I’m always baffled by how people can simultaneously insult and compliment me. Earlier today, a teacher approached me about an article I wrote for the school paper. She verbatim said to me, “I mean, I wasn’t on the edge of my seat, but I was definitely engaged reading it!” Thanks? I’m so glad my article was interesting, but not that interesting, to you.
The piano notes were unmistakable as I entered the liquor store. I froze in my tracks.
“Ryan, I can’t believe this. They’re playing some incredibly niche Paul McCartney in here. Like, 2005 Paul McCartney. It’s an album my dad always played — Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. See, this is why Weber is the best.”
I am incredibly fond of Weber Street Liquor. It’s the liquor store for my alma mater, Colorado College. Students frequent this place so often, when school starts back up in August, Weber hangs a banner out front that says “Welcome home, Tigers!” My roommate, Marta, and I were regulars during our college years. Recognizing that we knew virtually nothing about craft beer, we embarked on a beer “connoisseurship.” We’d build a mix-and-match 6-pack (affectionately dubbed a “mixy sixy”) with some arbitrary rule (e.g. select only beers in purple cans). Then we’d proceed to split each beer over the course of the week, rate them out of 5, and write up a review. I would tape a torn piece of scrap paper to the can with our summary, and Marta would plant a succulent in the can. The good old days.
I am fond of Weber Street Liquor, but saying I am just “fond” of Chaos and Creation is a gross understatement. I have countless memories of listening to it top to bottom in our white Suburban, my dad driving and my younger sister in the seat beside me. Back then, the two of us loved the song “English Tea.” As I grew older, I came to appreciate “Too Much Rain,” particularly when our family pets passed on. These days, I could extoll the virtues of every track, but I especially like “Anyway” — the song that was playing overhead in that moment.
Bemused, Ryan proceeded to the task at hand: making a “mixy-sixy” for our friend, Eric. I was dedicated to the task too, but still distracted. I had been thinking of this particular album just recently for a variety of reasons, and it felt like a sign that it appeared in such an improbable context.
We proceeded to the counter and to my delight, Marie was working. Marie knows me from the college days and the years after. Sadly, I live on the other side of town now and so rarely get to visit Weber. This was a treat.
“Marie, how are you? It is so good to see you,” I began. “And also … is it you who put on Chaos and Creation? I love this album. It’s like, the album of my childhood.”
Marie smiled. “It is! You know, I’ve really been into Paul McCartney lately, especially his older stuff. And I think this album is just his very best.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. “Anyway” was coming to an end and I noted how much I loved it, since it also transitions to a completely different, hard rock tune. We exchanged some more words about Paul — me, recommending his albums Memory Almost Full and Egypt Station, Marie, explaining her suspicions about the track “Vanity Fair” — while Ryan listened and smiled patiently.
We left the store and I was in such disbelief that the interaction had even occurred. “I feel like I’ve got to call my dad! But it’s 10 p.m. on the East Coast.”
“Call him anyway.” That’s always Ryan’s response.
After confirming over text that Steve was indeed awake, I rang him. “First off, I am totally OK. I just needed to tell you about something that just happened, in the moment.” I proceeded to recount the whole C&C/Weber episode with Marie to him, and he laughed approvingly. He launched into giving me some Paul tidbits (impersonating the Beatle’s voice, of course — even Ryan had to admit, it was pretty good). I tell people that Steve and I have imaginary conversations with Paul McCartney all the time, so it was nice to have someone actually bear witness. I had been having a pretty awesome day, but this was really the cherry on top.
“I guess there’s only one proper way for me to end this call,” my dad said. “And that’s: ‘How kind of you to think of me.'”
Prior to this random visit to Weber, I had been stewing about Chaos and Creation, and more broadly, the albums from my youth that I keep coming back to. What was it about them, exactly? I was perplexed by their timelessness, I think. The fact that they could resonate as strongly now as they did when I was a child — though for different reasons — kind of boggled my mind.
To this day, I will regularly play C&C on a long drive and find myself tearing up at a different song every time. I may have cried to “Too Much Rain” at age 12, but at age 27, I’ll find myself sobbing to “This Never Happened Before.” Paul’s lyrics and tunes hit me on such a deep emotional level, having been planted at such a young age. In 2005, I was just 9 years old. Like rock climbing, C&C has been a part of me for two-thirds of my life. I could have grown out of it, but quite the opposite has happened; I’ve grown increasingly into it.
