Higher Stannards: 50 Classic TRs
Julie
So now that we've established that we all want to encourage (and I use
that term loosely...) a higher standard of writing on this newsgroup,
let's set the bar.
Go find your favorite TR, and retro-post it, or a URL, or a link to it,
here.
I know it's a bit of work, and this thread may remain unanswered. But I
know I'm gonna enjoy finding mine....
JSH "no mustard; relish, please...."
Brutus of Wyde
Brutus
--------------
Here's a totally bizarre story I wrote a while back and just
recently edited. It's a TR or sorts, but it didn't start out
that way. Originally, I was pondering the cataclysmic nature
of injury and how it changes reality in an instant. I've
been hurt in the back country a few times, so unfortunately,
I have some experience with the subject. My way of
describing the before and after aspects of this event almost
lends the feel of 2 separate stories. What I ended up with
has nothing to do with Christmas, or the climb, or even
getting hurt. Not sure it has anything to do with anything.
I know it made me feel better to write it.
Anyway, I hadn't posted anything substantial in a while and
hoped to make amends. Yet another story from the Milktoast
Chronicles...
********************************************************
The Price of Success
(an ascent of Lower Cathedral Spire)
by Dingus Milktoast
Angus and I drive through the north gate of Yosemite at
nearly 30 miles an hour; without stopping! And get this...
the rangers don't pursue. No, we're not dreaming. No, I'm
not the President's nephew. It's 4 in the morning and as we
all know, the rangers are still asleep. We're in long route
mode. A 2 am departure from home assures us of a first place
start on the route of our choice.
I find myself climbing the Spires Gully at dawn. I've been
here many times before. There are some outstanding routes up
here, but the price of admission is the 1000 foot approach.
There is a climbers trail that wanders through the woods,
then up the gully through a maze of tumbled boulders and
thick underbrush. The consolation is that the climber is
assured of being thoroughly warmed up at the base of any
route.
There are some cool climbs up here. The Braille Book, a
steep 700 foot corner system, is probably the best 5.8 route
in the valley. Higher Cathedral Spire, first climbed with
soft iron and logging boots, goes free at solid 5.9,
rewarding the climber with an amazing summit island. The
North East Buttress of Higher Cathedral Rock is a testament
to 5.9 Yosemite crack climbing. It's a serious Grade IV with
many difficult sections of rock over the course of 12
pitches.
We take a left turn where normally most continue straight
up the gully. Lower Cathedral Spire is our goal today; a
summit I've never touched. The Regular route went up at
about the same time as the Higher Spire route, but it
doesn't interest me. Today, it's the North East Face that
requires our attention.
Roper called this climb an outstanding line, hard and
committing. He predicted it would become a trade route. He
was right on the first statement, but way off on the second.
I asked around. No one I know has ever done the route.
Reason enough to climb it right there! Know my definition
of a great Yosemite route? One I've done but none of my
friends have. It automatically becomes the best climb in the
valley of it's grade, whatever that happens to be. I did a
classic sandbag on two of my buddies with the Yosemite Point
Buttress climb. Told them it was the classic route of it's
type in the valley. Just didn't tell them what type.
We stand at the base of the Lower Spire, trying to find the
start of our route. We are in a large concave area, with
much rotten rock above us, leading to a ridge and the base
of the spire proper. The guide book is back down at the car.
The first 2 pitches are supposed to be easy 5.7 and 5.4.
This looks anything but easy! But we see some slings about a
pitch up, so Angus heads up to investigate. Isn't it funny
how easy a dangerous and difficult lead can appear?. He bobs
and weaves his way over two ledge systems, over, under and
even through loose hanging boulders. I slap at a horde of
mosquitoes and urge him to hurry. He mutter oaths at me as
he finally reaches the belay, a mere 4 pieces between us.
I follow. Now it's my turn to mutter. Damn! It's hard!
Scary too! The rocks are loose. I'm afraid to pull very hard
on some of them. It's all covered with lichen. Fools must
have put those slings up there. Fools like us? What gets us
into places like this? They're probably rappel slings
anyway. What kind of idiots climb a rappel route up loose
rock? You need go no further for your answer. Meet idiot A
and idiot B. Angus's pitch is at least 5.8 in difficulty. It
also deserves a R rating. Now it's my turn.
I find myself ascending an indistinct corner up stacks of
loose and overhanging rock. There are plenty of cracks, but
none of them offer any protection. I'm sucked higher and
higher. In many cases I'm scared to even jam. I don't want
half of the crack to go sailing out into space. Finally I
get a piece in; something that might hold a fall. Angus
remains stoic, but I assure him all is well. The higher I
go, the worse it gets. Eventually, I'm about 15 feet below
the shoulder at the base of the spire, facing a hard and
unprotected move through a loose overlap. I fidget for a
while and then finally commit. Adrenaline sees me through
the 5.9 moves. Wow! That's the scariest lead of my life.
It's funny though. The real fear hits me after it's over.
Now I realize just how far out there I was. While engaged,
while dealing with the lead, the horrors are held at bay
automatically. Now as I look back down and watch Angus
remove one of the 3 pieces I placed, I understand the full
consequences of my actions. Had I blown that last series of
moves I might very well have stripped both of us from the
wall. Heady stuff! Angus gives me a look as he reaches the
belay. Words are inadequate to describe these two pitches.
But the look says it all. It's a look of admiration tempered
with the knowledge that he's looking at a madman. It's a
haunted look. I don't like seeing that look on my climbing
partners' faces.
Angus gets an easy 4th class pitch around some trees along
the shoulder. My next lead, now obviously on route, ascends
a crack system through a small overhang to an alcove beneath
an even bigger overhang. Killer crack climbing all the way.
I set up my belay, very pleased with myself and the rock.
It's all solid here, with no lichens and no death blocks.
Angus leads straight out of the alcove for several feet,
using a wide crack in the ceiling for his hands, head and
arms, stemming his feet in the chimney below. Nothing but
hundreds of feet of clean air beneath. It looks like 5.13
from where I'm perched and I fret for the rest of his lead,
worried I'll slip under the ceiling and go sailing over that
void. I hate that shit. He finally signals off belay and I
follow.
Turns out the ceiling is about 5.8 and very climbable. The
hard stuff is higher up. Faced with the choice of thin
unprotected crack climbing or hard, overhanging off width,
Angus chose the thin crack. It deviates from the main crack
system out onto a bulging face. There is a very similar
pitch on the East Buttress of El Cap offering the same kind
of choices. This one's harder to climb and protect. Angus
only got one marginal piece in about 50 feet. But the locks
are very solid, painful in fact. When I reach him, it's my
turn to give him "the look." I don't even like to imagine myself
leading such a pitch!
The last lead is mine. Again, I'm faced with alternate 5.9
options. Wide crack straight up or slightly overhanging
hands to the right. I whimper about for several minutes. The
wide stuff looks easier, but the old green guide book warns
of it's burly nature. Angus finally counsels that I should
take the hand crack. Half way up I get an attack of the
chicken shits and stop to place a cam when my rational mind
tells me to keep going. I flub a red camelot placement, blow
my arms out fixing it and end up grabbing the damn thing.
After that, it's no holds bar jamming for another 50 feet to
reach the lower end of the summit.
Finally we stand on the very tip of Lower Cathedral Spire.
Wow! The view is incredible. We lounge about for a while,
hollering against Higher Cathedral Rock just to hear the
echo. Higher Spire looms above looking like a castle for the
gods themselves. This has been a well-earned summit and we
revel in the glory of it all. But we have to rap to get down
from here and I can never truly relax in the face of
mandatory rappels, so all to soon we pack up and head down.
The rope catches on the first rappel. We both pull on it
for several minutes. Nothing; it's stuck. Finally Angus ties
a loop in the rope and stands in it like it's an aid sling.
I pull on Angus. That does it. The rope comes sailing down.
Soon we're back at the base, swatting mosquitoes again. We
pack up everything and head down the talus toward Angus's
truck. We're feeling a little cocky and quite pleased with
ourselves.
A few words about talus may be in order here. There's a lot
of talus in Yosemite. Much of it was deposited by the same
ancient glaciers that carved the spectacular cliffs. The
older, less active talus slopes have always seemed pretty
stable to me. This particular slope leading down from Lower
Cathedral Spire seems as though it hasn't moved in eons. All
the rocks have that deep gray weathering and are lichen
covered. There are few fresh rock scars. There are no trails
and very few signs of other hikers or climbers. Normally I
would pick my way carefully down through such a place,
taking care to test suspect rocks before committing my
weight to them.
But the mosquitoes are swarming and I can here the beer
calling my name. Angus leads out at a slow jog, talus
running Doug Robinson style. I remember that Robinson
article, have read it in reprint. He talks of the dance, of
the dynamics of boulder hopping. I've been doing it my whole
climbing career. I know a thing or two about talus running,
I tell myself with conceit as I read his words. Funny thing,
though. You don't hear Doug Robinson talking much about the
consequences of a talus running mistake. I guess he left
that to me.
After 10 minutes or so we come out of the shade of the
spire and stop to regroup, get our bearings and a drink of
water. Angus leads off to the right, stepping on a teetering
rock and jumping down hard to a small platform. I don't like
the looks of it and make an instant decision to go left. I
too jump down hard onto a big rock. Too late I realize I
have made a very bad mistake.
My chosen landing is a big rock, about the size of a 2
drawer file cabinet. It is perched at the top of a short
slab. Of course there are other rocks around, above and
below it. As soon as my weight hits it the rock gives way
and begins rolling down the slab, taking me and some of it's
sister rocks with it. I fall onto my butt and begin sliding.
An even bigger rock, formerly held in check by the rock I
kicked loose, is rolling beside me. All of this happens in
about 5 milliseconds, but to me the scale of time seems
altered.
I reach out and push at the other rock, trying with all my
might to get away from it. It seems as though it's working.
I am able to alter it's trajectory. Then I slam into the
pile of rocks at the base of the slab and stop, still in a
standing position with legs splayed, but with my butt still
against the slab. The boulder I pushed hits another rock and
just as I come to a stop, rebounds right at me! One final
push keeps the damn thing off my knee, but just barely. As
it is, it rolls right over my lower left leg.
My leg was pressed against the slab to begin with. There is
no where for it to go. The boulder smashes over both my calf
and ankle. I'm wearing recently purchased mountaineering
boots to break them in. I believe they just saved my ankle.
As the rock hits me it rolls my leg in the same direction of
travel; to the right. Part of the weight of the boulder is
absorbed by the sole of the boot. The padding around the
ankle also helps save me from what surely would have been
badly crushed bones. This final deflection forces it to roll
directly over my calf muscle. The rock stops between my
legs, the smell of flint floating heavily in the air.
Ten seconds ago I was descending from a successful climb,
carefree and anxious to get a sandwich and a beer. Now I'm
at the bottom of a landslide and I'm badly hurt. Just how
bad I don't know. But it is bad enough that my time scale
remains altered. My entire world centers around my left leg
and the beating of my heart.
As the rock rolls over my calf, my head explodes in a
bright flash of pain. Oh God! My leg! My leg is broken!
Aaaagh! I can't even look at it, it hurts so bad. Then my
heart beats one beat; THUMP. Whatever I thought I knew about
pain a heartbeat ago is blown away by an even greater wave
of bright, savage pain. I can't hold it back, the pain
exceeds my ability to keep it inside. AAAAAAAGH! It feels as
though my leg has been crushed to a pulp, as if every bone
in it has been pulverized. My eyes bulge. I can't breath.
Pain is the only thing in the universe I understand.
THUMP. The next pulse of blood brings on a tidal wave of
fresh pain, exceeding the previous two by a mile. There is
no way I can hold it in. AAAAAAGH! I become aware of Angus
making his startled way toward me, his anxious questions. I
can't even acknowledge his existence, let alone respond.
THUMP, goes my heart. Another, and unbelievably even
stronger wash of pain floods every nerve in my brain. If I
don't let it out I'll literally explode. AAAAAAGH!
At this point the survival being takes over. I slide myself
away from the scene of the accident, to the left, into a
half sitting position. THUMP. AAAAAAGH! I'm holding my left
leg with both hands, above the knee. Angus is standing
beside me, looking at me as if I'm some kind of high school
science experiment gone horribly wrong. He probably thinks
I'm over-reacting. THUMP! AAAAAAAAAGH! I'm not. Incredibly,
each heartbeat continues to bring on a more powerful surge
of pain than the one before it. Each time I am unable to
contain it and have to let it out as a scream. And that's
what these are, blood curdling, agonizing screams, pure and
simple. I have previously suffered broken bones, sprained
ankles, bad cuts, serious road rash and a host of other
violations to my body, but nothing, I mean nothing in my
experience with pain has prepared me for this. This far
exceeds anything I have ever dealt with before. Why I don't
pass out I'll never know.
THUMP! The pain still surges through my body, but this time
seemingly of the same intensity as the last. I manage to
open my eyes. Perhaps 20 or 30 seconds have passed since the
rock rolled over my leg. THUMP! I shudder and shake, but
manage to keep it in. Shock is now knocking on my door, but
the survival animal in my soul is not going to let it come
in. The automaton takes over. Rational thought soon follows
and I begin to take stock.
THUMP! Angus is still standing over me, watching me writhe
in pain, unsure of what to do. I look at my leg, expecting
to see a horror of torn flesh and broken bones. But there's
nothing to see; no blood, no strange angles, nothing. THUMP!
I have to know if it's broken, that's the first order of
business. But I'm too scared to pull the pant leg up. I get
Angus to help me stand. As I do, a new pulse of blood forces
it's way into the depths of my leg. This is as close I ever
come to passing out. My world goes down to tunnel vision
with blackness around the edges. My hearing goes high pitch
like the tail end of a wave gently washing up over wet sand.
A cold sweat breaks out instantly over my entire body. I
shiver uncontrollably in the hot sun. THUMP! Dizzy, I sway
and start to fall. As I do, I'm forced to stand on my left
leg to keep from falling. THUMP! It holds my weight! As
screwed up as I am, I'm still aware enough to be surprised
that I can stand on it.
I sit again quickly. Now I can muster the courage to look
at it. Okay. It's not broken. Good. It's red and looks like
it's going to swell. But the assault of pain continues,
totally out of line with the visual inspection. Can I walk?
Angus asks me if he should go for help. I automatically tell
him no. My every instinct is geared to self-rescue. I don't
want to be carried out on a stretcher. I can use that
stubbornness to fight the pain. If I sit here very long I
know I won't be able to get up again. This thing is gonna
swell fast. My only hope is to get moving now. I tell him I
want to start down. He takes my pack and even finds me a
good stick. I get back up. This time the rush of pain is
expected, but it still takes everything I have to not
scream. I take my first step and almost topple.
No, it's not broken. But I have to learn how to use the
damaged limb, all the while descending a trail-less boulder
field. I find that I can stand on it, but that's about it. I
can't move my leg or ankle in any way that causes the calf
muscle to contract. To do so invites a fresh wave of pain.
Each new wave of pain takes me closer to shock.
Ever try to walk down hill without bending your ankle in any
way? It's not easy! But with Angus's help and a will to
move, I manage to stay upright. We work our way down, down,
down through the endless field of stone. Less than 5 minutes
passed between our water break, the accident, and starting
to move again. Yet everything has changed in that 5 minutes.
Everything.
Time has no meaning for me now. I am a being that lives in
between steps. I take a step and deal with the resulting
pain, breathing fast and shallow, awash in cold sweat and
shivers. I'm still dancing on the verge of shock. I know
that if I do stop, it'll take me. That fear keeps me moving
as much as anything else. I stabilize enough to plan my next
step, then I take it. A new wave of pain floods. I repeat
this process hundreds of times down the slope. Finally, we
reach the trail junction and a cache of gatorade. Angus
stashed it there this morning. I'd totally forgotten about
it. Gratitude brings tears to my eyes as I drink. Angus is
there, right by my side, the whole way down, helping me when
I need it, staying back when I don't, enduring a torrent of
gutter language and encouraging me in the process. There are
friends and there are friends. This is a guy I know will
stick with me right to the gates of Hell. I gain a lot of
moral strength from his character.
