Twenty twenty-three. What a helluva year.
I've largely done away with resolutions; instead, I make a conscious, daily effort to grow into the best possible version of myself, for whatever it's worth. This past year was a reflection of that ethos for me in a lot of ways; it sets the stage moving forward into this next calendar phase as well.
This is going to be a two-part post. Initially, I anticipated one post that encompassed both my experiential endeavors of 2023, as well as the emotional and intellectual growth that I pursued, but as it approaches 4,000 words, I thought that it might be best divided, especially as the two sections are related, but quite distinct.
Without further adieu:
Part I: Travel, Adventure, and Relationship Cultivation
At the end of 2022, I dropped into Tahoe after whirlwind trips to Nepal and Thailand; and didn't really have any expectations for what the following year might bring. Nor did I anticipate how difficult, rewarding, emotional, liberating, and fulfilling 2023 might be. Let's dive in.
Starting out, I took my first-ever seasonal job—becoming a full-time ski instructor at Heavenly, with the complementary goals of learning how to teach people something that I discovered late-in-life and very much enjoy; and also improving my own personal skiing. As part of that process, I re-learned how to ski from the ground up; became a PSIA certified alpine ski instructor; and was named "rookie of the year" at the resort where I worked.
During the winter, I built some things with Ben Lebovitz at his house in Tahoe—including a “roost,” a high, lofted space above the primary bedroom, which had previously been underutilized. We also shoveled a literally unprecedented amount of snow—enough to throw my back out at one point. As my dad used to say, "It's hell getting old."
In the spring, I kicked off a multi-year relationship with Alps & Meters—an apparel company that I've admired since its inception—co-creating the ASCENT Collection, which launched this winter, and is something that I'm very proud and excited to be a part of. We captured photos and video wearing it in Jackson at the end of March, and my hard work re-learning how to ski paid off on the slopes and in front of the cameras.
A few weeks later, Ben and I drove to Bozeman to pick up the Ford Maverick hybrid that I'd configured and ordered two years earlier, which defied all expectations to be built and delivered. In a move to practice embracing communal values, I asked Ben to share ownership. He agreed, and so we both signed the lien. It was an unconventional move, but we've both been reaping the benefits of lowered payments and shared use.
Afterwards, I drove the Maverick south to ski Sierra couloirs—including one of the 50 classics, on my birthday nonetheless—with better technique than I'd ever had before; and then I drove north to ski a bunch of Cascade volcanoes. I followed those trips up with a ski mountaineering crossing of the entire High Sierra, 80+ kilometers, east-west, solo, through one of the most dramatic parts of the range. It was my single most meaningful accomplishment, ever.
Upon returning to Tahoe to repack, I received a copy of Mountain Gazette 199—a truly inspired, bi-annual, large format print publication rebirthed by Mike Rogge—which contained my title debut. “Becoming a Mountain Mage” was almost 4,500 words long—and was published exactly as I wrote it. Some of my proudest prose to date.
Over the summer, I jumped back into alpine rock climbing after a year-long hiatus due to breaking my arm in summer 2022. While in Colorado, I introduced some friends to the sport and climbed a bunch of classics, including leading every pitch of "Culp-Bossier" in Rocky Mountain National Park. Some guidebooks say that it's "5.8," but many believe that it's actually closer to 5.9R—"R" meaning maybe death if you fall while leading.
Pulling the crux moves on lead through a tight chimney in an overhung roof 250 meters above the ground while protected by traditional gear felt like traveling through a portal into another dimension. Afterwards, I was high AF off the drugs produced inside; it took a while to come down off that one.
Shortly afterwards, and back in the Sierra, I finally climbed the East Buttress of Whitney, which had been on my list for a while. Three hundred meters of adventure climbing on the highest peak in the lower 48 was pure bliss—despite the epic, circuitous deproach required. Val—my partner for the climb—and I summited at sunset after leaving the car at 7 am; and we didn’t make it back to camp until 3 am. What a journey!
