TR - Long - Part I Banzai!
Brutus of Wyde
or criticisms welcomed via e-mail, remove the "not" from the
attached e-mail address.
***********************************************
BANZAI!!! V 5.10 A3
Introduction
"I don’t like your F*CKing negative ATTITUDE!!! What we
need here is some POSitive re-in-FORCE-ment! Your negative
attitude STINKS! Your f*cking negative ATTITUDE is going to
ruin this f*cking TRIP, godd*mnit!!!"
(It was 1998, the year of El Nin~o, and apparently we were not the
only folks feeling the effects of months of incessant rain.)
The angry voice from a neighboring campsite cut through the
fog-shrouded, rainy night like a razor blade through a black
velvet dress. Em and I were settling into "The Cave" in Mokelumne
Campground, Calaveras County, California after a long,
wet drive from the Bay Area. Midnight. Things did not look good.
In spite of the forecast for a radical reversal of weather patterns,
we were still being assaulted with the same mind-numbing precipitation
that had nearly drowned us the previous weekend as we rapelled from
Banzai on Calaveras Dome under torrential waterfalls.
Back in Gold Country for another shot at the route, we hoped the
clear weather forecast would, for once in our lives, be accurate.
If not, we would pull the two ropes (fixed during brief breaks in
last weekend's downpours) and go home.
[Whisper from backstage: "Be careful what you wish for... you may get it."]
We drifted toward nirvanesque unconsciousness as the neighbor's
argument next door escalated, with eerie flickerings from their campfire
(fueled primarily by charcoal lighter) hissing in the deluge.
How did we get here? My dreams wandered back through the stormy
spring...
*******************************************************
El Capitan, May 1998
The storms were thrashing us. As snow and sleet piled in drifts on Lay
Lady Ledge, Tom McMillan, Tim Sell and I hunkered under a tarp, seven
pitches up New Dawn.
"Couldja pazz the beerman?"
"ogay. Cobra or Calgary?"
As the drifts deepened, we shook the freezing water from where it
was pooling over our heads on the tarp, warmed stew and chili on
the stove, heated gatorade for a hot drink, and discussed strategy.
I had to be back at work in three days. I offered to rap either New
Dawn or the Nose route alone, leaving Tom and Tim enough supplies
to summit via our intended route, Tribal Rite.
Eventually, given the horrendous weather (One week later there
was a major rescue from New Dawn and an intensive search for a
lost hiker behind Half Dome) Tom and Tim decided to finish the
lower portion of New Dawn as far as El Cap Tower during a lull
in the blizzards, then "git while the gittin's good," and retreat with me.
El Cap Tower: Late afternoon, our fourth (or is it the fifth?) day on
the stone. Beneath flawless azure skies, the deluge continued. What
the h*ll was going on?? As we set up our huge blue tarp (a godsend
for the ledge bivies) we looked across the Southeast Face of El
Capitan and solved the puzzle: far across, we saw Horsetail falls blowing
upward in the intense updrafts, to drift across the top of the wall and
pummel down our necks. Incredible. There we were, bivied on the Nose,
getting drenched by Horsetail Falls.
Beneath the tarp, we spent a last evening on the wall sipping margaritas,
stuffing ourselves with all manner of hot food (What we don't eat, what
fuel we don't burn, we have to carry down) as, in the waning light of the
dying day, another snow flurry briefly dusted the granite.
Retreat: The usual. We spent the day tediously lowering ourselves and our
loads of gear down the rappels.
Ground at last, and waiting there, watching me ride the pig down the last
ropelength, was Em, who welcomed me to the flat earth with an endless hug
that made me purr.
That evening was spent (in more rain showers) at "Homeless Encampment I"
at the base of Mescalito, while Tom worked on rebolting Armageddon, a
5.10d variation to the start of New Dawn.
Debriefing: Em and I spent the morning catching up on events since two weeks
earlier, when she had departed, with sprained left ankle taped and bandaged, to
ski the Sierra high route. We then headed down to the Valley for food, beer, and
showers, with gear carries scheduled for late afternoon.
