Jasna Hodžić, PhD

The Palatine Wall

Ben Williams asked me to write a short piece about the Palatine Wall, to be included in his upcoming update to Jerry Handren’s guidebook Mojave Limestone.

Using the notes app on my phone, I jotted down scattered thoughts that came to me as I drove from Colorado to Sacramento, putting the final touches on the piece during a night alone in Tahoe. Burying myself in nostalgia — that bittersweet blend of pain and pleasure — I revisited not only a special place, but a singular time in my life.

With Ben’s permission, I am reproducing the short piece here:

—

The Palatine Wall

Brette Harrington in front of the mighty Palatine Wall – 2025

In spring 2018, I reconnected with a lanky, blonde, uber-psyched climber at my local crag near Seattle. Tom Moulin ate, slept, and breathed rock climbing, so when he invited me to Vegas that June, I wondered what he knew that I didn’t.

Vegas in June?

A quick look at the weather showed temperatures in the 90s, even 100s. Surely that was much too hot for even the deepest, darkest canyons in Red Rock, and wasn’t Potosi sunny?

Just as I was about to text him a screenshot of the forecast paired with one of those shruggy emojis, he beat me to it with a picture of his portable thermometer: 52 degrees.

Well, damn. I zoomed into the background — fuzzy, thin green lines colored the frame. Wait, were those…pine trees?

A week or so later, I walked through the sliding doors of the airport and into the unrelenting sun, hair-dryer-style wind blasting across my face. Soon I was behind the wheel of Tom’s small truck, trying to keep his dented old Sprinter in sight as he zipped down the 95.

Climbing Kyle Canyon Road, the dry-earth, barren-wasteland vibe gradually gave way to Joshua trees, then junipers. By the time we passed the hotel and roundabout, wiry ponderosa pines shot through the sky.

I’d only seen one photo of the crag, but I recognized it instantly as it flashed into view just before the last hairpin turn. Craning my neck to take it in, I nearly drove clean off the road.

It looked big and gray, even blue, like something you could find in France. It looked, as we say in the climbing world, mega.

“I was listening to that History of Rome podcast a lot when I first started coming up here,” Tom told me as we turned off the main hiking trail, the wall looming above everything, impossible to miss. Following a faint footpath up a slight slope, we crisscrossed over fallen, burned logs strewn across our path. The Palatine Hill — the namesake for the wall we were approaching — was one of the most prominent points in ancient Rome, visible to everyone, where emperors built their palaces overlooking the city.

Apt and clever, I thought, as we reached the base of the wall, perched atop its own small hill, then ascended the low 5th-class terrain that guarded the sheer faces of the upper tier.

That first day, I climbed Via Appia, a 5.12- that follows creamy blue limestone, passes a fierce boulder early on, and ends on lovely, technical face climbing on bullet rock. It was the first 5.12 I did on Mt. Charleston, and I still consider it to be the best. Then, I set my sights on the tricky, burly crux of Cursus Honorum, a harder version of Via Appia and just as good.

In the evening, Tom fell at the very tippy-top of his 50-meter project, Crossing the Rubicon. It was a great day out, and we bounded down the hill at dusk as if we weighed nothing at all — the ponderosas breathing vanilla into the cooling air, phlox blooming a brilliant half-white, half-pink alongside us.

The following summer, we were stuck in Las Vegas and turned our attention to the Palatine. Tom taught me how to bolt. I started small with Illyria, a bouldery, short route and a nice addition to a cliff otherwise dominated by endurance test pieces. Then, I scoped the attractive gray-blue panel above Tom’s brilliant Lex Julia, what would become Amicus Curiae.

To access a small ledge above the wall, we simul-climbed the complete, two-pitch Via Appia, setting up our respective anchors so we could rappel over our routes-to-be. Before Tom began lowering down over Casus Belli to begin work on Veni Vidi Vici — the clear king line of the wall — he called out to me.

“Here—” He lobbed a single almond out of the Ziploc bag he was snacking from across the 15 feet of clean air between us. To our surprise, I actually managed to catch it, both of us cheering. I always thought that was a good omen.

It was a long, hot summer, and the Palatine truly was the coldest cliff around. We fell into a rhythm: climbing on R2C2’s moonboard in the morning, driving to Charleston, then retreating to our fixed lines to work on our respective routes. In between sessions, we’d spend idle time on the large ledge at the base, the scenery and position occasionally slipping me into a sort of reverie.

I’ve returned to the Palatine off and on over the years. Even with modest traffic, it’s cleaned up — less chossy, a clean rap line to descend, and otherwise shaping up to resemble a prim and proper sport cliff. Most people like what it offers: remote, yet close to the road; adventurous yet civilized; dishing up everything we love — a good place to get pumped, try hard, and maybe even find a bit of flow.

