Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

The Tennessee River Gorge

I love mountains. Living in Chattanooga, mountains surround me. From downtown, I am within a twenty-minute radius of no less than five mountains teeming with creeks, capped by cliffs, and sprawling with trails. They are what makes Chattanooga Outside Magazine's "Best Town Ever" twice and one of their 24 Best Mountain Towns in the U.S. for 2022. But not all mountains are created equal. That's why I have created a definitive, objective, and exhaustive ranking of Chattanooga's mountains.

About Our Mountains

 Some snobbishly inclined folks from America's "greater" mountain ranges thumb their noses at the Appalachians, especially the southern Appalachians. When I say I'm from Tennessee, these people turn into Crocodile Dundees of elevation. "That's not a mountain. That's a mountain." 

*shows you a google image search of Longs or Shasta* 

*flails on a southern V3 boulder problem or 5.8 trad line* 

Yes, our mountains are small. The Rockies would be too if they were 400 million years older and succumbed to the geologic pressure of erosion. 

In the ridge-and-valley province of the Appalachian region, mountains are long rather than tall. Lookout Mountain peaks at a mere 2,392 ft but runs 88 miles south starting from Chattanooga. Because of this, "peaks" and rises above the mountains' plateaus often receive local, colloquial names. For example, Raccoon Mountain is also Elder Mountain; I will use "Raccoon" because trash pandas are cooler than old people. This is also the case with Signal Mountain and Suck Creek Mountain. Both are part of the Cumberland Escarpment, known as Walden Ridge, that runs 74 miles through Tennessee. It all gets confusing. For my purposes, I will use Suck Creek Mountain to refer to areas west of and including Suck Creek Canyon and Signal Mountain for everything else.

A: Lookout Mountain

B: Mowbray Mountain

C: Raccoon Mountain

D: Signal Mountain

E: Suck Creek Mountain

About My Methodology

I rank the mountains according to arbitrary categories: swimming holes, mountain biking, rock climbing, etc. If you don't like my categories or think them insufficient, make your own mountain rankings. 

Points are awarded based on the quality of the category for each mountain. The point system goes as follows:

No (0 points): nope, nada, zero. This mountain does not offer anything in this category. Or it does but it's on private property which means it does not. I award this mountain no points and may God have mercy on your soul. 

Not really (1 point): Practically speaking, no. Sure, you could cool off in the pools above and below Glen Falls but you can't swim in them. 

Yes (2 points): This mountain has swimming holes or rock climbing or trail running and is worth your time but other mountains have better.  

Amazing (3 points): This mountain offers amazing recreation opportunities. Its [insert category] is unrivaled regionally and maybe even nationally (just look at the license plates in rock climbers' parking lots in winter around here). 

 

Admitting My Presuppositions

I've stood on summits from Maine to Washington, New Mexico to Canada. Little ol' Lookout is still my favorite mountain in the whole world. I've climbed hundreds of pitches (Mountain Project), logged  thousands of miles (Strava), and made a lifetime of memories (my brain) on this ancient prominence. I'll try to keep that love of place in check throughout my analysis.

Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

Mowbray Mountain takes the swimming hole KOM with ease. From the ever-popular and ever-crowded Blue Hole to the not-so-secret-but-hard-to-get-to spots up in Big Soddy Gorge or Deep Creek: cold and clear wollerin' holes abound. Suck Creek And Signal Mountain have great roadside holes for a summer escape. Lookout gets a "Not Really" score because a truly majestic, God-tier, swimming spot exists but is inaccessible behind the private property lines of the Lula Lake Land Trust. Raccoon comes in last, though you could jump into the green, tepid waters of one of America's most polluted rivers if you wanted to. 

Rebecca about to take the plunge somewhere on Mowbray Mountain

Lookout Mountain's Guild-Hardy and Truck Trail systems are excellent after-work ramble or pieces of a bigger adventure ride. Expect everything from pea gravel to baby head-sized chonk. The area's best gravel is on top of Suck Creek Mountain in the Prentice Cooper State Forest. The main road offers 25 miles of out-and-back gravel grinding and the numerous Jeep spur trails make for rowdy and fun adventure biking. 