Late Afternoon, El Cap Meadow: At "The Cave" we scratched puzzled heads
upon viewing a mound of my gear sitting aside the road, mute testimony to the
activities of Tom and Tim, who were nowhere to be found.
We headed up into the drizzle to do a last sweep of our campsite as the darkness
congealed around the shadows of a forest long-riddled with the deadly shrapnel
of El Capitan rockfall.
Homeless Encampment I: All the homeless had gone away, in search of drier
climbs. Where once the cheery polyglotal exclamations of newbies, wannabes,
and friends echoed, now was heard only the muffled questions of our heartbeats.
Tom and Tim had pulled all of our gear, leaving only a flat spot of dirt padded by
oak leaves. In the drizzle of the deepening evening, as I stood atop a rain-slicked,
lichened boulder, I reflected on this unadventurous, anticlimactic ending to our
dream, scanning the site for any last, forgotten items.
Finished with this "stupid check," I shifted my weight, preparing for the descent.
felt both feet greasing away beneath me out of control lost spinning into the sudden
jolt of impact....
Orientation returned as I heard the "SNAP!" of my left ankle. Waves of pain
washed over me, lessened only by intervening troughs of nausea.
I looked up at Em, saw her shocked, concerned awareness.
"I think I just broke my ankle."
oops.
******************************************************
END OF PART I
Brutus of Wyde
(Continued from Part 1)
-Recap-
"I think I just broke my ankle."
oops.
PART II
******************************************************
Memorial Weekend, White Azalea Campground, Mokelumne River
Two cripples hobbled about in the downpour, the inky night
interrupted by headlamps and a lone butane lantern. On a
green folding table beneath the ubiquitous "Tarp," a sumptuous
feast awaited. Several other able-bodied climbers peered at
topos, discussing their plans for the morrow. Em and I, both
still on the injury list with sprained ankles (mine from El
Cap, hers from a top-roping accident) decided to tape heavily
and spend the next morning limping along the base of Calaveras
Dome, exploring the seldom-visited wall that receives the first
light of dawn; ancient sketched topos in hand.
We wandered as far as the base of "Banzai," a seldom-traveled
grade V far off the beaten path where the last traces of trail
on the east side of the dome faded into thick brush and
crazy-jumbled stream bed rubble.
*******************************************************
Pitch 1
Two weeks later we were back, cautiously exploring the flexibility
of our mending ankles on the steep approach, reaching the base of
the route in the early evening. Em tentatively moved off the deck
on shallow cams behind expanding flakes, clearing lichen from each
placement.
"Uhh... these placements feel kinda dicey. Watch me. Testing...
.
Suddenly I saw the blur of motion as Em's top piece ripped out and
she began accelerating, me grabbing an armload of slack and crouching
down, trying to limit the length of her fall as best I could...
"Unnnph!"
Em hit the end of the rope and stopped, three feet above the talus.
The screamer which held her fall was within ½ inch of completely
blown. Shaken but unhurt, she turned over the lead.
As I passed the TCU that held Em's fall, a slight tug dislodged
it. I stuffed it back in the crack, fiddled with her blue alien
backup piece, and continued up the thin, flared and bottomed seam
that Em had been following. Darkness soon put an end to my efforts,
but we were hooked, seduced by the siren call of seldom-travelled
festering rock, its bright, putrescent green leperousness the
antithesis of clean Yosemite trade routes. We determined to
finish the wall come H*ll or high water. When all was said and
done, it turned out that we had both.... The high water came
the very next day, as we were finishing the first pitch.
Sudden, nightmarish sheets of rain quickly turned our sheltered
overhang into a waterfall, threatening to rip gear and clothing
from our bodies, soaking and chilling us as we struggled to rappel
off the wall to the shelter of the bivy cave don't look up or
you'll drown.
