In Praise Of Shitty Weather
^,,^
weeks (finally, hurray) and as such would be ‘there’ and not ‘here’.
In typical ^,,^ fashion those 2 weeks accidently became 4 or 5 weeks.
In this variation on my small theme, this ‘there’ was a little visited
corner of Yellowstone, one best approached from Idaho. (that’s all
I’m ever going to give on the gps coordinates, as the thing I love
most about it is the “little visited” part.)
This wasn’t a climbing trip, it was a fishing trip. For while there
is some genuine vertical on the path I took, you’d have to be nuts to
actually try to rock climb the local FBS (Fossilized BirdShit). Well,
more nuts than me (which is really saying something).
But to me the two, fly fishing and climbing, have melded in my head
into essentially the same thing. Back in the day when I was climbing
everyday, often in odd places that most people could not find quickly
on a globe, I was often asked why I was so passionate about it. I am
certain that most all of you, certainly those I have come to know,
have been asked the same question many times -- by 'earth people' who
haven't given themselves the chance to learn for themselves. My
answer depended on who was asking. If it was some moron insisting
that people climb only for the adrenaline rush of scaring the poop out
of themselves (you know the type), I would say “if my goal was to
scare myself shittless, well, I accomplished that rather soundly
withing just a few months after I started climbing anything. and,
with that accomplished, i would have of course simply walked away from
it and tried something even scarier, like, oh, say jumping out of a
plane, or (for a claustrophobic like me) spelunking.
If they continued on down the Dr. Ruth/Dr. Freud vision of why I loved
what I loved, I’d just give them my “go away” answer: I’d say
“Mallory said that he wanted to climb everest because it was there.
Me, I like to climb mountains because you are not there”. With that I
would disappear in search of someone actually worth talking to.
Now for the intelligent and genuinely friendly people who asked the
same question, I thought long and hard trying to come up with an
answer to a question I personally never felt the need to ask myself.
In the end, I came up with this: I told them, “for me, climbing is
like dancing on the beach – it is an ecstatic movement in a beautiful
place”
To date that is the best I can come up with. And for me, personally,
fly fishing is precisely the same thing. It is like dancing on the
beach. It is an ecstatic motion in a beautiful place. Of late, I
have mentioned this to those who approach me (and bring me crashing
back to earth) to ask me what I am doing with a fly rod casting at
dawn onto a little tuff of grass at a very urban city park in DC. And
with that I say, thanks for asking, you have a good day (and now
disappear) and try to fall back into dancing on the beach.
Um, yeah. So anyway, I was out in an odd corner of Yellowstone with
my fish whip in hand. And oh, what a beach. It is a place that I
have been to many times, almost always at the very end of fall just
before the brutality of a west Yellowstone roars in. this time, as is
usually the case as the largely unmolested trout (mostly cutthroats)
who know what is coming going understandably nuts and chomp hard on
anything that drifts by which just might have some caloric value…
well, I just couldn’t miss. The first 5 or 10 casts I made were
hammered by a cutthroat of significant size. I, of course, told
myself that this was because I was so way wicked good at fish whip
tricks. By cast number 20 (and the resultant beastie cutthroat number
20) even I realized that a 5 year old tossing a snickers bar off the
end of a broomstick would have had precisely the same results. These
fish had simply gone insane. And having skied into the same zip code
in the jaws of a west Yellowstone winter, I could understand why. The
rivers freeze over, deep and hard, for a looong time. And the local
trout get to starve and just hope that they might have enough fat
stored up to survive for 4 or so months without so much as a French
fry.
there is an ancient joke among fly fisher... anglers, about an angler
dying and going to what s/he at first thought was heaven and soon
realized was hell. it goes like the above...
Well, with that moment of trout epiphany I pretty much stopped fishing
and focused instead on the other thing that draws me back exactly
“there” exactly “then” – any year when I am not off in some even more
jaw dropping location. And that is the great sex. Not that any was
offered specifically to me, but I find it rather life affirming to
watch all of nature other than me go absolutely silly in search of
sex. True, I can watch most of your species do the same most anywhere
most anytime. But your species, while especially fascinating to me,
are only a part of the big picture. Watching the resident (and
visiting) moose, geese, elk, mice, et al do the same is, well,
entertaining and life affirming. Well, to me.
For all those species know, as my trout buddies know, what is coming
fast and hard. Yellowstone winters are ferocious. And this,
understandably, leads to all manner of silliness. I saw a young male
elk, an adolescent, last years calf, chase around a very large (easily
twice his size) and very mature lady moose. The very mature, almost
elderly, matron moose of course wanted nothing to do with junior’s
shenanigans. You could all but hear her grunt “oh pahleeze, time for
you to disappear you silly pre-teen.” But junior didn’t get this, so
he kept slithering into her space, and, eventually, she sent him a
message he could comprehend, even in his youth. He got too close, she
dropped her head and mighty rack, with which she charged him hard and
knocked him ass over teakettle (as my beloved grandfather used to
say). I mean she knocked him down so hard he did a complete roll and
then another half a roll – ending up on his back and scared shitless.
He flipped and flopped and when he finally got to his feet he bolted
due north at full panic speed. I am certain he is now somewhere deep
into Alberta, if not further.
I sat and watched a deer mouse do back flips on a log I had squoonched
my bivi sack alongside. True back flips, like an Olympic gymnast. At
first I thought it was just some trick he had developed to seduce me
into throwing him a piece of my, well, whatever I was eating at the
moment. Pasta, likely. But I thought about (after watching his
acrobatics for at least half an hour) and realized that I was far
enough off the beaten track that such a trick (anyone who has been to
camp 4 has seen it, surely) was, most years at least, entirely a waste
of time that far out ‘there’. And deer mice only get so many years.
