Work, Spanish Style. Photo by Boone Speed

No one really believes me. Not even the gas station attendant. I walked inside his small shop to buy a coke this afternoon and he asked me how my vacation was.

“Oh,” I said, “I’m here working.” It was 97-degrees outside in the sun. It’s summer, and everyone in Spain knows it.
“Trabajo?” he said, winking.
“Si,” I refused to wink back while I paid for my drink.
“Buen Viaje,” he said as I walked out the door.

Back at home in Boulder, my neighbors don’t even say hello to me anymore—they say welcome home, where are you off to next? Back at home, home—where I grew up—I call my sister at 9:30 am and she tells me how she’s already run sixteen miles, fed the kids, and had the locks changed. My days are successes if I can make it to a tiny Spainsh or French village with only one repeat trip per roundabout. It’s not good or bad or easy or hard, it’s just different ways to live your life.

Last Sunday, I stared at the ocean and pretended I could see all the way to Corsica. It felt normal, but also exotic—but maybe only exotic in the way it is perceived, rather than the way it is lived. I dragged my foot in the sand and wondered if traveling from Spain to France, with a dip in the Mediterranean along the way, was any more exotic than a drive from Minnesota to Wisconsin with a dip in the Mississippi.

Maybe what makes anything exotic is if it is a departure from our daily life. Maybe we are all just trying to be the same during our moments when we are most exotic.

Am I making sense? Does it help if I tell you that this whole thing started on the 24th when I flew away from the US on a plane and left an emotional landscape of memorial services and reminders of friends gone? That morning I pulled up facebook and saw Jonny’s name and photo as one of my six featured friends. At the airport, I scrolled past Andrew’s name to call Pete. What do you with the contact information of the people who are not in your life anymore? I didn’t have anyone to ask—I was traveling alone. So I crammed myself into an airplane seat, strapped on my noise canceling headphones, and pulled out a magazine to read about Singapore. I picked the simplest, silliest movie and watched as a young couple bought a dog, loved the dog, and had a family.

And then I watched as the dog died. I unleashed the biggest droplets of tears and snot of the past weeks straight onto the only shirt I had to wear for twenty hours of travel. Of course the dog was going to die—it was a movie about the dog. What dog won’t die? I watched the ending as we descended for an emergency landing in New York. The other passengers panicked about the fuel leak, the fire engines, the smoke. I watched Marly be put down. I swatted at my face. I kept crying.

At Andrew’s funeral, his brother Kyle told a story of asking Andrew why he traveled so much. “Do you like it?” He’d asked Andrew, “Really?”

Andrew was on his way to Africa for medical work and was heading to Alaska next, and had a Spinal Surgery Practice in-between. “Like it?” Andrew had asked Kyle, “as in all the time?” And then he said something to the effect of: “No way. But I like how it gives me a different take on life.”

I keep thinking of Andrew saying this—hearing him say it, even—and know it’s true. I think about being in the South of France, saying it in that breathy voice we all use when we say the South of France, and I think of those moments when it all just seems like life. Plain, ordinary, life.

To me, what Andrew was saying to his brother is that travel made him understand everything differently. Maybe those things are life in other places, but I think those things are life, in general. Our lives, how they all are exotic and normal. How they all have dogs that die. How they all have moments when you stare out your rental car window at the Spanish countryside and realize you are lost, or at your front door in Minneapolis and realize you forgot your new key, or when you take out your phone and thumb past the names of people that you won’t ever see again, even if you miss them and go home.

Last Thursday, Andrew Swanson and John Mislow were killed on Denali. The week before, rescuers found Jonny Copp and Wade Johnson’s bodies at the base of an avalanche in China. Micah Dash is still missing.

I have spent twelve years in this community watching death glance at my sides through the loss of friends. Each time it has happened, at some point I have picked up the phone and called my family. These are phone calls I never want to make. Maybe they make the loss more real, or maybe, by telling those outside of this community, it opens me up to the inevitable questioning of why I keep doing what I do.

But my sister called me last Thursday to tell me about Andrew. It makes sense, he was her husband’s best friend. He was the one my niece and nephew called doctor Andrew, he was Ania’s favorite man aside from her husband.

My sister is not supposed to be telling me about her friends dying in the mountains. Nor is she supposed to be asking me questions like these:

“What would it feel like to be the one who fell? She asked me two days ago. Before I could respond, she added, “Or who was pulled off?”

I have always thought I could protect my family by making safe choices and coming home. I have always thought that I live two separate lives, one in the climbing community, and one in the real world. Last week these lives crossed and now won’t separate. No one is supposed to die young, but we all take risks with that pronouncement. On a personal level, Andrew was the safe man for me. We’d tried out dating at one point and my family, all of them, drew checkmarks in their head—here was a stable, brilliant man, perfect, and not a full time climber or guide-- the men they had grown used to. Instead, Andrew was a man they could go to sleep knowing would be there for me the next day. And now, he’s gone.