I am a big album person in general. If I have a long car ride ahead, I will queue multiple albums based on my mood. When I recommend an album to someone, it’s only if I believe it to be top-to-bottom good. Obviously, C&C is one of them. So too is Billy Joel’s The Stranger, Ben Folds’ Rockin the Suburbs. Alternative rock albums from my teenage years, like Wiped Out! by The Neighbourhood, You Haunt Me by Sir Sly. In more recent years, X by the Driver Era, LP3 by Hippo Campus. Whenever I really don’t know what I want to listen to, though, I know I will find solace in Language and Perspective, the first full-length album by my favorite band, Bad Suns.
My affinity for Bad Suns is not unlike my affinity for Paul. I have seen them maybe 9 times in concert. I have one of their lyrics tattooed on my arm (it should be noted I also have a yellow submarine tattoo on my foot). I obsess over their interviews and am in their top 0.5% of listeners every year. To put it simply, I love them. I love Paul. And it’s ironic that love should be the common denominator.
When I think of both Chaos and Creation and Language and Perspective and why they have continually affected me, I’ve realized it’s precisely because they’re not necessarily about love. Chaos and Creation speaks to companionship and friendship quite a bit; Language and Perspective is highly existential, trying to get to the meaning of all of this. Until just the past couple of years, I freely admitted that I didn’t think I knew what love was. Which meant that a lot of music was a little lost on me — but never those two albums.
I don’t care much for genres like rap or country are because they’re unrelatable to me. I can still totally appreciate their lyricism or sound, but I won’t connect with them the same way due to their content. In contrast, I have always been able to appreciate both Paul’s and Bad Suns’ lyricism and sound in the same and newfound ways through the years. And it’s because their content speaks to life more broadly. Though both albums touch on aspects of love, they’re not all about love. So too has been the story of my life.
Now that I have some semblance of what capital L “love” is, songs hit me harder than they ever have. But nothing will compare to the way these original albums cut to the very core of my being. There are few songs like “Anyway” that can stop me dead in my tracks just hearing the piano chords in the liquor store. There are few bands that I would willingly go see 9 times. In that sense, perhaps I knew what love was all along.
“His last name is just so rare and fun-sounding, I have to believe it must mean something very specific — like, ‘little cup of chocolate.'”
I laughed and shook my head at my dad. We were heading to Colorado to visit family friends in Grand Lake, but first with a stop to the Front Range. There, we’d visit Colorado College, my eventual alma mater (though at the time I was undecided) and link up with my dad’s friend, John (“Captain”), in Boulder. My dad had asked Captain if he knew of any climbing guides who could take me out on some real rock. One of the strongest pulls for me to go to college in Colorado was rock climbing, but as a primarily gym climber, I wanted to see and feel the rocks myself. Captain knew just the guy: Rob Coppolillo. Or as my dad would henceforth refer to him, Rob ‘Little Cup of Chocolate.’
When I met Rob, I didn’t have an inkling of how incredibly talented and smart he was. He was friendly and quick to laugh as he led me through Eldorado Canyon for some sport climbing. He took me across my first Tyrolean traverse and brought me up to heights I had never reached. We had an awesome day — so much so, that when I committed to Colorado College, I went out with him again before freshman year orientation began. He supposedly told my dad that I was going to surpass him as a climber in no time. “She’s a natural-born crusher,” he declared. I’m still honored to have received that praise.
Several years later, I was in my second semester of senior year, desperately trying to figure out some sort of “career” for myself. In an effort to network, I reached out to Captain to see if he had any contacts in the Boulder area he could connect me to. Over a weekend, Cap introduced me to folks in the bike and beer industry — but he also arranged breakfast with Coppolillo.
Rob was as congenial and knowledgeable as ever. He offered to connect me to some of the head editors of Climbing Magazine. (While in college, I discovered Rob himself was a regular contributor to the publication. He never mentioned it — talk about humble!) He insisted that places that were going to blow up included Las Vegas and Grand Junction. Now, years down the line, I can say he was right. I can easily envision myself in either place, drawn to the climbing, growth, and other outdoor pursuits in both. As we sipped coffee and ate possibly the best chocolate chip muffins I’ve ever eaten, I couldn’t help but feel so grateful for him and Captain to spare me this time. (Captain later told me that given Rob’s propensity for chicanery, he’d given him a “stern talking to” before guiding me outside and later meeting over breakfast. Given that Captain is a hooligan himself, I can’t imagine what he could’ve possibly said.)