*******************************************************
Pitch 2
The lichen, wet from the lingering rain, looked like large flakes
of grey flesh peeling off a corpse. I scraped it aside, kaukulators
smearing the stuff into a sloppy ooze, and engineered a lattice
of protrection to hold the ropes away from razor-sharp flakes at
the edge of the roof. Above, the "A3" pitch slowly cruised by
as if in a dream, seldom harder than A1. So much for accurate
topos.
Em cleaned the pitch, and as we contemplated Pitch 3 above us,
The mists closed in and the drizzle began anew. We had had
enough. Anchors set, we bailed from the wall. Soaked, wet rats,
we stumbled through the poison oak out to the car, packs wringing
the sopping gear, and retreated to a Bay Area under morbid,
cold skies.
*****************************************************
Pitch 3
[Which brings us back to the Present Tense, another week later,
The Cave, Mokelumne Campground]
The alarm beeps us awake at 5:00 am. Drizzle still seeps out
of the sour skies. We roll over and snooze for another hour,
until the chirping of birds announce that the drizzle has abated
The campground is quiet, our violent neighbors having either
killed each other or fought to exhaustion, and so with the
gurgle of the Mokelumne river in the background, we munch a
breakfast, and drive toward the Dome.
At the hanging belay, Em lounges in the first sunshine we have
seen on this stone. I look up at the next section of our route:
A wide groove bright green with moss, every placement will be
an exercise in horticulture. I call for Em to send up the
lawnmower and weedwacker.
"What??"
"nothing."
Tied off, stacked, sawed-off and desperate, I clip with
relief the two ancient chicken bolts mid-pitch. Finally
pull into the belay, all of the rack and most of the day
gone, wasted and exhausted. Solid A2. Where do they get
these ratings??
******************************************************
END of PART 2
Brutus of Wyde
Banzai!
Part 3 (continued from Part 2)
******************************************************
Pitch 4
Straightforward aid traversed straight left. If we
hustled, we could reach the tree at the end of the
pitch with daylight to spare. After a quick changeover,
I headed out.. But I had a wet, blank stretch of rock
above me before the end of the pitch, rated by the
underground topo at 5.8. Hmmmm. Sandbagged again!
"This topo SUUUUUCKS!!!"
"What?"
Two ancient 1/4" bolts sprouted in the middle of the
slime, a long reach apart, evidence that our topo
neglected to mention the aid here. Desperate reaching
snagged an expanding hook placement. Top stepping and
underclinging the hook, I fingertip clipped the first
bolt. The same teetering maneuver got me to the second
bolt. Then, blankness. I studied the rock. Called for
the reading glasses.
No placements showed themselves. Abandoning glasses
in favor of braille, I examined the rock by feel.
Far out to the right, at the limit of my reach, my
fingertips found a hook placement. Well, not a real
hook placement, mind you, more like the start of a hook
placement, say a hoo... Combing through the bag of
tricks, I selected an appropriate tool, trying to ignore
the voice in my head which cautioned: "wet rock up here
has been soft... watch it..."
I clipped short to the bolt, and slowly weighted the
hook... holding... holding... holllllllding...
PINGjanglejangle!!! foot tangled in top step of aider,
I inverted and my helmet crashed into the rock. Ouch.
Cr*p. I shook my head to clear away the stars and
tweeting birdies, righted myself, and studied the
rock again. No more hook placement.
The braille was my salvation yet again, as I felt a
tiny inverse rugosity which resembled the scar of 1mm
of baby angle driven into the rock, like a dimple on a
baby's bottom. "You've got to be kidding." The scar
said nothing, inscrutable.
A diamond-cutter putting finishing touches on the
Hope Diamond, i tapped in the tip of a baby angle.
pasted tie-off webbing ["texas necktie'] to the pin
with bubble gum. slowly i leaked my weight onto the
pin, afraid to commit. holding... moved above my top
step, one hand on the pin, toe edging on the bolt.
holding... eased full weight through the move until
my groping fingers found a hold keeping my pounds of
flesh away from the placement like it's a white hot
branding iron crimping teasing a cam off the rack, and
suddenly I was through the move and into easy ground
below the belay.