I have been to an untold number of outdoor memorial services for friends who have died in the mountains. I will be going to another for Jonny, Micah, and Wade next month. Today I am going to the First Presbeterian Church in Mankato, Minnesota. I am going to say good-bye to Andrew.

Yesterday, in a long snaking line at the Mankato Mortuary, a line for a group that was expected to be contained in a 4pm-8pm window but went past 10, I wound my way past videos of Andrew’s work in Africa, medals for high school Academic Decathlon (which he insisted was every bit as much of a contact sport as football, without the pads), pictures of his first season rock climbing, ascents in Bolivia, nieces and nephews.

In every photo there are Andrew’s bright open eyes looking easily at the camera. Other shots were rotating on the wall. I watched them for the entire hour procession once inside the main room, spiraling toward his family. Once I was underneath the screen I looked up at an odd angle of Andrew’s foot snapped into a bike pedal. It was larger than life. Larger than his life will ever be again. I thought of this as I walked toward his family.

"You're the climber," his sisters said, when I got to them in line. I nodded. “So you must understand all this, then.”

I started crying, again. “Not so much,” I said. I didn't know what I was supposed to give them. Instead we talked about about the coffee I hooked Andrew on, about his frugal tendencies in climbing gear, about his love for them.

As I walked away I thought about Andrew, John, Jonny, Micah, Wade, Chad, Doug, Bruce, Sue, Karen, Chris, Charlie, Laura, Max… I thought about everyone who is gone, and realized that the only thing I really do know right now is that this all keeps getting closer.

Namibia Video 2: Southern Crossing from Majka Burhardt on Vimeo.

Majka Burhardt on Southern Crossing, 5.11+, V. Photo by Peter Doucette.

On June 1st, Peter Doucette, Kate Rutherford and I completed Southern Crossing: a 1300-foot 5.11+, grade 5 rock climbing first ascent on the Brandberg, Namibia’s highest peak. But that’s only part of the story. There’s also a 2,000+ year-old painted giraffe, 108-degree temperatures, eight days at 15km/hour over washboard roads, scorpions, laser sharp granite cracks, crumbling granite faces, and 1.7 meter-long cobra tracks.

“Forty-two days ago, I went to Namibia expecting to climb, explore, and push my understanding of how curiosity, ambition, and adventure work vis a vis culture. I knew all of these components would come into play during the month long trip, I just didn’t know the formulation. In the north, where we’d originally planned to climb the most, our best Kate Rutherford, Peter Doucette, and Majka Burhardt. Photo by Chris Alstrin.moments came from sitting in the shade of an Acacia tree with a group of Himba women painted in red ochre and butterfat. They spoke Himba, Afrikaans, and Portuguese; we spoke English and Spanish. Hand gestures and figures drawn in the sand eventually told the story of dirt-track roads, established trails, and unexplored mountains. Further south, on the Brandberg, we scraped through the dirt, bushes, and bird refuse that guarded our prospective line for three days to get to what we hoped would be a way up. Each day, we looked for a way for this country, the “easy Africa,” to give us portals to a higher stance, a greater understanding, or a smooth road. We eventually found all of them.

Stay Tuned for Words and Images From:

Himba Woman in the Northwest. Photo by Gabe RogelMajka Burhardt, writer and speaker. www.majkaburhardt.com

Gabe Rogel, photographer. www.rogelphoto.com

Chris Alstrin, filmmaker. www.alstrinfilms.com

*I share this news with a heavy heart in light of the recent news about Jonny Copp, Micah Dash, and Wade Johnson. Just over a month ago, Jonny and I high-fived a send off for our respective expeditions and promised to trade stories when we got back. As most of you know, those are stories we will now not have a chance to hear. When my father heard the news on the radio he called me and asked me one question: "How do you make sense of this in your world?" I told him the only answer I have. "I don't."

Namibia Movie 1 from Majka Burhardt on Vimeo.

Southern Crossing, 5.11+, V, Brandberg, Namibia. Photo by Peter Doucette.

“More,” I replied. “Better.”

On June 1, Peter Doucette, Kate Rutherford, and I topped out a new 1300-foot 5.11+, Grade 5 rock climbing first ascent on the Brandberg, Namibia’s highest peak. It was the kind of climb you do in Yosemite. It capped the kind of trip you never get a chance to repeat in your lifetime.

We’re back. We did something tangible. We did other things I don’t yet understand. Right now, I have to drive to the airport and pick up my Polish Cousins. I have to put salve on my scab (a whipper on the almost- onsight offwidth). I have to get some sleep.

Stay tuned.

Read More About Namibia Here.