It takes me about 2 hours to reach the truck. I expect it
might have taken us 20 minutes, sans accident. I hobble
through the final level steps in the woods, approaching the
loop road. It's actually harder for me to walk on level
ground! In foolish pride I angrily throw my stick away as I
step from the woods onto the pavement. I don't want any
tourons to see me hobbling with a crutch. Luckily, Angus
drove this morning. All that's left is a ride back home.
Once again, my eyes flood with tears, only this time out of
relief . The worst of the ordeal is finally over.
Epilogue:
It's been several years since I crushed my leg under that
boulder. Time is the great healer and has worked it's magic
on me. I have to concentrate hard to remember some of the
details. For instance, I can no longer recall the pain. Oh,
I know it hurt all right. Hurt worse than anything in my
life, before or since. I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on
my worst enemy. But I can no longer conjure up the feeling
or remember the pain. I think my brain erased the memory in
the interest of self-preservation. And I can no longer
remember how big the rock was. It was big. 300 pounds? More?
Less? I don't know. Maybe someday I'll go back up there and
find it, carve my initials into or something.
By the time I got home that day I could no longer walk. My
leg would no longer hold any weight at all. I had to keep it
propped up to keep the pain pulses, timed impeccably with
the beating of my heart, at bay. When I brought it down, I
was flooded with the same intense pain I felt when I first
crushed it. We got home late, and I figured the damage was
already done. Not respecting the danger of blood clots, I
decided to hold off going to the doctor until the next day.
I went to one of those out-patient clinic things that are
so popular these days. The doctor there was quite shocked at
the extent of my injury and the fact that I got there under
my own power. She didn't know what to do, other than to
advise me of the nature of soft tissue damage and blood
clots. She described symptoms to me that for all the world
sounded like a stroke or a heart attack. Precisely, she
said. She indicated that due to the massive nature of the
injury (my entire calf muscle was crushed), hundreds or even
thousands of tiny blood clots could be forming. If any of
them broke loose...
The only other thing she could offer were pain pills. I
declined, telling myself it was better this way. Besides, I
had to go to work. Yup, that's right, work. I'm was the lone
field engineer and an important client was taking one of our
systems live the next morning. There was no replacement
available. I had to be there and there I was, hobbling
around on crutches, literally sick with pain. It won me
Employee of the Month for whatever that's worth.
I have a picture stuck in some drawer. It shows my calf
when the swelling was at it's height. My calf was the same
size as my thigh! Oh does it look sick. At night I had to
prop my foot up in such a way as to prevent my calf muscle
from touching the bed. Getting up in the morning was always
the toughest. Like most people, I wake up and go straight to
the bathroom. But bringing my leg down to the floor after
having it elevated all night brought on thick waves of pain
that rivaled the initial injury in their intensity. It
usually lasted between 30 seconds to a minute. I would get
dizzy as the throbbing agony intensified beat after beat. If
I gave in a sat it made getting up again that much harder to
endure. So I usually just forced myself to stand there and
let the pain wash over me, like a wave on the beach. I tried
to let it wash right through me as well, but that was
harder. I had some days better than others.
Getting up slowly brought on the pain slowly. Getting up
fast delayed the pain for a few seconds, then caused a tidal
wave as the demons caught up. But I used that delay. I'd get
up and start hopping for the bathroom in one go. My goal was
to be leaning against the wall next to the toilet when the
wave hit me. That way I could either stand there and take
it, or at worst, sag onto the toilet. In either case, I was
where I needed to be.
I went to see a specialist after a week's time. He poked
and prodded, mumbled and scratched things on my chart. After
all that (to the tune of 300 bucks an hour) he said,
"That's the damnedest soft tissue injury I've ever seen."
He had little else to offer, in his professional opinion.
He too cautioned about clots. He too offered pain pills. I
thanked him for his time and hobbled back home.
Four weeks after the accident I was able to walk without
crutches, although slowly. The next weekend I went climbing
at Lover's Leap with Angus. We did easy routes and I
surprised myself at how well I could manage. Hiking was more
difficult than climbing. The next weekend saw a little more
improvement so I went up to Sonora Pass with Burl and
Angus. We hatched some crazy plans that day and the next
weekend saw us succeed on a one day attempt at Balloon Dome,
deep in the heart of Mammoth Pool country. I considered
myself healed at that point.
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Before you buy.
A.MacNair
news:8qamcm$t1p$1...@nnrp1.deja.com...
> One of the most powerful TRs I have ever read.
>
> Brutus
> --------------
I agree, it's a phenomenal TR and it's more captivating than if it
were embellished in some ficticious story. I have never experienced
pain like Dingus describes. Once when I was a teenager I was clowning
around, climbing on the school walls to impress, and I took a fall
from about 12 feet. I landed on my right foot. It was a bad sprain and
I spent the next two nights in sleepless pain, wishing that I could
just humanely be put to sleep. If a sprain like that hurt, I can't
imagine what Dingus went through.
But that's not the worst pain I have ever felt. This may sound weird,
but once when I was 22, I was cliff diving in Georgian Bay and I got
an earache. A bunch of us would climb the cliffs that overlooked the
water and then hurl ourselves in from 25-30 feet. It was fun all day
but when I got home I started to get a severe headache, but more like
an earache because I could feel the pain deep in my ears. The pain
intensified to the point where I lost all equilibrium and had to lie
down. And then the pain really hit hard. It was so intense that I wept
like a baby until the overdose of pills mercifully put me to sleep.
That pain in my head made my broken hand hockey incident when I was 18
seem like a pleasant experience.
But I don't want to start a "Whats your worst pain ever?" thread.
After reading that thread about the guy who shot the nailgun through
his hand I have heard enough horror stories.
Julie
*Steven's last trip to CA - below
*Dawn, in Seneca: http://www.tradgirl.com/seneca/index.htm (so hard to pick
just one!)
*Classic John Long (of course):
http://www.dtek.chalmers.se/Climbing/Net-stories/0048.txt.html.
*Nathan Sweet's entry in the "FREE Five Ten Huecos" thread (search for it
under that on Deja).
*"Green Eggs and Slime" above (yet authorless).
My $0.02, adjusted to my ape index -
JSH
===============================================================
Yosemite TR: A Gunks Gumbie Returns
or:
"Free your mind, and your ass will follow -- but it might be a tight fit"
9 Days in the Valley
July, 2000
So tired... I have never been remotely this tired
climbing. I turn off my headlamp to save power,
but the added darkness just makes me more likely
to drift off. Karl tugs on the rope and I feed
it out mechanically. Finally, "Off belay."
I wait -- no longer do I begin to break down
the anchor before the on-belay call; I don't
trust myeslf to not make a mistake. Still,
when I start climbing, I continue to crank.
Even on wide 5.9 terrain, I can fistjam and
yard myself up on it. The rock has taken
away my energy, but it gives me energy too.
"An odessey up a natural passage" is the
guidebook description of our route, and like
a song that clings like gum to your shoe,
this phrase won't depart my exhausted mind.
It began in March when Karl wrote me, "... maybe you would like to come in
summer (like July) and do some of the beautiful Tuolumne Meadows routes
and enjoy the high country."
Tuolumne? I was there once, before ever being a climber. It's
gorgeous. But what exactly is up there? Any crack climbing? I had all my
usual doubts, unfamiliarity, the money, everything. But having climbed
nine days with Karl last year, I had a lot of trust in his judgments of
what I could do, and, more importantly, what I should do. An inner voice
was saying yes, and wouldn't quiet itself until the outer voice said it
too.
Still, the outer voice did some resisting. I didn't book the flight for a
long time, and when I did, it cost me extra miles. Damn. And the schedule
was starting to look a bit frayed. A mid-June spanking on a Seneca crack
left me deeply uncertain how I would do back in Yosemite. And I passed on
an appealing Rumney trip with Dawn to pack and get ready. I was starting
to wish I had just gone to the Adirondaks like I usually do for July 4th
weekend.
Where did this thing stop being a 5.9 cruise
and start being an major effort? The Wilson
Overhang. Overhanging chimney is more like it,
more chimney than overhang. 5.8? Right. This
is really hard. I could never lead this.
Once in the car headed to the airport, things started to feel right, but
then came travel hell. Weather somewhere (Pennsylvania?) yielded a
three-hour delay, missing my connection to Fresno. Sleeping in the LAX
airport wouldn't be so bad, except for being continually awakened by fools
wearing security badges.
Karl picked me up and we did some shopping in Fresno (god bless Trader
Joe). With two hours sleep it wasn't going to be a big day, but it's easy
to get motivated when you come out of the Wawona Tunnel and see the Valley
spread out in all its glory. Last year the only area we went to twice was
Middle Cathedral, so Central Pillar was an old familiar friend as we
walked past it. After a warm-up of Pee Pee Pillar, I led the first pitch
of Powell-Reed to get us to the meat of Stoners Highway, which Karl led
two tricky pitches of.
"Make time to make time...." The dumbest
songs come into my head at the dumbest
times. Got the Wilson Overhang clean,
but took too much time. Karl has been
grabbing gear and just getting up rock
fast since maybe pitch 1. He leaves the
squeeze chimney in a weird place. I have
to clean the gear, go out onto the face
too. I grab a sling. Okay, now I've been
corrupted, maybe I can just start making
time too.
The next day we went to the Cookie, which isn't closed, just the usual
parking is. Again I didn't lead much of anything and had a great and
carefree time on Outer Limits, Beverley's, and Waverly. There was lots
more to be done, but we needed to quit early to get ready for the big
adventure.
The guidebook rates Steck-Salathe V 5.9. From the topo it looked longer
than East Buttress of Middle, but not any harder. Karl said it was all
chimneys, and way harder.
If I hadn't been focused on Tuolumne, I would have (re)read all the old
trip reports at Deja. I would have seen that Allen Steck reported that a
key flake was gone from the Wilson Overhang taking it from 5.8 to 10b.
That a 5.7 pitch was really 5.9. That the Narrows was a profound exercise
in the greatest of mental control for Avajane... That the "4th class off"
arrow of the topo didn't depict reality, and the easiest final pitch was
at least 5.7. That rec.climbing's king and queen of offwidths slept twice
on the wall, atop the Flying Buttress as well as on the summit.
The evil god who placed the Narrows at
pitch 12 was a clever bastard. Early in
the route and you'd just back off and
have a nonsuffering day. Any later in
the route and you might worry about the
time and back off. But it seemed hardly
later than midday when we started, and
was late afternoon when we were done.
Karl said "you couldn't fall out of this
thing" and maybe I should lead it. I could
fall out plenty, and proved it repeatedly.
How did he even start this thing? What are
those bolts doing out there? They should
be in here. I bet I could get out to them,
but I have to stay here and clean this
gear, not that there's enough of it.
In the retelling, Steck-Salathe becomes a pretty lighthearted excursion,
starting when I finally called my wife, who I didn't want to worry. "Yeah,
we finished by headlamps, got to the top around midnight... no, not too
cold -- we brought up some extra clothes anyway, it's not like we didn't
expect it.... And we knew once on top we could build a fire. It was really
nice!"
But in reality it was a profound experience for me too, a
"vision-quest" in Karl's words. My muscles stayed strong but my mind and
body were both shot. I could climb most of the pitches clean and still be
quite certain I couldn't lead any of them. At the top, I had plenty of
energy to collect some really nice firewood, but suddenly collapsed,
couldn't talk or strike a match. I had an extra sandwich in my pack for
"dinner" and was too tired to eat -- my friends would whip out a
stethescope if they ever saw that. I slept for an hour and awoke to find
my muscles feeling the same asleep you feel when you cross your legs for
too long. My entire body probably hadn't moved an inch for sixty
minutes. I stretched and promptly did the same thing for another
hour. Finally Karl and I lit the fire, slept a bit more, and chatted
through to dawn. I felt better and could eat my sandwich. The river Styx
had been crossed.
The descent was a time of renewed attentiveness and energy, though when
the first was no longer needed, at the Four Mile Trail, the second went
with it, and suddenly my feet and quads were in great difficulty. Perhaps
it was just the shock and unfamiliarity of level ground. We lazed the
afternoon and evening away, napping, showering, eating, hot-tubbing. The
next day we still lacked energy and motivation. A July 4th party in North
Fork sounded appealing, with heaps of musicians and good food, so we
stopped at Fresno Dome and I led all of an easy but interesting six-pitch
widely-spaced-bolted slab route whose name Karl didn't know. After S-S it
all seemed quite casual -- we started after 3:00 and were done by 6:30,
though now I can think back on my six-hour best-times for five-pitch
Adirondack slabs and shake my head in wonder. The party was as much
therapy as fun, and I drank only half the wine I ordinarily would
have. Perhaps I was thinking of dehydration and the next day, or perhaps
I could still handle only so much external stimulus, and, like Salathe,
could nourish myself on the music, or the very air itself.
The day after Fresno Dome we tried to return to something like a normal
climbing rhythm. Picking an easy approach, we surprisingly had the Camp 4
Wall all to ourselves, and I started leading for real at last this trip
with two 5.9s. Doggie Deviations went easily, Lancelot, with one short
fall, less so. But we continued to chase the vision quest thing. Karl told
me to toprope Doggie Deviations blindfolded. He couldn't say what I would
learn from this but again I let trust win out over doubt, and was
generously rewarded. Footholds out on the face were no longer needed when
they couldn't be felt. My recollection of the crack, its line and its
holds, was impeccable. Stances I had rejected or held tenuously previously
were comfortable with eyes wide shut. If I can learn to relax like this on
lead perhaps I can move up to a next level. We shall see.
Day Seven, and the healing continued. Still thinking more about easy
approaches than easy climbing, we went to Chapel Wall and again had a crag
to ourselves. Karl said the 10d, Gold Dust, would be a better lead for me
than Heathenistic Pursuits, 10b. Any debate would seem pointless, I had
never onsighted 10b clean let alone 10d, in fact I've yet to onsight 10a
anywhere but the magic playground of Yosemite. I don't know if Karl was
right, but I needed only one hang on Gold Dust. After toproping
Heathenistic Pursuits I tried to lead it. Also one hang. Perhaps it was a
pattern, but more likely it was simply needing yet more recovery time.
Nevertheless, it was time to vision quest yet again. Coming back from the
Camp 4 wall we had run into a friend of Karl's, a former Valley girl, so
to speak, now spending her time in Australia and Colorado. She had done
the East Buttress of Lower Cathedral earlier in the week. Karl was full of
questions; this was a route he had long wanted to tick. "How was the 10c
chimney?" Flaring but with lots of gear. "What about the Beck
Fissure?" 5.9. "How's the routefinding?" Her partner got lost, but he was
more of a sport climber, what do you expect. Not bad really. "Easily done
in a day?" Oh, sure. The last part you just run up.
It was all true, though so was George Bell's trip report, where he reports
the routefinding difficulties, how bad the topo is, the difficulties
leading the 10c, and his own added epic of rain in September. I myself
thought the topo was pretty much dead on, except for the location of the
trees above the 10c, and the major error of the "roof" above the 5.7
really being a ledge. (And if there really is a 10a variation to it, is it
on the other side of the arete? Perhaps the topo could say that then.) The
route itself is wonderful, with two 5.9 pitches that look more like 5.11
until you're into them, when all sorts of hidden cracks and jugs appear.
The 10c is very hard to lead, but following I could make all the moves
with one avoidable fall, had I seen, and used, the face holds on the
left. (George reports having missed good holds on the right, either he was
facing the wrong way or he could make more of the few good holds on the
other side than I could.) After the first of the upper 5.9 pitches we
started to worry about the time, but it turned out not to be a concern and
we even stood on the summit for a minute to gaze down at the Valley.
The lower pitches have some hanging belays but higher up are good
ledges. The first ones have their best views blocked by trees but further
up is perhaps the most perfect sight of El Cap there is. It was
midafternoon and everything west of the Nose is in light, everything east
in shadows. There's a famous Ed Cooper photo like this (but early morning
with the light/dark reversed), but his is taken from Higher Cathedral and
the entire east face is foreshortened and ugly, while from where we were
it's in perfect proportion.
Our last day we were again exhausted by a long climb and instead of
avenging myself at Chapel Wall, I picked up the soft 5.10a onsight of
Peruvian Flake and followed Karl up the equally soft Y-Crack (after
lowering off in the middle of the easy runout first half).
