and shoulder straps for Alchemy Goods (www.alchemygoods.com, pictured above), a small bag company in Seattle. Relan LLP (www.relanbag.com, pictured below) of Eagan, Minn., employs a vinyl-laminated nylon material derived from 48×14-foot billboards.
As the granddaddy of the movement, FREITAG, a Swiss company, has offered messenger bags made of materials like trucking tarps and used air bags since 1993. The company (www.freitag.ch) grew from two people to now more than 60 employees in its factory in downtown Zurich.
But most companies doing reclaimed messengers are small shops. My research yielded about 10 organizations from around the planet involved in this niche, ranging from a two-brother operation in Vancouver to messengers made by disabled women in Cambodia out of recycled animal feed bags (see: www.gxonlinestore.org).
Most all bags in this genre are custom designed and hand stitched, meaning costs can run higher than a messenger from a major manufacturer like Timbuk2 or Chrome. The Messenger model, the original Alchemy Goods product, costs $168. Recycling is Rad’s pricing goes from $70 for a small messenger to $85 for the large bag, which is average for the product category.
Performance ranges with reclaimed messengers. Some bags will hold up to their calling for bike commuters or people employed as actual bike messengers. Other models are more ornamental—fine for use as a tote, though not made to hold up to the rigors of day-in and day-out abuse on a bike.
Recycling is Rad’s bags, which I tested over a month of cycling and casual use, ride a middle ground between performance and ornamentation. The bag I used—the Large Plastic Messenger model—is bare bones, with a cloth pouch inside the large compartment, two buckles to keep it closed, and an un-padded shoulder strap.
One unique feature: Recycling is Rad includes clips on the bottom of the bag to secure the pack to your pants or belt loops while riding, keeping the package from sliding around on your back.
More than anything, the Large Plastic Messenger—or really any bag of its ilk—is a statement. It’s a fashion piece born of scrap. Wear a reclaimed messenger and you’re an instant conversation piece—a walking, cycling advertisement for sustainability and resourcefulness in a world often bogged down by waste.
(Stephen Regenold writes The Gear Junkie column for eleven U.S. newspapers; see www.THEGEARJUNKIE.com for video gear reviews, a daily blog, and an archive of Regenold’s work.)
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NASCAR with Pedals
Track Bike Racing at the NSC Velodrome
By STEPHEN REGENOLD
published April 25, 2008
My bike has no brakes and just one gear. But I’m pedaling with all I’ve got, tucked and spinning, breathing hard. Hands clenched on drop bars. Wheels humming. Thighs screaming. Knuckles literally white.
“Hit it!” a spectator yells.
The track ahead banks left—a hard, swooping curve, 20 feet high and perilously pitched. Stopping now is not an option. G-forces tug at my gut. My mouth is dry. I’m gripped. Grunting. Pedaling. Praying a little bit as gravity tries to pull me down.
I’m riding on a racetrack made of wood, an oval of planks from African afzelia trees, planed smooth as a bowling lane. Lines painted black, red and blue arch and swing high on the curves, where the horizon line tips and the ground drops away far below from the corner of my eye.
This is the National Sports Center Velodrome, a 250-meter competitive track at its namesake sports facility in Blaine, Minn. It is one of fewer than 10 in the country and among the speediest spots on the planet to ride a bike: Pro riders can pedal laps past 40 miles per hour in the ‘drome, which banks to match the natural lean of a bicycle moving through a curve, eliminating skidding and allowing cyclists to pedal perpendicular to the track surface in defiance of gravity’s tug.
The velodrome’s banks are pitched at 43 degrees, as steep as a black-diamond ski slope, which creates long, sweeping curves impossible to complete without speed. A careless cyclist can crash hard, skidding and plummeting from the heights of the track. But velodrome competitors, called track-bike racers, employ inertia, speed and centrifugal force to stick to the off-kilter curves like little cars on a Hot Wheels track.
“It becomes natural after a few laps,” said Bob Williams, cycling coordinator at the National Sports Center. “You forget you’re up high.”
For me, those steep wooden banks were front-of-mind when I signed up to try the sport. It was a Thursday afternoon, and Williams had opened the velodrome for training before a race series that night.
