New Years

It's that time of year where people decided that they need a "New Years resolution." As if New Years actually signified anything more than another reason to have a huge party. It's a day. That's all. We celebrate the day as it is based on Roman calendars, but it's doesn't really signify a whole lot beyond that. IT has no deeper meaning.


And I'm sure everyone has heard this and still everyone picks New Years as  a day to turn over a new leaf. Why not yesterday or three months ago. Until someone puts it in your face "make a resolution," we seldom stop ourselves to reflect on what it is we don't like about who we are or what we're doing.

And if that's what it takes, if you need the anchors on the Today Show to imply to you that you should have a resolution in order for self-reflection, I guess I am glad that the ritual still persists.

I'm always setting and redefining goals as the days slip by. New ones arise old ones morph, and I'm left with a new direction.

But I have no New Years Resolution. Because I've been making resolutions everyday since I heard some punk band ask me if I knew myself. Nope, I don't. But I don't really care to meet me anytime soon. It's be a disaster.

As for climbing, well, I'm floating about in San Francisco. I've gone to a climbing gym 3 times in the last 2 weeks. And I went out to Castle rock to boulder once. IT wasn't that exciting. The rock was soft (broke some), the guide book I had led me in all the wring ways, and frankly I'd rather be back in Bishop. Not to say I didn't have fun. But it's hard to drink Scotch that's been aged for 30 years and then resolve to drinking Southern Comfort.

Meanwhile I've been trying my damnedest to squeeze my way into the publishing world, and it has been rough and unsuccessful, to say the least. The only think that makes me happy about the thought of my failure thus far is that I've at least been trying. I may be unemployed, but it's not as though I haven't been trying to find work of sorts. I don't even cared to get paid for my writing so much as just getting it recognized in some way. Enough of this sass.

I'll be heading back to Bishop within the week (hopefully). And I have my sights in Go Granny Go V5, the Iron Man Traverse V4, Junior's Achievement V8.  There may also be some problems in the Happy Boulder that I should return to as well, though they are escaping me.

That's it. Hopefully my car wont break down on they way.

New Town, New Climbing

I left the Red River Gorge two weeks ago. I was headed for Las Vegas to meet up with Cody and some others for a week of climbing in Red Rocks over the Thanksgiving holiday.

I decided to take my time getting there, giving myself about three or four days total for travel. I spent some time watching a bouldering competition in Louisville, KY's Rocksport gym. After about two hours of spectating, I took off for Sin City. It was about 4 when I left the gym. I still don't know if any of my friends placed in the comp. Though I'm sure some of them did.

I passed through St. Louis for the second time in my life, seeing the arch reminded me of a very disoriented family vacation with my siblings, aunt and mother. It got late so I slept in my car in a rest stop.

Save for the few times I slept on some couches, I've never pitched my tent. Instead I folded down the back seat of my car (a 2010 Chevy Cavalier), blew up my thermorest, and put my feet in the trunk and laid with my head on top of the folded down back seat. I slept uncomfortably that night.

Early, 7am, I rolled out, trying to make some time, trying to get to Flagstaff, AZ. Instead I passed through Oklahoma City and some other random towns in northern Texas. I slept in my car once again, in a Walmart parking lot in some town half an hour west of Albuquerque, NM.

The next day I hit up Flagstaff. Bryan Potter talked up this place to me in more ways that I could have imagined. But as it turns out, I must have imagined everything he said because he later claimed to me over the phone that he only saw the corporate areas; he didn't even see the downtown section.

I tried to find the Tortia Lady par Melissa's recommendation, but failed at that. Instead I found some used bookstore, three different gear shops, and Macy's Cafe, which procured the best cup of coffee I've tasted. I also took the time to check out some of the world class bouldering in the area. I got directions from the local climbing gym. Despite the seemingly enigmatic and almost secretive nature of the Priest Draw, the local I talked to at the gym seemed more than willing to let me in on its location.


Unknown picture snagged from a Google search.



All I can say is "wow." Limestone roofs. I haven't seen anything like it yet. It was glorious to say the least. Had the temperature been higher than thirty degrees Fahrenheit and less wind, I would have stayed there through the winter, for sure.

I spent the night in Flagstaff. Sleeping in my car has become easier. The next morning I left to see the Grand Canyon.

Twice I had been deterred by entering state parks and recreation areas, not by the crowds, or by the actual areas, but because they cost too damned much. I should have bought a National Parks Pass. But I didn't. So when I got to the Grand Canyon and they demanded $15 for an entrance fee. I thought "this better be worth it." Being stuck behind tourists who have never seen wild elk before held me up for fifteen minutes. They refused to pull over to the side to let people pass.

If you are so amazed by seeing something as common as a deer, or elk, it's probably a sign that you should get outside more.

After the stalling tourists lifted their jaws from the floor of their child filled minivan and moved on, I was cursing the entrance fee more than I was expecting to see the Canyon. "This better be worth it," I remember mumbling to myself.



As you can see, I am not disappointed.



And damn it was. The sheer scale was larger than I expected. I was tempted to hike down a trail and spend the next week in the Canyon.

Fleeing there, I made my way to Vegas, met up with Toni and everyone else. We got to our room which was significantly smaller than I was expecting. I took a shower, slept on a couch, and was thrilled. Upon the suggestion of Toni, we ventured to the Hooters Casino. I won a whopping $2.50 at the Roulette table.

The next week was filled with various climbing attempts. Cody, Dave and I tried to climb at the Brass wall, where it proceeded to snow, and with dropping temperatures, we headed to the Calico Hills. We passed through the Black Corridor, where the sport climbing routes had me drooling. The sun was on the hills, there was no snow here, but across the plains we could see the mountains buried in clouds.

I lead the first pitch of the Great Red Book (5.8). The first pitch was only 5.6, but Dave had explained that the rating was made thirty years ago, and the route will feel harder. Great. I racked up, roped up, and took off.  It wasn't bad at first. Then I hit a wall. I was crouched in a small pod, shaking out. I had placed a very over cammed #3 C4 Camelot in a horizontal crack above my head. Every time I tried to move out of the pod, I lost my head and retreated. I could find no hand hold, my foot was wring every time I tried to stand up. Finally I down-climbed and traversed to some crimps, whereupon I found a jug ladder to a set of bolted anchors. Cody lead the second pitch. While Dave and I simul-climbed.

The entire trip I felt like the black sheep. I was interested in the 900' 5.8s. That seemed fun. Greatly so. But I was itching for some try-hard. The most fun I had was finding a random boulder problem near Oil Creek Canyon. I worked it, figured out the strange sit-start, and topped out. 

There was more climbing, of course. Some at Sunny and Steep and some at other places. When the party left and I was no longer in the Condo, I did some bouldering in at the Kraft Boulders. 

I tried a Sloppy Traverse V6. I met John, and chatted a bit in between burns. Eventually we went over to the Pearl V5 where I burst a blister in my finger. Three days rest, I wound up meeting Phil and Pete and climbed at Sunny and Steep once again. While warming up, I hear a voice from behind belt out this "Travel twelve hundred miles and you still run into the same fucking people!"

Turning my head I saw Zach and Katy stomping up the approach, with Rusty trotting before. Small world. A few days before I had a similar encounter at Sunny and Steep. Travis, someone I met while I was drunk off my feet back in Kentucky approached me, and asked if we had met. Tiny world, I suppose.

I went out that night with Phil, Pete and Brenda, had a beer or two. Pete and Brenda were more than kind enough to let a complete stranger crash on their couch in their beautiful home. I am extremely grateful for their hospitality, and it humbles me that  such generosity is still around.

Now Phil and I are in Bishop, bouldering to our hearts content. My fingers feel like they are on fire. I suppose that's why we are resting after four days of climbing, and why I am finally updating this blog. Photos and updates about our exploits to come . . .  eventually.



Bishop, Ca.

A Double-Post Sort of Day

I realize that I haven't posted anything about climbing in a while. That's probably because I don't care to share my achievements (or lack thereof) often. I''m at the point where my success is mine, not one I want to expel to be gratified by others.