Alea, Brooks, and some folks I don't remember on Game Reserve Road

This is Raccoon Mountain's time to shine. The High Voltage trail was featured on Patagonia's "Best of Home" and I think the Live Wire trail gives it a run for its money. If you like technical and chunky riding with blistering, singletrack descents, then this is the trail system for you. Not to be outdone, Lookout Mountain features fast and fun mountain biking across its plateau. Many of which can be strung together via the 14-mile long Cloudland Connector Trail. 

Notice that Signal gets an alternative ranking because Walden's Ridge Park will be completed soon and offers downhill trails that people will want to travel from all over to ride. So that's cool.  

Brooks playing on the Chunky Trail of Raccoon Mountain

Again, everyone gets points here. If there are trails, then there's trail running. Raccoon comes in last because if you run here you may get mowed down by an unsuspecting mountain biker. I know because I've almost mowed down a few myself. They're MTB trails for a reason. 

Lookout Mountain's battlefield national park offers a web of trails that link up in a myriad of ways but its 10-mile Big Daddy Loop is its pride and joy. Suck Creek boasts the Pot Point and Mullins Cove loops. Both measure about 13 miles and can be done together in a figure-8 for a trail marathon(ish) that will kick you in the pants. Finally, don't sleep on Mowbray Mountain where the Cumberland Trail traverses its plateau and descends and climbs back out of its steep cliff-lined gorges. 

Rebecca descending the Bluff Trail on Lookout Mountain

Chattanooga drops the ball in this category, at least in its greater-metropolitan statistical area. Segments of the Cumberland Trail cut through Mowbray, Signal, and Suck Creek Mountains and make for nice overnighters but the real good stuff is a few hours away in the Smokies. 

Reid backpacking the Cumberland Trail on Mowbray Mountain

Everybody gets points here. Even you, Raccoon. Chattanooga is the crown jewel of southern rock climbing and maybe even climbing east of the Mississippi. My favorite single-pitch trad crag in the world is Sunset Park atop Lookout Mountain. Mowbray boasts overhanging sport climbing and world-class bouldering (LRC, yes but don't miss the horizontal roof-pulling down the road on the Cumberland Trail). Lastly, Tennessee Wall attracts trad climbers from all over the country to its orange and tan sandstone walls during the year's coldest months. Because "T-Wall" is southern facing, you can climb in a t-shirt in January. 

myself bouldering at the base of Signal Mountain

The Final Analysis: Chattanooga's Mountains Ranked

Suck Creek Mountain: 14

Lookout Mountain: 13

Mowbray Mountain: 11

Signal Mountain: 10 (though soon to be 12, probably)

Raccoon Mountain: 7

Chattanooga's best mountain is Suck Creek Mountain. You can climb the formidable cliffs of the Tennessee Wall; dunk in the numerous swimming holes along Suck Creek Road; run the Pot Point loop; backpack the Cumberland Trail; bike Game Reserve Road to Insurance Bluff; or car camp at Davis Pond. All of these reasons make it Chattanooga's best mountain -- even better than Lookout. 

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5 Beginner Backpacking Tips and Tricks

My first backpacking trip was a disaster. I was in eleventh grade, clad in cotton blue jeans and a flannel shirt and equipped with gear from the local sporting goods and army surplus stores. Russ and I hiked around Torreya State Park in uncharacteristic sub-freezing temperatures, even for the "mountains of Florida." I slipped and fell in a creek. Russ had diarrhea in his pants. And we both had so much fun that we fell in love with backpacking.

That year, Russ and I spent a lot of time at the local outdoor store, Trail & Ski, pestering the employees with questions and ultimately not spending any of our money. I'm sure it was annoying but they were kind enough to take us under their wings and point us in the right direction. Whenever a student asks me about starting out backpacking, I get all stoked for them. Maybe, hopefully, those folks at Trail & Ski felt a similar level of excitement when Russ and I walked into their store all those years ago. 

Doing something new can be daunting, so I asked some folks what advice they'd give to somebody trying to get into backpacking. This "panel of experts" includes thru-hikers, weekend warriors, and backpacking and wilderness therapy guides. They all started somewhere and one of them started with me that winter in Torreya State Park. 

1. On backpacking with a budget...

Many of the experts agree: keep it cheap. Madi suggests, "Thrifting your starter gear--don't buy new!" She's right. Outdoor consignment shops rule. 

A) They're cheap and have good stuff. 

B) They usually have nice knowledgeable staff who can be very helpful and not intimidating. 

