Melissa i
Strong

Fontainebleau Dreaming Becomes a Reality 2002

some version of this was published in She Sends 2003

 

Karla's eyes glimmer as she spots the crucial hold that will allow her to accomplish her first boulder problem in Fontainebleau—gripping the cold black sandstone slopers, her shoulders flex.  She looks down for a foothold and sees a crowd gathering.  "Allez, Allez!" local climbers chant, encouraging Karla to send the mantle looming above her.  She weights her foot, but the smooth surface of the round, rosin-coated foothold repels the Stealth rubber.  Karla slides down the rock until her arms catch her weight.

From my home in Estes Park, Colorado, the destination of Fontainebleau was a dream far across the Atlantic.  It was the middle of summer when we hatched the initial plans after a long day of bouldering and a few beers.  We came down from Chaos Canyon, found seats at the local cantina, and fantasized of far-off boulders: "The fall would be perfect, let's stop talking about going and go.  We could work hard all summer, and the dream could be a reality; it's as simple as that," I explained to Jim, John, and Curt.  The persuasion was not necessary; we decided we were going to Fontainebleau, the guys and me! The dream was thrilling.  Nevertheless, the ensuing year brought obstacles.  One by one, the once enthusiastic group dispersed because of back problems, money problems, and time off from work.  After the group's dissolution, rain began to fall in France, flooding regions.  I consoled myself, knowing that I would just be getting rained on if I made it over there.  Dreams deferred--hopes for the following season gave me my solace.

Driven by disappointment, determination, and desire, I set the plans into motion again.  I was not willing to give up the thought of visiting Fontainebleau.  The hefty problem at hand was: who was going?   This time, I knew I was, but obstacles similar to the year before threatened to keep my male climbing partners at home again.  My quest for bouldering companions introduced another group of climbing partners--the gals. 

In the past, partners passionate about bouldering were difficult to find in an area such as Estes Park, where traditional climbing has ruled for years.  Some of the die-hard trad climbers did not find much interest in moving up "small" rocks.  The partners were not lining up for a trip to Fontainebleau.  Persistent persuasion, which involved begging my girlfriends for a spot and luring them to boulders with a trail run thrown into the bargain, combined with the merits of bouldering—gaining strength and technique quickly won me partners who were excited about bouldering and committed to traveling overseas.  These partners were different from the original group of guys in two distinct ways: no one was backing out, and they were all women. 

Surrounded by some of Colorado's most renowned and developing bouldering areas, we had amazing training grounds in our backyards.  Determined to be as strong as we could before going to France, we took advantage of our surroundings and carved ourselves a niche amid the many local areas.  As a group, we worked on problems, encouraged each other, and enhanced our techniques.  Individual accomplishments were group achievements.  We spent countless days bouldering and having fun in Rocky Mountain National Park, including Lumpy Ridge, Emerald Lake, and Chaos Canyon.  We all worked out the sequences of numerous problems like the Potato Chip, Tommy's Arête, and Revenge.  We clocked countless hours at the Boxcar boulder attempting a throw to a sloping edge while the spotter measured the progress: "Just an inch more and you'll be on top, you've got it, try again."  This was the group that I had been looking for, a group that formed through inherent excitement and passion for bouldering.  Once the initial spark grew, all it took was the mere mention of Fontainebleau, and the enthusiasm swelled.  After a summer of fun, the local women- Lisa Foster, Karla Mosier, and myself- were ready to go to France.  A phone call to New York fanned the flames for an old friend temporarily removed from Estes to join us—Bronson MacDonald signed on.    

Laughing and lounging on crash pads after a successful bouldering session, we decided that a team name was necessary.  Jokingly, we agreed the only way the local "Estes" women could go to France would be with a title, of course. "The Estes Gals" and "Team Bitch Slap" were among the numerous amusing suggestions. However, nothing fit us.   None of these names captured our essence.  The silliness continued as we pondered this pertinent question; "How about Rad Ass Climbing Chicks?" I suggested, knowing immediately that no other name was appropriate.  Karla momentarily froze. "Team RACC, I like it," she responded, nodding in approval.  The plans were set into motion.  We bought the tickets, rented a house, and lined up a car. Then, we questioned: "Does anyone speak French?  No? Oh well."