After working the route nearly the entire summer, Chainsaw Massacre (5.12a) finally began to give way. Within the course of a week I was making such noticeable progress that I sent it after probably close to forty burns total. Though it's probably my proudest send in difficulty, it's not the one I am most proud of sending. That, for some weird reason, is actually a route called Girls Gone Wild . . . Woo! (5.10d).

Why is that?

Probably because when I first came down here, the people I climb with often now, those I would even call friends, watched me chuff all over that line. It was more of send for nostalgia's sake. To remind me where I was months ago.

And now, since I dominated Chainsaw, I'm left with people urging me on to work 5.12b's, which I'm not sure I have even any business on. Super Best Friends is on route that I may be able to get in a few goes if I'm in the right state of mind. I think I have the physical ability to climb the route, but not the mental capacity. Every time I get to the same high-point, the place where I fall, where the route would begin to let up, I say to myself "what the fuck are you doing on this route?"

I think for the next few days I'll spend some time working easier routes in the 11c/d range, if only to get some of the mental motivation as well as the experience and technique.

We'll see how things go.

On November 20th I'll be headed out for Las Vegas, Nevada to spend Thanksgiving at the Desert Rose Rssort and climb every day in Red Rocks. That will surely get me excited for climbing.

But like I said, we'll see.

A Post a Long Time in the Making?

This may be a work long time in the writing. It’s been no secret that I refuse to eat anything that comes from an animal. The reasons, however, seem to remain a mystery to all but a select few who I think are willing to hash out counter-arguments, but retain the possibility to be convinced otherwise.


Originally, when I first stopped eating meat, I planned on not becoming a vegan. There was no cause for me at that time. In June, 2006 I was with my family at an event for Steve Lavelle’s Karate at the YMCA. Vegetarianism had been floating on my mind. I couldn’t tell you why. For years Propagandhi had been playing on my stereo, and other such music which all had promoted the idea. I listened to those songs, yet never conceded to the seemingly radical impulse. I knew what the songs were about, but disagreed. My overweight, chubby teenage self was more interested in stuffing my face with a greasy double cheeseburger from Burger King and wolfing down a 32oz cup of Coke-a-Cola. Hedonistically, I continued that way for most of high school. I wouldn’t eat anything that grew out of the ground except potatoes, and would occasionally tell people that I was on a diet: Nothing Green.

But on that day in June, for some reason, I told my brother that I was thinking of being a vegetarian. I remember that he had reciprocated a similar inclination. Later that day while he and I were at home, I saw he was picking around the chunks of meat in a pasta salad. I asked him about it and his response was “you have to start somewhere.” He started, I thought, until the next day I saw him eating meat. Well, I had started as well, but I didn’t stop. For a month I didn’t eat meat, my brother and I never talked about it, I didn’t tell my parents, and life was okay.

One day at dinner my mother asked why I wasn’t eating any of the steak (or whatever the meat dish was that night). My brother chimed in. I took some flak from my father, whose diet I previously imitated, my brother laughed, I don’t remember what my sister did, nor mother. The next day my mother did something that I didn’t really appreciate until later years. She came home from work with a handful of pamphlets about eating healthy as a Vegetarian. At the time the gesture only registered as a motherly-interference, not as motherly-support.

As the summer drew on, I felt more and more guilty about eating eggs, milk, and cheese. I don’t know why. That’s a point I want to stress: I don’t know why. Come my 18th birthday, August 2nd, 2006, I declared that “tomorrow I will stop consuming dairy products.” Then I stuffed down my grandmother’s chocolate-caramel chip brownie. I never actually told anyone that I was going to stop eating these things, not at first. Again my mother helped me when she learned this. She bought me soymilk, which I heartily disliked at first. She got me some cookbooks, and I slowly learned how to concoct near vegan cuisine.

When I went to college, I made the last leap: no animal products. No honey, no gelatin, no whey, casein, and whatever else was derived the bodies of animals. I met Tim Mann my first semester in college, but didn’t really talk to him. The second semester we became pretty good friends in our Astronomy class. His knack for philosophy clicked with me, and we often found ourselves working out social issues. That, I think, is where the little reasoning I had for being a Vegan advanced into essentially essay-like litanies; reasons which I cannot summarize in the five minutes that the casual inquiring person is looking for. Let’s face it: people don’t actually want to hear someone give a lecture on their beliefs.

So here I am, four years later, still Vegan with potentially four good essay-length reasons for being vegan, all of which stand fairly well, but can fall apart when pushed to the point of theorizing about a utopian sort of world. Free ranged, well treated, well loved and fed, not genetically altered eggs from chickens in your personal home farm is acceptable. But I don’t have that, nor do most people. And frankly I still wouldn’t eat the eggs, because I have an essay length health related reason supporting a vegan diet. All of the essays actually defend one another. I don’t like claiming that “I will be like this forever” or “I’m never going to change.” I’m not that naive, not like when I was in high school. I am older now, I have changed. But for some reason I don’t see my veganism faltering.

And yes, I would be lying if I said that I’ve never considered turning back. But I’d like to think that with my understanding of the world, with my understanding of myself, that I am not that selfish. “Life is too short to make others’ shorter.”

And still, after this, you still don’t know my reasons. Ask me sometime over some coffee, or tea. Just don't plan anything for the few hours after we start.

Patience

I drive 55 mph when the speed limit is 70 mph. Why? Because I'm too cheap to waste the gas. But what has come of driving at a speed which a "normal" person would consider "slow?" Especially for a 22 year old. While cruising at that meditative speed, I think I've come to some truth about patience, and only after yesterday did I realize fully how important it is to move slowly, to not be in a rush.

As people fly by me, aggravated at the slow-poke with New York tags, I'm singing along to the Gaslight Anthem's newest album. I am relaxed, and I don't get that anxious feeling that there isn't enough time in the world. I don't have to pass people, which means I don't get caught up in a neck-and-neck horse race trying to pass someone while the car in the passing lane is traveling a mere 1 mph faster than the snail in the right-lane.

Patience.

All summer long I have gone from having absolutely no rope bag, to getting an Ikea bag to belay out of from my friend Bri, to acquiring a Blue Water rope bag after being struck in the head with a fist-sized water balloon flying with such a force that I went down. Yes, I probably could have just went and bought a rope bag, a nice Metolious one, with a larger tarp and tougher material. But after four months I had gotten one that's proved to be adequate.

Yet there was a point when I found a rope and Metolius rope bag at a crag. I searched for the owner, and he came forward. I returned that treasure and again was reduced to my Ikea bag. I thought that the gods smiled in my favor, only to pull the rug out from under me and laugh. But in the end, I got an actual rope bag.

Patience.

Since I arrived I've learned a thing or two about not breaking my ankles. Stick-Clipping. Find a stick, hand the first draw and rope one the first bolt. Holy shit, isn't that genius? I thought to m self, I should get one of those! However, I realized that the chances that I was going to be climbing with someone who already owned a stick-clip was so great that I didn't need to worry about such things. And even if I wasn't climbing with a proud owner of a stick-slip, I am fortunate to be climbing in an area littered with real sticks! Yes, the kind that grow on trees!

Then, just last night, the group I was climbing with found a stick clip. We don't know who the owner is. So for now it sits in my car, ready and willing to save my ankles until someone comes to claim it. Four months of patience.





A photo of a stick clip. Picture by the lovely Elodie Saracco.



And hell, my entire adventure's goal was to go to Utah to rock climb, but I wound up staying in Kentucky for four months, which will be close to about five when I leave. I'll get to Utah at some point. It's not going anywhere, so why rush? I'm having too much fun taking it slow.

Patience.

"Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction"

Climbing is not something that I would consider a sport. Nor exercise. Maybe a hobby. I've often thought about how it's evolved (from the limited picture of its origins that's been painted for me). It's become some strange phenomena in its own right. A sort of yoga on the rocks, body-building, meditation, adventure, or what have you. I've even thought of the possibility of it being considered an art form. Why? Because walking up to a crag and seeing the features on the rock face which inspires such a shock that the only response is to bolt and climb said crag is the same affect that artists strive for, is it not? Sans, the bolting and climbing of their art work  (though I still remember skateboarders using the modern art outside the Everson Museum, in Syracuse, NY as ramps). Climbing is art without an artists.