Note for topo: "Casual A1+."
As Em started cleaning the pitch, I looked around.
[While scoping the route from the ground, and while
jugging the lines, I had spotted a set of apparent
rappel stations stretching from 4 to the ground.
With me were 3 of our 60m ropes, and a suspicion
that I could reach the ground in spite of the core
shot 40' in on our static line, then jug back up
with the rest of our gear.]
At a potential 1-person bivy site, we did not
have our full gear for committing to the upper wall,
our original intention to return to the base that
evening. A quick round trip to the base of the wall
would put us in a good position to finish the wall.
Besides, There was no time for another pitch today.
I called down my plans, then started rappelling
into the unknown, trusting that line of stations I
had seen earlier.
**************************************************
The Bivy
Two hours later I was back at the belay with memories
of an exciting 350' free rappel from the last station
to the ground. The apparent rappel stations had in
actuality been belays on a new, serious and super-steep
aid line.
At one point I had found myself dangling in space,
staring across 40 feet of air at the slings, and tying
our static line (The one with the core-shot) to the other
200' rope. Finally, far far below, I could see the last
of the rope coiling like a sleepy rattlesnake on
the tilted ground.
Em greeted me, and we looked through the bag of goodies
I had trailed up from our base-camp cave, feeling like
children on Christmas morning. I settled in for the
night, opened a can of Sapporo, and coached Em on the
gymnastic moves required to get into our single point
hammock.
Things were looking up. We inventoried our remaining
water. With 6 liters remaining, and an estimated two
days of climbing above, we would have 1.5 liters of
water apiece each day. Shouldn't be a problem. On out
previous forays onto this wall, the water falling from
the skies had been our biggest concern. Yet, little
nagging doubts pulled the hair at the back of my neck:
Doubts stirred by the difficult retreat, by the sweat
that had trickelled into my eyes jugging back up through
the evening air to our bivy ledge. Doubts which dredged
up haunted memories of desperate times, during which slow
death by dehydration had been a very real possibility.
I shook off the doubts. The way our previous attempts
had ended, we'd be lucky if we didn't drown.
********************************************************
Pitch 5
As the blazing sun erupted from the horizon, not a breath
of wind stirred. The wall began a slow temperature climb
that would continue throughout the day, its rock absorbing
and re-radiating solar radiation like a furnace. The change
in weather pattern was abrubt and startling in its intensity.
The doubts and haunted memories returned, peering over my
shoulder like an unwanted shadow. Aware of the need for
prompt progress, I led out right from the bivouac, sweat
already dripping into my stinging eyes, the skin of my
knuckles rupturing on the jagged crystals of a fractured
crack. 15 minutes later I pulled onto a sloping belay
ramp. The hauling of this traversing pitch was more difficult
and time-consuming than the leading of it. Eventually Em
lowered the bag, we eased it around the sharp, rope-eating
flakes of the wall, and landed it. While Em cleaned the pitch,
I soloed up to the end of the ramp, ferried the bag, and
relocated the belay to prepare for the next section.
***************************************************************
Pitch 6
Em arrived, thrashed, sweating and breathless. Quick walk
up the ramp to our new belay station, and I headed out across
a scary, crimping, poorly protected traverse to a crack our
topo called A2.
Sawblade flakes pluck at the rope. The sun blasts down. No
time for screwing with aid placements and the constant gardening
they would require. I take a deep breath, will the shaking in
my bones to subside, and determine to free climb the pitch.
Sweat trickles down arms shaking from fear as I climb the
serrated dikes and free-crimp-lakeyshegged past the A2 grungy
placements, pawing the edge of the crack, point-toeing up the
serrations in a teetering, balancy gibbet- dance until I pull
into a belay slab with flared grungy placements and set up an
elaborate redundant, equalized, and backed-up anchor system
utilizing three cordelettes and 8 pieces of protection.