Fontainebleau was everything I anticipated and more.  It lived up to the pictures and descriptions I had encountered, but being immersed in the forest gave me far more than any image could—it was a vast and magical playground of boulders.   A thickly wooded forest lined the roads around Fontainebleau, concealing the treasure of the extraordinary boulders.  Once inside the woods, the foliage opened, revealing a sandy, level forest floor covered by a thick blanket of leaves.  A multitude of uniquely shaped gray blocks resembling weathered sleeping giants rose from this soft ground.  The predominant shape of these sandstone boulders was round, with sloping edges and smooth ridges.  The immense forest spread out far exceeding what I had imagined.  The forest reached many small towns and varied from area to area; some were totally flat, and others boasted rolling hills.  In some zones, we bouldered among the shelter of the trees, and in other locations, we emerged from this shelter to immense sand fields with an abundance of boulders.  We quickly noticed that the French used the forest for climbing and much more.  On our daily adventures, we encountered traditional fox hunts and sand fields teeming with outgoing school children and friends and families picnicking, strolling, and reveling in the majesty of their national treasure.  It was easy to see why Fontainebleau is a boulderer's Mecca and draws people from throughout the world.  

Lisa and I arrived first and were immediately captivated.  We fell under the spell of Fontainebleau.  Karla and Bronson flew over in the weeks to follow.  Excited to witness their reaction, we drove them directly to the boulders regardless of their jet lag.  Surprisingly, no one objected, not even Karla, who had endured an epic journey and a long day of waiting for us while we were lost among the airport terminals.  We spent many days bouldering and exploring the foreign terrain.  So many famous and worthy problems stood back to back in the forest, awaiting our efforts.  Every turn brought a new adventure, another rock corridor leading to an additional cluster of quality yet foreign and challenging climbing. 

On nights before our departure, I tried to reassure myself concerning the unique terrain that makes Fontainebleau famous: "I've climbed on slopers before—no big deal, so Font has a few rounded holds."  Once ensconced in the forest we realize the 'few rounded holds' were our newest challenge--the famous slopers of Fontainebleau. The unique shape of the sandstone presented us with demanding terrain requiring delicate and precise movement.  We were surrounded by French climbersin the forest who floated effortlessly up the boulders, displaying that they had mastered this art.  The exhibit was intimidating yet inspiring.  A seasoned French climber approached the problem I was working on and gestured, implying: 'May I have a turn?' I obliged happily hoping to observe his precision and balance.  Obviously he had climbed this problem before.  He demonstrated powerful yet delicate movements.  He encouraged me to try.  My attempt to imitate his Fontainebleau style made it clear that I was not at home anymore; these problems required something I did not have—the ability to hold onto nothing.  Unable to find the precision I desired, I hit the sloper outright but could not hold on.  With a smile and a shrug of the shoulders the French climber tried to show me how to hold the sloper properly and motioned for me to try again.  

The porous and gritty texture of the sandstone was initially a gift to our fingertips, especially compared to the sharp granite edges of Colorado.  The spared skin afforded us countless attempts while we figured out how to properly weigh the holds.  With time, the foreign holds and movement, initially peculiar and perplexing, became tempting and rewarding as our bodies started to understand the subtleties of the rock.   Our boisterous laughs accompanied victorious ascents as well as failed attempts and problems left undone, waiting to be achieved during our next visit. We had both good and bad days but it was hard not to enjoy ourselves.  We attracted many foreign stares with stunts like scoping out the finishing holds on the Joker.  I was precariously balanced on Lisa's shoulders while Karla attempted to spot us by holding my ass.  The spectacle concluded as the pyramid of bodies collapsed with laughter.  Friends took walks and breaks together, bandaging bruised egos while we worked out our head games.  Not meeting personal expectations was a challenging lesson learned throughout this trip.  However, the environment was positive, with assurance coming from strangers and friends.  The locals also gave encouragement and beta freely, cheering for even the easiest mantles. 

"Allez, Allez!" the group continues to cheer with even more passion as Karla catches her weight.  Our eyes meet; I see the desperate look on her face.  I know this look; I know what she is feeling--she wants to give up, the crash pad is there, but she wants to let go.  "You've got it," I yell.  Another group of foreign faces rounds the corner, joining the enthusiastic crowd.  The pressure is on.  Karla takes a deep breath.  She takes one more look at the crash pad and then at the top of the boulder.  Spotting the same foothold, a resolute look of determination slowly spreads across her face.  Placing her foot carefully, she finds the friction she needs.  Subtly weighting the sandstone, she moves up the rock.