The closest thing there is to an artists is the human eye who beholds the line and climbs it. That's it. And because "art" is nearly indefinable, the fluidity of he word allows me to make such a strange claim.

Exercise = art?

No, wait, climbing isn't exercise. At least not for me.

And it's even more strange that when someone gets shot down by a certain move on a line that they will recreate the same move in a climbing gym. Mechanical reproduction. The attempt to mimic nature in hopes of conquering her.

Or is it more co-existing, flowing with, discovering nature?

I'm not an avid fan of climbing gyms unless that is the most available form of climbing in one's area. Climbing in the gym takes away the best part of climbing - the outdoors. You could go outside and smell the fresh pines or go to the gym and smell the fresh pine-sol covering up the stale scent of dirty socks.

Though I loved the time I spent climbing in the gym when I was at school, it just doesn't compare to being outside all the time and climbing. Though I got less injuries indoors, outside is where it's at. Not where beautiful lines are being deconstructed by their holds and transmitted onto plywood and plastic.

Disclaimer II

I've gone back and reread some of my older posts. My writing, though improving more as I wirte, is still shy of what I think is "good."

If my writing ever seems rushed, that's because it is. I've been living out of my tent, when I have internet access I don't wan't to spend my time updating, and so I force out some tid-bit or story without ever proof-reading.

Nor am I aiming for beautiful prose.

Not right now anyways.

Progress and Meth Heads

It's been a while since I've last updated. I don;t have much to say, to be honest, as far as climbing is concerned. I've spent a lot of time climbing 5.10's and 5.11's. I'm going for mileage these days, not hard sends. My technique needs work, and nothing more.



Second clip ground-fall potential. Minimum Creep (5.11c)



What's interesting is to think back to two months ago and see how far I've come. Not just in climbing, but in other aspects of life. Yeah, sure, I sent a 5.12a, but more than that, my technique has become honed, my endurance has increased as well as my strength. My greatest worry isn't falling, but the possibility of ground fall (like in this picture; if I had blown the clip and fell, I would have hit the ground). Though that's always been a fear, it's not one you get over, you just keep moving. 

Even though I'm less likely to climb with weekend warriors now than two months ago, the few friends I've made climbing with those weekend warriors are great. I may even be hitting up one of them, Cody, in Las Vegas to climb in Red Rocks for a week.

The people I climbed with two months ago are more than just strangers to me now, and I know who I enjoy climbing with and who I don't.

Work at the gas station has eased up a bit. I'm working a lot, and as any part of life, I've fallen into a grove that has shown me what corners can be cut, and which ones can't. Some of my coworkers I would call friends. I've never called in sick, covered plenty of shifts, come in on my days off, worked fifty-five hours in one week, and I am okay with it. I'll have a great reference for when I try to get another job out west.

And at the same time, I've been able to build up my own thoughts and beliefs, which are little. My veganism is still present, and I can assure anyone that asks that it's certainly not faltering. Though my own perspective has changed.

Interesting, huh?



Story time?

It was a slow Tuesday night at the gas station. I'm running the first register, which means I stand behind the counter, twiddling my thumbs as Kay runs around and hectically cleans anything and everything she can get her hands on. Twice a week I work with her, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She is a good worker, and to be honest, in her youth, she could have been a fifties pin-up girl. No joke.

Well, some woman came up to my counter. As I was ringing her out, spewing my stock phrase platitudes, she started to tell me of her ill father in the hospital. My condolences probably seemed shallow, and the woman didn't seem to notice.

Her hands moved slowly, her eyes floated around in her head. He speech was lumbering and she had to stop mid-sentence, repeat the last word and then continue talking.

It took her at least five minutes to count out all of the money she had. Then another five to decided which color rose would be appropriate to purchase for her ill father.

"I'm sure the sentiment would be appreciated no matter which color you got him," I told her, trying to get her out of the store. She was high. A space cadet in another universe.

She put a pale orange rose on the counter. I rang it up.

"Have a nice day," I said, thinking she was about to leave.

Instead she reached into the grocery bag, took out the instant Maxwell House coffee grounds and poured them into a cup of hot water.

The bags under her eyes told me she hadn't slept in a while.

I started to ring up other customers on my register, but she was blocking the counter. It was frustrating, and my tiny bit of sympathy for her kept me from ushering her out the door.

On and on she rambled about things that I can't even recall. Most of it having to do with her father.

She then took out a container of Coffee Mate and poured it into the instant coffee. What could I do but move to the other register and ring people up. Her father was in the hospital, and even though she is high, and there is a chance she is spouting more bullshit than Glen Beck, I still couldn't find the nerve to kick her out.

As I was ringing up more customers on the other register Kay goes up to my register.

"Can I help someone?" she shouted to the anxious customers, most of which has a disgruntled manner about them.

As she rang up one of the customers, the girl, blasted out of her mind, leaned over the counter with the cup of poorly made coffee extended out to Kay and asked her:

"Does . . . does this taste good to you? Do you know . . . if this . . . this tastes alright? Try this, is it good?"

Kay just stared at her, and all I could do was turn my head and giggle as I tried to give someone their change.

Finally after twenty minutes the woman left the store. Then she got into her Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Stupid. She was driving like that, completely in a state of incompetence.

My manager came out, she had seen the whole thing, and laughing told me that she was just hiding. Then she saw the woman in the Jeep.

"Oh, lord, is that woman driving?!"

"Yeah, I think so," I said. It already crossed my mind that she shouldn't be driving. Yet, I wasn't doing too much about it.

"Go get her license plate number," my manager told me. I did. The cops were called, but not before the woman took off down the highway, not even in the direction of the hospital.

I don;t know what happened to her, but to be honest, I hop the cops found her before she sent that Jeep tumbling down Slade hill.

The rest of the day all I could think of is which is worse: that someone would do that to themselves than suicide. It's a strange thought, but the only conclusion I could think of is that both would affect people emotionally, while one could immediately end the lives of others.

And even more relevant, two of my coworkers were just fired for drug use. One of which tested positive for meth, who also worked for Powell County Schools as a substitute teacher.

My "Blood is Mixed with Wine and Robbery:" How I Stole a Send on Immaculate Deception

I don't know how it happened, nor have I actually accepted it. I sent Immaculate Deception (5.12a) yesterday. Someone needs explain this to me so that I'll understand how it happened. All I can explain is the conditions for why it should not have come to pass.

Saturday, I got outside for the first time in a week to climb. I was worried that I lost some strength and technique (and blah blah blah). It turns out that I was still where I was a week ago. I onsited a 5.10d followed by sending a 5.11a. Cool. The exact thing that I pulled off a week prior.

I then went to work second shift at the Shell (3pm-11pm).

11:30pm: I returned to Miguel's and made friends with some beer, whiskey (thanks, Ducekie!), and moonshine.

2:00am: I went to bed more than inebriated.

6:00am: I got up to go to work for a 7am-3pm shift. I didn't wake up blind from that moonshine.

The day wore on. I was tired, my wrist hurt if I put weight on it when leaning on the counter. I took some Ibuprofen. I was sure that the sheer volume of gas-station coffee I guzzled, my piss was made of Dark Roast Beantown Coffee.

Finally, exhausted and dehydrated, I took off to Miguel's. I accidentally locked my keys in my car, and with some amazing squirreling with a coat hanger, I unlocked it. I grabbed my keys, filled my water bottles, grabbed a cliff bar and took off to Muir Valley, with the intent to go to the Solarium and climb.

I got a phone call from Eric saying that the group was still at The Sanctuary. That's fine. I figured that would be where I'd go first.

AND THEN THE SOLARIUM.

But it didn't happen. I was so psyched on the Solarium that I just wanted to get over there.