All good things come to he who waits, the saying goes. After the nightmare
of my flight west, the airline overbooked my flight east and looked for
red-eye volunteers. This time I was rewarded with a $500 voucher for being
with the airline overnight, and I had a cushy seat, blanket, pillow, and
film. The movie wasn't as nice as a manzanita fire, but the travel voucher
in my pocket, like the bivy, preordain my next return.
Karl said we got just as much epic
as we must have secretly wanted. The
"odessey up a natural passage" was
certainly more than I was prepared
for, and at a minimum it was much too
early in the season for him to be the
master of the route, or either of us
to be masters of our fate. Apparently
sometimes you need to hand your soul
over to a wall in a neat little package
and get it back a day later with tattered
edges and a humbled, strengthened core.
-steven-
Brutus of Wyde
Julie wrote:
> My entries -
> *Classic John Long
Good choices though including a published piece
by Long sets a standard few of us except perhaps
Dingus can hope to reach...
Kyri
it,
> here.
Some of my favorite TR's are in the Ascent compilations. As far as I
know there are three (1999, one from the 1980's, one from the 1970's).
Only the most recent one is in print but I think Chessler's has the
others.
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0930410807/qid=969480162/sr=1-
1/104-0588384-5943961
--
Any significance we try to impose on rock,
any grails we quest for,
we contrive for ourselves.
--Joe Kelsey
Julie
> by Long sets a standard few of us except perhaps
> Dingus can hope to reach...
True.....
....this one seemed much less glossy-magazine, and more common-dude,
than others of his - that's why I liked it, and it stuck with me. Point
well made, though, I'm not looking for publications here.
Next? Slime, where's your gold-standard?
JSH
Dingus Milktoast
>
> Good choices though including a published piece
> by Long sets a standard few of us except perhaps
> Dingus can hope to reach...
>
Brutus, I'm flattered by your inclusion of my TR and the
words above. John Long the writer is more of a hero to me
than John Long the climber. I believe his contributions to
climbing literature are very significant, even more than his
climbing accomplishments (which are certainly important in
their own right). He is a role model for me. His descriptive
abilities are a head and shoulders above virtually anything
else I've read on the subject. I have definitely used
"Longism's" here in there in my stuff, out of respect and
simply because in many ways he established the precedent.
The quintessential Longism... "I nearly shat my knickers." I
love that line.
If I have even remotely approached the quality of his
writing I have achieved more than I deserve.
Your TR's need inclusion in this list as well. Trouble is, I
can't decide which one I like best and I don't have the time
for a deja-news search just now. The TR about Calaveras Dome
is one of my favorites (ants crawling across a skull...),
the recent Mystery Mountain TR, the weekend warrior piece
you recently posted (which was a brilliant chunk or words)
and of course the Song of the Windhorse TR (if only people
knew the amount of work that went in to that ascent! I'm
still humbled by your vision and work ethic).
I'll have to think on it.
There are many others... Inez, Slime, Nate Beckwith, Will
Wright, Eric Coomer, the Undercling and of course a host of
others I can't remember. In fact, in my tenure here, there
have been literally dozens of superior TR's, both in deed
and in writing quality.
Yes, the signal to noise ratio here can vary. But when the
signal comes through, boy is there some good stuff. TR's
range from introspective pieces such as mine to factual
reports that anyone can use to prepare for the routes of
their dreams. Almost every wall I've done has been
accomplished while clutching at least one TR posted through
USENET. We all bitch and complain, and I certainly make my
share of noise here. It's all in fun though.
From beginners to cynical old rats such as myself, from
ignorant newbie to world class climbers, they're all here at
one time or another. This forum is the great equalizer.
Where else can you talk with experts on an equal footing?
Where else can you flame a master and get away with it?
Where else can you get free advice so easily? Where else can
you show your ass in the most embarrassing fashion and still
be welcomed with fairly open arms? There are always a lot of
newbies here, discovering this medium, warts and all, for
the first time. Over the years I've watched some of them go
on to become well regarded regulars. Most have disappeared
over time. I for one miss Tony Bubb, the Batten / Papen wars
(which one was the homo again? I forget.) and all the other
crazy lunatics that have come and gone.
Where else can you get such entertainment for free? Beats
working on this fucking spreadsheet I've been mangling for
the past few days!
Thanks again Brutus.
DMT
Dingus Milktoast
Journal for 1999 last night in a bookstore. Imagine my
pleasure at seeing our very own Amanda Tarr's Zion solo TR
published for all the world to see.
I'm telling you, this place isn't the gumbie haven those
ignorant savages who lack internet savy seem to think it is.
DMT
Jeremy the Sumo Climber
Dingus Milktoast <crha...@midtown.net> wrote:
>
> Brutus, I'm flattered by your inclusion of my TR and the
> words above.
You are a fabulous writer, Chris. As is Brutus. In fact yer recent
thread on "Mindset of Motion" made me think you 2 were jousting for
position as this NG's best writer.
> There are many others... Inez, Slime, Nate Beckwith, Will
> Wright, Eric Coomer, the Undercling and of course a host of
> others I can't remember.
Michael Riches TR about the Grand Teton ("Le Beeeeeg Teat") is probably
my favorite. Glimpses into a persons' heart and soul are what makes for
great TR's, one of the reasons you Dingus & Brutus get such rave
reviews.
- Sumo, *sniff*, "I love you, man..."
John Byrnes
> Next? Slime, where's your gold-standard?
I've a several, but I've only got a copy of one of them (below).
My first choice is something DMT wrote awhile ago, about a
high boulder problem he did as a youngster, and his encounter
with its first ascentionist around the campfire. But I don't
think that was a real TR. Still the best thing posted on r.c.
Second choice is Brutus' account of soloing the Royal Arches.
Third is the attached account by Struan, in classic
sardonic Brit style.
- Lord Slime
****************************************************************
Zeroes of Telemark Part 1
Struan Gray, June '96.
For someone brought up in the deeply cynical milieu of middle class
England, one of the more perplexing aspects of Scandinavian culture is
the
continuing popularity of the Eurovision Song Contest. These days the
competition has partly mutated into a bizarre conspiracy to bankrupt the
Irish national broadcasting company but the tradition of syrupy,
heartwarming songs and well scrubbed, grandmother-approved performers
continues much as in the good old days. I suppose that Sweden can be
forgiven for supporting the event that launched ABBA onto the world
stage,
but the dedication of the Norwegians is more difficult to understand.
One
recent win notwithstanding, their repeated failures to garner any points
whatsoever were and are legendary, to the extent that in the schools of
my
youth 'Norvayg, nool pwunt!' was the standard, cod french playground
response to any sporting cock up.
Not unnaturally, a diet of Eurovision and Monty Python left me sated
as far as Norway was concerned and even when I began to look beyond the
Trondheim Hammer Dance and get seriously interested in mountains and ice
the astonishing price of local beer and a reputation for dismal weather
kept me at bay. Only the intervention of Her Majesty's Government and a
winter holiday in Lillehamer, Jontuheimen and Troms courtesy of the
Royal
Marines broke the spell - so efficiently that like all good converts I
became an evangelical bore, extolling the beauty, clarity and empty
splendour of the Norwegian mountains to any of my climbing partners daft
enough to ask where I thought we should go this summer.
Much to my chagrin the same beer and weather considerations kept my
partners' navigation systems firmly targeted on the Alps or Scotland,
and
it was only this winter, twelve years after my brief spell as a bootie,
that I finally got to go back to Norway with the equipment and
experience
needed to do some real climbing. The required catalyst took the form of
Stefan Axelsson, a Göteborg-based rec.climber who, having allowed
himself
to be persuaded to buy a helmet after a chance meeting in Colorado last
summer, found himself talked into splurging out on ice axes, crampons,
double boots, goretex mitts, a new car and, just as his bank manager's
despair looked like it could go no deeper, a complete set of snow tires.
After such a display of financial recklessness it hardly seemed fair to
point out that ice climbing is a nasty, cold, dangerous activity
involving
much suffering and little joy, so I agreed to act as guide, mentor and
example not to be followed.
Thus I found myself kissing my girlfriend goodbye at five in the
morning and boarding a train to Trollhättan where Stefan met me with
winter-shod car, a boot full of food and a second sacrificial victim,
Magnus Strömhell. I was outvoted in the election of a trip language and
so got to swap experiences and get to know Magnus in my oh-so-basic
Swedish, whose execrable level was only matched by the coffee on the
ferry
and the 'traditional Göteborg student food' Stefan rustled up for us
once
we reached our destination. Still, it was easy enough to grasp that
Magnus was a bit of a rock and aid climbing star but that the sum total
of
his and Stefan's ice experience was a few sessions top-roping a road cut
in Göteborg and many hours drooling over Jeff Lowe's video. This suited
me fine: not only could I bullshit about ice with no fear of
contradiction
(at least for the first day or so) but if we found any difficult rock
steps or overhangs I could simply give the nod to Adam Smith and The
Division of Labour and hand over the lead to an expert.
Norway's ice climbing tends to be big and serious. Long walk ins
are
followed by dark climbs at cryogenic temperatures with dodgy belays,
difficult retreats, worse descents and no prospect of help if anything
goes wrong. By a weird topographical fluke the walk in and the walk out
are usually both uphill and longer than each other, and more often than
not the weather contrives to fill your footsteps with snow so that you
break trail both ways. As a marine I'd spent many strenuous hours
ski-slogging across various frozen wastelands with a big pack and an
acute
awareness of the need to depend only upon myself for ultimate survival,
and although I had many happy memories of that time it didn't seem the
best environment in which to introduce two ice novices to the peculiar
delights of winter climbing.
Fortunately a simple solution presented itself: Rjukan in Telemark.
Although this jewel of a valley offers traditional, suffer-for-your-art
climbing it also terminates in a deep-sided narrow gorge, easily
accessible from the road, into which a number of mountain streams
conveniently empty, freezing in winter to create a playground with
guaranteed climbing in all but the worst weather. Instead of
heart-sapping
slogs across the windswept tundra one simply parks the car and abseils
from the power station bridge right to the base of the climbs. Instead
of
huge routes with friable belays the icefalls tend to be two or three
pitch
affairs with the backing rock scoured clean of any loose bits by the
thundering waters of the spring melt. Best of all, instead of spending
the whole climb worrying about how you are going to get down should you
be
lucky enough to get up, you climb *out* of the gorge, so at the end of
the
day you simply fall into the car and drive home. Norvayg, dooze pwunt!
Since for one reason or another all the party members were skint we
elected to stay in the Rjukan youth hostel - a Stalinist bunker of a
building which makes up for it's lack of architectural worth and
decidedly
cramped and mankey kitchen by being just across the road from the
world's
most helpful and welcoming outdoor equipment shop and having an
ice-climber friendly warden, immortalised in the naming of the route
'Tracy's Eyes' after serving one too many post-climb beers in her
previous
incarnation as hotel barperson and bachelor's inspiration.
The hostel also had a suitably grubby and steaming population of
fibre
pile clad men-with-beards, one of whom reassured us that we didn't
really
need a guidebook since the climbs followed obvious lines and were simple
to spot from the road. He gave us detailed instructions of how to walk
the 500 metres to the abseil bridge, and the next morning we filled our
sacks and plodded off in the direction he had indicated. Thus began a
curious pantomime. We would walk for five minutes before one of us,
convinced that we must have covered 500 metres by now, would dash
sideways
to peer over the edge of the gorge, mutter ominously that there didn't
seem to be a bridge there, or even much of a vertical drop, and then
rejoin the group for a spot of communal shall-we-shan't-we
shall-we-shan't-we-shall-we-shan't-we-shall-we-fetch-the-car? Our faith
in the innate ability of Norwegians to accurately judge distance usually
prompted us to go just a little bit further down the road and see what
was
round the corner. Six or seven kilometres later we finally reached the
gorge proper. Norvayg nool pwunt!
Still, here we undoubtedly were: standing on a (gently swaying)
suspension bridge looking down into what was undeniably a spectacular
gorge out of which a number of irrefutably frozen waterfalls climbed. My
first thought was 'Whoops - bluff called!' as I looked at the most
obvious
route, a looping triumphal monument of icy swags and banners directly
under one end of the bridge. Cowardice is the better part of survival
and
my vast experience quickly told me that a little practice on something
easy would be a good way to start.
So we hacked our way up what can only be described as a one-pitch
hanging garden, which gave me a chance to remind myself how to use a
pair
of ice axes and introduced Stefan and Magnus to the art of ice
protection
with a nice mixture of drive-ins, screw-ins and tied-off hardy annuals.
Both of them commented on the fact that ice gear often seemed harder to
get out than to put in, and that although they'd expected leading to be
substantially different from top-roping they hadn't thought that
seconding
would also be a new game. I strangely neglected to tell them that my
superannuated old gear and the curious fibre-doped composite structure
of
the ice might have something to do with this and adopted my best
been-there-done-that wise old man of the hills look.
Despite the temperature of -20°C I was now warmed up and my swedish
belay team was keen to tackle something a little steeper than our frozen
garden. A number of lines - including the bridge buttress draperies -
presented themselves but most were a bit too vertical or thinly formed
to
strike me as suitable. One route however looked ideal: a tight, peat
stained ribbon of off-white ice that snaked its way down a gulley below
a
small group of houses close to the car park. It looked about two pitches
long and although the ice was hardly extensive it seemed deep enough to
take screws and there would probably be good rock protection on the
enclosing walls.
Thus it proved. The ice was thin in places, and because of the
temperature it dinner-plated with rather too much ease for total
comfort,
but once I got into a rhythm and learned to spot likely chock placements
in the compact rock the first pitch turned out to be rather fun, with
the
squeezing effect of the enclosing walls giving a comforting sense of
enclosure even though the climbing itself was really face-like, with few
bridging moves or much convoluted ice to hook on rather than peck at.
The
only real problem was finding a good belay, and I eventually wrapped a
directional sling round a spindly bush that sprouted in the middle of
the
ice and traversed off onto the right hand buttress to belay on a nearby
ledge.
Stefan and Magnus followed, making the climb look rather
straightforward, with Magnus actually dispensing with his hands and the
ice altogether at one point by bridging wide and stomping his feet up
the
gulley sidewalls. I punished them by making them stay in the gulley,
bypassing my ledge and setting a new belay round a big, safe tree a few
metres above where I was. The 'lead' had a slight calming effect, but
they seemed more disconcerted by the strange smell that pervaded the new
belay. I had noticed this myself, and thought it was probably just
something wafting down from the village above, but once I joined them at
the tree I had to admit that it seemed to be coming from our immediate
area. There was a hint of pine essence about it, and for a short while
I
thought that the rise in temperature that had accompanied our climb out
of
the gorge might release a scent from the many fir and spruce trees at
the
top of the cliff, but it was still below freezing and it would be highly
unusual for sap to rise in February.
Strangely, the smell got stronger as I moved away from the vegetated
buttress and back onto the bare ice. Up here the temperature was warm
enough for the surface of the ice to be a little damp, and had it not
been
for the ever-stronger odour I would have revelled in the easily climbed
plastic ice. Often when I climb my mind fills with all sorts of
unbidden
memories, usually tailored to the prevailing conditions, and as I snuck
my
way up the easier second pitch I found myself musing on my early
schoolboy
multi-pitch climbing. At first I couldn't place the references, but
then
I remembered returning from soggy Golden-Age North Wales classics, put
up
with hemp and hobnails as training for the Alps by Kirkus and his
double-barrelled companions, to cook communal supper in a cottage
belonging to the school chaplin before slumping near the fire with
cheese
toasties and a vast collection of back issues of Australian Women's
Weekly. Why the cottage was so well stocked with this particular
magazine
I never found out, but it fitted with the quirky decor and idiosyncratic
room layout, and the Charles-and-Di special issue beside the first floor
chemical toilet was and still is the best Royal Wedding souvenir I've
ever
seen.
The first floor chemical toilet.
It all came flooding back in a bubbling stream of unwelcome
reminiscences. The drawing of lots, the frantic negotiations, the
attempts to bribe. The end of trip obeisance to the gods of sanitation
when I would always, inevitably, lose the draw, dig the distant hole,
carry the steaming bucket, and pour in the waste products of a week's
worth of teenage and mentorial indulgence, all accompanied by the
jeering
ribaldry of my fellow climbers and the persistent all pervading smell of
Elsan Blue Fluid.