Eventually I looked hard enough to see his true audience -- a lady
deer mouse. She was close by, watching his antics as I was. Had I
not been so caught up in trying to figure him out I would have likely
noticed her far sooner. Typical. Eventually, she apparently decided
‘well, I guess that’ll do’ and they had their moment. I can’t tell
you more as I am polite, if not especially smart. I simply looked
away and gave them their privacy.
I saw the same in so many, many species. This year even a pair (if
only for a moment) of mountain lions ( a first for me – it played out
much like the deer mouse prom). Bison, elk, various raptors, ground
squirrels, chipmunks, porcupines, marmots. Pretty much every creature
(other than me) got laid.
Another kind of beach… another kind of dancing…
I learned, albeit accidentally, on a previous trip to the same general
local, that catching it at samhain (pronounced ‘sah-ween) – the celtic
word for the last full moon of fall is especially magic. A huge full
moon so close I could (and have) read by it. with the symphony of all
the world’s creatures singing, howling, and begging for sex so loud
that even after a 20 mile day, sleep was out of the question. It is a
magic cacophony, a sound very special and very dear to me.
~~~
um, yeah.
So anyway, my topic was (back when I had a topic) I praise of bad
weather.
And well, as I have done more than once before, this gig was so magic
that I extended my stay and wandered ever deeper into oz (and with
that ever further from the road head). And with that, of course, the
force of nature that was inspiring my neighbors so actually arrived –
and massively. Sure, I woke most mornings with a little rim frost
around my face and bivi sack. And a couple of days with a light
dusting of snow. Then one morning, I awoke just before dawn (I think,
that day there was no discernable dawn) laying in 4 or 5 inches of
snow with more coming at me hard and sideways.
And I quick got up, packed up my minimal booty, and bolted for the
road head – which at this point was at least 40 miles away (probably
more, but I don’t know, my generation was spared gps).
And I can assure you that I hustled. No, I never quite hit panic
mode, but was surely in GO GO GO MOVE IT ^,,^ mode, for I had crossed
a couple of mountain passes that, while not especially large in my
personal experience, and hardly hard with no more than a distinct
frost on them, well, I knew enough to know that very soon, that day in
fact, they would fast become post holing nightmares. As such, my much
repeated mantra of GO DOG GO. I hustled.
As I roared (well, to the extent that this mouse roars) out, even then
I looked up long enough to see moments of profound beauty. I could
tell you a dozen, but I will (uncharacteristaly) limit myself to two.
The first was when a mountain lion – by orders of magnitude the
largest I have ever seen (even in a sad zoo) came cruising from behind
my and blew by me at a jog just after I crossed one of about four
major(ish) passes as I hustled back to the road head. This dude (or
dudette, I didn’t inquire) was _ huge _. Not so much bulky like
schwartzeneger, but oh so long. I swear s/he was six feet long from
snout to butt, with another six feet of nothing but tail. Perhaps I
was hallucinating, but I doubt it as it was only on my second of four
major passes. (the hallucinations started later, in the flats in the
dark about 35 hours into my escape, when I was post holing up to my
waist).
The other encounter I will note was with a very elderly male bison.
Friends who have seen my slides of the area often ask if I am afraid
of the resident grizzlies. My answer is no. to date, all of the griz
I have met personally have been exceptionally polite. Well, there was
that one sow with babies in tow my buddy B and I met in Alaska… but
that is another tale for another time. In the tri-state area of
Yellowstone, all of the griz I have encountered have been absolute
gentlemen and gentle ladies. And so have i. I come cruising around
some big glacial erratic and POOF, there is a large griz. The large
griz says (in a language I can’t speak but find easy to understand)
“hi, I plan to go this way, I think you should go that way.” And me,
being a polite guy, say (in a language we both understand)
“absolutely, sir/madam, I think that way is an excellent way for me to
go.” And with that I do it. calmly (to date) but in a deeply
resolved manner.
So no, I don’t fear griz – certainly not in the tri-state area that is
(at least on the paperwork) my home. In that neighborhood, I fear
only two creatures: your species, and old male bison. So, returning
to my escape march, while crossing a large alpine meadow I encountered
at the far size an especially large, especially elderly, and
especially solo male bison. I was so busy staring at the sky trying
to guess the weather I stupidly all but bumped into him. Oopsy. And
he, admittedly rightly so in response to my poor form, charged at me
hard. I should say false charged me, for if he really wanted to hurt
me, well, I wouldn’t be writing this and they would find my desiccated
and freezer burned carcass perhaps sometime in june – though likely
later as few wander off into that neck of the woods.
So my big old bison elder f(false) charges and I drop face first into
what is now two at least two feet of snow, minimalist but still heavy
pack on my back. And my mighty elder bison stops about, oh, 3 to 5
feet from my scrawny and now prostrate self. At which point he starts
scraping and licking for breakfast. And I wait, as still as a ^,,^
can be. And I wait. And while I am waiting my nose and soon my face
go numb with the cold of lying in the snow. And then I start to
shiver all over with what I have learned through harsh experience and
many EMT courses is the onset of hypothermia.
So I wiggle (oh so slowly) out of my back and try to (oh so slowly)
retreat. But my elder brother bison is not at all happy with this, so
I get some snorts and stomps – all so close I can feel it even before
I can hear it. so, well, run-on, now what? Do I slowly freeze to
death, or do I bolt upright and run for my life. At first I bank on
the former, but as I begin to loose the feeling in my arms and legs I
decide on the latter. At what I deemed the last possible moment of
freezing to death, I suddenly sat upright, then stood (weekly) and
then back peddled at full tilt. This garnered a especially loud snort
and a head drop and shake from brother bison, but in the end he
apparently decided “fine, disappear you skinny flea) and let me flee.
My pack of course was still just a few feet from his massive head. So
then I got to hover at the tree line some 200 or 300 yards away – at
once both happy to be alive but also really wishing I had what was in
my pack. For I had at least 20 miles to go, and the snow was coming
from the sky like an avalanche. Sheet.