I hoist the haul bag off Ems anchors, then, stressed for
time with too many tasks, feeling like a one legged-man in
an *ss-kicking contest, belayed Em across the sawtooth-flake
traverse below.
Kerr-PiPing!!
I look across at the hauling anchors, to find that a piton and
a cam have ripped out of the crack, leaving a stopper in a flared
horizontal placement, a sawed-off piton, and a back-up to the
other cordelettes holding the bag.
Em, having completed the traverse, starts jugging the
fixed line and cleaning the remainder of the pitch, as
I quietly set an additional cam, pee my pants, get out
the bolt kit, and start to drill.
**********************************************************
END of Part 3 Banzai!
Brutus of Wyde
Part 4
(Continued)
***************************************************
Pitch 7
A Half-hour of nerve-wracking minutes later, Em, the
haul bag, and I are re-united at a newly-beefed belay,
and I prepare for the crux pitch of the day, a complex
affair involving poorly protected face traversing, a
chimney to a roof, and deteriorating into lichenous,
rotted A3.
Once again, an pitch unfolds in a puzzle of moss, traverses,
expanding and detached flakes, and decayed, flaring cracks.
Out of gear. Below, a house-of-cards half-pitch is
festooned with equalized and opposing placements,
none worth writing home about. A greedy child, I lower
off a half-driven piton to back-clean the route,
grabbing choice toys that are needed above.
jugging... pin pops and I am sent for a 20-foot ride.
Water. Dry tongue brushes over cracked lips, swallowing
inducing a gag reflex as the sides of the throat stick
together.
******************************************************
The Bivy
"Excellent Ledge" the topo states. Riiiiight. Perhaps
an excellent bivy ledge for a herd of giant iguanas with
suction-cup-feet.
Waving our hammers and croaking expletives, we finally coax
the last of the huge lizards, hissing and spitting, up the
wall, clearing space for ourselves and the haul bag on this
long, sloping shelf.
water. Small surreptitious gulps wetting the throat in the
darkness. It's another big wall bivy, with the wild night
stars like watchfires of circling camps during a seige.
Sleep finally dissolves my doubts like a desolate Santa Ana
wind plucking apart a dessicated sand castle. I dream the
dreams of someone fully exhausted from a day on the stone.
Sweet sleep.
water.
desperate.
dawn.
Em and I hold council. We will leave the haul bag here on the
bivy ledge, and blast for the top, and hoped-for streams
on the descent, fixing ropes as we go I reckon that we have about
another five hours before we are too dehydrated to move.
***********************************************************
Pitch 8
flypaper throat
searing heat
chills
sucking the last drops of water from the bottles, sucking
again, hoping for more.
*************************************************************
Pitch 9
Furnace. skin dry and angry red. sweat glands have shut down.
drowsy. chills dizzy spiralling downward into brain-melted
stupor. I jerk awake, somehow tangled in the belay ropes,
em below letting a gutteral exclaimation as my weight shift
drops a foot of slack into the line she is jugging.
drowse off, shift, miserable, right foot vised in the climbing
shoe feeling like dipped in molten wax then crushed, blistered.
body lays sideways against the anchor ropes. fluttering moth
burning to death. need to get out of here. try to say something
to em, don't recognize the coarse squawk that results. dizzy.
the sky an endless yellow desert fringed by a blue corona
while far below and unreal is the mirage of salt springs power
plant and reservoir that will today sluice over 100 million
gallons of water downstream into the consumnes river.
the roar of the water spraying into the distant canyon is drowned
by the roaring in my head as i feel the anchor ropes cut into my
cheek, I am a turkey vulture floating far overhead, watching two
tiny figures struggle in the baking heat near the top of a sere
granite dome, patiently waiting
****************************************************
Pitch 10
back on the stone crusting eyes staring vacantly dry filthy
cheek burning against the white-hot rock I groggily stir,
roused by Em appearing around the corner, struggling to
clean the traversing pitch on jumars. At last we can communicate.