Now that I was thinking on the right lines, and had gained enough
height, the terminus of a pipe leading up to the nearby houses could
clearly be seen suspended above the top of the icefall. I became
acutely
aware of the spray of ice chiplets and surface water that sprang back at
my face with each placement and tried to persuade myself that the many
brown inclusions in the ice really were from the vegetation: after all
there were plenty of other yellow-stained icefalls in the valley and
they
couldn't all be composed of raw sewage. Abandoning ethics and style I
rapidly searched for an easy traverse off the climb, preferably one
which
would allow me to protect myself in such a way that Stefan's rope
remained
in contact with the ice while mine followed the (thankfully rocky) fall
line.
Stefan followed me up the last, dog-legged, pitch; Magnus displayed
superior judgement and rock climbing skills by soloing the buttress and
then staying strangely out of earshot when the time came to coil the
ropes. Trying hard not to think about how often we had cleared the
cores
of the ice screws by blowing down them we headed back to the road,
collected our rucksacks and set out on the expanded '500m' back to the
youth hostel. Seven kilometres, a hot shower and a plate of pasta later
and we were a little more sanguine about our first climb - it was, after
all, a visually aesthetic route - but resolved that there was little
point
in abandoning the thrills and dangers of Norwegian wilderness climbing
if
we were going to indulge in long roadside walk-ins and unnecessary games
of dysentery roulette. Tomorrow morning we would buy a guidebook, as for
today, it was Stroowan: Nool Pwunt!
madd...@my-deja.com
>Go find your favorite TR, and retro-post it, or a URL, or a link
>to it, here.
I used to have copies but lost the hard drive, etc. I'm sure these
could be found on Deja but it would take time.
I remember a TR by a Brit that talked about being eaten alive by
midges. It was a hoot.
Another was by Brutus not long after he moved into the Old Climber's
Home, where he snuck out, did a route, snuck back in, grabbed the
walker and ambled past the nurse.
Struan Gray wrote one about ice climbing in Norway (I think). Near the
top of the smelly route, they found the source of the stench.
madd...@my-deja.com
>You are a fabulous writer, Chris.
Craig?
Jeremy the Sumo Climber
Er, whatever Dingus' real name is. I thought it was Chris. DOH!!!
- Sumo
Dingus Milktoast
>
> Jeremy the Sumo Climber wrote:
>
> >You are a fabulous writer, Chris.
>
> Craig?
>
Dingus will do. My momma calls me Craig though.
DMT
Christian
Julie <jh...@fu.bu.edu> wrote:
> Go find your favorite TR.
> JSH "no mustard; relish, please...."
There are so many great one's. I don't actually have a favorite, but
I'll link to one and re-post another that I really enjoyed.
Cheers,
Christian :?) "the works minus the hots"
1)
http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~qtluong/mountain/yosemite/zm.html
2) The retired hardmen with families convention, the Rotatoe (TM), and
other Josh stories
---------------------
Disclaimer: there is no climbing in this TR.
Sometimes I think I am Sue the Rotatoe (TM) but then
there is the perfect day. If you are into late night
infomercials you've seen the Rotatoe. Its a little thing you
rotate and it peels stuff. Stuff like, as the name implies,
potatoes. On the infomercial you are assured that the purchase
of the Rotatoe will change your life. Spencer's mother, being
Spencer's mother, not only owns the Rotatoe, she's had several. One
day when we are out at the family
orange and tomato ranch she demonstrates the wonders of the Rotatoe on
one of the
tomatoes from the tomato patch. It is important to peel
tomatoes at the Matthew's casa because Spencer's Granny is over
80 and unpeeled tomatoes disagree with her digestion. Anyway
Spencer's mother pops the fresh tomato on the Rotatoe and damn if the
Rotatoe doesn't just peel a thin
little strip off the skin of the tomato leaving this perfectly peeled
tomato. When it
works, it works great. The problem is that the Rotatoe is given to
inexplicable breakage- plink. After a
variable period of time the little curved knife just snaps-plink. And
not even during
use. sometimes she comes out to the kitchen and it has broken in the
night. Since she is so big on the
Rotatoe, back it goes to
Walmart and she is given another one. She's gone through all the
Rotatoe stocks at the nearby Walmart and
has had to expand the
Rotatoe hunt to find new stocks. Its worth it for the ease of
tomato exfoliation. So, sometimes I think in my climbing life I
am like the Rotatoe given to inexplicable breakages..but when its
working ..well damn. Sometimes you just
have the perfect day,
handed to you like a perfect summer tomato, straight off the
vine. Plink.
I had just gone through the inexplicable breakage part.
Well maybe not totally inexplicable. You see I was traumatized by a
bush. You have to watch out for the no
star climbs in Josh when there are limited classics on the same
formation. For
example in a recent visit to the park I did the assault on Mt.
Grossvogel, featuring the Dr. Seussvogel route to the summit
(5.7 no stars), with the Big D (a favorite partner who went off and
left me,by getting a JOB). It felt like an
alpine
climb..since it had many of the essential features, except for
length: removable holds, lichens (yup LICHENS, in Josh no
less!), a large rope chopping, belayer squashing, loose flake
that is going to come down some day, but fortunately not on that day,
and a cryptic and exciting decent route.
Big D, after much tapping and angst over the aforementioned loose
flake led the
first pitch and brought me up, I scouted the top (basically 3/4th
class) and then we spent over an hour getting
down, with me down climbing on belay then building an anchor (lovely
cams) and David down leading a
crumbly exposed section to a slab. Maybe we were
just lost. Who knows, the point is that on these climbs the
decent is often the most exciting part of the climb. Anyway back to
the bush trauma.
A couple of weekends ago, Spencer , my #1 partner, and I
were having a lovely day messing around doing easy stuff in the
Indian Palisades corridor in Indian cove. Often we like to go to a
place we haven't climbed before and do
everything we can on it irrespective of the guide book quality ratings.
We went there to do Toe the Line 5.9,
memorable because of the perfect OH!
Baby! hand jams at the top. Then I led Willit Slab (5.easy)
which I liked because I am a slab maven and Spencer bailed off
of some 5.6 R/X adjacent which was a little too X, so we went
over to Water Moccasin (5.reallyeasy) which was a fun climb that had an
alpine feel. Plink. The alpine feel
should have been the clue I suspect. Spencer led it and called down
that I should
bring up one of his tied slings, so I do. "So", I say, when I get to
the top, "what did you have in mind"? He
says "we're going to rap off of this tree here". He says it in that
soothing tone of voice that he gets whenever
he is suggesting something
fairly marginal. I say "that is definitely not a tree, it's a bush".
He says "it's not a bush, it's a small tree". I say
"fer crissake Spencer its a flipping Cat's claw bush". Now I have to
admit that it is a pretty robust bush as far
cats claw bushes go and Spencer clearly thinks it is bomber. We argue
some more
about wether it is a tree or a bush. Its clear that someone has used
this bush as a decent route since there
is an grotty old
sling tied around it . The other decent options don't look too
obvious, and to lend drama to the moment, the wind comes up and
the bush of contention is shuddering in the wind. If this was a
mountain mahogany at Tahquitz I would have
no such concerns, but this is definitely a different beast. Finally,
after some more
acrimony, I am persuaded that this is how we are getting down
and we do and since I am here to tell the story obviously the
bush was just fine - this time.
Nonetheless, I am traumatized by this descent
experience, and it takes a while for it to diminish in my mind,
so I dispatch Spencer off to climb with "Stone Cold" Bob Austin for
the following weekend. This isn't a
commentary on SCBA's
personality by the way, its just that there is of course "Stone Cold"
Steve Austin in WWF, so who could resist
calling Bob "Stone Cold". (Stone- Rock get it ??? heh he heh, BTW,
SCBA is way more of a babe in real life
than he is on Karl's site). If
Spencer and I climb too much together, he gets bossy and I get
whiny so its good to climb with someone else. I was planning to hang
at Josh as a party of three on
Saturday with some friends,
and then await the arrival of the young hardman hyperactive
partner for Sunday/Monday but at the last minute I got an email
from Mike.
Mike can best be described as of the retired hardman (RH)
vintage. I think this is my favorite brand of climbing partner. He
wears white socks in his climbing shoes. All
his slings are
tied and not sewn. There is some neon trim on things. His cams are
rigid stem friends. He doesn't laugh at
my hexes. He's
pretty much good to lead anything to 11- range right off the
couch and right off the couch is how Mike does most of his
climbing since he has a family and a job and is working hard at
being a good dad. In the year 2000 this means driving to a lot
of sports practices with the kid. It does not, for fairly
obvious reasons, mean a lot of climbing. It turns out that there a
kind of a retired hardman with families
(RHWF) convention at
Josh this weekend at Sheep's pass, but since the weather is iffy,
Mike's family has bailed, and the rest of
the RHWF are not
expected til Saturday so he is questing for a partner. 7 emails
in a 30 minute span later we're all set. The weather forecast
is fairly heinous, but since this is the last weekend before the
parental units arrive for the annual protracted
escape from
Newfoundland winter onslaught, I am keen to get out.
I awake to the sound of a kid kicking a soccer ball
around the campsite. The lure of the RHWF convention has been
too much for Mike's son, and his wife has gamely volunteered to
supervise the kid, so now the whole fam dambly is into the
equation. They arrive last night-late because it takes time to
pack up all the trucks, and balls , and lego's and hotdogs
required for a family visit to the crag. I am incoherent before
coffee, and grouchy too boot. Mike is clearly
questioning his
sanity. I am too. We are trying to keep the kid from kicking the ball
onto anyone sleeping, while trying not to
impact too much
the fun the kid is having just being a kid. Its kind of cold and windy,
and he's feeling guilty about abandoning
the family for a whole day. We drive up to the RHWF campsite and get
everyone
settled, and take off. We waffle about routes until we end up in Echo
cove. Crack of noon.
Then plink! Sometimes you just have the perfect day. The
wind stops. The sun comes out. We are climbing in shorts and
T-shirts. The day is one of those perfect Josh days you just
want to spread like butter on your toast. We climb a bunch of
stuff. We don't care what it's rated. We don't care what it is. No one
is there. Its all effortless. Its all good. We
both are grinning like idiots. Mike looks for Yucca bushes to
incorporate into his anchors, just for
entertainment value. Climbs are
climbed. The sun goes down, and I drop Mike back at his site
where the wind has picked up, the fire needs to be built and
hot-dogs and marshmallows roasted. I thank the wife profusely.
I bail back to my friends. I put down a cold one.
Sometimes you just have the perfect day.
Thanks Mike.
Chuck Spiekerman
Chuck
------------------------------------------------
From gh...@aol.com Mon Sep 11 10:43:11 PDT 1995
This happened yesterday after work. I'm not making this up.
-----------------------------------------
I got home from work yesterday and let the dogs out. I was walking around
back when a gust of wind came up. The big umbrella in the middle of our
picnic table lifted off like a Saturn V moon rocket. It was a neat sight
to see. The umbrella had to go as high as the house (25'), it did few
flips and then landed right on the apex of our garage roof. Of course it
slammed a huge dent into the gutter on it's way to the bivy ledge.
Lucky for me, I had left an extension ladder up from this past weekend. I
needed it to replace a flood lamp. I figured that it would be easy to
climb the ladder, hop on the garage roof and recover the umbrella. But it
also occured to me that it would be a wise idea to change out of my
suit/tie/shoes and put on at least a pair of sneakers, if not climbing
shoes....um...nah...too much work.
My neighbors had, in the past, mentioned that they thought climbing was
irresponsible. I could get hurt or killed... What the hell do my
neighbors know anyway. They're dumb and I'm smart.
I thought the roof would be class 4 at worst. The "route" started off
with the ladder (5.1) for about 12'. Then the route traverses left about
4' on the roof slab and goes up the slab to the apex of the garage, where
the umbrella is perched. As I began traversing, some funny words poped
into my head..."...rember that you didn't plan to free-solo an unknow
quanity today."...umm..where did I hear that before?
The slab began fairly easily. After the traverse, I headed up the slab
where I encountered the first wasp. Must have been a scout with radio
contact back to the main nest. I smacked the little guy, not too hard
because I didn't want to lose my balance (not because I love wasps), and
he rolled down a few feet and then stabilized himself. About this time, I
noticed my feet were not sticking too well to the hot roofing shingles.
It seems that the little crushed rock or sand that is used on the shingles
built up on the bottom of my leather bottomed, tassled, dress loafers. I
couldn't brush the debris off the bottom of the shoes...didn't want to get
my dress socks dirty...but the crap was turning into millions of ball
bearings. At the same time, I heard the low droaning. I looked up into
the vent window for our upper attic (above the main part of the house) and
saw a lot of angry wasps hanging on their numerous paper nests...They were
not very happy about me smacking their buddy or invading their turf. I
promised myself that I would come back up here and spray these suckers
with wasp killer.
Ok..I'm pretty gripped now but I'm almost to the umbrella. Then I begin
to slide. Thankfully, I stop after only sliding one shingle...whew! I
feel very insecure now, I'm hugging the rock...er..uh...roof like a crazed
novice. I can almost hear my neighbors saying the dreaded "I told you
so". I must look awfully dumb. Dressed in a $500 suit, $50 tie, $100
shoes, gripped outta my mind, sweating bullets, looking at a painful
grounder, can't go up, can't go down, too proud to yell for help...my mind
races for a resolution to this situation....
The first wasp got me in the right cheek, just below the eye. The next in
the back of the neck...I dyno for the apex...just short...now I'm sliding,
feet first on my stomach...oh please, let me hit the gutter...yes! oh no,
something's wrong..but I stop.
Picture this. My upper body is plastered to the roof, my feet are in the
gutter and the gutter is two feet out from the roof supported by the
downspout. I'm ten feet off the ground above my wife's cherished flower
garden. What the hell do I do now?
I figure I'm dead anyway...land in the flower bed...killed by wife
later....try a mantle...land on my head and do a Christopher Reeves....
Better go for the flower bed.
I push off and try to get my feet under me...no go. My feet get hung up
on the gutter. I land flat on my back in the flower garden, in the
process mashing the maximum number of flowers.
I'm lying there thinking "I'm such an asshole". I can't breath, one of
the dogs is licking my face and I'm almost positive that I lying on top of
an old dog turd. I really hope none of my neighbors saw what just
happened.
My breath finally comes back, my toes work so I don't think I have any
spinal injuries, my face and neck are swollen from the wasp stings. I'm
bleeding from numerous lacerations and road rash. My suit is shreaded,
the toes of the shoes are gone, the Ungaro tie is trash. My shirt is torn
with blood stains. My watch is broken. I leave the flower garden in it's
state of devistation...I can't wait for my wife to get home.
I go inside, grab a cold beer and bleed on the couch.
The aftermath...I'm still alive today. It was almost dark when my wife
got home. She never saw the garden. I told her most of what happened.
She wasn't even mad that I bled on the couch. I'm telecommuting from home
today. I'm really too embarrased to go into the office. I'm all cut up.
I'll probable wait until Monday.
The umbrella is still up there.
I think the farmer down the road has a big shotgun.
HMAN
Tom Murphy
Julie <jh...@fu.bu.edu> wrote in message news:39C8C89D...@fu.bu.edu...
> (no, that wasn't a typo, I'm a Gunkie.)
>
> that term loosely...) a higher standard of writing on this newsgroup,
> let's set the bar.
>
> here.
Here's one of my old TR's. I would have thought Geocities would have kicked
me out since I hadn't even looked this page for over a year. Yes, there are
speeling errors. If you are interested I'll forward the original to you
if I can find it ) and you can correct it for me.
http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Geyser/5431/InSearchOfSuds.html
Cheers,
Tom
Steve Powell
Dingus Milktoast wrote:
> Brutus of Wyde wrote:
> >
> > Good choices though including a published piece
> > by Long sets a standard few of us except perhaps
> > Dingus can hope to reach...
> >
>
> Brutus, I'm flattered by your inclusion of my TR and the
> words above. John Long the writer is more of a hero to me
> than John Long the climber. I believe his contributions to
> climbing literature are very significant, even more than his
> climbing accomplishments (which are certainly important in
> their own right). He is a role model for me. His descriptive
> abilities are a head and shoulders above virtually anything
> else I've read on the subject. I have definitely used
> "Longism's" here in there in my stuff, out of respect and
> simply because in many ways he established the precedent.