Still, my first impression was a bit overcooked. The Palatine Wall is not mega — it’s very rough around the edges, there aren’t that many routes, they’re all hard and slippery, and you’ll encounter all manner of sport-climbing tricks that make it abundantly clear you’re nowhere near the south of France.

Even as the Palatine grew familiar to the point of routine — as I turned off the main trail without thinking, knew exactly which hand- and footholds to use as I made my way up from the bottom tier, and dialed in projects and warmups — it still surprised me. Not with anything concrete, like a new feature I hadn’t noticed, but with how a day out climbing there could make me feel: defiant, curious, wild, a sense of potential always stirring as I descended and left the wall for another day.

Booting up to give the project a rip – 2021. Photo: Tom Moulin

What I’ve been up to lately.

Or, in other words, what I’ve been up to over the last two years (since I’ve updated this blog).

In writing…
here are a few pieces I’ve published that I am proud of, for Big Think

*Maggie after a day of bouldering in Bolam Pass, Telluride, looking across the valley floor, hazy with incoming wildfire smoke*.

An interview with Anne Lamott & Neal Allen about their new book, Good Writing

A piece on why the short story deserves more attention

A personal essay about my time living in a van (available in a very beautiful print magazine, as well – the art team nailed the photos and layout)

An interview with Dr. Martin Picard, who is leading an emerging field in biology that studies the intersection of energy & health through empirical studies involving mitochondria.

A profile of Dr. Betül Kaçar, an astrobiologist, and a lovely, wise person.

and many more, over on Big Think

In climbing..

The end of the crux on *Route of All Evil* (and the redpoint crux of *Necessary Evi*l!)

In February 2025, I sent The Route of All Evil – my hardest and proudest climb to date. Last winter I began to work its famous cousin Necessary Evil , generally finding my fingers to be far too weak – and my power too lackluster- to reliably tackle the v11/12 intro boulder. This summer, I embarked on a training plan to see if I could level up. Hopefully I’ll have a chance to try the route some more this winter.

I traveled to Greece and various parts of Spain. I began speaking Spanish again, more regularly.

Ticked my first 8a+ flash (more like a ‘flosh’)

I went exploring across the western United States to “rando” crags and boulder fields – SW Colorado and Utah, around Las Vegas, Colorado, California..

I’ve been navigating a dropping sense of motivation, paired, however, with a growing sense of pride and accomplishment in what I’ve managed to do and how I’ve lived my life—even if the path I am looking back on may no longer be the path I want to take ahead.

In life...

*An old photo from the Golden Gate Range (NV)*. *One of my favorites.*

Ending a serious relationship in 2024 – and pursuing other threads since – has left questions I still confront on a daily basis. I suppose I figured I’d have it all worked out by now. I try to keep Rilke’s advice in mind – that is, to love the questions themselves.

I’ve been prioritizing going to see live music. Unforgettable nights ensued – Justice, Jamie XX, Lane 8, The XX, the list goes on. I relish in gaining energy from others on the dance floor, everyone on the same wavelength, all of us letting go.

I wrote a short story that I’m far too embarrased to publish here.

After a long break, I began shooting with my film camera again.

I lost my more stable writing jobs, I suspect to AI, and couldn’t find another one.

I accepted a teaching position at a community college in Sacramento, dusting off that ‘ole PhD and re-immersing myself in the world of botany.

I’m 35, without really any friends in Sacramento. I like to ride my bike around town and get to know the neighborhoods (and impressive tree canopy).
It’s all a bit of a trip.
AKA – I’m new here, will you show me around?

More soon.

THINGS BEHIND THINGS BEHIND THINGS

“If people were silent about the things that had happened to them, was something not being betrayed, even if only the version of themselves that had experienced them?” – Rachel Cusk

FEBRUARY 2024
ARIZONA
Virgin River Gorge (VRG)

There’s a specific bend on the trail where, if you know to look up, you’ll catch the tallest point of the Blasphemy Wall. A few more steps, and its entirety rises suddenly from the ground, like a challenge. I always stop here, just for a moment.

By now, I’ve honed a routine: music on, stick-clip the second bolt, walk out to the slab that juts over the highway below. From there, I look at the route. I take my hands out of my jacket, let the cold air harden my skin. Sometimes, I mime a move or two.

The crux of Atonement came early for me—move eight. A lock-off from a right-hand microcrimp that chews into my skin and a left-hand “emotional support hold”: nothing more than an indentation in the wall, but just enough to get my hips where they need to be. Then, a deadpoint to a left-hand sidepull—body tension at its finest, a razor-thin margin between too taut and too loose. When I’m on form, my right foot holds, and my left cuts. When I’m not, I sag too far from the wall before I latch the hold, and I’m off.

