Mediterranean Commitment: Love and Limestone

In the pauses of my speech, I could hear the Balearic Sea roll into the harbor of Soller, Mallorca. The wedding guests quietly drank Spanish wine as I spoke of the sunset, of watching Eliza Earle wrap her arms around Daniel Jordan. “The azure water crashed into the golden limestone,” I said. “Eliza held onto Daniel. It was the calm power of the sea and the strength of the rock.”

The newylweds hugged me after I ended my speech recounting how they had fallen in love. The 50 attendees, a group of climbers, friends, and family, had traveled to the island for their ceremony on a hillside villa among the limestone cliffs. The wedding and my friends’ love filled me with joy.

The following day at Cova Del Diablo, Al Smith hiked his right foot high onto a smear, locked off with his left hand, and stood up, launching for a hold on Ejector Seat (5.12d/7c), one of the island’s classic deep water solos. He stuck it and flashed the route. A few minutes later, Daniel climbed through the initial difficulties and headed into the crux. He grabbed the left hand side pull, placed a high left foot, and pogoed to the crux hold. He snatched it, made a big move to a pocket, and sent the route—his project for the trip— on his last day on the island, despite his hangover from the previous night’s party. I started up the route next. I could feel my hip grinding as I crimped, crossed, and moved through the pocketed wall. I grabbed the side pull, hiked my right foot up as far as I could, and slapped for the hold. Suddenly, I was airborne; my arms rolled down the windows until I crashed into the Mediterranean. I swam to the rope ladder exit, soaked, salty, and single. I climbed out to meet my dry, successful, and married friends at the top of the cliff.

Located 250 km south of Barcelona, Spain, Mallorca has become a world-class mecca for psicobloc. The island’s steep coastal limestone provides a perfect venue for climbing above the water. The hundreds of routes from 6a (5.10b) to 9a+ (5.15a) sit above a deep and warm sea. Tides have a miniscule effect on the water. Only wind makes waves. The jellyfish rarely linger below the climbs and from late September through mid October the sun hits the walls and quickly dries off any condensation. When Daniel and Eliza decided to wed on Mallorca, I booked my ticket to arrive a month earlier.

For three weeks before the wedding, I prepped for the trip, treading water in the deep end of the South Boulder Rec center pool for a minute, then swimming to the shallow end, trying not to drown. The college aged lifeguards watched me carefully. I swam like a stone. In between choking on chlorinated water, I bouldered at Movement Dating and Fitness. In the gym the day before my flight, I made eye contact with my ex. I had a sudden urge to leave the country.

“Watch this,” Jordan Cannon said. With a running start, he hucked himself off the top of the wall at the climbing near the Cala Varques beach. His arms spun in circles from the 15-meter jump before he brought them to his sides and penciled into the water. He breast stroked to the exit point and walked back to the top of the cliff. His boldness impressed me on my first day. Jordan tackled Mallorca deep water soloing with an analytical approach. In our apartment in Porto Cristo, he made a list of 25 of the classic climbs on the east side of the island from 5a (5.8) to 7c+ (5.13a) and started to tick them off, giving equal weight to the heady 6b+ (5.11a) of Cala Su Nau’s Kraken as to the intense 7c+ of the Tarantino Cave’s Kill Bill. I tried to follow Jordan’s lead but the climbing felt desperately pumpy and I battled a constant panic.

“Check out those warlocks,” Jordan said. He stopped the car in the middle of the turnabout, and watched two men walking into the mercando. A few years ago, Jordan had come out of the closet; he’d been reticent for years but as he found himself, he began expressing his desires more clearly. I supported my friend though I didn’t see the appeal. Maybe all the salt water had made Jordan excessively thirsty. They weren’t his type at all. “Oh wait,” he said, restarting the car and quoting Superbad. “He’s wearing cargo shorts. No one’s gotten a handjob in cargo shorts since Vietnam.”

Done checking out the men, we proceeded to the cliff. Our first few days, we’d climbed at the more sheltered and shorter cliffs of Cala Varques. We’d since moved to the taller and more exposed Cova Del Diablo, an impressive wall of steep, featured limestone open to the sea. Scared of a rogue wave sweeping me off to Algeria, I sat on top of the wall and watched Jordan push through the grades at the cliff, ticking off his list, flashing Ejector Seat and seemingly sending everything. On his last day on the island, riding the success of his trip, he went on a date with a German tourist, who told him he was handsome. I marveled at my friend’s confidence, inspired to escape the sidelines.