> The quintessential Longism... "I nearly shat my knickers." I
> love that line.
>
> If I have even remotely approached the quality of his
> writing I have achieved more than I deserve.
>
> Your TR's need inclusion in this list as well. Trouble is, I
> can't decide which one I like best and I don't have the time
> for a deja-news search just now. The TR about Calaveras Dome
> is one of my favorites (ants crawling across a skull...),
> the recent Mystery Mountain TR, the weekend warrior piece
> you recently posted (which was a brilliant chunk or words)
> and of course the Song of the Windhorse TR (if only people
> knew the amount of work that went in to that ascent! I'm
> still humbled by your vision and work ethic).
>
> I'll have to think on it.
>
> There are many others... Inez, Slime, Nate Beckwith, Will
> Wright, Eric Coomer, the Undercling and of course a host of
Michael Riches
> Go find your favorite TR, and retro-post it, or a URL, or a link to it,
> here.
>
> know I'm gonna enjoy finding mine....
>
>
Wow...this is a tall order, if you want us to post the best we've read....I
just went back over the Trip Reports for just the last two years....I've
saved almost 700 of them....incredible...and that's not counting "anything
prior to '98...tall order indeed.
If you are asking us to post the best that we've written (or at least the
best that we think we've written...), then I've just barely posted that one
for zionwalls...That was my Lone Peak excursion...And since I've already
posted that one, I'll go ahead and repost my Teton TR...The one that Sumo so
graciously recommended...
I went back through it and reread it....There are still a lot of mistakes,
it was very hard for me to edit. It was real hard to just read it through
the first time and as such I somewhat left a lot of real long and dirty
sentences...Maybe after a little more time, I'll be able to clean it up, but
for now...here it is in it's original form...Thanks again, Sumo....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
RETRO TR LE "BEEEG" TEAT
O.K...It's been a year now, so maybe it's time to try and write
this...Why it affected me the way it did, I really can't say...maybe because
I lost a son also, killed protecting his girl friend from a deranged punk,
with a gun, in a drug deal gone bad and...O.K....??? so, just how does this
tie in???
Well, years ago my wife and I spent a wonderfully glorious week at a
little hideaway ski resort on the border of Idaho/Wyoming. For the first
couple of days that we were there, the place was socked in with fog and the
weather was real, welll...wintery, just the ticket for skiing....(and that
was what we were doing). Somewhere around the third day, the clouds lifted,
the sun came out and there, from the top of the highest run, off in the
distance, we could see one of the most incredible set of peaks that I had
laid eyes on, in a long time. I have drooled over the likes of Devil's tower
and such but the name "Grand Teton" always smelled seriously Alpine. And
too, like all the rest of the peaks, in the world, that were even semi-above
sea level, the peaks of the Grand were on my tick list, but I hadn't really
thought much about them. Everybody had always included these peaks in their
wish list. But that's about as far as it went, we were always too busy
doing the climbs that were a little closer to home to really worry about
actually climbing something like the Grand. But then...there they were, off
in the distance, standing shear and tall and soooo inviting, the Grand and
it's two companions. And, there, at the first glimpse of these peaks, I knew
was hooked. I knew I had to climb them.
As the years went by there were many false starts and planned trips that
somehow managed to disintegrate at the last minute, but the desire was
strong and so in August of '98 the dream was finally fulfilled. As the days
drew near there was the usual "make a list and check it twice" type of
thing, add this, subtract that....yea, we need this, no we don't. At one
point I think I had twice the gear set out that a party of ten would need to
make a six month excursion to the south pole, stay for a month and then
return in style (Yea, you guessed it, this was just my gear for my stay...).
I had tried to read up on the climb as much as possible. I had never really
done a climb like this one before and so I had absolutely no idea of what
I'd be needing as far as alpine gear was concerned. As it was August, I
reasoned that the trek in couldn't be any worse than Rainier. With that, I
streamlined my alpine pack as much as possible...and that left climbing
gear. I knew I'd be needing a decent rack, but as to what and how much??? I
had no idea. So, as the general rule goes...toss it in!!! Luckily I had
recently tried a long local rock route and had been somewhat brutally beaten
back by the weather. Because of this and the fact that on that particular
route I had taken practically every piece of gear I owned (and then some), I
was able to reason a bit better as to what I would possibly "really" need
versus what I thought might come in handy...( Yea, the long rappel on the
backside of the Grand would be real easy with that 600 foot static line,
but...). My lazy streak was winning and before long the total combined rack
and pack weighed in at just over 65 lbs.
The drive to Jackson was pretty much uneventful. We found a camp site
and settled in for the night. Sorting, checking and dividing the morrows
gear. It was then that we discovered that we were "somewhat" missing one
rope...Bad news, but the club had a short rope, one that we had used on
occasion, on glaciers, for a team of three, soooo...weeeellll, somehow I
ended up with it. It wouldn't have been all that bad but as it turned out I
also ended up with an extra member on my team. That made three of us on a 30
meter rope. O.K...so how hard could it be??? The books and such claimed that
the route we'd opted for (the Upper Exum) was what...5.4 max, even for an
old time trad rating that couldn't be all that difficult, right??? All it
meant was that we'd be setting up twice the belay stations that every body
else would be setting up...right???
My team consisted of our illustrious photographer, Cheyenne Rouse and
Chris Dalby...Now, Cheyenne is one hell of a mountain woman...She has on
several occasions kicked my fat butttt but good on an alpine trail, but she
hasn't had much experience on rock. Chris has had enough of the rock to make
him competent, but he had just suffered a serious personal tragedy...the
loss of his son. Both Cheyenne and Chris had a very great need to reach the
summit. Cheyenne had been battling a few demons on the last major climb we
tried together and had backed off before the summit and was now even more
determined to get to the top of this piece of real estate, no matter what
the cost. And Chris was delivering a package, a summit package to a son that
would never reach this pinnacle with his dad...(And, yea...that's where the
loss ties in).
Chris had originally cancelled because of the loss, but had, at the last
minute put together a little summit package, as sort of a last rite and
tribute to a climb that would never be. He told us that he had envisioned
climbing this rock one day, together with his son and that this was the
least he could do for that memory. Annnndd, weeelll, my boys name was
Chris...and welllll, damn...I could already tell that this was going to be a
real tough climb. That first night I was forced to relive memories that had
been so carefully walled off and compartmentalized. Memories so dark and
disparaging that I had, years ago, purposely locked them and walled them
away...never to be dealt with again. The night was a long one and when the
crack of dawn approached I was exhausted. We made it to the station and
secured our permits and settled in on the trek to the caves. This was to be
our base camp for the next couple of days. Dread and despair were
overwhelming me when we set out, but it wasn't long before fatigue was the
only emotion I felt. My friend fatigue...we have served each other well over
the years...And as the day wore on, the despair was once again defeated by a
simple condition of not being able to worry about too many things at
once...Again, those long denied emotions were locked away and the moment
took precedence. By early afternoon we had camp set up and had eaten a
simple meal. There were a few chunks of rock around us that were good enough
to set up a top rope on and so we were forced to play until dark.
Thankfully "that" night was a short one and though the fatigue from the
day before was still with me, I had started to feel somewhat human again.
The adventure was not to be denied...No matter how I abased myself, the
mountain, once again took over. There is at times an almost overwhelming
spirit attached to the wilderness that none can deny. This spirit has an
almost physical property to it. It lives at the heart of every mountain and
can magically lift the spirit of any person that is willing to open his/her
soul to the experience. Within minutes, on the trail to the upper saddle I
was once again alive with this spirit. Time dilates, trapping the traveler
in an almost unbreakable warp that lasts only hours but at the same time can
keep a person intranced forever. It seems that every sensory receptor in the
body is on overload. There are birds galore in the city but do we ever
really hear them???? Here in this heightened state of awareness, on a trail
between somewhere and nowhere, even the faintest call of the farthest
creature was instantly felt. The breeze that filled the crisp morning air
with tell-tale scents of pine and fresh mountain dew invigorated the lot of
us. I'm not a religious man but I know this is a close to heaven as I'll
ever come....and on we hiked.
Grey dawn, early morning chill and excitement...so sweet are these
moments, that we want them to last forever. But alas, nothing can last
forever. Before long our mood was intruded upon by the necessity of the
climb. We were now at Wall Street and we were now behind several other
teams, all waiting patiently, in line, to start the technical section. Not a
big deal, this would give us a little time to get our rock heads in place,
rack our gear and get roped up....and I still had this dread because of this
stupid short rope...But what the heyyyy....the day ain't getting any younger
and as far as a summit was concerned, it was going to take a hell of a lot
more of a problem then a simple short rope to keep me from getting my team
to the top...was this a bad attitude??? Welll, yes it was, the summit had
now become the main objective, above all else, instead of the climb. We were
now determined to make the summit at all costs...
We set out ahead of the rest of our club members, as we had the least
amount of gear and the shortest rope. It was reasoned that if we had
problems, then all that we would have to do would be to wait until the rest
of the club caught up. The rest of the club somehow, instead of setting out
in teams of two like originally planned, banded together in one big team of
six. And as such, we rarely saw hide nor hair of them. My plan, early that
morning, had been to stay as close to the teams in front of us, as possible
for easy route finding. After talking to the group directly in front of us
we found out that they had, in fact been up this route several times before,
"Great" I thought....just what we need, a live, walking, talking, climbing
directory...but as things developed this was not to be. They were in teams
of two and by about the third pitch they were so far above us that we
eventually lost sight of them the all together. After about forty five
minutes of climbing we were alone. The rest of our team had slowed to a
crawl below us and the teams that had held us up that morning on Wall Street
were way way ahead of us. I fell into the rhythm of those short pitches. And
even with Cheyenne's skill level we were able to simul-climb quite a lot of
the low angle stuff. By noon we were about a third of the way to the top.
Considering our situation, I thought this was real good. I had only gotten
us off course a couple of times and hadn't had to waste too much time back
tracking...
Wellll...O.K....so I lost about twenty minutes on what turned out to be
about a 5.10 section. We had made it to a great little ledge, one that I
reasoned could be used for shelter in the event of a retreat. I brought
Cheyenne up and then had just finished getting Chris over the lip and
started looking around to see where the route went, when I spied a couple of
old manky pitons up yonder and set out towards them. By the time I clipped
into the first one it was real evident that this wasn't a 5.4 pitch, but I
had managed to get everybody up to this point (over quite a few sections
that were way over 5.4) and so I reasoned that I could and "would" find a
way to get them past this obstacle also. The higher I climbed the steeper
the pitch became, until I was slightly over-vertical....on extremely small
foot holds with only micro holds for my fingers...(And it felt even
worse!!!!) I think I was able to place maybe one small nut above the first
piton. I was almost to the second piton when Chris calls up from
below..."Hey Dhuude.....You're almost out of rope!!!" This was not what I
wanted to hear, if I blew at this point I'd surely deck. Why I hadn't
brought my rock shoes I'll never know, but...it was at that instant that I
realized just how isolated we really were....My K2's have served me well,
but on this type of climbing they were a definite disadvantage. A wave of
panic washed over me and almost instantly I started to bleed off of the foot
hold I was on. Somehow I managed to stick this hold and calm myself enough
to assess the situation. I was maybe a body length from the piton above. It
looked like I had enough rope to at least make it that far so I pushed just
a bit farther. The bad news came when I was just about ready to clip into
that next piton...."That's all there is!!!" Luckily, I had a sling long
enough to clip myself into the anchor and after testing it and finding it
suitably fixed, I was able to rest a bit. One manky old piton does not a
belay anchor make!!! And therefore, my choices were...A)...The old rabbit
out of the hat trick...or B)...Down climb. The piton that I was tethered to
had been drilled in and there really wasn't anything close by that I could
get any gear in to beef it up with. The closest formation that I could use
to build a hanging belay strong enough for the three of us was about the
distance of the rope that I was missing, above me. So downclimb it was. One
simple, insignificant, stupid, little slip and I'd have been in real bad
shape. I was "very, very" aware of this fact...but with a little luck and a
bit of good old mountain magic, I was able to retrace my steps. I was even
able to retrieve my only piece of gear, that I had placed on the way up.
Once back on the ledge I edged out and around a bit to the east, over a
deep draw and found an exposed crack system that was a lot closer to the
grade the guide book was indicating and soon we were topping out just under
the infamous friction pitch. I looked at my watch and it was 2:00 p.m....We
had set a drop dead turn around time of 2:00 p.m. After studying this pitch
and knowing that it would take us the better part of the week to rap off of
the route we had just climbed, I reasoned that the top was the best option.
There were an incredible amount of ledges and bivy spots up here, the three
of us had been really fairly conservative during the day as far as rations
went, so even if we had had to spend the night we'd of had plenty of food,
water and shelter...The only thing that had been nagging at the back of my
mind to this point was "what if the rest of the group had bailed???"
Normally this wouldn't have bothered me, I'm fairly self sufficient...(well,
at least I like to think I am) but on this particular occasion, I only had
that stupid, short, miserable excuse for a rope and I knew that the rap off
of the back side of this chunk took at best one "FULL" rope. No way would I
rap off of the route we had just climbed, at least not that day...Maybe
after a night to think about it, I'd try it...and we hadn't seen a soul all
day. As slow as we'd been climbing, everybody that was in front of us was
surely already on their way down by now...So, O.K....the chances of us
having to spend a night up here were getting higher!!! It wouldn't have been
the first unplanned bivy, and I seriously doubt that it would be our last.
"Buck up...Bucko...things could be a hell of a lot worse!!!"
O.K....So whether that was true or not, it at least made me feel a
little better and off to the top we went. This friction pitch was so
coooooll...no protection, for the most part and exposed??? From a nice comfy
ledge you climb up and out on what the book claims is "again!!!" only a 5.4
pitch. About a third of the way up is a small crack that wouldn't hold much,
off to the right and about another 15 feet up was a piton stabbed into a
horizontal crack with a bleached and weather worn piece of webbing tied to
it. Looking at that and looking left I felt that left was the way to go.
This put me even farther out over an eternal drop-off, should I decide to
slip. But the benefits of left were lots and lots of bomber looking holds
and easy gear placements. So, up and left I went and it wasn't long before I
was able to get a couple of good nuts in and then top off of this section.
From there it was a cake walk to the top. By the time we topped it was
getting late. As we dumped out on the last summit ridge and onto the
snowfield up there, we finally ran into the last of the stragglers that had
came up this morning....Small World...Cheyenne recognized one the bunch
immediately, as somebody she had met the winter before, while covering the
Ice Festival in Ouray and launched into narrative of the days events...after
fifteen or twenty minutes of social amenities we finally made our jaunt to
the top. I had spied one more party coming up the snow fields to the east
and so I knew we wouldn't be left alone for too long that afternoon. This
eased my concerns of finding a second rope, should our other teammates not
get there...I at least knew that I wouldn't be holding anybody up or
spending the night on the summit...
Ahhhh the summit....After everything that had taken it's toll on me the
last couple of days, I had at least gotten my two companions to the summit.
We stood there in silence for a moment reveling in the fact that we'd made
this one and then at some unconscious signal we all sort of sought our own
little corner and let the day and the mountain have it's way...Chris went
over and down, off little ridge to the east and held his private ceremony,
Cheyenne went west to shoot the last vestiges of scenery and such while the
sun held out...and me???...I sat there...I watched Cheyenne wander off to
the west and I watched Chris disappear over the ridge to the east. I was
finally alone, and alone meant that I was finally able to face the emotions
that had beat me and badgered me all the way up here...I remembered the boy
that I had lost and the things that his death had done to me and my life, my
marriage and to my future....and I cried. And for the first time since he'd
died, I was finally able to release those trapped and festering
emotions...The silence around me was a heavy and almost impenetrable
silence. That silence and the solitude of that moment eventually gave me the
strength that I needed to face the memories that I had buried. Time again
stood still and those eternal minutes cleansed and healed and surgically
removed a deep and scarred wound left hidden to fester. And then, as
suddenly as it had started, the ritual was over. And all that was left was
the summit and the beauty of the mountain...and all around me was a
panoramic view of unsurpassed glory, a view I'll never forget. I think we
all felt better, we had each met our fears and had once again done battle
with those ever present personal beasts. We had, once again as a team,
conquered the demons that nipped at our heals...Feel better??? Yea, I know I
did. And after that I was able to enjoy the summit, I was able to relish the
climb that had put us on top of The Grand...this was another dream fulfilled
and another feather in all of our caps. And with demons and beasts at bay we
watched the rest of our companions clamber over the last ridge and stagger
to the top...This event put to rest the last of the days worries and when
they had had their go at the summit, we dropped off the top in style...(and
in the dark...well, o.k...it wasn't quite dark, but it got that way real
quick).