I brought bike shoes, my jersey and a helmet, but borrowed a bike from the facility’s stable of 30 fixed-gear track bicycles. Two riders swooped in circles on the track as I tromped through a tunnel and onto the grassy infield, where the velodrome spreads 360 degrees around in a ribbon of weathered wood.
Interest in track-bike racing has accelerated in recent years, as stars such as Lance Armstrong draw more attention to competitive cycling. In addition, urban bike couriers and commuters have popularized single-speed, fixed-gear bikes—the same basic setup as used on a velodrome track.
A typical race night at the National Sports Center sees about 60 riders competing in multiple events, some up to 80 laps long. Up to 200 spectators watch from bleachers above the track, eyes following the NASCAR-like action of a dozen or more riders in a pack, pedaling, swooping, passing, drafting wheel-to-wheel for a rest, then jockeying for position as the finish line nears.
Crashes, which are rare, can be horrendous, a cacophony of booms and drumbeats on wood, bike frames flying, skin pierced by afzelia splinters and bodies tumbling from high curves to the grass below.
“It’s painful just to watch,” said Williams.
With all that in mind, I clipped into my pedals after 15 minutes of verbal instruction. With its fixed gears, my bike did not allow for coasting or rests: With no freewheel spin, if the wheels are turning, then your pedals and legs are turning, too. There are also no brakes. Abrupt stops are impossible. Instead, you slow by exerting back pressure on the spinning cranks, pushing against inertia to decelerate.
I stayed low on the track for the first few loops, watching Melissa Dahlmann, an experienced rider, pass overhead.
“Go, Melissa!” yelled her father, Mark, who stood trackside timing her with a stopwatch.
Dahlmann, a 24-year-old college student in Coon Rapids, Minn., started track-bike racing as a cross-training regimen for speed skating, her main competitive sport. “You use similar muscles,” she said.
Raw speed—in the guise of repetitive looping sprints on the wooden track—is another draw. “You put your head down and go,” Dahlmann said. “You get in a zone.”
Not yet finding my own zone, I pedaled a couple meager loops around the track, bumping up onto the lowest part of the incline, then diving down. I passed the start area twice before Williams began shouting instruction.
“Speed, you need more speed!” he yelled.
And more guts. The track was intimidating for the initial few laps. When Dahlmann passed me, she was flying literally 10 to 15 feet above, her body leaning an alarmingly long way off-axis overhead.
But Williams was right. As I gained speed, pedaling hard on the straightaways, then swooping into the curves, the tires tracked as if gravity was no issue. In 20 minutes I was cruising, cranking as hard as I could consistently go around, wheels humming on wood. The faster I went, the easier the velodrome rode, its big banked curves slowly becoming natural segues from the straightaway sprints.
I passed another rider, skimming sideways on a curve, looking straight down with a bird’s-eye perspective. So this is why they call it flying, I thought. After 10 minutes, huffing and puffing, I slowed down for a break, bumping off the track to stop beside Williams and a small group assembling for the night’s race series.
“You got it,” Williams said. “Just needed that speed.”
Overhead, Dahlmann flew by in a blur. Another rider followed, whirring past, a stock car in pursuit.
I clipped in and rolled back onto the wood. The race was on, and I was close behind.
Click here for a video on the Velodrome experience.
(Stephen Regenold writes The Gear Junkie column for eleven U.S. newspapers; see www.THEGEARJUNKIE.com for video gear reviews, a daily blog, and an archive of Regenold’s work.)
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My story on eco lodges is up at ForbesTraveler.com (MSNBC.com and the Today Show’s website also picked up the story). This article focuses on high-end resorts with an eco angle, from environmental conservation to light-on-the-land building techniques to the embracing of local culture.
Going green is not a new concept in the world of travel. For decades, resorts like Maho Bay in the U.S. Virgin Islands and Turtle Island in Fiji have demonstrated that eco-awareness and sustainability can coexist with tourism. But in the past five years, the “eco” buzz has been amplified within the travel industry—and throughout popular culture as well.
If you’re going to spend the cash for a lux getaway, you might as well do it with some conscious. This Top 10 list includes resorts with thatch-roofed huts on a beach to cabins afloat on raft foundations in fjords. Their structures are influenced by sources as diverse as Robinson Caruso and Renzo Piano.
Go here for the full story: ForbesTraveler.com
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