Eventually (seemed like hours, but was probably just a fraction of a
single hour), brother bison wandered off in search of more of whatever
last yummy he had been finding under the snow. With this I crawled
(burrowed would be a better word) through a couple hundred yards of
snow and then slithered back to the tree line with my pack in tow.
Brother bison was gracious enough to let me do this.
With these images much in my mind, I continued to scurry back to,
well, your world. And in the end I made it, as of course you guessed,
and as I was at least 97% certain I would.
And that was the big magic of it. this ‘enthusiastic retreat’ brought
to mind, then and now, the best climbs in my personal inventory.
‘best’ defined not so much as hardest, or most newsworthy (and that
only in a rather small pond) – but defined as those that I most enjoy
closing my eyes and walking back through.
Those most special climbs, for me, almost all involve “bad” weather.
Now I could mention examples, but having spent those many hours of my
escape– and many many more hours since flying back to DC and back into
the world of your species, I have come to realize that my small
specific details of such climbs would end up (if for no other reason
than my own small world) sounding like chest thumping tales ‘oh yeah!
Well I was ‘there’ ‘then’ AND the weather fell apart.
I don’t want to go there. For two reasons. The first is that the joy
I wish to share with you would get lost in the details, in the
specifics of one small dog’s take on things. The second reason is
that I’m not especially interested in hearing my own small stories in
my own small world of climbing. For all I need do is sit quietly in a
quiet place, and I can close my eyes and see, hear, and smell those
moments any time I wish.
No, that’s not where I want to go with this. For I already know all
of my own stories, better than any of you could ever hope to know them
--.even with all of my endless words. If all I could hope for was my
own stories I might as well be abandoned, alone, on some desert
island, where I might be alive but my life would be oh so very small.
What I want is to hear your stories on this topic (or any topic, for
that matter). That is why I keep coming back, ‘here’. Perhaps this
vague general compass will inspire you. I certainly hope so. For,
now, today, I am back in a place with too many of your species and not
a single mountain in sight.
Ok, enough. (and, as usual, far more than enough….)
ok, be well.
canis fidelus est,
^,,^
^,,^
posted a single word, anywhere) called (yup, via the telephone
machine) to ask if the following could possibly have happened:
> I saw a young male elk, an adolescent, last years calf, chase around
> a very large (easily twice his size) and very mature lady moose. [...]
and the answer is, no. it was a typo. or worse (dyslexics untie!).
it was not a just barely post-pubic elk that chased that queen
victoria of matron lady moose (meese?) around. it was a just-barely
post pubescent male MOOSE (not Anne Elk).
though, having told my pal this, i went on to tell her that i bet at
some point some hormone charged adolescent elk has approached an very
matronly lady moose in precisely the same manner -- and got precisely
the same response. only i didn't see that. yet..
my pal had 37 other points of contention and upscale editing. on
these i a pretty certain she is right, but simply don't care enough to
pursue.
the simple fact that she was all over this in like, what, barely 10
minutes after i posted it, suggests to me that she knows some geek
trick that allows her to track specific peoples posts in nearly real
time. that and, well, her social life has decayed almost as quickly
and profoundly as mine -- if she's all wired in and on-line in the
middle of a friday night.
i mentioned this to her. she responded that even if she wanted to go
out among her/your species out in her neck of the woods (which is
close to what once was and is still on paper my neck of the woods) she
would invariably end up in the same situation as matron moose (of my
tale) surrounded by the early adolescents of her/your species all
convulsing in what she called "those silly young boy dry humps".
with this, she assured me that the outcome would be the same as that
between matron moose and little boy moose (not elk) in my small tale.
having played the role of little boy moose to her matron moose more
than once, i myself didn't doubt this for a moment.
um, yeah... enough already...
canis fidelis est,
^,,^
Klooch Man
to read 'em and digest the few speed bumps, and carrying value not out
of proportion to the word count. In fact the pictures are so clear
that they may become what the CBC Ideas programme was talking about
tonight: "false" memories that we eventually might recall as our own
experiences. If so, the taste of snow and the smell of bison breath
and most of the rest won't feel out of place under my dome, thanks.
Of course, snow isn't shitty weather. Snow changes everything, almost
always for the better. Snow is magic. You can't live in it unless you
were born near the Arctic Circle; you can only pass through it on a
temporary visitor's visa. The way that snow changes the landscape and
your situation in it, the way that snow itself changes almost by the
hour, are a great illustration of the variety possible in a simple
substance. Just take cold and add water.
Like most interfaces ( sea/shore, forest/plains, old order/new order)
the start and end of winter have more going on than the more stable
middle. One of my good memories is climbing the Grand Wall on the
Chief in March one year. We did the Cruel Shoes start. It was cold and
dark the first several pitches. Then the sun swung over the rim. Water
running from overhangs high above turned into golden streamers swaying
with the wind. Brilliant chunks of icicle seemed to float rather than
fall through the air. Shiny stuff fascinates me.
At least I think that was me up there.
Could have been you, too, I guess.
For truly shitty weather take a day of cold rain like we had today and
repeat 89 times.
Andy Cairns
Hal Murray
>Of course, snow isn't shitty weather. Snow changes everything, almost
>always for the better. Snow is magic. You can't live in it unless you
>were born near the Arctic Circle; you can only pass through it on a
>temporary visitor's visa. The way that snow changes the landscape and
>your situation in it, the way that snow itself changes almost by the
>hour, are a great illustration of the variety possible in a simple
>substance. Just take cold and add water.
Snow really is magic.
For a wonderful example, read Oliver Sacks'
Stereo Sue, The New Yorker, June 19, 2006
I can't find it online, but this has the critical paragraph
and enough background so you can appreciate it.
http://www.mtholyoke.edu/offices/comm/news/newsfull.shtml?node=4382214
--
These are my opinions, not necessarily my employer's. I hate spam.