 

People here call Namibia “Easy Africa.” The roads, when they’re tarred, are great. You can get a fully kitted out 4X4 with bed linens and a lantern. You can car camp at the base of that mound of granite pictured there: Spitzkoppe. It was what brought me here in the first place. Kate and I have spent the past week climbing exfoliating faces, huecos, and cracks. The winter nights start at 6pm and we bring back swollen fingers and toes to nurse them at camp. This is our version of “Easy Africa.” We have three days left of it.

Spitzkoppe is a great granite plug visited by tourists, climbers, and people like our friend Piet Steenkamp, with his purple flying machine. It’s a common destination. We stumbled into another campsite on Saturday to be greeted by cold beers. We went back to ours to read up on Elephant attack behavior. We’re lucky, Piet came (without the flying machine) and is telling us stories. He’s fifth-generation Namibian and has the equivalent number of tales. It’s bad when the elephant’s flap their ears. Don’t leave a leg sticking out of your tent at night. The scorpions with the big pinchers are the least of your worries.

Next up is the north. As far up as we can go—vertically, geographically, mentally—you pick it. The rest of the team arrives today and we are whisking them through the city and into the bush. I haven’t told them about the thorns and pricker bushes, or the grasses lush from four years of heavy rain. I’ve barely told them about the climbing. For Peter and Gabe and Chris, Namibia is still a destination. For Kate and I, it has become a home. Maybe that’s what it means to be a traveler.

Read More About Namibia HERE

Antananarivo, Noola, Luanda...or Windhoek?I’ve been in Windhoek, Namibia’s capitol for 48-hours—just now longer than it took to get here. Departing Johannesburg, I had the choice to go to

Rick Dees Top 40 blended in with the African wind as I rolled on the B6 to the city. It’s all here. Everything I brought (save the bag that was late), everything I need, everything I’m trying to get to—for the next month. Kate showed up yesterday and I am a day ahead of her jet lag. By the time Gabe, Peter, and Chris arrive, we will have a week on them.

I left Boulder in the mist. Everything was lily pad green. Spring rains and snow came to Colorado just as I headed for the start of winter desert in Namibia. It’s blue here. Everywhere. Chances are we will not see one rain drop. Now it’s time to do errands. Farm stores, food, machetes, candles, 4X4’s, spices. As many vegetables as balance out the metal climbing gear seem to be the right amount. Tomorrow we head west and leave the city. By tomorrow night, I’ll either be getting my first Namibian hand jams, or my 100^th Namibian friction smear. Either way, I’ll take it.

Petzl Attaches, Lockers, Spirits, Fin Anneau Slings, and Poodle. 4/5 of which will be going to Namib

I’m five days out from a five-week expedition. I have eight lists. On a one-to-one completion rate, the odds are not leaning in my favor. Right now I’m supposed to be working on my connections. That right there, to the left, that’s all the draws and anchoring material I’m bringing to Namibia. Five weeks of connection.
It’s a pretty basic question: what do you need for the next step in your life? I have some idea. I have no idea. The lists make me feel better.

I’ve never been to Namibia. None of us (Chris Alstrin, Peter Doucette, Gabe Rogel, Kate Rutherford, and me) have. I’ve been the closest. I’m the leader. For now, this mainly means I send lists. This is what I sent this morning:

Things to know:
• It will get down to 40, maybe, and could be pretty cold in the shade.
• It will be hot, 80, in the full sun.
• You will want at least one nice outfit to wear in the city.
• Bring a lightweight raincoat—it might rain.
• It will probably not rain.
• There will be critters, but you will still want a pair of flip-flops.
• You will also want closed toe shoes (see above).
• P cord is helpful for your tent/for your general existence.
• We will be gone for a month. Plan accordingly.
• This is Africa not like you might imagine it, and exactly like you imagine it.

I hit send, and go back to my task at hand. There are some things you have to do before you leave on a big trip, and other things you do to make yourself feel better. I organized my toolbox this morning under the guide of searching for my Dremel tool. Now I’m etching my name into my gear, something that is not exactly tantamount to my trip. But it seems like a way to be better prepared.

I started expeditioning when I was six. I went to camp—for a month. Every year, a week before my departure, I had the same dream: I showed up only to find that camp was actually a floating city in the middle of the lake and I would have to swim to get there. The first time this would happen, I would circle swimsuit on the list, the second time, it went in my bags, by the forth time I would debate sleeping in my suit so as not to forget this clearly crucial piece of equipment.

Preparation is all about being organized in a singular part of your life. Maybe that’s why I plan trips. I don’t know what is happening next year, in two years, in ten. But I know what the plan is for next month. Namibia is surrounded by tasks and plans designed wholly for that one moment, when I lock my door behind me and step off into the trip. The moment when it’s the only thing that’s relevant. It’s the same thing that happens with a singular pitch of climbing. Expanded. I’m going back to racking up.

Read More About Namibia Here