My favorite is in Leadville, Colorado. And if you're in Chattanooga, visit Four Bridges Outfitters. But not every town has a cool outdoor-oriented consignment shop. Russ and I bought a tent and other stuff from the Army Surplus. I think we used it once before graduating to a tarp. Not an ultra-lite sil-nylon tarp, mind you. I mean an actual brown tarp from Home Depot. 

Russ added, "Remember the crap we had when we started? I ordered a backpack from eBay. And those clunky headlamps from army surplus!" We scrounged things from all over the place. Nowadays you can hit up Mountain Project and other online forums for all kinds of used, cheap gear. Keep it cheap! Especially when you're starting. 

2. On starting small...

According to Vance, "Not every backpacking trip has to be a weeklong instagrammable jaunt in Glacier National Park... Explore [your] local natural areas." Microadventures are amazing. Russ encourages you to start even smaller. "Backyard camping! I camped in my backyard a million times with all my gear." 

It's true. Senior year, Russ and I both dual-enrolled at the local community college instead of "high school." Every morning I'd go to Russ' house and find him asleep in his backyard in his Hennesy Hammock. These nanoadventures are great for dialing in your system and, if you're new to it, sleeping outside.

3. On thinking ahead...

When you sleep outside, you live outside. Sounds obvious enough but you might be surprised how many things you forget or never even think about when it comes to the logistics of living outside days or weeks at a time. Leah's practical advice: "First, line your pack with a large (30 gallon?) trash bag- especially if the temps will be cold at night. You’ll never have to worry about a wet sleeping bag or jammies from rain, river crossings, etc." 

When you live outside, you poop and pee outside. Sounds obvious enough but you might be surprised how important pooping and peeing properly is to wilderness spaces. Consider these resources and remember, to Leave No Trace. When it comes to wiping, Leah adds, "If you are taking toilet paper, take baby wipes instead. You and your nether regions will be living a life of luxury after long days of dirt and sweat." 

For what it's worth, my two cents in this whole thing is this: Pringles. Pringles are a great, salty snack. The Pringles can is a great, tubular, sealed container for packing out discarded baby wipes and other waste. Make a little duct tape hinge so you don't lose the lid. You can store your toilet paper tube in the bottle slot of your backpack. Do not mix your Pringles and discarded baby wipes! Sounds obvious enough, but you never know. 

4.  On ounce-counting and other ultra-light things...

Maybe you've been backpacking before. You borrowed some gear and you're in love with it. Or maybe you've also got a fat wad of cash burning a hole in your pocket. There's an entire universe of backpacking gear you can buy. Most attempt to be light. Some are designed to be "ultra-lite" (UL). I got sucked into the ultra-lite world pretty quickly as a young gun and there are plenty of ways to do it on a budget (DIY and UL share a big middle part of a Venn Diagram). But being ultra-light and a backpacking guide didn't mix well so I started dabbling in both worlds. 

Reid suggests figuring out "if you camp to hike or hike to camp." This goes a long way in determining what you pack, how you travel, and what your overall goals are. Some people enjoy going far, fast. Others enjoy getting there when they get there and relaxing while they are there. 

Reid continues, "If you’re hiking to camp, you may decide to spend precious ounces on a larger tent, a thicker sleeping pad, or things like sleep clothes, camp shoes, a camp chair, etc. If you’re camping to hike, you may prioritize UL gear, nicer trekking poles, and have all of your food in a fancy spreadsheet that ranks items based on calories per ounce of weight." 

Maybe you already know what you're into. Maybe you don't. That's fine. If you're just starting it might take some trips to figure it all out, which leads us to our next bit of advice...

Vance and I on Mt. Shavano, CO

5. On just going for it and having fun... 

 I really loved what Vance had to say so I leave them here without comment.  

"There are no rules or right ways for an experience outdoors, so make the most of what you’ve got around you. Not every backpacking trip has to be a weeklong instagrammable jaunt in Glacier National Park while wearing your Arc’teryx gear (although both of those are super rad). Explore the local natural areas right in your backyard, flaunt your janky consignment or hand-me-down gear, and revel in a bounty of homemade trail mix and Vienna sausages. As long as you’re outside, being responsible, and having fun, you’re doing it right. Do what you can, where you’re at, with what you’ve got, while you’ve got it!" 