The trip down was great, we were inundated with sudden ice storms, micro
bursts and snow as the weather took a turn for the worst. Darkness settled
in way too fast and we all had a lot of battery problems, but we all rolled
into camp, happy, exhausted and way too wired to sleep...Ahhhhhh...the
adventures we have....
--
---
Thank you all,
The Rockrat...(Scourge of the Middlewest...)
Tom Stybr
Hallucinogen Wall?
Julie
> midges. It was a hoot.
>
> Another was by Brutus not long after he moved into the Old Climber's
> Home, where he snuck out, did a route, snuck back in, grabbed the
> walker and ambled past the nurse.
>
> Struan Gray wrote one about ice climbing in Norway (I think). Near the
> top of the smelly route, they found the source of the stench.
Fine, just leave that carrot dangling, then......
.......please, oh please........
JSH
Julie
> I'll link to one and re-post another that I really enjoyed.
(Ok, here I go, Professor Slime .... )
Christian - your re-post looked like it had some interesting stuff in it ...
but my eyes were really tired from keeping up with the flame wars, and all
the widow-lines distracted me to the point of not finishing the story.
So, can you make sure the paragraphs get justified, or the lines wrapped
correctly, when you cut/paste/post? A re-re-post wouldn't be a bad
idea.....thanks.
Thanks for the contribution -
JSH
Dawn Alguard
about the Evil Tree being gone. I prefer to believe that the TR
is real but retro.
Dawn
From: H. Yohen <yo...@my-deja.com>
Subject: TR - Leaning Tower
Date: 09 Jul 1999 00:00:00 GMT
West Face -- Leaning Tower
8-10 pitches
Grade V, 5.7, A2
This whole year has been a climbing writeoff for me. Except for
one
week-long vacation I haven't climbed shit. During the Winter and
Spring,
my regular partners scattered all across the coutry so I filled
my
spare time watching tv and eating pizza (interspersed with the
occasional beer). Wayne, who had also suffered a rash of partner
defections, tried to coax me from my sloth with an audatious
mid-week
excursion to the promised land.
"Hey, let's fly into SF on Monday and drive out to Yos. We climb
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we fly back late Thursday
night
and get to work on Friday," Wayne outlined the plan.
"I don't know, man. Why don't we take the whole week?"
"I can't be gone that long ... family obligations, you know?"
"It's kind of expensive for just a few days," I hemmed and hawed.
"I can get us a deal on the tickets. We have to get our fat asses
out
sometime."
After more salesmanship, I relented and Wayne made the
arrangements.
Since I had done so little climbing, I insisted on doing aid,
reasoning
that even if I was out of shape for climbing, I was fully
prepared for
some suffering. Two weeks later I sat waiting at an arrival gate
at SFO
waiting for Wayne's flight -- which was advertised as four hours
late.
When he stepped off the plane, Wayne had the haggard look of a
airline
victim. With little conversation, we collected his luggage which
consisted of a single haul bag and rented a car. We had planned
on
driving all the way to the Park that night but our late start
forced us
to find a motel in Manteca at 2:00 am.
Through monumental willpower, I slithered out of bed slightly
after 5:00
am and roused Wayne. After showering and checking out, we found a
grocery store. On the way, we discussed route options without
coming up
with any concrete plans. At the store, I got a cart and asked,
"What do
you want for wall food?"
"I don't know," was his helpful reply.
"We could start by getting victory beer."
"Yeah, okay. It has to be drinkable warm. And come in cans."
We stood in the liquor section and debated the merits of various
beers.
The cases of MGD on sale for $9.99 piqued our interest and
prompted
Wayne to do some quick math.
"Okay, we're on some wall for two days. That means we can have
four
beers each the first night, four when we top out the second day,
and
four more when we get down. Sounds about right to me," he
remarked with
a grin spreading over his face. "Actually, if we got two cases
and we
only saved two each for when we got down, we could both have 11
beers a
day and not even need to haul water."
"Yeah, and we could get a bunch of pretzles and cocktail weenies
for
food."
"I wonder," he began, his brow furrowing slightly, "what kind of
pretzles would resist crushing the most."
At that moment I realized that in Wayne's mind, the idea had
crossed the
boundary between stupid joke to realizable option. "Fourty-four
beers,"
he continued, "what's that, like four gallons? That's about right
for
fluid. Those weenie cans are pretty small so we should get like
four
cans each a day. They're packed in water too ..."
We left the store with two cases of MGD, sixteen cans of Hormel
weenies,
three giant bags of pretzle sticks, a roll of duct tape, and some
cheap
tupperware-like things to store the pretzles to prevent them from
being
crushed. We also left the store with a plan. We would haul ass to
the
Park, climb the first few pitches of the West Face of Leaning
Tower, and
bivy on Ahwahnee Ledge. Wayne would drive and I would pack the
pig on
the way. After getting a couple of boxes (to line the inside of
the haul
bag) from the trash behind the store, we were on our way.
By noon we had managed to get our gear to the fourth class ramp
and
decided we had better celebrate the feat with a beer. After
quaffing the
brews and crushing and stowing the cans, Wayne lead us across the
scary-as-hell ramp while I follow along with the pig. I thought
carrying
two cases of beer up to the ramp was difficult but the sphincter
clenching fear I experienced while teetering along trying to stay
in
balance with the haul bag pulling me toward the brink was mind
bending.
Looking up at the steep line of bolts and overwhelmed by the
exposure,
we figured that a beer ought to calm our nerves. We plopped down
by the
bar (as we were now calling the haul bag), popped a couple of
brews and
pulled out some weenies and pretzles. The tupperware things were
holding
up just fine and after our satisfying meal, we were ready to
roll.
It appeared that there were two parties already on the route --
one was
high up and looked like they would top out that day and the other
was a
couple of pitches above us. Since I hauled the bar across the
ramp, I
was entitled to the first pitch. Even though it was all bolts or
fixed
gear, the steep factor made it strenuous. A ways out, I had Wayne
send
me up a beer on the tag line and I reveled in the gratification
of
hanging on an immense piece of granite high off the ground and
hearing
the heavenly sound of a pop-top being opened. I polished off the
brew,
crushed the can against the wall, and tucked it into a handy
stuff sack.
Wayne combined the next two pitches and cruised. Before I knew
it, I was
on Guano, getting ready to haul. The two guys ahead of us were
working
on pitch five, obviously intenet on fixing the next two to make
the next
day shorter. When Wayne joined me, we pulled out a couple of
beers and
watched the second struggle to clean the traverse. He must have
heard
our pop-tops since he looked back over toward us and we raised
our beers
toward him in a toast.
It was getting late and those guys wouldn't get done with pitch
six
until after dark. Content to settle into the Ahwahnee bivy, we
ate the
balance of our daily weenie ration and had a beer. We spent the
rest of
the evening watching the other guys working on pitch six and
enjoying
the sun set -- while having a couple of beers and munching on
pretzles.
When the other guys rapped back to Ahwahnee, we were already
tucked in
and practically asleep.
The next morning came way too early. I awoke to a need to relieve
the
massive pressure in my bladder. My head was pounding and I had an
absolutely revolting taste in my mouth. I was appalled to realize
that
the only thing we had to drink was beer. Somehow the practical
matter of
having to start drinking beer first thing in the morning had
never
occurred to either of us. I rummaged for Advil in the bar and
popped a
beer to wash them down. My stirring had roused one of the other
guys and
he looked at me in horror.
Wayne's bladder forced him to get out of his bivy bag and we
decided
that we should get going since it was going to be a long day. We
ate
some weenies and pretzles and we did rock-paper-scissors for the
fifth
pitch. Wayne won. We hardly talked as we prepared and I believe
we
scared the other two guys since they didn't even say a word to us
--
even avoiding all eye contact. Wayne headed out on lead and the
other
two guys hurriedly jugged their line.
After Wayne fixed the line, I couldn't resist the call of nature
any
more. I clipped our Colman screwtop water jug (masquerading as a
shit
bucket) and let loose into the comfortably wide orifice. Ah yes,
good
consistency, if a bit aromatic -- the beer hadn't gotten to my
gut just
yet. I spent the next hour in purgatory. Cleaning the traversing
pitch
while carpenters hammered in my head thinking of nothing but a
cool
glass of water drove me to the edge of madness. Upon reaching the
belay,
I was just about through.
"Wayne, this is just fucking dumb."
He looked at me then looked down, "Bailing off this fuker would
be
lunacy. It's too steep. No where to go but up." He surveyed my
ashen
complexion and suggested, "Have another beer."
I looked at the face to start the next pitch, fumbled with some
hooks,
then said "Fuck it," and lurched ahead in my boots. Lots of fixed
stuff
had me cruising to the next belay and Wayne followed up in a jif.
Wayne
eyed the shit bucket but decided he could hold out for a better
stance.
At the next belay he couldn't wait any longer. As I approached on
jugs,
I could see him hopping from foot to foot with a strained
expression. I
kind of hung off to the side to give Wayne as much of the small
ledge as
possible to do his thing. Even though I averted my eyes, I was
forced to
endure the horrid sound of his ass exploding. Then the stench
wafted
over, hanging in the air like a thick acrid fog. "Holy shit, did
something crawl up your ass and die?"
"And your shit doesn't smell?" he retorted.
"Not like that."
We were both parched and we took a moment to pop a couple of
beers.
While I was rumaging in the bag, I discovered that one of the big
tupperware things holding the pretzles had come open.
Subsequently, the
freed pretzles had been ground into a wide assortment of chunks
and
dust. We ate some weenies (especially enjoying the salty, fat
laced
water they were packed in) and some of the uncrushed pretzles and
tried
to get back some of our psych.
I began the eighth pitch and that is when things came unglued. I
was
having difficulty operating at any kind of level because I was
trashed
and the heat was rising fast. Our tempers flared and we shouted
obscenities at each other. I had to piss mid-pitch and Wayne
accused me
of trying to hit him with it. The Evil Tree sank daggers into my
back as
I passed. In a fog I made it to the top of pitch nine, completely
soaked
in sweat and barely able to pull the rope through the drag.
During our
ordeal, the two guys ahead of us kept looking down -- I think
grateful
we would not catch up to them.
After cursing each other up and down between chugs of beer, Wayne
lead
the last real pitch of the climb. As I followed, I helped along
the pig
when I could but that didn't prevent Wayne from screaming at me
and me
hollering back. Before we headed up the last fourth class
section, we
sat drinking beer, calm for the first time all afternoon. I got
the
honor of muscling the haul bag up the final bit and I was glad
the beer
was almost gone.
Arriving on the summit, I found that the guys in front of us must
have
taken pity on us since they left a full two liter bottle of
water. At
least it was full before Wayne drank most of it while waiting for
me and
the pig. More profanity was exchanged at an extremely high
volume.
Still, those few sips of tepid, stale water were the best I could
remember.
Both of us were spent, our shirts and pants were a littice work
of salt
rings, and the back of my t-shirt had red dots on it where I was
stuck
by the punji sticks. We could do no more than lay immobile while
the sun
went down. Sometime after dark when we started getting really
cold, we
pulled out the bivy gear and bedded down for the night. Even
though our
bivy sacks and sleeping bags had been stuffed, somehow the
pretzle
detrious had found its way inside.
The following morning, I awoke to a powerful urge to defacate but
was
frightened to open the shit bucket after Wayne's contribution the
previous day. I steeled myself and held it at arms length as I
twised
off the top. It was horrid and I could hardly bring myself to use
it. I
filled it nearly to the top and hurredly screwed on the cap.
Wayne
stirred and finally crawled out of his bag. The cumulative effect
of the
climb had taken such a toll on us that the pounding in our heads
no
longer was the worst of our pain. Thus it became almost
inconsequential.
Lethargically, we pack up our stuff and prepared for the descent.
After
I closed up the pig, Wayne began squirming around and eyed the
shit
bucket. "No more room in there," I warned. He dug into the bag
and
pulled out one of the tupperware things and went off a ways,
returning
with a repulsive package. He used liberal amounts of duct tape to
seal
up his waste.
We popped two of our few remaining beers, quaffed them, and began
the
treacherous descent. Managing not to kill ourselves, we staggered
out to
the car. "Fuck, we haven't got anything to drink but beer," I
observed
upon opening the car.
Wayne dropped his pack and leaned stiffly against the car.
Bending over
and placing his forehead on the roof, his whole body shook and he
sent a
jet of vomit across the car roof. Wiping puke from his mouth he
turned
to me and said "I just didn't have the energy to do it anywhere
else."
lind...@lwginc.com
Dawn Alguard <da...@tradgirl.com> wrote:
> My favorite TR was eventually unmasked as fictitious, something
> about the Evil Tree being gone. I prefer to believe that the TR
> is real but retro.
>
> Dawn
>
I was going to post Brooke's, um... errr..Yohen's report as well, but
you beat me to it.
He spent too much time reviewing old trip reports and not gathering
current information. Otherwise, we might have believed that it actually
happened.
-Larry
Scott @ Ghiz.Org
Wasps 18
Ghiz 2473
Scott Ghiz
sc...@ghiz.org
http://ghiz.org/climbing.shtml
http://climberonline.com
"Chuck Spiekerman" <cspi...@biostat.washington.edu> wrote in message
news:Pine.GSO.4.21.00092...@index.biostat.washington.edu...
Christian
Julie <jh...@fu.bu.edu> wrote:
> > There are so many great one's. I don't actually have a favorite, but
> > I'll link to one and re-post another that I really enjoyed.
>
>
> Christian - your re-post looked like it had some interesting stuff in
> it ...
> but my eyes were really tired from keeping up with the flame wars, and
> all
> the widow-lines distracted me to the point of not finishing the story.
> JSH
Bug off.
Search for it on Deja.
Or ask Sue.
Christian :?)
Phil Box
Julie <jh...@fu.bu.edu> wrote in message news:39C8C89D...@fu.bu.edu...
> (no, that wasn't a typo, I'm a Gunkie.)
>
> So now that we've established that we all want to encourage (and I use
> that term loosely...) a higher standard of writing on this newsgroup,
> let's set the bar.
>
> here.
>
> I know it's a bit of work, and this thread may remain unanswered. But I
> know I'm gonna enjoy finding mine....
>
> JSH "no mustard; relish, please...."
>
This is one of the most rivetting trip reports I have read and I love to
read trip reports. This is one of those stories that jumped out of the
screen and grabbed my eyeballs and would not allow me to go do other stuff.
...Phil...
_________________________________________________________________
Note:
Some names have been changed.
This was written by my friend and i'm posting this ... i don't
really know why -- maybe it'll be useful for some people to
know that bolts break, which isn't news BTW; when this happened i
did a search on deja on bolts and the general concensus was: even new
bolts sometimes break.
Also, someone here was asking about 'climbing in India. Don't mean
to scare people away, but this is the reality.
And if any of you complain about the writing style, i'll unleash
Gani's poetry on you ;)
THE DAY THE BOLT BROKE
by
Ganesh Ramachandran
approach
--------
It was a balmy summer day. Sunshine enveloped the world in an amazing golden
glow, the birds were chirping in the trees and the flowers were a riot of
colour
in the valley. Long rows of corn in the fields stood in stark contrast to
the
dusty village roads and the granite megaliths, lazy dogs still curled up
under
the trees and the goatherds out on the meadow in the early morning.
We were a determined group of wannabe hardmen, and that day, set out with a
lilt
in our steps, a song on our lips, and the courage to take on the world, in
our
hearts. Seven of us, Dinu, Suma and I, hardened climbers with many years of
scaling rock cliffs behind us, Amit who came only occasional weekends and
Ramu,
sadly a mountain himself, but gamely trying. Shyam and Kaalia, the dynamic
duo
had set out in the misty morning even before the rise of the dawn was in the
air. Kaalia was soon to be betrothed to Bonada, she came to watch and
wonder.