As I came down the approach trail, I saw Al hanging from Jesus Wept (5.12d).

I asked "what is easy around here for me to warm up?" I had never been to The Sanctuary.

"You should get on Immaculate Deception," Eric had instructed. It was a 5.12a and I decided that I was going to bolt-to-bolt it for a warm up before heading over to the Solarium.

I was given this Beta for Immaculate via Eric: It's a hard V3/V4 boulder problem :: sit-down rest :: 5.11a/b climbing :: shake :: 5.10c/d climbing :: anchors.

That's all.

Okay. I'll bolt to bolt it, get some sequence-beta, then give it another burn, I said to myself. I was in poor condition. My wrist was swollen, I was dehydrated, I had eaten little more than some bread and a Pbj or two, was running on 4 hours of drunken sleep (no REMs when you're drunk), had some other heavy family issues running through my mind, and I had to hang the draws.

And I wasn't warmed up!

I got  to the start, two shitty undercling crimps. I must have felt around for five minutes looking for better holds before throwing a heel-hook up onto the ledge near my waist. Then I stretched long for a two or three finger pocket (I think I mashed three fingers in there). And quickly enough I moved through all the pockets to a jug, clipped bolt #2, moved up some more, hung the draw on bolt #3, moved a little higher to a sketchy sloping side-pull. Clipped.

Threw for some jug, pulled myself up to a ledge, sat down and shook out for 20 minutes. Flash pumped.

Then I moved, got to the next bolt, then the next. Hanging draws. Down climbed a bit to fix the sequence. Got around a beautiful arete, shook out briefly, climbed back around the face, and with shaking legs, pumped arms, I moved to the next bolt. Then the next. I tried to shake out. Drop knee here, then there. Nothing came back. Still pumped. Keep moving.

Holy shit, I was pumped.

I was sure I was going to tear off.

"No, you fucking don't," says that wonderful voice in my head. I should name him. How about Arnold? I was pretty pumped. I'm sure he would approve.

The anchors were right there, in my face. I got some sketchy hold for my left hand. There wasn't even chalk on it. It was a crimp, a jug, or something worse, I can't recall.

"Fuck it, just clip the anchors!" belted Arnold in my mind.

Sure enough, I reached up, put the draw in. Keep breathing.

A drop knee, and Elvis shook himself out of my leg.

I held my breath, clipped the one draw.

"Wooo!" I yelled.

"That's it man, you only need one!" I head Al say, and then Eric soon say something similar. One for the Send, two for safety. But:

"I want two," I said under my heavy breathing.

I didn't want to just send it, I wanted to dominate that son of a bitch.

I clipped the second.

"That's two! Fuck yes!" I dropped and yawped my barbaric yawp. Fuck Arnold, now it was Whitman.

I threw my hat to the ground. Being lowered, I noticed the desert in my mouth. On the ground, I went for a walk. Taking it all in, draining a liter of water into my body, and doing my best not to vomit.

I never understood why some people lose their stomachs after running three miles. When I was still taking karate, I remember seeing my peers throwing up after the 3 mile Saturday morning runs. I didn't understand why they did.

But it almost happened to me. Talk about pushing your body to it's limits. I haven't been so pumped in months, nor so exhausted, excited, or sick. But it was worth it.

To wrap up the tale: I had to clean the route. So I went up the backside, top-rope, and the climb kicked my ass. I had to pull on the draws to get up through some of the moves. I was destroyed. And ironcially enough, 'Bama Joe and Sean showed up and saw me flailing on top-rope. They were probably thinking "what a gumby." I was also giggling like a school-girl the entire time I grabbed a draw or just hung there.

It was my first 5.12a, and I flashed it. Go figure.

"Button and then Zip, or Zip and then Button?"

I think that's the second reference to Babylon 5 in this blog.

It's hard to keep this blog dedicated to something more than rock climbing. I try to fill it with musings and stories, all the while I try to keep the climbing related things to an exciting minimum. What do you care what I sent today, or yesterday, or the day before?

You probably don't. In fact, there isn't too much of a tale to tell about them. Every day is almost exactly the same. Except every now and then something terrifying happens, and I am again reminded why I love rock climbing. It scares the shit out of me (sometimes). I could get seriously injured. I could die.

A few weeks ago, before I took Eric Chastang to the airport, he was giving me a belay on Wild Yet Tasty (5.12a). While going for the send (which I still haven't done) I took a fall.

The first three bolts of the route are fairly casual. I could walk through all the moves with my eyes closed, not get pumped, and maybe chug a beer if the necessity was present.

But the necessity didn't exist until I started to pull through the crux.

My left hand was in a pinch, solid. I stepped my left out, brought up my right hand to a crimp straight above my head, I pulled up as my left found a side pull on the inner side of a dish. Okay, now I need to concentrate.

I moved my right hand up again to another crimp as I placed my left foot on this tiny sloping pocket. Then I bump my right hand way out right for a three finger pocket: GOT IT.

I place a heel-toe cam into the dish my left hand is side pulling on. I weight it and it's solid. Without even announcing it, I grab the rope with my left  to clip. Luckily Eric is an attentive belayer to watch my every movement, and has belayed me enough on Wild to know my sequences. Well. I had enough time to grab up slack drag it to the carabiner before I felt my right hand slipping.

About fifteen feet below me is a ledge, on which I had to start the route from. With clipping slack out, a lighter belayer . . .

I uttered the only fragment of a desperate thought I could manage as I dropped the rope: "FUCK"

And immediately I tore off the wall. I fell hard, my adrenaline pumping wildly, the wall dropped away from me in a blur. I saw Eric stemming off the ledge. "I almost got sucked down that crevasse" I remember him telling me. There is a large drop between the boulder one belays from and the ledge the route starts at.

I looked at the crevasse and him, then I noticed the two feet of air separating me and that ledge, separating me from a broken ankle, leg, or worse.

All in all. I was lucky to have a belayer who pulled in the clipping slack as much as he could before I fell. So I apologize if you are ever offended at me denying your belay, but I know who I can trust on the other end, and I am skeptical of everyone else.

Cloud Splitter: Chance Encounters.

Story #1

Weeks, maybe months, after I witnessed a shop lifter being arrested, I had learned what happened to her. This is the same woman who I wrote about in a previous update.

 I was working alone with the manager. She was working the register while I swept the floors behind the counter. A police officer walked in. His gait reminded me of a vulture.

The officer talked with the manager while she casually scanned each and every item.

"You know that ol' black woman, the shoplifter we arrested here a while back? Well, she ain't never gave us her real name," the officer said.

"Really?" The manager said with an undertone of disbelief.

"Yes ma'am, and we were able to trace her all the way back there ta
Virginia. Who, boy, she was intelligent too. She spent a week in our jail."

I continued to eaves-drop.

"A whole week?"

"Yes ma'am. The name she gave us wasn't real, she said her name was 'nohbody . . .'" (to be honest, I'm not entirely sure I heard the office correctly. Since he exclaimed that she was intelligent, I figured it wasn't out of the realms of possibility that this woman pulled an Odysseus) " . . . you shoulda read her journal, boy was she smart. Some of the most intelligent writings I ever read."

"Oh wow."

The floors weren't getting any cleaner. I stopped sweeping at the mention of the journal. I want to read it.

"So she spent a week in our jail then we put her in a car and drove her out a few counties over, and told her not to come back."

They both had a prolonged chuckle. It still wasn't funny to me, but more intriguing. I still wonder who she was.


Story #2

Working at the gas station one night a woman came in to get some coffee. She was mumbling to herself and she looked familiar. Then I realized that I had once seen her hitch-hiking down Rt. 11. Well, my coworker decided that the hot-food we had was no longer worth selling, that it would be more of a crime to sell that than just give it away (though I still think all gas station food should be considered a crime against humanity). So away we gave it. The woman took full advantage of the free food and piled the last of it into a plastic bag. She came to my register and started to tell me about how much she appreciated it.

She was older, had little or no teeth, and walked around with a tightly packed JanSport backpack and another small bag over her shoulder.