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12 Months Sleeping Outside

Suck Creek Canyon and the Tennessee River Gorge

Sleeping outside is good for you. Evidence? Oh, so you’re Mr. Science Guy now. Here’s a sentence from the Journal of Environment and Behavior that’ll make you absolutely want to scrape your eyeballs out: 

“Analysis revealed a positive, linear association between the density of trees and self-reported stress recovery, adjusted R² = .05, F(1, 149) = 8.53, p < .01.” 

STEM ruins beauty. Compare that to this poem by Wendell Berry:

"I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free." 

I spent the year trying to regularly, once a month, rest in the peace of wild things and it was liberating. This dumb little goal helped me feel a lot more like myself but I have no evidence to prove it and also I'm no poet. So here's some beauty-ruining data and crappy iPhone photos from a year of sleeping outside once a month. 

Figure 1

I did not sleep outside in February or August. Mid-February, Rebecca and I took our first trip away since the pandemic started. Ultimately, because of COVID restrictions, we really just did the same thing we do in Chattanooga, except in a cabin in the woods. We went for hikes, watched T.V., got dinner out, brought it back to the house, and ate. R.V. people call that "camping" so it's on the list but is not included in the subsequent data. August is just terrible and I didn't even try to sleep outside. Who cares? Not me. 

I wrote trip reports for a few of these, which you can read HERE. 

Russ vintage mountain bike-packing through north Florida pine forests

Figure 2

Ten out of 11 trips were with friends. I think that speaks for itself. I also appreciate the variety of folks I was able to share these spaces with; ranging from my life-long best friend, Russ to Reid and Leah and their one-year-old daughter. Max and Brooks take the cake for most trips (Max was part of the King Family Campout). 

Max riding out of the fog in Prentice Cooper State Forest

Figures 3.a and 3.b

Getting outside doesn’t have to be complicated. “Aim small, miss small.”80% of these monthly adventures were overnighters within an hour or two of home. This is pretty easy in a town like Chattanooga and I'm thankful for that. But I think that a lot of us can find these small adventures near our respective towns. 

adventure from the front door somewhere on Lookout Mountain

Figure 4

83% of nights slept outside were on public land. Public land conjures images of dense forests and spacious deserts managed by the US Forest Service or  Bureau of Land Management but let's not forget about our state parks! State parks get a bad rap, I think, because, well honestly, they can be bougie and touristy and feature things like zip lines and golf courses. But some of our iconic outdoor spaces are our state parks: Eldorado Canyon in Colorado or Cloudland Canyon in Georgia. What incredible resources we should protect. 

Becca overlooking Savage Gulf at the South Cumberland State Park

Figure 5

2021 was the year of bikepacking. This was by design as part of the reason I set this goal was to bikepack more. A note on the "other:" this includes car-camping with Rebecca's family and sleeping in my parent's backyard. 

all that bikpacking and only one flat...

Figure 6

I slept outside for years, months at a time even, without owning a tent. Cowboy or cowgirl or cowperson camping is the purest form of sleeping outside and it’s in my blood. I finally bought my first nice tent back in 2018 and I got some good use out of it this year but I still prefer no separation between me and the open air. Again, I want to emphasize the point that camping doesn't have to be complicated. Camping tentless is lighter, simpler, and in my opinion, better. 

Brooks cowperson camping in Suck Creek Canyon

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5-Word Gear Reviews: Thermarest Z Lite Sleeping Pad

photo by Ry

The Therm-a-Rest Z Lite has been in production since 1989. It's used by alpinists in Denali National Park, thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail, and bikepackers on the Tour Divide. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of reviews online. Why do the internet and your email inbox need another one? Because alpinists, thru-hikers, and Tour Dividers are hardcore. These folks can rough it. But what about the normal folks, the weekend warriors, the semi-rad fun-hoggers looking for an outdoor sleep system? Let me tell you.

I have slept outside on a Therm-a-Rest Z-Lite sleeping pad since 2013. Before that, I had a Therm-a-Rest Ridgeline I cut and duct-taped back together to accordion fold like a Z Lite. This did not work well. I have put my Z Lite through the wringer, spending hundreds of nights sleeping on dirt, sand, rock, and snow on this 3/4 inch thick piece of dimpled foam. It is amazing. I fiddled around with inflatable pads from the industry's giants -- Therm-a-Rest, Big Agnes, and REI -- but  I always came running back to the indestructibility of the Z Lite. No popping. No waking up in the middle of the night on the ground due to a slow leak. No snorkeling in the bathtub trying to find the impossibly small hole in need of repair. 