I was aware that Rob decided to move his guiding business to Chamonix, France, some years back, but I was absolutely tickled to receive a Facebook message from him in December of 2022: “hey bud, great to see you are still climbing and going good! how’s vegas?! you’re done with CC now, eh? what you doing? we moved to chamonix for a couple years, but now in seattle. see you ’round, i hope! best to your dad, rob.” It was so out-of-the-blue. I had gone to Vegas to climb for my birthday (once again, he called it), and he must have seen the photos I posted a month after the fact. There was no reason for him to reach out like this, but he did.
And he did it again! This last summer, while out on the road, I hit a professional crossroads. I was tired of doing jobs that didn’t relate to my real passion: writing. I posted in an outdoor industry Facebook group, seeking advice from others on how to break into copywriting for outdoor brands. A day or two later, after receiving several comments and insights, I got a notification: “Rob Coppolillo commented on your post.” I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it was short and sweet. Something like, “hey bud — let’s chat!” I immediately messaged him to get on a call with him.
Over the phone, I learned just how extensive Rob’s copywriting background was. He’d written for the likes of huge outdoor brands, not to mention all of the climbing articles and two full-on manuals to mountain guiding and ski guiding. The guy was so well-versed on these subjects and just a total badass, and you’d never know it if you just met him in passing. I told him I’d be in Seattle on the tail-end of the road trip, and he immediately encouraged me and Ryan to come climb with him at Seattle Bouldering Project.
At SBP, it felt not only so great to see Rob’s familiar face, but experience that full-circle moment. He was casually bouldering around, admitting he’d been working to get more into ski shape for his guiding season — less so climbing shape. He used his free day passes on the two of us and encouraged us to stay as long as we’d like — even come back to the gym later if we wanted. He was crunched for time but still made the effort. We took a selfie for my dad and Captain, to commemorate the moment:
I last saw Rob on my birthday, November 18, 2023. I had driven up to Boulder to do a couple of errands, but also just to see him (he was in town just a few days) and Captain. While I had seen Rob just a couple of months prior, Captain hadn’t seen him in ages. It was genuinely touching for me to witness these old friends reconnect after years of being apart. Once again, I felt grateful to have these two quasi-dads in my life, full of wisdom and a dose of chicanery.
I am still wrapping my head around Rob’s passing. I’ve been seriously outdoor recreating for about a decade now, but had yet to experience losing someone to the wild — always a real possibility, but you never think these things will happen to you. As I set out on my long trail run this morning, I felt keenly aware of the risks I was taking as I ascended further into the woods through fog and rain. I had told some folks that I was going for a long run today, but I didn’t really specify where. Still, I felt compelled to keep getting after it, just as Rob always did.
The run ended up being the longest I’ve done in 9 months. Rob was on my mind the whole way — and the desire to write, as he did, was too. When I got home, I wondered if I could fix myself a little cup of chocolate.
I recently caught up with my family friend, John Mann, over a beer in Colorado Springs. He was asking me what’s new, as he always does. I always seem a bit of a mess, too restless to ever stop flitting from one activity to another. I told him how some things had all come to a head this last month, and he responded, “Sounds like you were running so fast, you got caught.” I could not have said it better myself.
Ryan likes to drive me crazy by saying ridiculous pithy statements. He’ll say something like, “What a time to have a time,” in a magnanimous dad voice, or, “Well, I guess it’s about that time we shut our eyes, don’t you think?” I think that despite my exasperation, I’m still slightly amused because these comments aren’t that rare for actual dads to say. As someone who has lots of “dad friends,” I hear these inane statements all the time. Even in my work, I review off-road trail submissions by dads across the country, writing the same practically meaningless comments. My favorite recently: “This trail is an adventure of adventures.”
My friend Zach is one of the gnarliest hikers I know. On a weekly basis, he gets out and will go for a 10-mile+ hike in a foot of snow, frigid temperatures, and up serious elevation gain. Sometimes these hikes have some real technicality to them, too — they’re practically mountaineering routes. His level of dedication to and stoke for these hikes impress me tremendously. As a trail runner, I don’t think I have the mental willpower to be walking for as long as he does. If I were to run any of his routes, I would surely be done much sooner and not stuck in my own head for nearly as long.
Zach’s hiking also exemplifies how much more consequential hiking in the West is. Growing up on the East Coast, I was never “scared” of hiking. What’s there to be scared of? A black bear? Some bugs? But out here, some hikes are a completely different ball game. There are some traverses and Class 3-5 hikes out here that I am not even willing to attempt. Every time I wake up at 3 a.m. to try a 14er, I am filled with mild trepidation. Sure, I’m physically capable of most hikes, but the sheer exposure and risk involved scares the heck out of me. Find me a trail in the Northeast that can do the same.