Taking all the slack rope at the anchor, I tie in to the end. and,
trailing the line with no belay, solo up the last fifth class of
molten glass granite to the dry empty summit.
stagger to the dry, empty summit, a flea crawling onto a
bleached skull, vacant sockets of huecos staring at the sky,
granite mocking me, cracks in the rock gaping toothless mouths
gossiping about the latest geological events. Stagger to
the dry, empty summit without a belay, dust-mouthed and retching,
and stare, not quite believing, at a solution pocket filled
with the sweet water from the endless weeks of torrential rains,
suddenly knowing, yet not quite believing, that at long last,
we've made it.
Hope and life return in a flood as the cool liquid kisses my
lips, I laying belly down on the domed summit, face submerged,
laughing, crying and spluttering in the wonderful liquid.
**************************************************************
Epilogue
It is two weeks since we staggered to the summit of Calaveras Dome.
Em and I are back, camped in the forest 200 feet from the summit of
the dome, to retrieve our haul bag and fixed ropes, left in our
desperate retreat. Tunes tinkle out of the radio into the cool
air of the afternoon, as we sip a sangria-like drink made of white
zinfandel, crushed cherries, lime, and strawberries. On the
campfire are a chicken breast and a veggie burger.
The rain pockets are dry now, vaporized by the heat of the
past two weeks, but it matters not. Tomorrow we will shower
in opulent, cool water we carried on our backs to the summit,
and descend toward the rest of the long-awaited summer. The
climbing season, at long last, has begun. For now, we lean back
against a pine log bleached white by the light of endless days,
and watch the huge orb of the setting sun melt into the western
horizon.
*****************************************************************
END OF FILE
Brutus of Wyde
Dingus Milktoast
don't need no stinking water! Brutus, I am proud to have climbed with
you and humbled beyond words by what you have done here. My own pitiful
efforts, while satisfying to me, pale in comparison. You not only climb
samurai, you write samurai; you are samurai. A flea on a skull! Christ
almighty, you say things we all feel, do the routes we all wish we could
do, and you never flame those who can't, won't or don't. Hats off my
friend. I am inspired.
DMT
tims...@io.com
Dingus Milktoast <crha...@midtown.net> wrote:
.... Hats off my friend. I am inspired.
>
> DMT
Your story was exceedingly well written and entertaining, Brutus! The final
image of you sipping the hueco water was wonderful.
-Tim
-----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==-----
http://www.dejanews.com/rg_mkgrp.xp Create Your Own Free Member Forum
JKVawter
Dingus Milktoast wrote:
> Part leather, part machine, heart and soul; warrior poet.
snip
> Christ
> almighty, you say things we all feel, do the routes we all wish we could
> do, and you never flame those who can't, won't or don't. Hats off my
> friend. I am inspired.
Well, you have to take your inspiration where you find it, I guess. But
Brutus is no Robin Smith, or even Ed Ward Drummond. I can't get finish one
of his TR's without feeling compelled to get back to work. In fact, I've
never finished one.
JKVawter悠'll take Drixilla's TR's any day. More pathos.
Eric D. Coomer
JKVawter wrote in message <35E6FC07...@lawstuff.com>...
>Well, you have to take your inspiration where you find it, I guess. But
>Brutus is no Robin Smith, or even Ed Ward Drummond. I can't get finish one
>of his TR's without feeling compelled to get back to work. In fact, I've
>never finished one.
Not quite sure why you felt the need to post a rather tedious slam of
Bruce's writing. Personally, I'd rather set the time away to read some
of his long drivel then to suffer through yet another standard blow by
blow description of a climb that lacks heart and passion in the prose.
Hmmm... a quick deja news search shows you fall in to the latter camp
with one "then we climbed the next crack" style of trip report. And yeah,
I've been guilty of the latter myself, though these days I try hard to stay
far, far away from that crap.