^,,^
> Snow really is magic.
&
> Snow changes everything, almost always for the better.
amen. and were i to do it again, i'd change the subject line to "in
praise of big weather." or perhaps "there's no nookie like
chinookie" but then i've never
once paused to think such things through, or attempt anything even
remotely close to simple editing -- not even a simple read through.
the results are obvious.
snow isn't shitty weather. our brother cairns did an especially good
job of defining what it is,
> Of course, snow isn't shitty weather. Snow changes everything, almost
> always for the better. Snow is magic. You can't live in it unless you
> were born near the Arctic Circle; you can only pass through it on a
> temporary visitor's visa. The way that snow changes the landscape and
> your situation in it, the way that snow itself changes almost by the
> hour, are a great illustration of the variety possible in a simple
> substance. Just take cold and add water.
amen.
~~~
i also agree with brother cairns that actually shitty weather most
often comes in the form of many hours or days of downpour rain. on a
typical dayclimb route one can simply rap off and head for the nearest
bar. on a big wall, alpine or central californian, you just sit in a
wet diaper and endure it. this is one reason why, when babysitting
for siblings' or friends' very young kids, i am especially attentive
to being sure everybody in the house has a dry diaper. myself among
them. for i have spent days on end without one -- and this long after
i was a toddler. so the memory remains very close and immediate.
even if my diaper was, then, was four or more layers of pricey
patagucci adult diaper, it still sucked rather massively.
on my first trip up central california's biggest wall, i sat with a
pal for days in such a downpour. he said (smart guy that he is) 'time
to retreat" but me, i insisted that having lived among the bay
arayans for almost a couple of years i had the local weather wired
in. i assured him that lovely scenary aside, we were effectively
sitting in fresno. and it never rains for more than a few hours in
early september in fresno. ever. that and we were more than halfway
up, and i was adamant that i wasn't going to rap back down all that
hard work. being a good friend, my pal refused to leave me there
alone - despite his surety that i was entirely wrong. he still hasn't
forgiven me for that mistake, now almost two decades later. and
rightly so. i still haven't entirely forgiven me for that mistake.
~~~
i'm left here wih my mind filled with another oddball variant of
actually shitty weather. and this one odd instance might be the only
exception to brother cairns lovely (and succinct) point on the magic
of "Just take cold and add water."
while i can't say for certain, as the only way to know where the
actual sharp edge is until you've actually passed it, i suspect that
about the closest i've come to what melville called in moby dick
"punching through the pasteboard mask" and with that actually finding
out, finally, precisely why we are here and what we really should have
been doing... was on a gourgeous fall day in tuolumne. a pal and i
had planned to meet up after a day of other stuff to put in still more
airtime on a new project that neither of us ever finished.
my pal was for whatever reason delayed (likely by a woman of the
opposing gender), by hours. and me, i just needed to climb something
more on that perfect day
in that perfect place. i was parked a couple hundred yards from south
crack on stately pleasure dome. and having done that route many many
times, almost all with pals who were not climbers but wanted to see
what it was like. so i thought, sure, i'll do that. as the day was
waining, all of the weekenders were gone and the route was happily
empty. so off i went, solo.
i forget the actual yds number, but the route was solid and prety
trivial, especially if you had put in a lot of mileage in the area -
which i was fortunate to have done. the first bunch of pitches had
finger locks so solid that even if you tripped over your own stupid
self you were still locked in. and while the last couple of pitches
have no holds of note, they rewuire simply dog paddling up stuff at so
low an angle on so perfect granite as to be trivial. stuff that would
be class 3 if there was anything to slide into between you and the
talus, though there garnered a 5.trivial rating only because there
were no such ledges or sandbars.
so off i go and it is, well, dancing at the beach. close to the top
of the crack in that excellent exfoliation dihedral, i noticed a
shadow pass over me. i turned around to see a really truly golden
eagle just hovering behind me. maybe many of them are that huge, but
i had never been close enough to know. this magnificent raptor had a
distinct chest the size of a german shepard's. really. and it had
huge pupils the size of a quarter, surrounded by a shocking gold
iris. or so it seemed as it hovered surely no more than 20 feet
behind me. the only thing it moved were those few finger feathers at
the end of its wings (i'm sure there is a precise word for these
feathers, i simply don't know what it is). it was so close that i
could see all manner of cracks and chips in it's beak, i suspect from
chomping on big bones and the occasional rock.ground into a roadkill.
yes, at first glance it spooked me. but i soon realized that this
magnificent bird of prey, far larger than i imagined the largest of
them could get, was not looking at me as a potential lunch. it was
just taking amoment to check me out. it reminded me why i, and all
those i've asked about the topic, forever dream that they can fly.
fly like that. in all, one of a handful of images forever burned into
my cerbral cortex that are the most beautiful images i have ever seen.
we just stared at each other for what seemed forever, and was in that
moment forever, but was likely just a couple of minutes. then this
remarkable creature just stopped moving it's feather fingertips in
that updraft and in an instant accelerated up and away from me. me, i
was left with the image, and later thinking 'who is ever going to
believe this, believe how very big and perfect this bird was.' but i
returned to reality and with that set about finishing the climb.
now here's the thing: the sky above me and as far as i could see --
well off into the great basin to the east, was absolutely cloud free.
not even one teeny cloudette. of this, if nothing else, i am
certain. so i leave the crack and start paddling up the couple
hundred feet of trivial friction up to the easy walk off.