"You know, I don't understand why a good christian would hurt another," she began. "I just don't, I gave my life to Jesus, and only three times in my life have I screwed up 'cause uh alcohol. Only three times," she held up three fingers to emphasize the few incidents.

"Oh?" I fished for it, I know. I didn't want to be rude. I let her tell her tale.

"Oh yes. I was sitting on a bench and only had a little," she held out her index and thumb finger as an indicator of "little." I was sure she was going to say "shot of" or some sort of hard liquor. "I had some of that Miller Lite, you know, the kind in the kind?"

I nodded.

"Well, these three men wanted to beat me up. And I prayed to Jesus when I drank that beer that he would keep me sober, and not let it affect me, but it musta . . . cause then . . ." she helled up her two index fingers, a forearms length apart " . . . cause then I pulled out a kitchen knife from my back-pack and that then scared them off!"

She giggled. "They jumped in their car and drove off!"

Holy shit. I really hope she doesn't still have that knife on her now, I thought.

"I just don't understand how a christian could want to beat some un up. And my pastor said that you gotta just put it out of your head . . . the beaten' up. But I don't know. Then one pastor said we have to put it out of their heads!" She laughed "Guess I put it out of their heads, praise the lord!" She gaily waved her hand in front of her.

"Well, oh, my coffee needs more sugar," she went and got some. "Some people give me money. My sister she gave me forty dollars when I left Georgetown. And then some people 'round here give me money 'cause they know I'm on the street, but I got food stamps too, so I try to use that when I can. And the money I give to some pastors for their pantries.Thanks for the food," she said.

"Yeah, no problem . . ." I said. Part of me wanted to laugh, just at the amount of religious interjection that made its way into her story. She left and ate the food outside at one of the picnic tables.


Story #3

After talking to Melissa about where is good for a hike, I decided that I would take a day and find Cloud Splitter, an un-marked trail that was said to be a quality hike. She didn't know where it was, but heard it was spectacular. I found an old map that had the trail marked between the Suspension bridge trail and Bison Way trail head.

I drove out through Nada Tunnel, down Rt. 715, passed the Suspension Bridge turn-off, and found a small gravel pull-off. I parked my car, found a faint trail across the road. There were no markings as to what the trail was, but I decided to chance it anyway. Unmarked trails can be the best, the kind where there was little chance of running into other people.

After twenty minutes of steep hiking in heavy overgrowth (yes, I checked for ticks), I came to a small cliff face. I followed the trail through some boulders, up and around to the top of the cliff. I had a nice view of the gorge. Not as breath-taking as I had hope. The cool breeze was a welcomed luxury. Though the trees in the forest were mostly large trees with canopies far off the ground, there was little wind in the bush.

I decided to keep hiking. I turned away from the cliff and headed further-up the trail.

In climbing, a general rule is that there is a chance there is going to be a great hold to clip the anchors from. You just have to search a little higher for it. Rather than clip from a sketchy crimp, you could clip at your waist from a good jug.

The same concept is what drove me to keep hiking.

I came to a slab that was about six feet in height. I wished that I had a pair of sandals with Stealth rubber. But I didn't.

Just as I peak my head over the ledge I had enough time to shout and feel my foot slip out from under me, sending me down the orange sandstone as some animal charged at me, howling as its feet trampled the earth, and its teeth reaching out for my face.

I looked up, my heart jumping as two dogs stood atop the slab barking at me, fiercely growling. Their owner came and hushed them. I climbed up, still thinking about those sandals that I wished I owned a pair.

"Yo man, hey," he said, slightly prolonging the vowels.

"Hi," I said.

"What's you're name, I'm Scott."

"Jared."

"Hey, sorry about the dogs, man, they're friendly though."

Scott kind of stumbled around, never really made eye contact, and wasn't wearing any shoes.

"You up here for the summer?"

"Yeah, rock climbing and such."

"Oh man, I've been here since last night. I mean here, on this ridge. I camped out to see the full moon."

"How was that?"

"It was good, until the clouds came over. then it was good. And yeah. I don't even know what this hike is."

"It's called Cloud Splitter," I said. "It's a pretty nice hike . . ."

"Yeah, I don';t care about the names, I name everything myself. Like this is named - that over there is the Peninsula, come on, let me show you." We walked over, the dogs following. I kept an eye on them as they passed.

"Yeah it's a cool view," I said. "Too bad there are trees in the way."

"Further up where we're going there are less trees." He started to pick up his bag, pack what he had into it, and set off down the trail. I decided to relax right there, not in want of the company. He took off. Though nice, I got mixed vibes from him.

After a brief nap I moved further down the trail, sitting down beside the trail with a gorgeous view of the gorge. I was taken in by the sight. The clouds were broken, the sun was shinning, a breeze kept the heat down and the bugs away. I took some time to write a few lines of poetry before deciding to move on.

Less than a hundred feet down the trail I found an even better spot to sit. I took advantage of the new discovery. After another half hour, I got up to continue down the trail when I smelled incense, then I heard the growls of two pugnacious hounds. I was ready to be done with this hike. I moved to pass the dogs, trying to hush them. I looked to my right to see Scott with his back to me, under a stone arch, burning incense and meditating. As I started to gain some distance, one of the dogs nipped at my leg.
And, none the less, on the way back, Scott hadn't moved, and the dogs were just as loud. I loathe those dogs.

Johnny and Alex Trail Day, "All My Friends Are Living Saints"

As of today I have been in the Red River Gorge for two months; two months have passed since I left home.

And I still have little to no intent on returning.

Since I've arrived, my climbing has improved by at least one full number grade. I have no fear of falling, and I have met some of the most interesting and awesome people while down here. I have a job working with stand-up locals (for the most part), and I enjoy it, even if I spend most of my time mopping floors and dealing with foolish tourists.

Yesterday was the Johnny and Alex Trail Day: a day spent improving trail conditions around the crags in the Southern Region in the gorge. The day is to honor Johnny and his son Alex who passed away a few years ago, both of whom had probably the largest hand in making what the Red River Gorge is today, a most fantastic community of climbers, and extremely well-developed crags.

I awoke at 7:30, exhausted from the previous day at work. I made some coffee, hopped in my car with Al, Eric, and Brandon and headed over to Loga Linda's to get trail assignments.

I wasn't assigned with anyone I knew. But that was fine. I like meeting new people. I jumped into a random jeep and flew down into the PMRP, where I was dropped off at Curbside. I felt fresh, I hadn't climbed in the last few days and I was ready for a long day of manual labor.

Well, that long day was a lot shorter than I thought it was going to be. The group I was with built two new belay stations, one new landing zone that was previously underwater, and then made some switch-backs and stone steps. All this was done with by 1:30. Lunch was provided by Miguel's, though nothing was vegan (not surprised, but I later found out Melissa had told Miguel to make a vegan wrap for me, he just didn't).

With the trail work done, and the afternoon heat just starting to warm up everything to a cool 95 degrees, my group decided to start climbing. I took off to the Sore Heel parking lot looking for more work, in part because I didn't bring my climbing gear. I ran into Matt, the president of the Red River Gorge Climbing Coalition, and then I found myself building a bridge.

After a few more hours, when that was finished, we headed back to Loga Linda's for food and, well, beer. Mostly beer. Speeches were given in honor of Johnny and Alex, some were moving, some were comedic. Somethings said in the speeches, especially about the preciousness of friendships, sparked a Polar Bear Club song lyric in my head: "all my friends are living saints." That's a fairly accurate assessment, I think, of what everyone felt at that time.

After the speeches a torrential thunderstorm hit us hard. to the average camper walking by would be shocked by the group of 75 climbers standing around a pavilion, screaming and hollering for the storm to come hit them. Insanity. There we were, hollering every time a gust of wind barrelled through the pavilion or lighting flashed in the distance. The thunder only made us yawp even louder.

The band that was schedule to play huddled all their gear together, covered in tarps, worrying about the condition of their instruments. And right in front of them are half-drunk climbers chugging beer while doing a one-armed lock-off from the rafters as rain cascaded down. The pelts of water against the tin roof almost drowned out the thunder.