Cheers
Eric
Dylan Ransom
> Brutus is no Robin Smith, or even Ed Ward Drummond. I can't get finish one
> of his TR's without feeling compelled to get back to work. In fact, I've
> never finished one.
>
Interesting. I have always enjoyed his trip reports, and I look forward
to the next one. Not sure why you feel the need to flame his (IMHO)
excellent writing. It's descripitve, clear, clever, funny, and dark.
In fact, I have also learned some things from his trip reports.
Keep it up Brutus!
Dingus Milktoast
ANYTHING from you, TR or not, I do indeed have to take my inspiration where I
find it. There are damn few people on rec.climbing willing to show their asses
by showing their hearts and Brutus is among the best. His climbing is not only
superb, it is varied and adventurous. His writing is certainly his own style;
much like his climbing. It's not for the timid, faint of heart or gym rat. I'm
sure your work is much more interesting. I suggest you get back to it.
DMT
JKVawter wrote:
> Dingus Milktoast wrote:
>
> > Part leather, part machine, heart and soul; warrior poet.
>
> snip
>
> > Christ
> > almighty, you say things we all feel, do the routes we all wish we could
> > do, and you never flame those who can't, won't or don't. Hats off my
> > friend. I am inspired.
>
Med Dyer
-- I'll have to go hunt it down on DejaNews.
Brutus' trip reports are my favorite part of r.c -- they're even
better than "As the Sulam Burns".
While we're on the subject of great writing -- I found a nice little
piece by Peter Croft in an older issue of R&I called "A Life in the
Day of a Mountaineer". It's excellent and if anyone e-mails asking for
it, I'll even hunt down the issue number(it might even be Climbing
magazine...).
Med Dyer
On Fri, 28 Aug 1998 11:50:48 -0700, JKVawter <jkva...@lawstuff.com>
Brutus of Wyde
[snip]
> There are damn few people on rec.climbing
> willing to show their asses by showing their hearts
> and Brutus is among the best. His climbing is not only
> superb, it is varied and adventurous. His writing
> is certainly his own style; much like his climbing.
> It's not for the timid, faint of heart or gym rat. I'm
> sure your work is much more interesting. I suggest
> you get back to it.
Thank you for the complement, Dingus, deserved or knot!
As JKVawter noted, you take your inspiration where
you find it. I still remember Burl's Comet and
the Dingus of the Moon -- the same night that
Nurse Ratchet, Steve Giddings and I were
involved in an ascent of Banner Peak.
And tossing the forklift keys to your partner at the
Leaning Tower Parking Lot was truly classic: Beautiful
imagery!
> JKVawter wrote:
> > Well, you have to take your inspiration where you
> > find it, I guess. But Brutus is no Robin Smith,
> > or even Ed Ward Drummond.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Nor have I ever pretended to be. But why bring my friend
Mr. Drummond into this, belittling his writing and making
fun of his name? Slam MY work, not his.
My TRs are clearly posted as such, and it seems a killfilter
for "[TR OR Trip Report] AND Brutus" would be pretty easy to
implement.
> > I can't get finish one
> > of his TR's without feeling compelled
> > to get back to work. In fact, I've
> > never finished one.
Its pretty clear that out tastes in Trip Reports differ.
For example, I find
"We summited at 1:15, left camp at 3:00, and arrived at [the lake]
about 6:00, thoroughly beat."
to be incredibly tedious, dull and generic, especially when
describing a popular climb that many have done.
> I'll take Drixilla's TR's any day. More pathos.
I like, and admire, Gnar's trip reports as well, although
I would emulate her style only with the sacrifice of my
own felicities.
Thanks for your input.