and just, i dunno, maybe 70 or 100 feet into it i suddenly got
hammered with a whole lot of hail that was not massive (for massive
would have surely knocked me off then and there) -- but big. bigger
than a BB but smaller than a child's marble. and lot's of it. i
looked up and out, and the saw that the sky was still a perfect
turquoise blue. still not a cloud anywhere
but tons (literally) of hail was suddenly bouncing off the rock and
much of it into me at all kinds of crazy angles. i was getting
hammered, and it hurt. as i reached up to protect the top of my head
some of it pounded straight into both of my corneas. and that really
stung and left my vision very blurry. the rock was still warm enough
that it was already getting wet and slippery. and in this moment i
got truly spooked. my first thought was to retreat back down the
doggy paddle friction into the security of finger locks that would be
bombproof even if wet. but even what with then the best of spanish
sticky rubber, my attempts at down where not working. the second
slide of a foot or maybe two left me, with ripped fingertips, certain
of that. so i went for the other option, up. and while still rather
spooky, up at least worked better than down. so up i paddled, poste
haste. and it seemed to be working. a few minutes and i could walk,
well, crawl off with relative ease.
but i had neglected to anticipate something. something truly scary
and by sheer dumb luck not lethal. pause a moment a think of what
that something was -- before you read on an shout 'you moron!' what
did i miss? do you know, now?
~~~
ok, what i missed was the fact that the hail was piling up on the very
low angle rock a couple hundred feet above me. on the very warm very
low angle rock above me. so it soon did what? exactly. it let loose
in great slabs of frozen BB's. true, surely no more than 2 or 3
inches deep in any one slab. but they were big slabs, and there were
many of them, one after another. and, frankly, there was nothing
anywhere nearby bigger than a minor crimper to hang onto during that
onslaught.
simple dumb luck that i didn't wiff and end up getting beaten to death
as i tumbled down to the road, without so much as the benefit of a
quick, clean kill. the memory still gives me the heebies. sheesh.
ack...
odd thing was that even as the first of the hail avalanches hammered
me, the sky above and behind me -- everywhere i could see, remained
perfect azure blue. the storm was even then just east of me and i
couldn't see it on that west facing slab. but as all, or certainly
most of you know, wind does all kind of weird things in the
mountains. in this case the wind (that i didn't feel until later)
blew the hail out well in front of that black wall of storm clouds.
enough. i'd mention lightning, but, well, enough. i will note that
it is an unwritten rule among the SAR crew i worked with for many
years that no one had to be on the downwind side of the stokes on a
body retrieval after a lightning kill for more than 5 minutes. the
smell of charred farm animals on a BBQ make this dog and most of his
pals drool. yet charred bipeds makes all of us puke. odd, but surely
true. here's hoping you never find out first hand.
right... well, on that festive note...
canis fidelus est,
^,,^
^,,^
sheesh, my lady moose (she's actually quite petite) called again and
pointed out yet another goofy brain fart on my part:
> odd thing was that even as the first of the hail avalanches hammered
> me, the sky above and behind me -- everywhere i could see, remained
> perfect azure blue. the storm was even then just east of me and i
> couldn't see it on that west facing slab. but as all, or certainly
> most of you know, wind does all kind of weird things in the
> mountains. in this case the wind (that i didn't feel until later)
> blew the hail out well in front of that black wall of storm clouds.
i got that reversed, of course (i was right the first time, earlier in
the post). the thunderstorm came in from the west (as most do in
tuolumne). stately pleasure dome faces east (a tad southeast).
done.
^,,^
Sue
<22804c43-0c3e-4eac...@a19g2000pra.googlegroups.com>,
Klooch Man <lek...@intergate.ca> wrote:
> Of course, snow isn't shitty weather. Snow changes everything, almost
> always for the better.
As an example: The first snowball of the season. Living where I do now,
sometimes I only get one a season or none. I'm happy to report that
Banff obliged last Friday and I threw one.
^,,^
tonight i watched a program on US public television on the television
machine here at the local variant of Big Earl's StopNFlop that
explored global warming with a starting focus on the himalaya of the
nepali/tibetan border. this is a place dear to me, i've spent, in
total, nearly 3 years there. i watched dave breashears roar up a
ridge near kali pattar to reproduce rather remarkably a photo taken
seven decades ago by mallory. the differential was, of course,
shocking.
hell, the changes in the size of the glaciers up that way, even in the
25 years since my first trip there as a teenager and my last trip
there last fall (with many happy visits between) are jawdropping.
true, 25 years isn't even a single heartbeat in the scale of human
history. and far less still in the scale of history of life on this
planet.
i've had this recurring nightmare of a thought for many years now:
that i am gringo and just plain dumb lucky enough to have front row
seats for the end of the world. i can earn enough in a couple months
to rocket off to the bronze age in a 747 in less than a day. no
generation before me could do that. once 'there', i get to watch the
end of the world -- at least as i know it. i've been profoundly
lucky, and distinctly unlucky all in the same moment. sheesh. and of
course, i need to find a way to plant my own personal amazon to begin
to repay the debt i owe my planet for all those 747 trips.
you all know what i am talking about, i am certain. here, i am
preaching to the choir. there are ice routes i put up in the
bitteroots in my youth that i take some small pride in. i'd at least
like to take my oodles of nephews and neices up them before i drop
dead. but so many of them haven't formed up again in over a decade.
this haunts me, deeply. and i, myself, have little faith that most of
the almost 7 billion people on my planet will suddenly stop, hold
hands, and do the work that needs to be done. for i can find no
example of that in human history as i know it. that and i have seen
the simple graph of human population growth. it frightens me so much
that i end up shaking hiding under my bed. you are smart people, you
understand mathusian math. yikes.
~~~
so, that said, do i pray for snow? do i look forward to my sister
Sue's precious first snowball. damn right i do. it's hard to watch
from my front row seat. it is harder still to recognize that i am a
big part of the destruction.
i have an old bumber sticker on my small but not nearly small enough
extinction-mobile i picked up in telluride years ago. it says "Pray
For Snow"
amen.
canis wretched est, pray for
snow....
^,,^
kelli...@gmail.com
of many perfect moments.
well, that was a fabulously well-spent lunch hour. Thank you. I am
reminded of something Mike Garrison said here lo these many years
ago: "By any objective standard, it was miserable weather. But I
wasn't objective, and I had a good time."