With the worst of the storm past, a band, 27 String Band (I think that was their name), kicked up some of that good ol' bluegrass, and the rest of the night was spent in a rowdy drunken dance. All night long. Whiskey, beer, a keg-stand or two, and all was well in the world . . . in our world, at least.

I remember all of the night in case anyone is wondering.

The only downside of the day was that 120 people registered for the Trail Day and only 65 people showed up. And half of them weren't registered. I wasn't, and I've only been here two months. I feel a part of a community like never before.

Ro Cut My Finger Off!

Though I have no picture of the damage done, I can assure that it most certainly warranted a rest day. I took a fall on Ro Sham Po, and it decided to take with it a Penney-sized chunk of skin in the center of my pinkie finger. It hurts. Though some tape should fix it just fine.

Bryan Potter just stopped in for the last few days and climbed. I couldn't go out with him the first full day he was here, because my work schedule wouldn't allow it. However the next few days I did. Monday we climbed hard, Tuesday I ripped up my finger on Ro. And now I am here.

One of the best things about Potter's visit was the conversations. When ever we get together we have the most interesting discussions, the kind that I wasn't getting before. The deep philosophical/political variety. It was refreshing.

Bryan had been hitch-hiking out west for a few weeks. He had lost 15 lbs. from a frugal diet and had some interesting stories. I can't say for sure, but if I see a hitch-hiker, I am now more likely to pick him up than ever before. It's fascinating how some time on the road having to struggle for food or a ride can change some one ever-so-slightly, and yet that change make a huge difference in other people's lives.

Anyways.

Spencer Victory made another video, which is entered in the Reel Rock Film Tour film contest. It's called Vertical World.

You can see it here: Vertical World.

Watch them all, but vote for Spencer's.

Okay, story time.

I don't like posting about deeds that I have done. It seems pretentious and frankly, less of a good deed than if I had let it pass unspoken of; it's a binding emotion and act which makes me think the world isn't as shitty as I think. That people a good natured and prefer to help out others, rather than leave people to fend for themselves.

So, as far as this story is concerned, I am telling it because I feel it to be less of a deed, and more of an event for which I see as generous and interesting, but not significant enough to call it anything more than a chance encounter.

One Saturday while working at the shell, I was ringing up customers at the register. Tourists coming to the Gorge from all over lined up to purchase small road-trip snacks, sugary sweets for their already energetic children, and bags of ice for their beer-less coolers.

"What, are we in a dry county?" is the general comment spouted by frustrated travelers after having failed to find beer at the last to exits.

Yes, Powell country is dry. You can;t get booze within 10 miles of the gas station. No, we don;t sell rolling papers. The paranoid owner  thinks that God himself is looking over his shoulder, and encouraging the smoking of weed is a bad tic-mark to have on his Heaven-bound rap-sheet. How do you get to the Gorge? You're in it. No, we don't sell Coke products.

Yes, I am asked a lot of stupid questions. But like a perfectly good automaton, I answer all of the with a polite smile, a "glad I could help" and "have a good one." The only time a real conversation occurs is when the locals come in.

But on a Saturday, there was no time for conversation. You move the customers along, ushering them aside to get the next person in line out the door just as casually and quickly.

So when a girl in sunglasses stands near the dwindling line in front of my register and exclaims "The cops just arrested my boyfriend and were going to leave me on the side of the road!" what would my reaction be, do you think?

Not as sympathetic as I had hope.

"Oh really . . . ?"

"The just were just going to fucking leave me!"

"That sucks . . . next?"

"They had dogs and they busted him at a road block and said that they could take me in to then were going to leave me  . . . "

Her voice progressively became louder. I didn't want to tell her to get out. She didn't look like most of the tourists around. More like  an average girl (and yes, she was cute) who got caught in a shitty situation. But I couldn't just drop what I was doing at the register to ask her what happened, to give her advice or just lend an ear. So, I kept of checking out customers, well aware that to her I must have seemed like a jerk who didn't care, what-so-ever, about what she had just gone through.

I wasn't going to call over the manager, either. 

The girl walked out the door.

ten minutes later I went on my thirty-minute break. I went to my car parked across the road, popped the trunk, sat on the bumper and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I look back at the Shell mart and I see the girl on the side of building standing, talking on her phone. I finished my sandwich, and instead of picking up my book and reading for the rest of my break, I go over to her. When she gets of the phone, she immediately smiles, and in a shameful way shakes her head and rubs her forehead.

"I didn't mean to sound so uncaring back in there, I just couldn't really do anything just then . . ."

"Oh, no. Sorry, I just didn't know what to do. I was talking so loud hoping that someone would know what to do."

"It's okay."

"They just pulled us over, they had dogs, and said 'tell us if you have anything and it'll go a lot easier' or some shit. So my boyfriend said he had a dime-bag of weed, and when they asked about weapons he said there was a knife in the trunk. Then they just took him and his friend out of the car and handcuffed them. I asked what was I supposed to do? I can;t drive and they were just going to leave me. They threatened to arrest me too, but then I said 'at least drop me off at the shell.'"

The cops took her boyfriend and his friend, and said they might get released in a few hours within a court date.

"Fuck," she sighed, pacing anxiously, drawing on her cigarette.

"Cops suck," was all I could say. It's one of those situations where I wanted to say "if you smoke weed, you have to be able to accept the penal consequences" and at the same time analyzing a hundred different scenarios so her friends wouldn't have been arrested. One of them, I am not ashamed to say, is legalizing Marijuana. I don't smoke pot, and probably never will. But my stance is legalization and taxation. That, I think, is for another post all together.

"My name is Jared, by the way."

"Tasha," we shook hands. I knew I'd probably never run into her again.

"Where are you from?"

"Lexington. You?"

"New York. What do you do?"

"right now I'm a waitress, but my boyfriend and I are trying to become teachers."

Just then I understood the gravity of the situation. Their entire lives were about to become fucked because of, frankly, a mistake that in five years they may recognize as being a stupid one. That hit it home. Being a teach is probably one of the most noble professions. And who knows, maybe her boyfriend could be a great one, but now the likely hood of that happening is slim.

"do you have a way to get back to Lexington?" if not, I was prepared to offer her one.

"Yeah, my boyfriend's dad is picking us up."

Just then, the only thing I could think of was how much it would suck to have to explain something like that to my own father, if I were arrested for similar charges. I;d probably do so in the most cowardice manner: via text message.

"Well . . . I have to get back," I threw my thumb over my shoulder pointing to the gas station.

"Yeah, I didn't mean to keep you."

"No, it's okay."

She thanked me for talking to her. I told her she could come inside and sit in the air-conditioning and wait for her ride there. I mopped the floors, and when I passed her with the bucket of dirty water we exchanged a few words. A few minutes later she was gone. I didn't even see her leave.

History is Fiction

I have a short term goal: climb and write.

Simple enough?

How about a long term goal?

Long term goal: don't die.

Not specific enough? How about a photo dump:

The Cirque de Towers in the Wind River Range

El Capitan and Half Dome in Yosemite Valley

The Grand Tetons in Wyoming

Get the picture?

Big Walls.

Big Wall Climbing.

That took about a week to figure out.

Now, the hard part: how do I accomplish that long term goal? And still pay off my unpleasant college loans?

If I knew that I'd do it. But I'll figure it out. I'm not worried.

In other news, I've spent the last week climbing, working, playing Sheep's Head, and various other things. It's strange how the "tourist attractions" in the Red River Gorge are some of the most un-photogenic sights I've seen. There is  no real way to get a good angle or adequate lighting to take picture of the formations.

Yet, if you see it with your own eyes, it is still quite stunning. And there are plenty of places around here to visit and be stunned by the beauty.

Sorry of a lack of an interesting story. Sometime soon I may have one.

"When something gives you your bullet back, you need to get something bigger" - The Legend of Kentucky Joe

That was Kentucky Joe's reason for owning the largest pistol I have ever seen, in person, in my entire life.