Immediately after that climb, I flew to Europe and re-connected with a friend that I knew from college who lives in Germany. Robert had been an instrumental catalyst in the re-shaping of my thinking, which led to my decision to quit working at the ad agency to follow a new path in 2014. It'd been more than a decade since we'd last seen each other, and the reunion was a delight.
From Munich I went south, and proceeded to run 100 kilometers across the Dolomites in two and a half days, carrying only a 9L prototype vest designed by my friends at Pingora. Along the way, I stayed at delightful, family-run rifugios and ate delicious Tyrolean cuisine. Alta Via 4 had been on my short list for a long while; it was amazing to finally move through that magnificent terrain at my own pace.
At the end of my run, I met a friend of a friend who had been living in Sicily, and we spent the next several days hitching and hiking throughout the mountains together. Our first day was a backtrack into the most dramatic section of AV4—which I'd skipped a couple of days earlier due to inclement weather. It turned out to be the single best day of hiking of my life: unfathomably grand mountain views; varied and exciting pathways including via ferrata and cliffside trails; and a stay in the most wonderful rifugio—where the owners made us a four course meal, even though we showed up late. All of that was punctuated by the most incredible, yet unexpected companionship imaginable.
That weekend overwhelmed me; I spent the next few days bawling my eyes out while trying to remember how to breathe, with Thirty Seconds to Mars’s “Get Up Kid” on repeat. Spotify Wrapped revealed that I listened to it over 500 times.
A series of long bus rides and flights led me back to Nepal for the eighth time in nine years. This year’s catalyst: the inaugural trip, a soft launch of sorts, for my company: Transcendent Expeditions. The clients wouldn't arrive for a week, so I hung out mostly in Kathmandu. Caught up with old friends; experienced white water rafting for the first time in Nepal; and went dancing by myself. Lit the club on fire, but pulled a muscle in my thigh that's still bothering me at the time of writing. It's hell getting old.
When the clients arrived, one of which was my dear friend An, we embarked on a difficult but intimate trek around the Manaslu Circuit. I'd scouted the route in 2022; that experience provided the foundation for this itinerary. It was incredibly challenging for me from a customer service perspective, but it was simultaneously very validating of my ability to facilitate and lead meaningful endeavors into my favorite parts of the planet.
On the day that we exited and began the arduous daylong overland journey back to Kathmandu, I received news that my Nepali brother, Mingmar Sherpa, had just died in an avalanche while guiding a high-profile client on an 8,000 meter peak. I grieved with my other brother Naudhoj Rai, who joined the Transcendent trip as trekking guide. We'd both known Mingmar well from two climbing expeditions together during the previous two years. I've yet to share my perspective on Mingmar's passing, but I'm crying again at the time of writing. It's been a year for tears.
When I got back to Kathmandu, I learned of the genocide unfolding in Palestine. Spoke up for what was right—and was immediately and fiercely ostracized. I’d been set to fly home a day later to deliver two speaking engagements. They canceled the night before, citing my “political views.” The ticket was booked at the last minute, so it was non-refundable. I flew back to the US anyway to be with family—both biological and chosen. Became cocooned in their immense support and care; and used that opportunity to lean in hard with my own practices of love.
After a couple of weeks in Colorado's Front Range, I took Amtrak's California Zephyr to Reno / Tahoe, and spent the next month growing and deepening my community there; and was welcomed by more wonderful people who felt like home. In the midst of that, I visited my grandpa Brinlee and his wife Patty, the latter of whom has dementia and had been moved into an elder care facility over the summer. It was a revelation into final-stage capitalism’s failings of elders.
While in Tahoe, I went ice skating as often as I could; and helped Ben with some renovation projects at his house before the winter fully set in. We replaced two exterior windows with larger, more energy efficient models--both of which required re-framing. We also laid and leveled paving stones in the back; and installed a pirate’s net near the roost.