Ramnagar, is a town with a very noticeable feature or may I say a veritable
tableau of features. The town is surrounded on all sides by gigantic
monoliths,
the remnants of long buried volcanic metamorphoses, the hard granite
standing
out in defiance of the elements, the land in between swept and scoured by
the
wind for millions of years, forming the vale of Ramnagar. The town,
formerly
called Closepet during the British raj, has become famous as the Ramgarh of
Sholay, the blockbuster movie of the 70's which set records not likely to be
ever equalled. It was reputed to have run for 5 years without change at a
Calcutta theater. People must have felt totally Mousetrapped !
That day, the plan was to reconnoiter a new rock face which was a walk of
about
half an hour from the roadside. Having been climbing for many years, we were
now
less inclined to tramp long distances to get to the scene of the climb,
indeed
we would have been happy to have a helicopter at our disposal. Wending our
way
through sun dappled mango groves and fields of long grass, we arrived at the
foot of the rock slope. A long and gentle slope led up to a rearing head
wall,
on the other side a steep precipice and to the left and right, a boulder
strewn
slope, with clumps of cacti and lantana occasionally breaking the skyline.
Save
for the occasional lizard and the dragon fly, they were also the only living
things in sight. It was a long hard slog to the base of the head wall.
Finally
at the top we all stopped for a breather at the base, dumping our bags and
ropes
and collapsing on to the rocks at the base. Only the indefatigable Dinu, was
already up on the rock, preparing to climb up the slope of the headwall
itself,
to see and plan the route which a potential climb would take. It was then,
that
we heard a hail from the top. Surprise! Shyam and Kaalia having climbed a
different route on the other side of the hill were waving at us from the
top,
and it was barely half past eight! A veritable power team, they had
completed
the climb in double quick time, and were looking for a way down to join us
for
the next climb. The arrival of these two changed our plans a little.
Expecting a
quick start, now we would wait for them to join us before we embarked on any
climb. In the meantime, Dinu was vigorously signalling to Shyam, that they
should climb around the shoulder and abseil down on our side. This would be
far
quicker and on the way down, he could get a good look at the proposed
climb.
happenstance
------------
Shyam and Kaalia disappeared from sight to reappear on our side 15 minutes
later. They looked down on us from three score feet above, much closer and
louder now. Looking about for a place to put in some rappelling anchors,
they
hunkered down in a cave just above and discussed ways and means of getting
down.
It was a day when we had set out saying, we have to finish this, we had
also
taken the bolt kit and drill, prepared to do to our utmost. Knowing this and
not
wanting to leave any gear behind, they finally decided to drill and put in a
rap
anchor. Accordingly they hauled up the kit and set to work. It was almost
certain that there was a decent route to be climbed up that face, so the
bolt
would not be an unjustified hedonistic, rape of the rock. On top of the
hill,
it was a blustery, sun drenched plateau, with a small flat spot enough for a
dozen men to stand. But there was no outstanding feature for protection or
rigging a rope. Just the cave in which the two sat and gazed out at the
world
below. Here then, Shyam decided to tie on to the rope, and, with Kaalia
belaying,
descended as far down as he could safely stand without actually hanging on
the
rope. With a high pitched whine, the "Bulldog" made short work of the 13/4
inch hole. In went one of those self drilling bolts, the short stubby ones
which
work as a combination drill bit and bolt. It was a matter of minutes then,
of
fixing the hanger and screwing in the high tensile bolt, and the rappel
anchor
was ready to go.
A short discussion, a quick decision. Kaalia was tired of sitting, he is one
of
those guys who always has to be up and doing and inaction irks him. He said
he
would go first. Veterans of rope work, both had done a rap many times
before.
Without waiting to think any further, he uncoiled the rope, took a few coils
in
hand and flung the end out and away. A clean drop with nothing to snag, a
quick
shuffle to mid point, and the rope was clipped into the carabiner. Ready
with
the descender, the gear bag on his back, he swung out and leaned back
..........
Later reconstruction in the words of Dinu, "He just flew off the face and
came
straight down towards me. I didn't know what to do, in a blind reflex, I put
out
my hand to catch him". Kaalia fell a vertical 40 feet and somewhere in the
moment
of falling, he turned partially around and fell on his right side. The
headwall
was overhanging between 5 and 10 degrees, the lower slopes at nearly 40
degrees. Dinu was sitting at one corner, his feet dangling into space and
the
other side was a sheer drop of a further 50 feet. A little to the right of
Dinu,
was a small cactus precariously eking out an existence on the edge of the
face,
below was the rock on which he had stepped up to climb onto the face. Again
in
the words of Dinu, "We will never know how he survived. A foot on either
side
and he would have gone to his maker. He came straight past me and slammed
into
the cactus, one leg on either side and, stopped". Somewhere on the way down,
one
of Kaalia's flailing limbs gave Dinu an almighty wallop on his bicep, but,
in the
heat of the moment, it was a detail which would come to him only much later
during our endless rehashing of the events of that day.
It was a miracle. Kaalia had fallen on his right, his thigh and arm taking
the
brunt of the force. The bag on his back probably cushioned him from a blow
on
the back, and the slope was such, that, in some unexplainable fashion, he
had
slid straight down to the only sanctuary on that face, the wee cactus. Dinu
was
up there to hold him from rolling off in an involuntary movement,
precariously
balanced as he was right on the edge.
rescue
------
I was sitting among the boulders at the base. In the curious silence which
is a
feature of the wilderness, a sound as of a sighing thud, most akin to a
large
sack of spuds being thrown on the ground, came to my ears. There was nary a
shout or scream, strangely non threatening. Idly, turning to see where the
sound
came from , I observed Kaalia, sitting with legs athwart the cactus, Dinu's
anguished cries, muted at that distance, and in a glance, in one horrible
moment, I recognized that awful fact, that something had happened. I ran
pell-mell, behind me Ramu, Suma, Amit. Clambering up on the face, it was as
a
great calmness came onto me, the mind kicking into an immediate disaster
recovery mode. Quickly turning to Ramu, I asked him to get the rock shoes
and
some water, I knew it would be a long haul. Galloping up the slope, I saw
Kaalia
lying with glazed eyes, Dinu anxiously bending over him and a tangle of
ropes
lying on the rock. In that instant, the first aid that I had never learnt,
but
only read in endless little guides and mountain preparedeness handbooks came
in
Is he breathing ? He is - good. Is he bleeding ? Yes,
where ?
- all over. Is he conscious ? - Sometimes !!
The whole of Kaalia's right side was wet with blood. He was wearing a thick
cotton shirt and track pant, which had absorbed a large amount of blood. On
first, examination he had appeared to have bled copiously, but on closer
examination, it was evident that there was no constant flow of blood from
any
major wound. Also in the few minutes that had passed, he had already come to
come to. To our relief he was soon able to understand and nod in answer to
questions. But he was in enormous pain and kept slipping in and out of
consciousness. Up there on the sloping face, satisfied that he was in no
immediate danger of succumbing to his injuries, the question now arose as to
how
to take him down. In the remote climbing areas of India, there is no luxury
of
helicopter rescues or experienced rescue teams, it is quite the frontier of
sport and every man must be aware of the risks.
Shyam, mortified, aghast to the core, a nameless dread in his heart, was
all
set to climb straight down. At our urgent plea, he climbed down thelong way
around, racing to the place where his climbing partner lay in
unspeakable agony.
Casting wildly about for an answer to uncountable fears, he sat mutely,
staring,
waiting for Dinu and me to arrive at a plan of action. A short
"dialogue" and we
hammered out a plan, the best we could think of in the circumstances.
Shyam, it
must be mentioned, is one of the strongest people I know, and he would play
a
very large role in safely getting his friend off the face. It was probably
the
most fortunate of circumstances, that such a large group of us were there to
be
of help. Any fewer, and the whole job would have gotten much, much harder.
Ramu,
Suma, Shyam, Amit, Dinu and I, up on the face, and Bonada down in the field.
My
God ! what must have been going on in her mind ? Her childhood
sweetheart, soon
to be affianced, lying there in dire need of succour and she, unable to do a
thing, unable even to climb the slope to be with him !
The plan we had in mind was this. Since the slope was steep, there was no
way we
could walk down with Kaalia, carrying him or otherwise. We decided, it would
be
best to lower him down on the rope upto the ground, but how ! He was barely
conscious and in no condition to control himself . We couldn't risk being
violent with him, because we still had no idea of the full extent of his
injuries, he could have hurt his back or have internal damage. Then Shyam
said
that he could take him down cradling him on his chest all the way down. That
meant we needed to lower Shyam as well, because he would have to go down
sitting, no, in fact, lying on his back, with Kaalia lying on top and the
slope
was too steep to descend without climbing down. Ramu belaying Shyam and Suma
belaying Kaalia, Dinu on one side and I on the other, directing, controlling
and
making sure neither of them rolled off, this weird cortége wended its way
inch
by inch down the slope. That bull of a man, Shyam, was tireless. Kaalia is
big.
80 kilos is no mean weight for anybody to hold steady on his chest. In fact
it
was a bloody magnificent deed. Just imagine for a moment, a crushing weight
lying on your chest, while you are lying on a slope with your heels
desperately
scrabbling to keep you from sliding off, a large bullet head butting your
chin,
and your hands locked up in keeping both of you together, blindly trusting
that
both belayers will be in synch while lowering, following disembodied voices
and
trying to steer yourself in the best direction. "Cest la fantastique".
Finally at the bottom, we had to negotiate the large rock, which was all of
5
feet high. All three of us lifting and carrying, trying not to fall and
become a
casualty ourselves, we managed to lay Kaalia on to carrymats on the flat
ground.
Lifting and pulling, we moved him to the shade of a scrub cactus. Here then,
Bonada took charge. Bonada, it must be mentioned is a remarkably composed
and
level headed girl. No wailing, no wringing of hands, she calmly took stock
of
the situation, pillowing his head on a jacket and giving him water in small
sips, she was a wonder. It must be her training as a veterinarian doctor
holding
her in good stead. A quick check revealing that Kaalia was not growing any
worse,
we took stock. It was close to 3 o' clock, nearly 4 hours since Kaalia fell
and
we were still a good 10 kilometres from the hospital, of which at least a
kilometre of rocky, uneven slopes separated us from the road. We had no
means of
carrying him and though the thought of a rope stretcher did cross our mind,
none
of us really knew how. All things considered, we decided, it would be
better, to
go right away and fetch the ambulance and a few stalwart stretcher bearers.
Dinu
and Amit took off. Then we realized that we were running out of water, so
Ramu
went to get some water. Bonada, Shyam, Suma and I kept an anxious vigil.
Eager
to do something constructive, I suggested that we start dragging Kaalia as
far as
we could and so do something to save time. Out from the shade of the cactus
and
into the blazing sun, we slid the carrymat out onto the grass. And then we
hit
an unexpected snag. A small rock slope proved to have too much friction and
the
carrymat tore in a jagged streak all the way across. Horrors !, now we could
no
more drag him back than forward. Miserable at having messed up, we hunkered
down, protecting him from the sun and waiting for Dinu to arrive. At last
the
waiting came to an end. The hospital attendants and the stretcher bearers
slogged up the slope. A quick once over and Kaalia was declared fit to be
moved
immediately. A small pad of gauze to soak up the little blood that was still
oozing from God knows where, and Kaalia was hoisted onto the stretcher. The
stretcher was carried by stalwart villagers, and it was astonishing, how
surefooted they were on the raddled slopes in their hawaai slippers. Shyam
was
anxious to lend a hand and kept getting underfoot, until they shouted at him
and
he withdrew. Straight down to the ambulance, a quick trip to the hospital,
and
again, immediately, back to the city to a bigger hospital. Kaalia was
safe.
reconstruction
--------------
What really happened that day ? In time, telling and retelling the events of
that day, a picture emerged of small mistakes and a carefree approach, which
in
our sport can never, never be allowed to happen.
Shyam made one mistake. He had failed to back up the rappel when Kaalia
went
down. This was completely understandable, we had been hanging about on bolts
for
so long, that for a bolt to fail on so little load, was inconceivable. We
know
better now. One question that has not been answered is "Was the bolt that
Shyam
put in, a used one" ? It is possible that the bolt had been used previously
as
a bit to drill a hole and then put back into the bag. This could have
stressed
the bolt and created a fracture line. The answer to this question will not
be
known unless someone recovers the portion of the bolt still in the hole and
looks at the teeth. Or was it just a bad bolt ?
What if Kaalia had fallen a little more to the side ? What if the cactus had
not
been there ? What if.....? What if .....?
Could we have done a better job of the rescue ? It was the greatest of good
fortune that there were so many of us. Any fewer, and the whole thing could
have
become messy. Imagine, if Shyam had been alone to handle the situation.
Even
so, only a handful of us really have any knowledge of classical rescue
techniques. The mind boggles at the possibilities. And where among us was
the
knowledge of first aid ? None of us had ever taken a proper course in first
aid. Complex, life threatening injuries would have been completely beyond
us.
And talking of first aid, we didn't even have a basic minimum first aid
kit.
Finally, what did happen to Kaalia. Kaalia, as I have already said, was a
solid
bear of a man. It was his bulk which saved him that day. That, and the bag
on
his back. At the final reckoning, he came away with a smashed elbow and a
thigh
scraped as badly as a third degree burn. The thigh required skin grafts, his
elbow has healed nicely. The rest of us potter along
with our lives, climbing as usual on weekends, and only occasionally do we
shudder at the events of that day, forgetting it as a bad dream. And have we
learnt any lessons from that fateful day ? I think the recollection of that
awful day will ever and anon, cause a shudder to pass through my bones. The
first flush of realization among the few of us, has been internalized. The
motto
as always "be prepared" now takes a deeper meaning. Some of the gang has
been to
a first aid course. Others are reading the manuals of safety and rescue. But
ah!
so little and so few. Even as I write, word has reached me of another fall,
this
time a rappeling accident. Where has all the good sense gone ? When will we
ever
learn ?
Struan Gray
>> I remember a TR by a Brit that talked about being
>> eaten alive by midges.
Guilty M'lud.
>> Near the top of the smelly route, they
>> found the source of the stench.
Also guilty.
I request like two further offenses be taken into account:
http://www.sljus.lu.se/People/Struan/
Be gentle.
I like trip reports. Even the those with six megabytes of
and-then, and-then, and-then. My favourites have mostly been
mentioned, but here's one that hasn't:
***********************************************************
From: roct...@ix.netcom.com (David Minette)
Newsgroups: rec.climbing
Subject: Climbing in Central Texas (The Early Years):
A tale of japesome commentary
Date: Fri, 13 Sep 1996 06:13:22 GMT
Why Johnny Can't Lead
People often ask me "Dave, you've taught climbing in a dozen
states, Switzerland and France. You've set up climbing programs for
four summer camps and three climbing gyms. You've lived the life of a
climb bum and do the Zen Rock Thing whenever you get the chance. So
why don't you lead climb?" Of course, you didn't ask that question,
but you're the one stuck reading my answer.
I blame armadillos...
Once upon a time, in the dark recesses of history, back when
dinosaurs roamed the Earth in search of affordable housing, I was a
graduate candidate in Zoology. I almost got my degree, but the PhD
board rejected my thesis paper. Not that I blame the small minded
ideocrats for their self serving actions. True genius is always
rejected by petty academics. Which is undoubtedly why my theory of
the 'Squish Niche' met with total disapproval (and occasional upset
stomachs).
My theory was elegant in its simplicity: Without fail, each
region on Earth has a single species predominantly filling the role of
road pizza. In the Deep South, 'possum pancakes are the splat du
jour. In the western desert, black eared jackrabbits grace many a
chrome grill. Wombats, deer, hedgehogs, toads, pheasants, hartebeeste,
sambar: all serve as supplemental roadside dining in their respective
regions. I'm certain that deep in the Amazon rainforest lies the body
of a three toed sloth, flattened when it failed to clear the Yanomamo
footpath in time.
How the animals decide who gets to fill this specialized niche (it
can't be a plumb assignment, as niches go) remains a mystery. Perhaps
my failure to define this mechanism is why my thesis paper was so
roundly rejected.
In Texas, the armor plated 9-Banded Armadillo fills the role of
mobile speed bump.
Click!