The crew leaves the crag after a day of deep water soloing

In the winter of 2004, while climbing in Joshua Tree National Park, I fell 100 feet onsight free soloing The North Overhang. The accident left me in the hospital for 81 days. The eight surgeries, the fusion in my left ankle, the metal rods in my lower lumbar, and my permanently shortened left arm changed my life. Though I continued to go ropeless on moderate terrain and highball boulder in the years after, the fall had shattered my self-belief, altering my relationship with soloing and my self belief. I became increasingly cautious and unwilling to try unless I knew I was safe. I forgot to apply that to the rest of my life.

In 2021, on our fifth anniversary, in Yosemite, my fiance ended our relationship. Six months earlier, I’d proposed to her in Bishop on my birthday, committing my life to her. But I wasn’t enough. She had found someone else. The rejection hurt. I wanted my life as I knew it to end. Deeply depressed, I began to climb alone. I hiked to the top of Eldorado Canyon’s Red Garden Wall, dropping multiple ropes down the 600-foot Naked Edge (5.11b). I rehearsed the climb. Across the river, I worked out the beta of the 300-foot Outer Space (5.10c) and soloed it. I hiked further up the canyon and onsight free soloed the 600-foot The Yellow Spur (5.9).

I climbed the Naked Edge with my Boulder friend Justen Sjong, telling him I was thinking of soloing the route. “I give you 50-50,” he said, watching me tap my feet up the insecure 5.11- finger crack section. “Those are very British odds.”

I obsessed over The Edge, wondering what it would be like to die. If by some unlucky chance I did survive a second free-solo fall, I’d die from embarrassment. I worked the upper 70 meters, dialing in the chimney moves, the slick boulder problem, and the short hand crack.

“I’ve waited five years for you to change,” her voice repeated the damning sentence in my head as I parked my van in Eldo. The sun hid somewhere in Kansas. It felt cold. My climbing shoes and chalk bag stared at me. I could do it. I could return to the life I’ve always lived. Emotions welled in my chest. My breathing stopped. I could solo the Naked Edge. I could die. I could do whatever I wanted. She didn’t matter anymore. A moment of indecision washed over me as I fought to breath. The weather would be cooler later in the week. I could climb the route when my body felt more warmed up. “Five years,” I heard the voice say.

I knew breakups were devastating. When I was 11, shortly after my parents divorced, my dad put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He’d left the safety on—his suicide attempt was just that. I’m unsure if this was his plan or not, but he was intentional about relaying the story of his depression to his kids. I thought about the pain. My ex-fiancé said she heard sirens at night and thought it was the police coming to tell her I was dead. I stamped down her voice. As I became more comfortable on the insecure Eldo classic, I needed the danger less. I wouldn’t let the sirens be for me. I still felt horrible but I didn’t want to die.

After Jordan left in late September, I limped my way to Cala Varques, the weight of the rope exacerbating the pain in my hip. I’d seen a few physical therapists and then over the summer saw an orthopedist. The x-rays revealed that 20 years of hiking with loads up El Cap, falling from boulder problems, and running with a fused ankle had destroyed my hip. I’d worn through the cartilage. I’d need the joint replaced to regain some semblance of normalcy. Mallorca would be my last chance to climb before my six-month recovery.

I dropped the rope down Golden Showers. Unable to use the conventional beta, I scoured the face. With time on the rope, I found a small pocket. It’d be just enough to smear my right foot, and eke my left a little higher. My beta would be harder but I could do it.

“You got it James!” Daniel Jordan shouted. I moved off the undercling to a small crimp on Golden Showers (7a) at Cala Varques. On previous attempts, I’d climbed up to and down from the crimp, unwilling to commit to the next move.. The osteoarthritis in my left hip prevented me from the normal beta of hand foot matching. My eyes darted across the face. My panic welled. I could die. I’m a shitty soloist. I flashed back to Joshua Tree. With a breathe, I pushed the image down and listened to Daniel.

The bones in my hip grated. My fingers crimped hard on the small pocket. A geriatric struggle saw my foot onto the edge. I threw for another pocket and latched it. Fear coursed through me. I was scared. But rather than jump off, I just climbed scared. I topped out and Daniel followed me. As the sunset, Eliza wrapped her arms around Daniel in a moment of love.