I just returned from a trip to Zion (a couple of canyons, no
climbing). The weather was 80 and sunny, so I have no hideous weather
stories to tell. But it's fall in the PNW and kicking and stabbing
season is starting so I hope to soon have some freezing-my-butt-off
ice climbing stories to tell.
cheers to the change of weather! Powder and ice!!
kellie
kelli...@gmail.com
those fish must have really been biting if you could pack in food for
a two-week trip and stay five weeks and not starve. or did I miss
something?
Hal Murray
>those fish must have really been biting if you could pack in food for
>a two-week trip and stay five weeks and not starve. or did I miss
>something?
I had friends who packed into the Wind Rivers with
a big pile of climbing gear
lots of lunch food
fishing poles.
If they couldn't catch breakfast or dinner, they ate lunch food.
When they ran out, they packed out.
They lasted a long time.
^,,^
the "two weeks" part was what i told the suits i've been working for.
as i finally showed up a couple months late for the contract, they
weren't especially jazzed with my insistance that a 2 week vacation
was essential to what little is left of my mental hygiene. two weeks
was all i could squeeze out of them. but as their idea of 'adventure
travel' is missing the last ferry off of nantucket, or having their
golf bag miss the connection to hilton head, well, i did ply them with
all manner of details as to the imponderables involved in traveling
solo to the far end of the planet (in this case, the idaho/wyoming
border... sheesh): "big weather," "unpassable passes," grizzly
bears," "hostile tribes," and the like. really got them all lathered
up. even convinced them that there was little to no chance of cell
phone communication once i left downtown spokane. for they wanted me
to "check in daily in case something came up." between us girls, i
left the electronic dog collar turned off and back in DC.
so there's most of your answer: while i had them believing i would be
living on grubs and pine nuts, i packed enough food for a cush 3
weeks. nothing fancy, but certainly plenty of cals.
a smaller part of the answer is that perhaps the best thing i learned
at my undergraduate alma mater, the university of stupidly expensive,
was that one could live on essentailly nothing and even have a ball
while doing it -- if one truly loved what they were doing. they
successfully tossed me out twice for having vastly too little funds to
pay the tab, and there were far more unsuccessful attempts at the same
by the bursar's office. i learned that one could live with no address
and essentially no cash. i learned that with a battery operated tape
head demagnitizer one could check out any book in their massive
library or their pricey coop for free and forever. (i did eventually
return almost all of them). i learned that one could survive quite
well on far fewer pinto beans than commonly believed -- hence my
ability to maintain my fay and willowy girlish physique to this day.
the third, and still smaller part of my answer would require admitting
to at least a notable misunderstanding of NPS regulations regarding
'catch amd release' fishing and leaving the local flora forever in
situ. this, at present, i would prefer not to do.
~~~
once i cash the last of these suits' checks, i promise to reveal (to
at least you, since you asked a while ago) what these lunatics have
been throwing cash at me to do. and here's the deal: if you can read
it with a big mouthful of beer in your cheeks -- without spewing it
all over the wall and yourself -- well, then i promise to pay for a
years worth of all the beer you can drink. i am absolutely confident
that that is a chip i will never have to cash. for this 'project' is
simply that silly and insane. in the meantime, mum's the word. for
no, it is not one of the gigs that so many of the local heroes claim
"if i told you what i did i'd have to shoot you." not even close.
but it is a gig in which i signed a contract that specifically says if
i so much as burp about it, i get paid nothing. and then they sue me,
forever. the latter hardly phases me, as no judge could possibly fail
to wet themselves with laughter over that suit. but as for the
former, well, i have an appointment in the bronze age that i intend to
keep. and to do that i need the cash. all of it.
~~~
here's hoping your snowdrifts come soon and often...
^,,^
kelli...@gmail.com
How *do* people survive on just a two-week vacation per year???
I just found out this week that I will not be getting a job offer from
the folks who called me recently to ask how happy I am in my current
situation, as they decided they could not match the Fridays off, three
weeks of paid vacation, and nearly indefinite time off without pay
that I have here. I've taken nine weeks off so far this year and it
*still* doesn't seem like all that much. Heading to Costa Rica in
just under two weeks, hurray!
I remain impressed at your wilderness survival skillzzzz however. I
can live pretty cheaply but I still get all cranky and bonk without
food every few hours. When my sweetie and I were in Chile and
Argentina this winter (hardly the bronze age, but still a place I
would love to get back to soon) we were never out for more than seven
or eight days at a time and we still spent a great deal of our time
discussing exactly how much of our food we could eat each day. We
licked every wrapper clean and picked every crumb up out of the dirt.
And when we got back to town I would *demolish* a big plate of lomo a
pobre (which normally I couldn't eat 1/3 of) and then go in search of
helado afterwards. I still lost like 12 pounds or so. I'll never know
for sure; I don't own a scale because that way madness lies.
We did meet onle of the nicest dogs I've ever met in Cochamo; perhaps
a relative of yours? I was heading for the outhouses in the meadow at
four in the morning the day we were to hike out and hitch/bus back to
Puerto Varas, and my sweetie was coming back with this snorting green-
eyed demon charging after him---scared the crap out of me. Then I
realized it was just a very excited and happy dog wagging his entire
body; I can only assume he belonged to one of the many horse packers.
He came over and sat by our camp as we packed up and accepted our pats
on the head but never tried to push his wet nose into our gear. When
we headed out, he ignored our shooing and and trotted the whole 5 1/2
hours back to the main road with us. He drank a little water and sat
patiently just far enough away to be polite when we stopped to eat.
We actually gave him a little chorizo he was so polite. Once we
flagged the passing bus down we can only suppose he turned around and
trotted all the way back in. Seemed like maybe some kind of boxer/
Rhodesian ridgeback combo perhaps. Such a nice doggy.