I got off of work and arrived back to Miguel's at 11:30pm. A group of people were talking about their day's climbing at a picnic table behind Miguel's. It was pitch black out, and my eyes weren't adjusted to the darkness. I had a hard time making out who was around. But with the greeting of "hey it's big shoes" or "clown shoes" I took a seat, recognizing the reference. (The nickname, if you could call it that came after we discovered in a guess-your-weight game that my shoes weighed in at 2 pounds. I lost the game.) After about fifteen minutes a guy in a hunter-camo shirt and hat squeezed in between Melisa and I. Awkwardly, I began to lean away from him, almost falling off the bench. He made some strange comments, eluding to sex, and threw around some curses here and there. He set a bag of key limes on the table and began to cut them. He forced the lime wedges into his beer. He looked over at me and introduced himself as Joe.

Someone then asked Joe about whether or not he had caught the guy vandalizing cars in the Southern Region. For the next half hour, in an unrepeatable and unique narrative, Joe told us about how they almost caught the guy. A group of people were staking out in some bushes in the area, moving back and forth between parking lots, hoping to catch the thief in the act. They saw the guy driving a three-wheeler up and down the roads. Now they know who the thief was. But the guy never broke into the cars
Joe and the others were watching. The vandal drove by and was gone, then would drive by again, clearly scoping out the area. After nearly eleven hours, they called it quites and came back to Miguel's. Then they found out that almost ten minutes exactly after they left, someone's car got broken into.

This is merely a summary. I couldn't recreate that ephemeral atmosphere, the jesting back and forth between audience and storyteller. The long pauses Joe took as he gulped down another beer, the phrases, the unique cursing, the slightly sexist and homophobic comment - my memory isn't good enough to attempt to chronicle that part of the night. It was the first time I realized I should buy a sound recorder for such situations.

So, the crowd broke up, Shawn, came over from the basement. People went off to bed. I stood up, getting ready to leave, when someone threw a bottle atop the building, which came tumbling down with a loud crash. Joe exploded.

"Hey!" he shouted. "That's not your house! Don't fucking throw bottles on it. It's not your fucking house!"

"Settle down man," came the reply from the other picnic table at the far end of the pavilion. I couldn't make out who was at that table.

"No, don't tell him to 'settle down'," responded Shawn. I would not want to fuck with either of these guys. Joe just seemed like the kind of person always ready for a fight, and Shawn was a Marine. The animosity in the air was as palpable as the humidity was thick. I was getting ready to break up a fight. But nothing happened. Joe mumbled something about privileged kids riding on mommy and daddy's money. Joe then told us about how he was kicked out of Miguel's once for knocking out a guy (a story for another time).

That's when Phil came up and said something about having fired a gun for the first time only three days ago. Phil was asking Joe about shooting when Joe talked about his pistol. Joe was throwing around gun-talk lingo, which I didn't understand. He said that his pistol could take out an Elephant. I thought he was exaggerating. A pistol take down an Elephant? Then he said it could bury the bullet a few feet into the ground, or how far it could drill into a piece of concrete, etc. Okay. Tall tales, for sure. Right?

Phil called over Alan, who was on his way to bed, to hear about the gun. Then Joe said, "shit let's go look at it, I got it with me."

We got to his pick-up truck where he folds down the center of the car seat. He pulls out the revolver, unloads it and shows it to us. The barrel was the size of my forearm. We laughed in disbelief. It was such an absurd thing, the fact that there were pistols that large was just a foolish notion.

"Why would you ever need a pistol that large?" I asked Joe.

"Well," he said, "when something gives you your bullet back, you need to get something bigger."

We all kind of giggled suspiciously. I looked at Joe quizzically.

"What do you mean?"

Joe smiled in a way that said he had told this story a hundred times before, and it was by far one of his tallest, most difficult to believe.

"This is what happened to me - verbatim:"

One night Joe was out on the town. His wife was alone in a primitive cabin that Joe owned. There was no electricity, heating, lights, or plumbing. When Joe returned home he found her sitting on their bed with a shotgun in her hands. He asked her what's wrong, and she said that there was some noise outside behind the cabin. It sounded as though there was someone creeping around. Then a noise, like a handful of gravel was tossed onto the roof of the cabin. There are no trees around the cabin, so nothing could have fallen from above the roof. It had to be thrown.

Joe took the shotgun, a twenty gauge filled with bird-shot, and when out the back door and unloaded the shotgun into the woods behind the cabin.

The cabin itself was seated in rural Kentucky. There was a barn next door, but it's owner didn't live there in the summer time, and the building remained vacant. It was highly unlikely that anyone would be around the cabin.
(At this point in the narrative, Joe said that the noises sounded like something 12 year-olds would do. I was a little irked that he thought so and then decided to unloaded a shotgun on potential 12 year-olds.)

Joe and his wife went to bed.

Then in the middle of the night Joe woke and went to take a piss. He stepped out of the cabin to do his business. He was completely naked save for a holster at his hip that contained a .45. He heard some noise, and said "fuck it," un-holstered his pistol, and emptied out the six rounds into the woods. Then he reloaded six more and emptied his pistol again.

Nothing stirred. Joe went back to bed.

In the morning Joe went down to the shower, a small rectangular out-house like set-up maybe 50 yards from his cabin. He threw his towel over the door, and set a bar of soap in the soap dish. He raised his hand over himself to turn on the solar powered shower, when his bowed head noticed something between his feet.

It was one of the bullet from his .45 sitting perfectly upright, center on the tiled floor of his primitive shower.

The rifling was bored around it, but other than that, there wasn't a scratch. not a single scathe on it. It hadn't been deformed in any way, it wasn't mushroomed as though it had plowed through something. It was perfect as if it had gone through the pistol and landed less than a foot away. How the hell could that happen? How the hell could that happen, and then how the hell could it arrive up-right in the center of Joe's shower? Joe knew all of his rounds went off correctly.

There are three possible answers:

1) It ricocheted off the ground and landed, with very unlikely probability, on the shower floor.

-There were no markings or deformities on it to suggest that it hit the ground.

2) The bullet hit something, and that something took out the bullet and placed it on the floor.

-The bullet would have mushroomed or been deformed some, and there would have been blood on it.

3) Something caught it and placed it there.

-Strangely enough, there is no reason to cast out this answer. But what would have caught it? What could?

That's where Joe's story ended. We shot around ideas based on that bit of superstitious reasoning(is that an oxymoron?). Mothman, aliens, superman?

Joe then suggested cautiously, to not seem like a quack, Bigfoot.

I'm not going to say "yes, it was Bigfoot," but I'm also not in the kind of position to deny such a claim. Either way, the only answer for the phenomena would appeal to superstitions.

So, Joe bought a bigger pistol. A BFR 480 Marlin.

His justification seemed better than "because I can." I don't peg Joe as the kind of person to just take advantage of something without sufficient cause.

"I'd love to fire this," Phil said. Alan nodded in agreement.

"Well, I'm leaving tomorrow, we could do it when I get back in a few weeks," Joe replied.

Joe paused.

"Fuck it," Joe said, "let's do it now."

We laughed while Joe started to pack up the pistol.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Yeah, get in!"

Phil and I jumped in the bed of the pick-up. Alan rode shotgun.

It was 1:30am. Joe flew down route 11. After we got away from the campgrounds, the sky cleared up. The haze of light from overpriced RVs faded away. The sky was perfect. No cloud, no moon. The Milky Way was streaked across the night. I had my glasses on, and it was the first time in years that I had seen so clear a night that the galaxy was visible.

Driving down Rt.11, Joe straddled the double line. The thump of the truck rolling over the reflectors on the road made Joe's swerving evident. I wondered how many beers he had that night.

We came to a stop in the middle of the road. Joe kicked the truck into reverse. He had missed the turn. We headed up a steep gravel hill. We arrived at a gate blocking our way. Joe hopped out and tried to open it.

"It's locked," he said. "Let's just shoot it here!"

We laughed our asses off. We jumped out of the truck, and huddled around Joe as he gave us the run-down on the revolver. Alan began video taping.