For the last few sessions in a row, I couldn’t stick this move—not from the ground, not even in isolation. I’d climb from the very next move to the top on autopilot, but that didn’t mean much if I couldn’t hit the crux.

It’s the worst case of the “VRG lifecycle” I’ve experienced. You make quick progress. Then, you slowly start regressing. Some combination of thin skin, finicky conditions, and a defeated morale all combine to take you from “Next go for sure,” to “not my best day,” to “fuck this place.” Like some complex insect, you have to molt through dozens of near-deaths to finally emerge as the beautiful, sendy butterfly. Mostly, it’s demoralizing. But if you can catch that moment–if you can climb with the kind of focus it demands–I’ve not quite found anything like it.

December moved to January. Then February. The sun was inching toward the wall, ready to shut the season down.

After a few minutes, I walk from the slabs to the base of the route and tie in.
Shoes on, jacket off, music paused.

I go for it.
I don’t stick it.

I lower and sit at the base, still tied in. I’ll go again in five minutes.
My shoes half on, the heels sticking out for air.

My Time on Planet Earth

In the middle of winter, I began calling the Virgin River Gorge (VRG) the “Twilight Zone.” The Cambridge Dictionary defines the Twilight Zone as an area where two different ways of life or states of existence meet.

This description came to me on a particularly cold and damp January afternoon. I was sitting on the slab perch beneath the Planet Earth Wall, at the base of Dirt Cowboy, preparing to climb. The temperature hovered around 42 degrees, but, without a breeze, all of us were shedding layers as we climbed.

The VRG draws fame from its juxtaposition—the common refrain jokes that the cliff houses the best limestone in America, but in the worst location. Anyone who has spent time here understands that the VRG’s paradox only begins superficially with its freeway-adjacent location and mind-boggling weather patterns that vary minute-to-minute. In one way or another, the physical contradictions of the place infect your bloodstream and color your experience.

There was a contrast built into the way I approached my climbing day-to-day, and how I considered the season as a whole. For me, my desired outcome seemed completely unimaginable, yet altogether inevitable.

A Publication

I am proud to announce that I, with the major support of several colleagues, have published a paper in the journal Ecology that summarizes a large part of my doctoral work. In the paper, we summarize our analysis of a large-scale vegetation dataset collected by the National Park Service. Our results suggest that hemiparasitic plants are associated with greater community evenness across North America, a finding which has implications for our understanding of the mechanisms promoting and sustaining biological diversity.

Introducing: You Can Climb Whatever You Like

#Desertvibes, or whatever. Tom Moulin and I spending the first days of 2021 completely ignoring the splitter cracks at Cat Wall and setting up a bunch of SICK topropes, because we were too lazy to go get the pads out of the vans.

Last week, I found myself in Moab.

Not exactly known for my crack prowess, I wasn’t here for some sick splittah’s, or to #gethigh on some even sicker desert towers. I was here to laugh.

I came off a shorter-than-expected season at Mt. Charleston, Nevada, with a win, and a loss. Nearly five months of being without work, and still with no real plan in sight, the anxiety of “what to do” began to strengthen, and position its way in front of my mind, filling the space left by the end of a projecting cycle.

I craved something lighter, and so, showed up at my best friend’s house.

Maggie lives in a walk in community in Moab, which is lovely and quaint, but really annoying when you forget something in your car. She, for reasons I still don’t really understand, hasn’t had internet for as long as I have ever visited her here. The “modern homesteader,” I call her – I’m hoping to make it big with a non-fiction book I am entitling “Little House in the Hippie Walk-in Community in Moab” (it’s a work in progress).

Maggie and I feed off of each other’s wit and shared sense of humor, which I would like to think is intelligent, yet capitalizes on silly, trivial moments. It was when we both, surrounded by others, could not stop laughing while listening to James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” (trying, of course, to write a grief-stricken parody to routes we will never climb called “You’re Morpho”), Howie Day’s “Collide” (a love song from a climber to her crash pad) and Coldplay’s “Fix You” (about fixing ropes, naturally), that I realized, our big masterpiece, which we wrote five years ago, needed to be released. What better platform than my seldom-read, and very poorly promoted, personal blog!

So, for something different, to all of my many #instatwitter followers, I am releasing “You Can Climb Whatever You Like” to the world.

For reference – and to truly understand the depth of our magnum opus – I would suggest listening to (and carefully reading the lyrics of) T.I.’s original 2008 smash hit ” Whatever You Like” found here.

RED-S: A Recovery

Finding my rhythm. (Photo: Trúc Nguyen Allen)

This is a follow-up to a post I wrote one year ago, which can be found here

Most of us remember our 30^th birthday. No longer young, yet neither old, the third decade is said to be a period of clarity, bringing heightened self-awareness and confidence.