Time there was so fulfilling and so enriching that it was difficult to leave. The night before my departure, I held Ben tightly and cried, yet again. Vietnam was beckoning though, and one of my best friends was already in Asia waiting for my arrival.
Orey was my neighbor at design school in Savannah; and then my roommate and cheerleading teammate. We continued our friendship after we both ended up in LA upon graduation in 2011; and we went backpacking together in Yosemite in 2013. That trip changed my life; it was the first time that I saw snow-covered mountains up close. I quit my job a year later and set out to become who you know me to be.
When I was in Thailand in 2014, Orey flew out to meet me. When I was in the Alps in 2017, Orey joined me for a speed hike across the Dolomites—which was also my first time in that range. We had a brief rendezvous in London in 2019, and had spent a bit of time together in LA during my transits in the years since, but we hadn't done a trip together after Italy. Ten days of riding motorcycles through northern Vietnam awaited.
What a trip it would be. Vietnam had become one of my favorite places after spending a month there during my journey around the world in 2015. During that time, I'd ridden a tiny motorcycle, that I bought outright, from Ho Chi Minh City to Can Tho on the Mekong Delta in the south; and then all the way up to Hanoi in the north—over 3,200 km on a 110 cc bike.
In the middle of that first moto trip, I realized that I was almost out of money after nearly eight months of sabbatical and continuous international travel, so I booked a return flight home from a hotel room in the central highlands. The next day, while riding, my backpack fell off my bike—and I lost everything: camera, computer, and hard drives with terabytes of photos and video. It was a tough experience to endure, but I took it as a sign: it was time to go home.
Despite that mishap, a return to Vietnam to ride motorcycles through the north remained in the forefront of my mind for nearly a decade. When I pitched the idea to Orey, he immediately agreed.
The trip was better than anything I could have imagined it to be—and will be the subject of multiple reports in the coming months.
I arrived back in Reno just in time for an early winter solstice celebration with the Yassos—”Uncle Chris” fully embracing his role with the most wonderful non-consanguineous kin. Food was shared. Regrets were cast into the fire, and new intentions were set. Thank you Andrew and Kyle.
A day later, in Tahoe, I loaded up the Maverick with everything I'd need for winter in the Rockies, and then spent the next week road tripping across the West to Colorado with the most incredible, yet unexpected companionship. We saw Giant Sequoias, hiked in Zion, climbed ice in Ouray, and drove scenic byways for most of the journey. We parted ways in Denver. It was no less difficult than before—but our time together had been more regarding than I could have possibly fathomed.
I spent the last week of the year chasing ice—but not the kind that I typically climb. Instead of mountaineering boots, crampons, and technical tools, I donned my Jackson Premieres—a relic from my adult onset endeavor into figure skating during the height of life in LA.
A few trips to rinks were followed by an invitation to chase wild ice with the renowned Laura Kottlowski—a former figure skater who has become known for her equally adventurous and artistic pursuits of skating in the high alpine.
We headed west to the largest body of water in Colorado, Blue Mesa and hiked down to a remote inlet; where we skated black ice for two days, including six hours on New Year's eve.
Skating appeals to my artistic expressive side in ways that alpinism, dirt biking, or any of my other adventurous hobbies do not—and so I've been leaning into that outlet to balance the others, particularly during this phase of life as I'm rediscovering how important it is to feel.
Skating in the canyon transported me to another dimension—one with totally alien sounds; an inverted surface where every blade stroke shows; and where potentially fatal consequences exist.
Three days of dancing, exploring, and creating on wild ice with a like-minded crew was something totally new and it filled the depths of my soul like the reservoir upon which we flew. That was how I finished 2023 and ushered in 2024.
It was a helluva year, and I’m so grateful for everything that I got to do, and particularly, who I got to do them with.
Part II will dive into the growth. Thanks for being here.
—Chris