However, the Z Lite has a lot of naysayers. "It’s not plush enough." "It’s too dirtbaggy." "It’s not for side-sleepers." Of course, none of these are true. I recently returned from a camping trip with family. This kind of camping involved extension cords running to box fans inside massive dome tents filled with queen-sized air mattresses. They were all flummoxed when Rebecca and I put together our tiny backpacking tent and their jaws hit the ground when we whipped out our matching set of Z Lite sleeping pads. My sister-in-law was even concerned if we were "going to be okay." Eventually, I convinced her husband to lay on it and he said in five words what reviewers at Outdoor Gear Lab, Backcountry, and Gear Junkie have struggled to say in hundreds of user reviews: 

"Oh, it's not that bad." 

And then he fell asleep. Like, he took a nap right there. This is the power of the Z Lite. It's really not as bad as the inflatable crowd says. My brother-in-law's laconic pre-slumber gear review got me thinking about some more 5-word reviews for this industry standard:

You can sleep on it.

It's only a few nights.

Tummy sleeper? No! Buy it.

Maybe don't if you're eighty.

Basic comfy pad cuts mustard 

Closed cell foam gold standard 

Let's be real: it's cheap.

It gets the job done.

Super-lightweight and ultra-durable

And if hyphenated words count as one word: super-lightweight, ultra-durable that never fails.

*This gear review was not sponsored by Therm-a-Rest and I purchased my Z Lites with my own hard-earned monies. This review was also more than five words. 544 to be exact. I apologize. But please continue to support megasplitter by subscribing to the mailchimp, commenting on, and sending the posts that you like to your friends. 

The Art of Sucking It Up

*~SpRiNg BrEaK 2007~*

Have you ever woken up to a pack of raccoons tickling your feet? I have. I was 18 years old, camping on the eastern end of St. George Island with Russ. It was spring break and we were backpacking with our skimboards in tow. Two seniors in high school living on the beach for spring break? I had high expectations. I can't speak for Russ but I had envisioned the trip to be like hiking into the actualized lyrics of Katy Perry's "California Girls." But my eighteen-year-old brain vastly overestimated how many "daisy dukes, bikinis on top" would be hiking to a primitive backcountry campsite on the beach. The sum total was zero.

Instead, the trip went like this: Russ and I backpacked into a desolate campsite by the bay. It was cold. Sand filled every crevice of our bodies while sand gnats and mosquitos ravaged every exposed piece of our flesh. We wore makeshift burkas to shield our faces from the bugs. Even the skimboarding was bad. A couple of nights in, I forgot to hang our food and awoke under my tarp tent to a pack of raccoons tickling my feet, searching for treats. I got Russ up, packed our bags and hiked out. 

Some cherished memories happened that night, like hiking without headlamps by the starlight over the Gulf of Mexico (Russ told me years later, it was so beautiful he cried). But that doesn't change the fact that we gave up. We quit. When it got hard, we went home. That wasn’t the only time something like that happened either. In fact, Russ and I began making “a thing” out of hiking out in the middle of the night to find the nearest Waffle House. It was fun. But as I began to spend more time outside and the trips got longer and more remote, there weren’t any Waffle Houses to retreat to. Eventually, I had to learn the art of sucking it up.

You should read Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. There's this line: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” I think about that all the time when I'm out trail running or rock climbing because I have a choice in how I respond to pain and discomfort: give up or keep going.

Renowned psychiatrist, Viktor Frankl maintained that between stimulus and response, there is a space. And, “In that space is our power to choose our response.” Whether climbing mountains or running long distances, I think human-powered endurance activities help build the muscles used to make the responses required for suffering in the real world too.

Whether you’re running an ultramarathon and every muscle in your right foot is screaming...

Or you’re festering in a tent while bad weather batters your high camp... 

Or you’re working two jobs to pay off medical debt from a routine hernia surgery because Americans pay 40% more for healthcare than the rest of the industrialized world...

Each creates a space where the pain is inevitable but the suffering is optional. 

"Suffering," here, is the choice made to see it through. I don't mean this to romanticize or make light of anyone's actual physical, emotional, existential suffering. I think there's a difference between suffering and "things that suck." Yet it's all very subjective. And to be fair, navigating a pandemic, working an unsatisfying job, or arguing with a partner is not the same thing as trad climbing, ultra-running, or waking up to raccoons sniffing your feet. But the ability to take a deep breath, figure something out, and keep going when you're in the mountains might also help when you need to plan a budget, discuss your feelings, or finally find a therapist. 