(As of right now I have the video, but not enough bandwidth to upload it.)

Joe fired the first round at a red and white reflector hanging on the gate.

Then I was up. He explained how to hold my hand on the pistol, to line up the bones in my wrist and arm.

"Like this?"

"NOOOOOOOOO" he exclaimed in a small decrescendo.

He repositioned my hand.

"You better hold on to this thing as if your fucking life depended on it," he added. "I'll catch it!" Joe said, laughing as he put his palm in front of my fore head. I chuckled. That probably made me more nervous.

I cocked the revolver. Aimed down the sights. Stiff-armed, I held my breath. I was ready to piss myself.

The gun exploded with the most violent force that I have ever handled. My ears rang. I'm surprised I didn't go temporarily deaf.
"Fuck . . . yeah!" was my response. It was relieving. I felt most of the kick in my shoulder and chest. My hand didn't hurt.

Phil was up, he took a shot. Then Joe again, and then Alan. Alan was the only one to hit the reflector - or any part of the gate for that matter. We then jumped in the truck and sped off back to Miguel's.

Phil offered us beer. Joe gave us some key limes to stuff down the bottle necks, and we shot the shit the rest of the night.

It was 2:30 am when I went to bed.

"Sports Porn"

This is a video made by Spencer a while back for Deadpoint Magazine.  It's basically a montage of climbers falling. All of these climbs are right here in the Red River Gorge (and all very well outside my abilities). Check it out.

Combating Pillow Mold

It was raining fairly hard this morning. I'm on my second consecutive rest day, in part because of the puncture wounds in my left hand, and also because the majority of people decided likewise. The rain isn't enough of an excuse to not climb, there are plenty of over-hanging route to ascend, it's just that tomorrow's promise of nice temperatures is a treat one would be foolish not to take advantage of in one's prime. Thus, everyone rests.

Car break-ins have started to reoccur at the crag parking lots in the southern region of the gorge. There is some idea who is behind it (a local with a reputation for doing as such), but no proof. The idea of staking outside a parking area to capture the vandal has been tossed around, but as of yet no one has followed up on the thought. What has been happening is that one would return from a day of climbing to find their car's window shattered, and anything left in bags (duffel bags, laptop bags, etc.) were stolen. However, though the only thing being taken are those nicely packaged for a cowards escape, now the locks on the trunks of people's cars are being is using a chisel and hammer to dislodge the mechanism.

But I don't know, I'm not a doctor.

All that can be done is to keep valuables out of one's car, and keep the car unlocked (people have had their cars rummaged through, but had nothing stolen).

Anyways, this is just a random thought that is not very well constructed, I think. I'd suggest taking it with a heap of salt.

I've had some time to think recently. I'm in such a fortunate state. I have a college degree, grew up in a fairly middle class family, and have been given a car to live out of. On a drive to Lexington, I thought how strange it is that I'm doing this little adventure of mine, if you could even call it something so compact as an adventure. I've seen my father essentially work at a job, that as far as I've been able to deduce, is not something he enjoys. Yet he's made a good living from it, and it's benefited my siblings and I greatly. Then, after twenty-one years, I've pretty much rejected that in favor of something significantly more simple: living out of a tent - out of a car. But it's strange: it's more likely that someone from a middle-class/upper-class background would choose to live in such a way, whereas I don't think most people born into poverty would be as thrilled about the idea (this is probably more true for "western" nations than others).

How did this happen? Too much punk rock in high school? Too much science fiction? Probably. Then what in college catalyzed and adhered my scattered thoughts into such an amalgamation that only Frankenstein's monster could recognize it as beautiful? Simplicity seems to be the name of the game, but the only way I'm able to achieve that was by biting that had that gave me a "comfortable life." Or maybe I'm wrong. It just appears that things like punk and scifi have no business together, purely is purely anti-establishment (debatable) and scifi is geared to middle-class individuals where the things held in high esteem are those which punk wants to dismember.

Hell, do I even see that much of an appeal in those around me now who have careers and are being weekend (or summer) warriors? Not particularly. As it turns out, I could live in this sort of set up working a part-time minimum wage job. I'm curious as to why people think they need what they spend a lot of their time working for. Fun? Forty hours a week to earn something you get to enjoy only on the weekend or for a isolated week in the year seems like, well, a lot of work.

I'm probably generalizing.

I don't mean to suggest that people should sell all of their stuff and live out of their tents. I'm not so foolish to think that simplicity means anything more than living without a great rate of consumption. You can keep your house, TV, elaborate cars and hipster coffee shops (assuming you aren't over-consuming). I'd just question whether or not it's worth working so much for. If you think so, by all means have a ball.

But I, I am not a work-a-holic. I'm a lazy bum. Thus, I live in a tent.

Have You Experienced Madness?

The last week or so has been full of climbing and meeting new people. I decided to start my first project, a 5.12a called Ro Sham Po. I flashed my first 5.11b, and celebrated with some beer and pizza. I spent the fourth of July in Lexington. I made my way back to Miguel's and hung about for the last half of the day. At about 10pm someone (Spencer) started launching off fireworks on the back-end of Miguel's property. A large group of us made our way back to the scum-pond where the fireworks were being sent off. After some blind nighttime-hiking, we emerged from tall underbrush to a small field where a van full of fireworks. spencer was slowly unloading the van and lighting the sky. Other pick-up trucks full of other Miguel locals were lined around the small field. Everyone drinking beer, whiskey, moonshine, and/or smoking cigarettes.

Spencer would narrate each and every firework. He'd read out the name of the explosives, and describe the pictures on them. Most of the narration had to do with "titties" and bulldogs, or monster trucks. At times he would shout "this one is for Americans, so all foreigners should look away" which would be followed by people shouting "'merica!" The banter among the spectators revolved around how Spencer seemed to get off on the crowds jeers and jests, but mostly from setting of mini-explosions. After the fireworks were gone there was some small cardboard-tank fireworks that went off like tiny sparklers. An American and a foreigner would battle their tanks, and the one with the most damaged tank was the loser. A group of people gathered around a small piece of plywood seated on the ground. The tanks were ignited, and after the fray someone's foot would just stomp down on the foreigner's tank, and then quickly toss the flattened char it into the fire pit a few feet away. America won every time.

Slowly the crowd dissipated and the few of us remaining found ourselves jumping into the scum-pond in a drunken stupor. The remaining minivan had it's headlights blaring on us in the pond. The layer of algae on the water's surface was broken by the first person to dive in. Then the two more people dove in and slowly there were about eight of us in luke warm pond.

We got out, dressed, and piled into the minivan. Those of us who couldn't fit into the van found ourselves standing on the bumper, desprately hanging onto the racks bolted to the roof. The entire ride back to around the road that lead to the pizza shop, I was barely hanging on to the rack. Twice I was almost flung from the bumper. Looking straight ahead it seemed that we were only going five miles an hour. But when I turned my head to the side I realized we were  going a lot faster. The gravel road offered the jostling of a lifetime. Someone had then jumped onto the roof of the car and slowly crawled his way down the windshield, at which point a hand came up out of the passenger side window and started shoeing him away. Then the passenger door opened and the bust of someone rose out of the vehicle. We had a bit of a conversation, yelling and such, cursing one another, all-the-while holding on for dear life. We hit the main road and the van sped up, but no sooner were we at the parking lot. We hopped off and hung around the rest of the night. I went to bed at about 230am. By that time I had met some more people, and the next morning I found myself lending out books to various climbers introduced from the previous night. For some reason I'm more likely to lend out books to these people, knowing full well I'll get them back dirty and destroyed.

Since then, I have only climbed and worked at the gas station. Some days in between I had a bit of a reclusive mood, and I stopped going out of my way to interact with people. But now I'm back. Most likely because Cathy returned a few days ago, and she just sort of has a way with making other people gregarious.

I can't quite recall much else. I've so far climbed with people who had crag-dogs, which is always awesome. The company of dogs at a climb increases the positive vibes of the people around the cliff.

This is Cassie.