Chris about to plummet on the crux move of Ejector Seat

After my breakup, I melted into Daniel’s couch as he baked peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, using a scale to weigh the ingredients to perfection. When the warmth of the cookies made them fall apart, Daniel offered life advice, “That’s how the cookies crumble.” Unable to cook, I’d been living off rotisserie chickens and sparkling water. The cookies and Daniel’s puns, were a welcome change to my sad diet.

I tried to pull myself together. The initial recovery felt hard. I searched for love again but was terrified of heartbreak. Afraid of mistaking red flags for roses again, I’d only try so hard, hedging my efforts. I interviewed for a spot on FBoy Island, a reality TV show where a dozen men compete for three women' s love. It was a long shot, but long shots felt safer. Driving to Hueco Tanks, I listened to podcasts with Matthew Hussey, Dan Savage, and Esther Perel. While getting gas on Route 93, I scrolled through TikToks of modern dating advice. When I stopped in Phoenix, I read The Passion Trap: Fixing an Unbalanced Relationship to doze off. Part of me wanted to educate myself on relationships to become a better man. Another part of me flirted with the idea of becoming worse, of chasing women in relationships, of turning into a Toxic Tom. Instead of competing with 15 dudes for a woman's affection, I just had to be better than her current boyfriend. Improvement or not, I guarded my emotions, refusing to be vulnerable.

“The sea is really powerful today,” Kyle Higby said. The young dirtbag and I stood at the edge of Cova Del Diablo. The winds made the rock feel sticky but the gusts also made the waves huge. I looked down the cliff and into the water scared. Kyle’s enthusiasm brought me to the base of Afroman (7b/5.12b), one of the wall’s steepest routes. With Kyle watching, I launched into it. I toe hooked, campused, and then crossed my hands, reaching the crux of the 16-move route. I fought to ignore the waves slamming into the wall below me. With a high right foot, I stabbed for a horizontal crimp. I fumbled the hold and fell twenty-five feet, though it felt like two hundred and fifty. I was going to die.

The water swallowed me, crashing over my head as I struggled to surface. The water hit the wall in the cave and sprayed back hard onto the ropes making the nearby exit untenable. I swam towards the arete. Lactic acid filled my arms. The metal in my body dragged me down. The waves had pushed the rope ladder exit onto the rock. I wasn’t sure if I could make it.

“Kyle!” I shouted as I drank a gallon of sea water. My head went under. When I popped back up, Kyle was treading water behind me, having jumped in David Hasselhoff-style to calmly coach me how to use the swell of the waves to grab the ladder and exit the ocean. At the top, I gasped.

“That looked well epic,” a group of British kids said. I felt like a drowned rat. I dried off and watched the sea. After warming up on Afroman, Kyle downclimbed and attempted his project, screaming through the bouldery moves of Beware of Limbo Dancers (8a+/5.13c). His confidence inspired me. Later in the afternoon, the water calmed, and I returned to the Afroman Cave. I toe hooked, campused, and crossed my hands. I knew that a fall couldn’t get any worse. I locked off and grabbed the horizontal, latching it. I grabbed another crimp. I had rehearsed this section on a rope. I knew I could do it if I could manage the fear. My feet came off the wall. I relaxed and stabbed a toe onto a ledge. I rose to the next hold, moving my arm across my chest. I bumped my hand and followed easing terrain to the top.

After my breakup, I talked to dozens of climbers about their successful and failed loves. Tommy Caldwell told me about his first marriage, divorce, and second marriage. He offered advice about being comfortable alone. Alex Honnold and I spoke about detachment. “You can’t hold on too tightly,” he said.

It all sounded nice but I wondered if it was what men in secure relationships would say. I’d seen Alex Honnold carry his pregnant wife around his kitchen, I’d watched them work on The New York Times Crossword together. I’d seen the small moments where they held each other tightly. I wanted these small moments and also the larger moments, of whispering I love you, proposing in the mountains, and of making grand gestures. I wanted to care deeply and I wanted that same depth of care from a partner.

But perhaps that was a skewed view of love that I learned from watching The Notebook too many times or reading too much Shakespeare. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” a friend told me. I downloaded Bumble, Hinge, and Raya. I created profiles that showcased my talents and hid my dirtbag tendencies. I established a set series of questions, refining my game more and more. The pain held fast though.

“I can’t date you. I’m a fangirl of your ex,” one match wrote me.