"...Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus on the dashboard
of my car, oh he comes in pink and white, and he glows on through the
night..."
Click!
"...iends, I say unto you, you too can be a Born Again Virgin. We
shall lay hands upon the offending member, and as the spirit rises,
then you will feel the power of God swelling up within you. Yes, the
power of God within YOU!!! Then you will explode with the ecstasy of
the Lord, I say, the ECSTASY OF THE LORD!!!. AMEN!!!
We here at the First Methodist Baptist Pentecostal Reformation
Church of Jimmy Joe Brown will restore you virginity for a
pledge-prayer of just $124.95 Included in that price is a beautiful
certificate declaring your Born Again Virginity status. And if you
act right now, we will toss in an autographed picture of Jesus H.
Chri..."
Click!
"...Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive
Porches, I must make amends..."
Click!
"Dave, can't you get anything on the radio besides that?" My
climbing partner, Mike, shouts over my shoulder.
"It's the region. What else do you expect to pick up out here?"
I shout back.
"By 'region', do you mean Central Texas or Low Earth Orbit?" he
asks.
I shrug my shoulders non-commitally.
"Texas! The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the
starship 'Boobyprize.' It's two man mission: to explore strange new
crags, and seek out un-civilizations. To boldly climb where no-one
has climbed before!!!"
"Could you knock off the William Shatner imitation!?! I'm trying
to steer here." I yell over my shoulder at Mike.
Guiding a motorcycle during re-entry from space kinda does require
my full attention, know what I mean?
Apocalypse Now:
WhumpWhumpWhumpWhumpWhump Is that the sound of helicopters? No,
its the wind whipping though my motorcycle's spokes, the wheels
spinning freely, unencumbered by rubber-to- asphalt friction.
Texas! God! I'm still in Texas!!!
What brought me to this? Perhaps I didn't attend church often
enough. Perhaps I didn't give enough money to charity.
"Perhaps you didn't read the fine print on the Air Force contract
stating they could send you whereever they wanted to." Mike points
out.
Perhaps it's my inability to pick a climbing partner who isn't a
smartass.
No, it wasn't any of those things.
It was a 9-banded armadillo, dead in the middle of the road,
hidden by a slight depression in the macadam. Not a squashed flat
armadillo: a convoy of overloaded 18-wheelers hauling pig iron
couldn't manage that mean fete`. No, just a dead armadillo. A dead
Throwback-to-the- Pleistocene launch pad from hell.
Evil Knievel used the wrong materials for his jump over the Snake
River. If he'd used a normal motorcycle and a dead 'dillo launch
ramp, he'd have leaped the gorge with room left over to clear a water
fountain or two.
Using a conveniently located deceased armadillo landing ramp
(fortunately, on the roads of Texas, you never have to look far to
find one), I manage a passable deadstick landing.
"Yeeeehaaaaaa!!!"
"Please, dear God, tell me you're not turning Redneck!" I plead.
"Oops, sorry about that. It won't happen again." Mike
apologizes.
"Make sure that it doesn't. I can just see you as a Redneck." We
both shudder at the thought.
"Seen anything yet?" I yell over the whine of the motor. Mike's
on lookout duty while I maneuver a Harley loaded down with two riders
and their climbing gear down a road strewn with 'dillo landmines.
"Looks like a good cliff up ahead on the right!!!!" he yells
back.
We skid to a stop on the dirt shoulder. Leaning against the
barbed wire fence edging the road, we look down into the canyon we've
been following for the past 30 miles.
"Sandstone."
"Yeah!" Mike kicks the ground in disgust. "Probably total
grunge."
"Private Property."
"Every square inch of Texas is private property!!!"
"Rednecks nearby!" I muttered.
"Rednecks? How the Hell can you tell there're rednecks nearby?"
"Sniff the air."
He does.
"Lonestar Beer Breath." we harmonize.
"Heck, the rednecks could be miles away." Mike points out.
"True." I reply. The distance stale Lonestar beer breath can be
smelled by humans is legendary. I've always felt sorry for the dog in
the back of the pick-up truck. Maybe that's why his tongue is always
hanging out.
Mike looks at me. "Wanna risk it?"
"It's the best climbing cliff we've seen in months!!!"
Looking at the scariest crag any desperate climber would ever
consider risking life and limb on, I can't help but contemplate the
slow, painful, and rather messy death of that unknown functionary who
pencil whipped me into the climbers' purgatory popularly called Texas.
When I signed up to serve my country, it was with the distinct
understanding that they would station me in neat climbing regions,
such as California or Central Europe, while I for my part of the
arrangement would do as little work as possible.
I held up my part of the deal, working as a signals intelligence
analyst, a job that consisted of two duties: breaking Soviet codes (a
task not unlike solving the Sunday London Times crossword, since both
involve arcane terminology and both are in a foreign language) and
sitting around while a dozen operators listened in on other peoples
conversations. If something important came up, Aaahhh!!!, then I
earned my pay! An operator would shout out 'I've got bombers over the
Sea of Japan', then I would walk over to their workstation, look at
the transcript, and say 'Yes, you do.' With a tip of my hat and an
imperious "My job here is finished.", I would stride off into the
sunset (well, actually, into the coffee lounge).
"Bwaaa Haaaah!!!!!!
"Haarrr Harrrr Harrrrrrrrrr!!!!
"Whaaah Haaah, God, that's a good one!!! You're really sick, you
know that?!?" the little troll said, wiping tears of mirth from his
piggy troll eyes.
"Thank you!" the slightly bigger troll bowed to acknowledge the
compliment.
Little did I know when I signed that Air Force contract that evil
forces were aligning against me. But deep in the heart of Texas, the
trolls would...
Deep in the heart of Texas, at the end of a remote airstrip just
outside San Antonio, Texas, stands a 3 story building. Protected by
guard towers, surrounded by miles of chainlink fence festooned with
razor wire on the outside and patrolled by fur covered razor blades on
the inside, the headquarters of Air Force Personnel Command rises
ominously from the scrublands. To gain entry, you need a special ID
badge, need to know the daily challenge word and the cipher lock code,
and must be personally recognized by someone already inside the
building. Only recently did they do away with the secret handshake.
"Boys, what are you laughing at?"
"Sir!" "General" the two trolls snapped to attention, a twisted
trollish attention.
"We just, Hah Hee Hee Ho Ho, we just made this mook a Cryptologic
Linguist Specialist." the big troll explained.
"Look at this guy's high school grades. 'D' in Spanish, 'F' in
typing." The littlest troll grovelled obsequiously.
"So you gave him a job where he has to translate a foreign
language and type up time critical reports. Hmmmm. I like it! Well
done, boys." the general patted both trolls on their pointy heads.
"You know, it could be even better." the little troll added,
tugging at the general's pants leg.
"How so, my little fiend?"
"Well, this guy's really passionate about climbing, but all the
language courses are taught at Monterey, California..."
"...which is close to the Peshastin Pinnacles, and not too far
from Lake Tahoe and Yosemite." the larger troll added.
"Now if we were to move the Defense Language Institute to
somewhere without any local climbing locations..."
"...like central Texas..."
The general rubbed his chin. "No, too expensive to move the entire
school. Tell you what, you've been good little trolls. How about if
we move just the Russian language program to, saaaay, San Antonio."
"Oooooo! Russian! That's a hard language!" the big trolls oozed
with glee.
"So that's San Antonio for basic training, San Antonio for
language school..."
"...then a move of just 90 miles north to San Angelo for technical
training..."
"...then a permanent assignment to Headquarters Electronic
Security Command in..."
"SAN ANTONIO!!!" All three chorused with glee.
"Thank you master."
"Yes, thank you, master." the littlest troll oozed unctuously.
"Anything for my best fiends."
"We're on private property." Mike looks anxiously about.
"Let's climb it."
"That's the worst cliff I've ever seen!" Mike whines.
"Let's climb it."
"Look at this sandstone. It comes apart in your hand!" Mike
pulls a flake out of a prominent fracture line, crumbling it in his
hand for emphasis.
"I'll take the lead." I offer.
"Let's climb it!"
Let's go back into the dark recesses of climbing history, back
when most climbers considered species extinction a good thing since it
meant fewer Allosauruses around to slurp you off the approach trail,
back when neon spandex was the coming fad, back before Mileski and
Jackson carved out (literally) a reputation for establishing new
routes. Back in B.C. times.
Back then, the beautiful contrived routes of Medina were just a
glint in the rock pick's eye. Enchanted Rocks sang her siren's song,
luring the foolhardy onto the numerous lines running up her sensuous
granite domes, routes usually protected by a single rusty anchor 60-80
feet up and further protected by anti-bolting Nazis who would
confiscate your rope if you tried to drill another: only the bravest,
most skilled adventurer dared challenge her flanks. Hueco Tanks,
still in her infancy yet even then world renowned, lay 500 miles to
the west, just around the corner by Texas standards, but in most parts
of the world a journey requiring a backpack full of visas and at least
three underwear changes.
To make matters worse, the land was cut by a thousand canyons, all
teasing the desperate climber with tall cliff faces, all just beyond
reach behind barbed wire and 'no trespassing' signs.
"Climb Us!" these cliffs would whisper but you didn't dare, for
this was the land of Homo SemiSapiens Redneckus Guncarii, the dreaded
Redneck. Every square armadillo infested inch of Texas was owned and
defended by gun-toting, God-fearing, Lonestar Beer-drinking,
pickup-with- the-dog-in-the-back-driving Rednecks, a subspecies of the
human race resulting from a geographically isolated breeding colony
that interbred one generation too many. The prime distinguishing
characteristic of R. Guncarii is its dull sense of humor.
Take one step on their land and you're staring down the end of the
gun with the REALLLLLY large hole in it.
Armadillos and humans are the only animals on Earth that can
contract leprosy. The only known case of armadillo-to-human
transmission of this flesh-rotting disease happened to a 28 year old
Texas man, who says he contracted the disease from 'wrasslin' the
critters'. Since leprosy is a contact disease normally requiring
several years of intimate association before it spreads, what I wanna
know is, just how many leprous armadillos did this guy 'wrassle',
anyway?
"Slack!"
Mike paid out another yard of rope.
Despite earlier misgivings, the climbing proved to be excellent.
Though weathered on the surface, the cracks ran deep and even,
providing the occasional flare just when I needed another hold or pro
placement. Most of the protection I'd used to zipper up the climb
were largish stoppers, but as the route progressed, the cracked slowly
flared wider. My last two placements were large hexes.
With one fist and one foot jammed into the crack, the other foot
pressing the rock face for balance, I slipped a number 7 hex endways
into the crack. I rattled the pro, tugging on the perlon cord to
check the placement. Loose, but with just 8 feet 'til topping out,
good enough. Clip and go.
I jammed my fist into the sandstone. The rock to the right of the
crack gave way. Time for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, a.k.a.'The Whipper'.
It's interesting how time acts during a fall. Sometimes, you can
fall thirty feet and it happens so fast you remember nothing of the
journey. Sometimes, time dilates, and a three foot slip gives you
enough time to read the unabridged version of Les Miserables,
including that 57 page chapter describing the Parisian sewer system.
This fall was one of the latter, only it wasn't a three foot slip,
that much was obvious from the start.
"Well, I didn't expect that hex to hold anyway." I thought to
myself as I calmly watched said pro hop out of the crack, knowing the
next lower piece would hold.
I mentally reviewed the route for any ledges or bulges I might
hit. None. Straight and flat all the way down, not that I'm going to
fall that far.
The next hex popped out of the rock, taking part of the cliff with
it.
"I knew that one might give way. The pocket wasn't that solid."
My blood pressure, I admit in all honesty, might have increased a
little at this point.
"Ahhh. Number Three hex is taking tension and holding."
"SNAPP!" The crack of parting perlon.
"Shit!" The sound of a parting nerve.
"SNAPP!" The rifle shot of more parting perlon.
"SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!" The sound of shot nerves.
"OHMYGODI'MGOINGTOHIT!!!! WAIT! The pro's holding!!! Ha ha ha!
I'm Stopping! I'm Stopping! I'm Stoppi...OOOOOOOOFFFFF!"
I manage to ground out just at the end of rope stretch, leaving
behind a 'sand angel' in the stream bed when the bungie effect pulls
me back up. Odd, I know that tomorrow I'll be sore as hell, but right
now I'M IN EXCRUCIATING AGONY!!!! I figure I'll just hang here at the
end of the rope, some 4 feet off the ground, eyes closed. Play dead.
That'll scare Mike!
"Excellent whipper, Dave. That landing must have hurt, didn't
it.?" Mike is still holding the rope, keeping me dangling while he
torments me, literally adding insult to injury.
I try to reply with brilliant repartee`, but my mouth is currently
refusing all commands from my brain, apparently in rebellion because
of recent mistreatment.
"Nnhhganhng."
"You really gotta be more careful placing your pro."
"Nnhhganhng." My middle finger has joined my mouth in the body
part rebellion.
"Do you want to be lowered to the ground now?"
"Nnhhganhng."
"PUT YER HANDS IN THE AIR!!!"
My eyes, in a show of solidarity with the brain, snap open. I
quickly wish they'd joined the other body parts in open revolt, for
not 10 feet away, I see a 'REALLLLY large hole' pointed directly at
me.
"I said PUT YER HANDS IN THE AIR!!!"
Mike obeys. And lets go of the rope.
"NOOO...OOOOFFFFF!"
You know you're having a bad day when you crater twice on one
fall.
"How come yer friend there don't put his hands in the air?"
"He just finished climbing and he's pretty wiped out."
"Whatcha two doin' on my propertee?" The man who's 'propertee'
we are on is named Enos. He has to be: he looks like an Enos!
"We're here trying to steal your armadillos. You have so many, we
figured you wouldn't miss any." Mike answered, a scatophageous smile
on his lips.
Why are all my climbing partners smartasses? Why do I never
discover this character flaw until a moment like this?
Speaking of armadillos, I notice one peering out of a hole dug
into the sandstone cliff, not two feet from my face. Funny, I didn't
notice the cave before: If I had, we never would have climbed here,
it being common knowlege that armadillo burrows are entrances to Hell
and considered by all to be a B A D !!! omen.
It's a female. She's staring at me from the shaded cavelette. Is
her nose rotting off, or is that just dirt?
"Well, if'n yer stealing my armadillahs, whyfore are you two
dressed so funny?"
"You've got me there. I confess, we're Satan worshippers, and
this neon spandex is our Satan worship costume." Mike, if the redneck
doesn't kill you, I will. Just as soon as my body starts functioning
again.
"Well, then, whatfer ya got all them ropes and straps and metal
doohickies fer?"
"Oh, them? They're part of the Satan worshipping." Mike leans
toward the guy holding the gun with the REALLLLLY large hole in it and
whispers "Secret Ritual Tools." then winks.
I stare into the cave. Four tiny versions of the larger armadillo
stare back from behind their mother. Great! The last thing I'll see
in this world is a mother armadillo and her offspring. Probably the
entire species survived two major extinctions just so this family
could be here to witness my demise by firing squad.
"Here, let me get this bottle of JD out and I'll tell you all
about it." Mike reaches into the backpack for our emergency store of
Jack Daniels.
"JD!!!!!! Well, don't mind if I do. The Good Lord does tell us
to love our enemies." Enos flashes a gap-toothed smile as he sets the
gun aside.
As the two engage in some serious bottle discussions, I
contemplate the 5 pairs of eyes staring at me. Four baby armadillos,
all from a single split zygote. Only the armadillo reproduces in this
way. Four genetically identical armor plated slow moving hair balls.
Do they move far away from home when they grow up? What are the odds
these tiny beasties will one day mate with a half-brother or -sister?
The bottle peace summit seems to be going well.
"I don't mind if'n you boys wants ta climb."
Mike looks over at where my battered body lies.
"I think we're done climbing for today. But I'd still like to
steal some of your armadillos."
"Shoot, I don't mind if'n y'all wants a few of my armadillahs.
Take all ya want! Say, did'ja ever wrassle one before?"
So, you see, the reason I don't lead climb anymore is because
whenever I lead, I remember the fall in Texas, and whenever I remember
the fall in Texas, I think about armadillos. I think about their
incessant migration, how their range is slowly moving north and west,
toward Utah and my desert home. And, when 'dillos cometh, can
rednecks be far behind?
It's too horrible to contemplate.
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