I imagine you probably weren't carrying ropes and chunks of metal
around and so could fit more food in your pack, but still. I love
glacier lilies, yum, but don't know enough botany to eat most of the
stuff I come across in the woods. That would be a nice thing to
learn, but right now I'm focusing on trying to learn spanish and the
two-step.
I worked in NYC right after college (which I attended in Spokane,
actually), and I remember those suits. The folks I worked with
continually referred to "the Washington Territory," and seemed
genuinely unaware that it had been a state for quite some time. I was
naively surprised by how completely incurious many New Yorkers were
about anything outside of New York.
I don't actually like beer; I'm more a vodka girl (Don't like coffee
either; it's amazing they let me stay in Seattle), but for your story
I'm sure I could manage one mouthful.
^,,^
> I just found out this week that I will not be getting a job offer from
> the folks who called me recently to ask how happy I am in my current
> situation, as they decided they could not match the Fridays off, three
> weeks of paid vacation, and nearly indefinite time off without pay
> that I have here. I've taken nine weeks off so far this year and it
> *still* doesn't seem like all that much.
lucky you. so, what will you do when 2, or 3, or 5 times what you
ever dreamed you could earn.
> Heading to Costa Rica in just under two weeks, hurray!
arrrghhhh! i froth with envy. what you and your beau need is a
rapidly aging skinny dog with a command of spanish almost approaching
that of a local (there) 2 year old to, well... um... like carry your
bags and such. sheesh.
having fed the beast of my addiction to wandering, i've been even more
useless than before i went, temporarily, feral. with that the chances
of getting another "2 weeks" off have collapsed to less than zero.
the suits who sign my checks are profoundly uninformed, but they are
hardly stupid. arghhhh.
since i was last 'here' (digi-here), i could not stop myself from
blasting west (oh 'here' 'now') to, well, near elkins, WV. i
successfully fell off of all manner of stuff. on the way
'home' (arrghhh) - early early early in the morning, just past the WV/
VA border on a blue highway,"a" deer leaped out of the standard
nowhere and i came to a dead stop.
now i know, and you know, and those dear to most of those dear to both
of us know -- that there is no such thing as _a_ deer. just as there
is no such thing as an ant, or a termite. ah, but the moron behind me
didn't know that. he panic-stopped inches from (not my) bumper.
beeped (a lot) then roared around me. and, 30 or so yards up the
road, hit... what? of course, one of the other deer. popped that
rather bulky doe clear up and over his pricey windshield. so we've
got this sadly broken deer, this very broken very expensive german
windshield, and this dazed moron who just met his airbag all up close
and personal. his late model porshe cabrilolet airbag. think:
airbag...
and me, being almost as polite as i am stupid, jump out of my (pal's)
ride to open his door to see if he is OK. and he like leaps out of
the car (still rather dazed) absolutely intent on ripping me a new
orifice. replete wuth a bloody nose (and little, if anything, worse)
howling that it was entirely _my fault_.
after i just let him howl and hiss for awhile, he explained his
personal theory of reality. in short (and in G rated eengleesh) it
went like this: it was all entirely my fault -- because if i hadn't
stopped i would have hammered that unlucky herbivore -- and he
wouldn't have had to blow around me and do it for me.
um, yeah.
so, anyway. i've gotten 4 calls from this guy in the last 3 hours..
turns out he is an attorney (from DC -- what are the chances of that
happening, 'here' sheesh.) he wants to know where i live (think
StopNflop) or where I work (don't think, I don't) so he can serve the
paperwork. sure glad i gave him my cell phone number when he asked
(see: "almost as polite as i am stupid" above). hell, i can't afford
to live in my own home (all paid for) -- i guess He wants a chance to
see if he can do better. outstanding...
> I remain impressed at your wilderness survival skillzzzz
however. Iyeah, it's the "zzzz" part that is on target. yeah, i know
enough to get by. but little if anything more. les stroud i am not.
(though, that said, i do tower over the posers like bear grylls and
mightily -- hell, even i could and would devour him while he combed
his hair and searched for the next good portrait shot -- that or the
next best place to srip down and dive into some non-essential body of
water. oh man, i have spent _way_ too long bogged down in a hotel
room with cable. i am frightened by not only the fact that i know
such things, but far more by the fact that i apparently care. throw
me a rope...)
~~~
um, yeah, so where was i...
> We did meet onle of the nicest dogs I've ever met in Cochamo; perhaps
> a relative of yours?
my wettest dream. i have only one "artwork" posted on the otherwhise
empty walls of my prison (ok, office with a window -- but window to
what). it is a B&W xerox of a cartoon. it shows a dog in a uniform
siiting at a desk telling a dog in a suit passing by "Sure, I'm sure
you're fine. But the regulations say I still need to sniff your
butt."
> I imagine you probably weren't carrying ropes and chunks of metal
> around and so could fit more food in your pack, but still. I love
> glacier lilies, yum, but don't know enough botany to eat most of the
> stuff I come across in the woods. That would be a nice thing to
> learn, but right now I'm focusing on trying to learn spanish and the
> two-step.
nope, no ropes and certainly nothing spring loaded. as for what to
eat in the woods, that's easy: eat what the mice eat. why do you
think i was watching my brother deer mouse so closely as he
backflipped. other mammels generally work -- but mice always get it
right. at least in your species terms.
as for spanish, arghhh. my french is fair, and my nepali is better.
both, especially the latter, came easy. spanish i have been working
on, hard, for over a decade. and the results are not only miserable,
but are actually getting worse. last time, (well, penultimate time) i
was in mexico, i tried to compliment a very polite and very young
fellow on his hard work in trying to appease me ex-girlfriend's then
current girlfriend. she was a monster, even my ex-girl now agrees.
and i had a chance to think about it at some length. so as i handed
him a tip notably larger than the tab, i let loose. and the ppor kid
collapsed in laughter even as he tried so hard not (do either). i
was, well, even more confused than usual. his boss (the owner of the
place) came over; his english was at least as good as mine, his
spanish clearly far far better. i told him what i had said (in almost
spanish..ette) and what i thought i was saying (in the king's
english). apparrently i had just told the remarkably polite and
gracious young waiter that he was "a large men's room". oopsy.
sheesh.
guess i'm not winning a whole lot of points towards being your party's
personal baggage handler in costa rica, am i...