Brutus of Wyde
Old Climbers' Home
Oakland, Calitedium
Richard MacKenzie
In article <35E6FC07...@lawstuff.com>, JKVawter <jkva...@lawstuff.com> writes:
|>
|>
|>
|> Well, you have to take your inspiration where you find it, I guess. But
|> of his TR's without feeling compelled to get back to work. In fact, I've
|> never finished one.
|>
|>
|>
Perhaps Brutus writes for people with a longer attention span than you. Maybe you
should try the following website:
One of these things is not like the other,
One of these things doesn't belong...
rbmack
tims...@io.com
Dingus Milktoast <crha...@midtown.net> wrote:
> Yaaaawn! Seeing as how I can't remember seeing and certainly not reading
> ANYTHING from you, TR or not, I do indeed have to take my inspiration where I
> find it. There are damn few people on rec.climbing willing to show their asses
> by showing their hearts...
That's right, and this is exactly why his trip report was readable and
memorable. Hats off to anyone who has the nerve to stick his or her neck out
and actually tells how they feel doing these adventures. Inez does indeed
write good trip reports as well. I for one would like to see more of that
kind of writing around here. So go ahead and type one up, whoever you are
out there. Don't let that previous poster discourage you.
-Tim Stich
JKVawter
Dylan Ransom wrote:
(in response to my pan of Brutus' TRs)
> Interesting. I have always enjoyed his trip reports, and I look forward
> to the next one. Not sure why you feel the need to flame his (IMHO)
> excellent writing. It's descripitve, clear, clever, funny, and dark.
> In fact, I have also learned some things from his trip reports.
My comment was not a flame. I just presented another opinion in the interest of
balanced reporting. You have your opinion, I have mine. And I concede that I am
in the minority.
Anyway, I didn't say Brutus' writing sucks. In fact, the comparison to the two
published writers was a backhanded compliment, when you think about it. And I
agree his TRs are often a useful source of information. I just can't get through
page one of six before my mind starts to wander.
JKVawter—feeling my age
JKVawter
Brutus of Wyde wrote:
> > JKVawter wrote:
> > > Well, you have to take your inspiration where you
> > > find it, I guess. But Brutus is no Robin Smith,
> > > or even Ed Ward Drummond.
> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
> Nor have I ever pretended to be. But why bring my friend
> Mr. Drummond into this, belittling his writing and making
> fun of his name? Slam MY work, not his.
It seems I've hit a nerve. That was not my intent so I apologize. Like I
wrote to Dylan, I did not say or mean to imply that your writing sucks.
After all, your writing does remind me of two excellent published
writers, Smith and Drummond. I just don't like long TRs.
> Its pretty clear that out tastes in Trip Reports differ.
> For example, I find
>
> "We summited at 1:15, left camp at 3:00, and arrived at [the lake]
> about 6:00, thoroughly beat."
>
> to be incredibly tedious, dull and generic, especially when
> describing a popular climb that many have done.
Ouch. But in my defense, that was written to convey information, not to
entertain. And I didn't say, "Look at one of my trip reports. They're
all gems."
> > I'll take Drixilla's TR's any day. More pathos.
>
> I like, and admire, Gnar's trip reports as well, although
> I would emulate her style only with the sacrifice of my
> own felicities.
Nor would I suggest that you try to emulate her. But I'm entitled to my
preference, which is all I expressed in my first post.
JKVawter
Inez Drixelius
Whoo-hoo! I have a fan. I'll write something when I get back from 3
weeks in Germany and a trip to Duelfer's vertical footprints in the Wilden
Kaiser, okay?
> >
> > I like, and admire, Gnar's trip reports as well, although
> > I would emulate her style only with the sacrifice of my
> > own felicities.
Brutus, you shouldn't tell the whole world that my middle name is
Felicitas (it's really true folks! Inez Felicitas Drixelius is NOT a
pseudonym)
>
> Nor would I suggest that you try to emulate her. But I'm entitled to my
> preference, which is all I expressed in my first post.
I am bloating with pride and glowing in the attention. Being that I have
felt like an under-achiever lately this is quite the perk for me.
Inez
PS West Ridge of Mount Conness, full North Ridge of Mount Stuart and the
Regular on Fairview are my most recent feats in case anybody wants
bbbb-beta.
--
Inez Drixelius
Berkeley, California
"Real women wear knee pads"