Alpinist Kelly Cordes said of ultrarunners, "To keep going when given the option to quit is hardcore." If you're reading this then you made it through 2020 and you probably suffered something. We all learned a little about the art of sucking it up this year and I think we all got a little more hardcore. On a recent bikepacking adventure with Russ, I brought up that 2007 spring break trip. I talked about how thankful I was that playing outside taught us the same lesson running taught Haruki Murakami. Russ looked at me and spoke through the cloud of mosquitos and campfire smoke."It's funny you mention that," he said, "because I really wanted to call it quits today." We laughed and kept eating our ramen bombs and then we got back on our bicycles the next morning.

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The 5 Worst Kinds of People on the Trail

We love our local trail systems. In Chattanooga, we're lucky to have several nearby options for folks in various parts of town. But with relative ease of access (and ease of access is relative) comes certain frustrations too. People, mostly. And while we shouldn't expect solitude from our front country adventures, we should expect certain behaviors that allow for  mutual enjoyment. These are the five worst kinds of people at the local trail.

5. the directionally challenged

A lot of trails feature daily directions, i.e., CW on M, W, F and CCW on T, R and so on. No matter how clearly stated at trailheads and intersections these directions are, some people can't seem to get it straight. I don't want to be too harsh to the directionally challenged, many of them are elderly. But an honest mistake can quickly turn into an emergency room visit when Grandma Dorothy gets mowed down by the MTB guy trying to snipe the coveted King of the Mountain (KOM).

4. the KOM/QOM 

“In its need for special clothing,” Grant Peterson writes, “bicycle riding is less like scuba diving and more like a pickup basketball game.” That said, somebody convinced the KOM/QOM crowd that spandex is the only fabric for any outdoor activity. These folks show up to the trailhead decked out in full kit for a casual after-work ride around the park. I like going fast about as much as the next guy, but these easy-to-distinguish trail users seem to think that KOM stands for "Kill All Mountainbikers" (the 'A' makes a soft 'O" sound) (I stole this line from Brooks who swears he doesn’t remember saying it). The King of the Mountain crowd is out for blood and bragging rights. Forget a friendly wave from these riders, they won't even give you an inch of the trail. Look out, move over, and let them pad their Strava profile; they're clearly compensating for something. 

3. people who don't pack out their dog's poop

Leave No Trace applies to the front-country too. A baggie filled with dog poop sitting on the edge of the trail has to be the apotheosis of "leaving a trace." If you're not ready to pack out your dog's poop, you're not ready to take your dog out for a hike. Be prepared. Pick up your dog's poop in a bag, put it in a sealed zip lock bag, and pack it out. Or, better yet, buy a tube of Pringles. Eat all of the Pringles (delicious). Put the poop bag in the Pringles tube. It seals and fits nicely in a backpack's cup holder sleeve and you can dispose of its contents at the nearest trash can.

2. people who don't leash their dog on the trail

I don't want to be that edgy online guy advocating for Soviet-style forced labor camps but people who walk or run their dogs at the trail off-leash should be sent to a gulag. I don't care how good of a good boy you think your precious pup is, put it on a leash. It's the law in a lot of places and the rule in most. The reasons for this are multitudinous and readily available so I'll only mention two.

First, your dog is an animal. It has animal instincts and I swear bicycles trigger something in dogs that make them go berserk. I've had a crash, several near-crashes, and a few scary moments when unknown dogs have charged at my bike with their owner nonchalantly walking down the trail blurting something about it being nice. And I know you're reading this thinking, "That's not my dog." But that's what these people thought too.

Another reason to keep your dog on a leash is for my dog and dogs like her. I have a rescued pit bull. Her name is Lula. She's sweet, tender, intuitive, and an overall fluffernut. I love her more than almost anything in this world. But her breed carries a lot of baggage. Let's say your off-leash wonder pup wanders ahead and wants to check my dog out. Let's say it gives Lula a fright or more realistically, Lula interprets that as an invitation to play. (What is "play" between two dogs is often interpreted as a scuffle when the dog looks like my dog.) Your dog is an animal, my dog is an animal and they both respond animalistically. Guess whose dog is taking the blame for the scuffle? The pittie, every time. Even if the encounter was banal, benign, or not even the pittie's fault. Please put your dog on a leash.