For me, it certainly felt like a transition: finishing up five years of graduate school, I was preparing to embrace change. Yet, I was also preoccupied with another deadline – around 30, we stop building bone.

At 26, I went to see my gynecologist, hoping to change my birth control. Feeling healthy and strong, I expected a routine appointment. Yet, over a series of visits, I discovered that, despite no noticeable loss in energy, strength, or weight, my bone density had been silently decreasing for years. It was severe enough that I had osteopenia, a condition in which the body does not make new bone as quickly as it reabsorbs old bone. Were it to continue, I would certainly develop osteoporosis, an irreversible disease in which bones are brittle and fracture easily.

I was diagnosed with relative energy deficiency in sport (RED-S), a condition where the body does not take in enough energy to meet the demands placed on it. For women, this results in hormonal imbalances that reduce estrogen, a hormone critical for bone health.

The conversations I had with doctors and specialists remain muffled in my memory. But, the numbers are glass, clear and sharp: In parts of my body, I had 81% of normal bone density; I had around four years (until I turned 30) left to build the bone back.

I read a number of personal accounts of men and women diagnosed with RED-S, yet, never found a story of recovered bone density loss. It was easy to feel alone in my journey without a timeline, without benchmarks, and without a roadmap. I had to trust that my body would set itself right, if, mentally, I was on its side.

The Space Between

Returning to Smith. (Photo: Tara Kerzhner)

The room was dimly lit, with teal linoleum chairs, a grumbling AC, and late Nevadan light penetrating even the darkest of curtains. It was large, meant for meetings or presentations for an audience. The woman I had just met, who led me into the room, told me that I was welcome to use the kitchenette, and I wondered where she came from, considering how comical it was that this woman was a critical part of a day I had been planning for years.

I chose a chair and placed it against the most unadorned part of the beige wall. I filled the cup I had brought with water from the kitchenette. I took out a few snacks from my small backpack and placed them neatly near me, just in case I got hungry.

Three hours later, I closed my laptop and leaned back uncomfortably against my chair. The whine of the AC suddenly grew louder as it started another cycle. For the first time, I heard the footsteps of the guests milling about on the other side of the wall. Doors closing, muffled conversations fading away.

It felt strange being a newly minted Dr. Hodzic alone in this hotel conference room in Nevada. Having attended many defenses during my time in Seattle, I knew the drill: you hope to get Douglass hall, because it is the nicest room, with large windows revealing the vibrant greenery of the botanic gardens. But, you will settle if you have to go to Bloedel. Everyone in your lab brings snacks. You socialize during the 5 minutes you have to breathe after your defense and before your private deliberation with your committee. Then, you throw a party at a house, at a brewery, wherever; all that mattered was that you let go of everything. I craved the same celebration for myself.

In that moment, the air was mute, numb, unsaturated, unpalpable, disappointing.

Acknowledgements

At the end of May, I successfully completed my PhD. Commonly, the research chapters of a dissertation are written and submitted as manuscripts to academic journals. However, other parts of the text (synthesis, introduction, etc.) mostly go unread except by the committee.

In an effort to give a proper and more public expression of gratitude to those whose help and support I was fortunate enough to receive, I share my acknowledgements page below.

The final stage of a PhD—communicating the answers to my research questions—was, not, in my opinion, the hard part. The hard part was the beginning: trying to find interesting and different questions to make my doctoral work matter. I struggled with the niche nature of a PhD, fearful of the idea that it would ultimately only serve to make me an expert in a very narrow subject field. I have come to realize that the opposite is true. Over the past four and a half years, I have been tasked with learning what the right questions to ask are and discovering how to best seek out their answers. This is a skill which I will never fully master—one that takes as much creativity as it does knowledge, and which will only serve to enrich and enhance my life.

Mastery

This was originally written for Gnarly Nutrition

No matter what I did, the heel hook would not stick.

the heel hook on “Gription” v9 at Moe’s Valley; which gave me some trouble

I tried to use different pairs of shoes. I showed up when it was crisp. I recorded myself to see if there was a difference in my hip position between when I stuck the move and when I did not. I meticulously focused on comparing each potential body position – was it better if my left foot smeared as I pulled with the right heel, or if I used it as a back-flag?

Yet, whether or not my heel-hook would stay on – allowing me to pull with it and reach the final hold of the problem – seemed more related to luck and cosmic forces rather than skill or technique. This bothered me. For days, I walked away frustrated, but also intrigued. What was so mystical about this heel hook that made it so difficult? The grade of the boulder was hard for me, but not novel. Every other move was difficult but consistently repeatable.

I considered changing my beta, using the more typical left heel hook that would be harder to reach for my short frame, yet, once established, easier to move off of. There was a chance that if I committed to the left outro, the time invested in the new method would lead to a quicker tick than if I kept trudging forward with my beta.

But I was stubborn.