Back in January, Ryan went down a rabbit hole of IQ tests, concerned he was on the left side of the bell curve. “I’ve got to be at least average intelligence,” he asserted, opening a new link. I reassured him I was positive he was at least average, but likely above. It was cracking me up, his need to confirm. (He was in fact a slightly above-average IQ, for what that’s worth.)
A couple of weeks later, we were out snowshoeing with our friend Slade to his family’s remote cabin on Tomichi Pass. Slade, his friend India, and I were up ahead. I can’t remember how the topic came up, but Slade noted, “It’s insane how well Ryan remembers lyrics. Like, in the car, he was singing the words to that song from middle school — including all the rap lyrics — perfectly. And he said he hadn’t heard that song in a decade!” I laughed and agreed. His aptitude for picking up lyrics is kind of incredible. I proceeded to tell Slade and India that despite this capability, Ryan had gotten all concerned about having a low IQ just weeks earlier. It just goes to show you how many different forms of intelligence there are — there is no one-size-fits-all.
Once we were at the cabin and settled, drinking hot chocolate and warming by the wood burning stove, we got to chatting as a group. Slade posed a question: how many songs do you think you actually know? And by know, he meant, know 85% or more of the lyrics. Slade guessed 50 for himself.
“50?” I replied, incredulous. “It’s got to be way more than that, I think. I mean take a look at my Spotify. I have 4,000 Liked Songs. And those are just the songs I hit the heart button on — there are many, many other songs that I know that aren’t on that list. Even if I only know 10% of those songs, that’s 400 right there.”
Slade nodded, with a face that either said “good point” or “that’s ludicrous”; I couldn’t tell. I stand by my calculation, but I don’t think it works for Ryan. He probably knows many, many more.
I heard a while back on a podcast that almost everyone has a way of visualizing time. I had posed the question to my parents, and sure enough, each of us saw the calendar year in our heads a bit differently. The fact is, we all have visualizations unique to us.
My climbing friend, Casey, told me one a few weeks ago that I found pretty amusing and specific. We were on the bouldering floor working on some new problems, trying a V4/5 that consisted mostly of slopers (round, bulbous holds — think of trying to grip a basketball on the wall).
“Ugh, I hate slopers,” she lamented. “Every time I’m on the wall trying to hold them and start slipping off, I feel like I’m in one of those old-school cartoons. You know, that scenario where the character is in a water tank that is filling up to their neck and about to drown them?” I chuckled. No, I have never felt that way while trying to hold a sloper, but maybe now I will.
Another great visual metaphor I’ve been considering came from my friend, Eric. It’s been useful to reconcile fading friendships. In this new year, I’ve come to realize that each one of my friends fulfills a part of my life, but not all of them have to be very deep to be worthwhile. Yes, some friends are the ones you call at 2 a.m. in an emergency, but other friends are perfect for the calmer sides of life: the friend who you watch basketball with, the friend you go for a run with, the friend who’s down to try that new donut shop with you. All are equally valid.
The way Eric sees it, your life is your house, and you have friends that belong in only certain rooms. Some friends only are invited into the kitchen and dining room. Closer friends likely occupy the living room too. If you’re like most people, ultimately only one person will come into your bedroom. And some friends may be limited to the back patio.
All of these friends are welcome in a part of your house. But it depends on the person and relationship how much of the house you are willing to share.
You take for granted some things that people do for you when you’re a kid. I’ve talked about just how nice it is when someone prepares a meal for you, down to serving it on a plate and handing it over. It also is incredibly soothing when someone brushes your hair for you. The one I had forgotten until recently is the comfort of someone tying your shoes for you.
Ryan and I were doing a long hike through Bryce Canyon, slipping and sliding on 8 inches of snow that was rapidly melting. My shoelace came undone, and seeing me in gloves, Ryan ordered me to hold still while he tied my shoes. It reminded me of all the times my mom and dad would tie my shoes when I was a kid, and how it always felt like I’d never be able to secure them in place as tightly as them. They stayed tied the rest of the hike.
Problem-solving together is something that’s fallen to the wayside since the pandemic. With our remote jobs and limited interaction, I find myself collaborating with people less than I used to — and also realizing how much I miss it.