1. judgemental outdoor bloggers named "Chet"

  They're the worst.

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The Joy of Sharing Mountains

Emily burst into my class on the first day of school. "Mr. Butterworth!" she exclaimed, "my dad and I climbed the First Flatiron this summer!" The words sputtered out before she put her backpack down. I showed her the pictures where I also climbed the First and we spent several minutes bonding over our shared experiences on the same huge piece of rock some 1,300 miles away. Lots of people climb the Flatirons - large, orange, sandstone fins on the Colorado Front Range, loaded with long 5.easy routes - but not that many, and certainly not many teenagers in Tennessee. Emily and I were part of a special club; our own little society of mountaineers.  

With a rope and a rack, you can go to places few others have gone and despite climbing's ever-growing popularity, even fewer have stood on top of. “Climbing,” we are warned by the tiny labels on cams, quickdraws, and carabiners “is an inherently dangerous activity that may result in serious injury or death.” The alpinist RLG Irving likened the person who claims to love mountains having never risked anything to climb them to one who claims to be a sailor but who's never left the shore. And unless you're Alex Honnold, you almost always have to climb with somebody else. Rock climbing and mountaineering, for me, has always been about the shared experience: the memories and miseries made with close friends in beautiful places.

I've had the privilege of sharing fine places with great people over the years. Every summit is mentally cataloged not by its elevation or its difficulty, but by the people I was with: Eli, Paul L., Joy, Julia, Vance, Jamie, Logan, Leah, Barrett, Robin, Daniel, Josh, Becca, Evan, Andrew, Paul H., Ben, Russ, and a hundred or so teenagers I guided in Colorado. 

When asked, "what are your most cherished memories?" These are them.

The mountains belong to us all yet no one can claim them as their own, so too are our memories shared belongings. Rebecca and I still smile as we remember our time getting off route and blown off by a storm in the Canadian Rockies. And I know that the next time I see Josh we'll remember that belay ledge that was the size of a bar stool, the wind whipping our rope around, my truck, a tiny red dot in the valley below, and debating who led the next terrifying pitch. One of these days, I'll see my buddy Vance again and we'll recall that time we woke up thinking a bear was clawing at our tent but it was Barrett having another night terror. 

Psychologists say shared memories are crucial for our ability to interact with others, to form important, meaning-making social groups, and even our perceptions of the self. Many of my climbing partners are now spread across the country, but our collective memories made in the mountains preserve already established bonds. Therefore, even if I haven’t seen Eli in a long time, I know when I see him again that meaning is held between us through the conscious expression of shared memories in the mountains. That’s part of the special bond of tying into a rope with your partner. It is as if that rope becomes some kind of sacrament; the mediator of a deeper, almost transcendent, relationship. 

Shortly after Emily and I convened our meeting of mountaineers in my classroom, she went on to help start our school's first rock climbing team. It isn’t scrambling in the Canadian Rockies or jamming up splitter dihedrals at Tennessee Wall, but it is tying into a rope with another person and, to some degree, trusting them with your life -- even if the holds are plastic. Paul and I were asked to coach the ragtag group of teenagers--they were band nerds, soccer jocks, thespians, the valedictorian, and a young punk who listened to Black Flag and read Kropotkin. Kids who never talked to each other in the cafeteria were now convening between classes to discuss “the pink 5.11” in the back corner of the gym. The only thing they had in common was this shared experience of climbing rocks. It was so much fun watching them belay each other, figure out beta, and then go to Burger King together afterward. 

 

The school climbing club reminded me of all those Friday nights spent flailing at the bouldering gym with friends and then heading to Las Palmas for mango margaritas. They reminded me that I didn't have much in common with Josh when we loaded up for a multi-month road trip together. And they reminded me of the pure joy of seeing someone accomplish something they thought beyond them. The students made me hopeful that as they graduated and went their disparate ways, that one day they might crawl into a corner booth somewhere and spray about micro crimps or remember airy belay ledges. Those kids made me hopeful that they too will have the collective memories --the transcendent relationships-- that I have had the joy of having. The shared experiences of climbing connects strangers who climbed the same route in the Flatirons and deepens the bonds of friends who shared a remote summit all to themselves. 

 

This is the joy of sharing mountains, so pass it on.

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