My first attempts at dating involved soloing up the First Flatiron, a 1,000-foot 5.6 slab that sits above Boulder. The sunrises were epic but Alex Honnold thought the early starts and ropeless climbing might result in someone dying. I tried taking dates to the climbing gym but then my ex or Toxic Tom would be there. I imagined that to get into Movement Dating and Fitness you needed proof of polyamory.

I made a grocery list of 10 attributes I wanted in a partner and searched for her. I stopped counting the rejections and became okay with it. There was no way I could get hurt nearly as badly as before. Plus, I kept my relationships short. When a woman got attached, I pulled away. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt me like my fiance had. I was wiser.

Keith Allen Peters photo of me on Ejector Seat

I kicked off the limestone to build a swing as I rappelled but the bulge over Ejector Seat made it too difficult to get back to the wall. I wouldn’t be able to rehearse the crux moves. I’d have to be okay with repeated failure in my ground up efforts.

“Yeah, that’s pretty committing,” Daniel said of the secure-but-spooky left-hand-heel match method that Jordan had used to flash the route.

“So is getting married in Mallorca, but you’re showing no signs of hesitation there,” I said. I doubted my hip would allow me to use Jordan’s beta. But I tried it. No luck. And Daniel’s beta. That didn’t work. And Al’s method. No help there either. I searched for the best way to commit.

Each day, I lined up my three pairs of climbing shoes and my three chalk bags, switching out wet ones for dry ones after each attempt. I’d downclimb to the start of Ejector Seat and work the crux a little more. “Push the chalk,” I told myself. The goal wasn’t to send but to make a white marker higher on the wall. I grabbed the right hand intermediate better, hucked, and flew. I pulled in with my left hand more, threw, and fell. But my hand print moved towards the hold. I was closer.

“No downclimbing this time,” the boat captain told me. We’d left the Soller harbor late in the afternoon to explore the boat-access climbing on the northwest coast. Seven of us piled into the boat, taking turns on a few 7a to 7c routes. The onsighting and adventurous nature felt vastly different than projecting at Cova Del Diablo. I’d climbed and then either navigated down an easier exit or, in the case of one particular tufa-filled 7b, just downclimbed the entire route, unwilling to make the 40-foot jumps from the top. Faced with the unknown, I refused to leap. Just before sunset, I watched Daniel climb up an aesthetic 7c arete. He moved through the steep terrain, reached a stand-up ledge, and jumped off.

I started up the same route and my mind immediately filled with doubt. I bungled the opening sequence, making it harder than it needed to be. My forearms burned from downclimbing the previous routes. But I pushed on. I stopped being scared and started climbing. I looked up at the arete and entered the crux. This could be my last chance. I’d never be back with a boat, nor to Mallorca, nor would my body be the same. I reached up, and fondled the sharp arete, and then fell off. I hadn’t made it far but I swam back to the boat, having committed.

Daniel and Eliza dancing on their wedding night

When Kin Earle, Eliza’s father and the officiant at the wedding, asked Daniel if he’d take Eliza as his wife, he replied, “Yeah, definitely!” My friend’s enthusiasm shot happiness into me. In the past year, I’d attended about 30 weddings, photographing most of them in the Front Range and around Las Vegas. I’d been initially skeptical. Half of all weddings end in divorce. The other half end in death. I wondered why anyone would want to promise their lives to someone else, to open themselves to so much potential pain. They were just giving out engagement rings, like I had done.

I shot wedding photos for my old climbing partner in Leavenworth, Washington. I met up with family for my youngest brother’s wedding in Maine. I photographed another climber wedding outside of Rifle, Colorado. I struggled with the concept of marriage and partnership.

Back in Mallorca, as Daniel danced with Eliza under the moonlight, I imagined what it could be like to have support, to have someone as I went through my surgery, as I pushed my life forward. My heart cracked for a moment. I fought the sadness of longing and focused on my friends’ happiness. Daniel’s decision had been a wise one.

Late October rains had flooded mainland Spain, killing hundreds in nearby Valencia. High winds and big waves smashed into Cova Del Diablo. I had extended my trip, wanting a success. The wedding party had left. I walked to the cliff four times but the swell had been dangerously large.. Climbing would be safe but swimming would not be. I could climb it alone. I could drown. I stared at the crux of Ejector Seat, imagining both launching off and latching the hold. I wondered about the risk, if it was worth it. The gray water crashed into the amber limestone. The waves would calm. Instead of searching for a partner, I’d become what I was looking for. It was the rage of the sea and the patience of the rock.

Mediterranean Commitment: Love and Limestone

The Pink Bench