Prior to a two-week road trip, Ryan had ordered a camp kitchen set-up to go in the back of his Subaru. It has two sliding drawers with a built-in sink and a utensil drawer, so you can store your two-burner stove, cooking materials, and clean-up supplies. When it arrived, we knew we’d need to set aside time to put it together. What a joy it was. As we watched the tutorial video, I’d identify pieces, hold them in place, and he’d drill in the screws. We had a genuinely fun time learning how to build this thing, and we felt pretty proud of the end product. The drawer worked like a charm on the trip.
I felt similarly fulfilled on the last full day of the trip, while bouldering outside of Grand Junction. Ryan had found a V6 called “Roulette Dares” that he wanted to try. Though he’d watched a video of someone on it, I had no idea what the problem entailed. Over the course of an hour, though, the two of us were able to unlock the beta for the full problem together. We took turns trying different handholds and feet until we’d determined the exact order and placement of each hand and foot. When I ultimately sent the problem, it was a direct result of our team work, identifying each bit of it, as well as Ryan encouraging and instructing me as I climbed.
Both of these experiences were so satisfying because we worked together. Sure, it would be satisfying to personally accomplish both feats by yourself; but then who do you share that satisfaction with?
Ever since working for Clif Bar & Company, I’ve had an obsession with the Consumer Packaged Goods (CPG) industry. At Clif, I’d read articles daily about flavor trends, new products, and consumer insights. I can’t say why I was so interested, but I got hooked. I’d look for specific releases at the store and tell people about the rise of probiotics and nostalgic flavors.
Concurrently, I was semi-jokingly trying to get “sponsored” by Clif. Really, I just wanted Clif (or any other admirable CPG brand) to send me free products that I would then post about on Instagram through silly videos and pictures. I didn’t want to be paid, necessarily; I just wanted to rep brands I liked and not pay for their products. I do a lot of fun outdoor activities — wouldn’t brands love to see me making posts about their products while I’m jogging down a mountain trail or hanging off a boulder?
Virtually any time I was doing an activity that involved snacking (trail running, climbing, biking, etc.), I would snap a selfie with some Clif products and caption it “@clifbar sponsor me”. The hilarious part about this is I knew the Clif social media manager at the time. It was driving me insane that he wouldn’t re-post me! Meanwhile, I was also often calling out Kodiak Cakes, my favorite pancake brand, to #sponsorme as well. Kodiak, for what it’s worth, would always respond to my callouts, but just in a direct message — not in a public fashion. Clif eventually did re-post me, but never extended the sponsorship deal.
Over the last two years, I’ve researched and/or applied to several other brands that may or may not be willing to sponsor me, but to no avail — until now. Yes, Slaico has finally attained sponsorship! Sort of.
In my research of CPGs, I am naturally drawn to bar brands after my time at Clif. There’s really no bar out there that I’m unwilling to try. Pretty much any time I’m at the grocery store or a co-op, I will gaze at the bar section, looking for deals and new brands. One brand that came across my radar was IQBar. These bars are marketed as having adaptogens that boost your brain power, in addition to a host of other benefits. With a little more perusing, I ended up following IQ’s CEO on LinkedIn, Will Nitze, and found his posts though-provoking and funny. I eventually bought their Almond Chocolate Chip bar and was super impressed. Not only is it really tasty and has great texture, it has a good source of fiber, 12 grams of protein, only 1 gram of sugar, and the added “brain nutrients” — magnesium, vitamin E, MCTs, flavonoids, and Lion’s Mane. Even if the brain benefits are gimmicky, the nutritional properties and taste alone are enough for me. It’s hard to find a bar that doesn’t contain added sugars and packs that much protein in.
I applied to be an ambassador for IQBar, but I thought I didn’t have the prerequisite 1,000 Instagram followers to be accepted (I’m sitting around 800-900 — #followme). Yet lo and behold, I got accepted as an affiliate marketer just a couple of weeks ago. Essentially, I can market IQBar for commissions; anyone buying the brand for the first time can use my code SLAICO at check-out to receive 15% off (www.eatiqbar.com/SLAICO). I bought myself a sampler pack, since I hadn’t found all the flavors in store (and didn’t know they sell instant coffee and electrolytes too!). What I especially loved about this was not only did I receive all of their products to try, but they also arrived in a super small box — for once, a CPG company cutting down on packaging!
I am by no means forcing anyone to buy IQBar now that I am quasi-#sponsored. However, I will say that I am a big fan of the product and highly recommend it. 🙂