> I don't actually like beer; I'm more a vodka girl (Don't like coffee
> either; it's amazing they let me stay in Seattle), but for your story
> I'm sure I could manage one mouthful.
um, which in all is good news for me. for perhaps you could (and
will) manage that one mouthful of beer. but then, as a vodka girl, a
year's worth of beer won't cost me as much.
~~~
what else? well, as i walked home (in the rain) i listened to NPR
news on my walkperson (i have just recently achieved 1985 technology
-- and nearly got killed, twice, in intersections doing so). i heard
that Tony Hillerman died yesterday. a loss. true, hillerman was no
garcia-marquez. but he was good at what he tried to do. that and he
always gave me at least something to turn to when i needed a christmas
gift for loved ones who don't read much.
also heard that jim harrison has a new book out, a novel called "The
English Major" jim harrison... writes a new novel called "The
English Major" -- enough for me. that i will buy in hardcover.
tonight. and, if my experience with harrison remains true, i'll miss
work tommorrow and be a zombie on wednesday. harrison is also no
garci-marquez. but hell, he is oh so close. i adore his stuff. if
you haven't read "Letters To Yesenin" drop everything and do it.
exquisite. i especially like #23 (or close) of the #30 or more
"Letters To Yesenin" -- the one that starts "Oh, happy paper clip"
on that not, talk to you sometimes after i get some sleep after i
finish "The English Major" (by jum harrison -- oh, too perfect).
be well,
^,,^
^,,^
> I just found out this week that I will not be getting a job offer from
> the folks who called me recently to ask how happy I am in my current
> situation, as they decided they could not match the Fridays off, three
> weeks of paid vacation, and nearly indefinite time off without pay
> that I have here. I've taken nine weeks off so far this year and it
> *still* doesn't seem like all that much.
lucky you. so, what will you do when some folks offer you like 2, or
3, or 5 times what you ever even dreamed you could earn? prepare for
that, as impossible as you are certain it is. you'd be amazed what
the suits are capable of. well, these daze, likely less so...
> Heading to Costa Rica in just under two weeks, hurray!
arrrghhhh! i froth with envy. what you and your beau need is a
rapidly aging and scary skinny dog with a command of spanish almost
approaching that of a local (there) 2 year old to, well... um... like
carry your bags and such. sheesh.
having fed the beast of my addiction to wandering, i've been even more
useless than before i went, quite temporarily (relative to these my
current suits), feral. with that the chances of getting another "2
weeks" off have collapsed to less than zero. the suits who sign my
um, yeah.
> I remain impressed at your wilderness survival skillzzzz
however. Iyeah, it's the "zzzz" part that is on target. yeah, i know
enough to get by. but little if anything more. les stroud i am not.
(though, that said, i do tower over the posers like bear grylls and
mightily -- hell, even i could and would devour him while he combed
his hair and searched for the next good portrait shot -- that or the
next best place to srip down and dive into some non-essential body of
water. oh man, i have spent _way_ too long bogged down in a hotel
room with cable. i am frightened by not only the fact that i know
such things, but far more by the fact that i apparently care. throw
me a rope...)
~~~
um, yeah, so where was i...
> We did meet onle of the nicest dogs I've ever met in Cochamo; perhaps
> a relative of yours?
my wettest dream. i have only one "artwork" posted on the otherwhise
empty walls of my prison (ok, office with a window -- but window to
what). it is a B&W xerox of a cartoon. it shows a dog in a uniform
siiting at a desk telling a dog in a suit passing by "Sure, I'm sure
you're fine. But the regulations say I still need to sniff your
butt."
> I imagine you probably weren't carrying ropes and chunks of metal
> around and so could fit more food in your pack, but still. I love
> glacier lilies, yum, but don't know enough botany to eat most of the
> stuff I come across in the woods. That would be a nice thing to
> learn, but right now I'm focusing on trying to learn spanish and the
> two-step.
nope, no ropes and certainly nothing spring loaded. as for what to
eat in the woods, that's easy: eat what the mice eat. why do you
think i was watching my brother deer mouse so closely as he
backflipped. other mammels generally work -- but mice always get it
right. at least in your species terms.
as for spanish, arghhh. my french is fair, and my nepali is better.
both, especially the latter, came easy. spanish i have been working
on, hard, for over a decade. and the results are not only miserable,
but are actually getting worse. last time, (well, penultimate time) i
was in mexico, i tried to compliment a very polite and very young
fellow on his hard work in trying to appease me ex-girlfriend's then
current girlfriend. she was a monster, even my ex-girl now agrees.
and i had a chance to think about it at some length. so as i handed
him a tip notably larger than the tab, i let loose. and the ppor kid
collapsed in laughter even as he tried so hard not (do either). i
was, well, even more confused than usual. his boss (the owner of the
place) came over; his english was at least as good as mine, his
spanish clearly far far better. i told him what i had said (in almost
spanish..ette) and what i thought i was saying (in the king's
english). apparrently i had just told the remarkably polite and
gracious young waiter that he was "a large men's room". oopsy.
sheesh.
guess i'm not winning a whole lot of points towards being your party's
personal baggage handler in costa rica, am i...
> I don't actually like beer; I'm more a vodka girl (Don't like coffee
> either; it's amazing they let me stay in Seattle), but for your story
> I'm sure I could manage one mouthful.
um, which in all is good news for me. for perhaps you could (and