Shoplifters in the Red

No, it's not funny. Why would it be? Why would someone being arrested be funny?

The other day I was working at the Shell station in Slade, KY, when a woman came up to me to ask about the bananas we had stocked in the back. She mumbled and inched forward to the counter ever so slightly. Her eyes shifted about the room. Her small frame look feeble and weak. It was humid and at least ninety degrees outdoors. This woman was wearing black pants, a black shirt, a black hoodie, and a black bandanna. All her clothes appeared soiled. I was under the impression that she wasn't just some back-country Kentucky native, but a woman so far impoverished that she was borderline starving.

"Bananas? They're are eighty-nine cents." That's all I could say. I hadn't even heard her completely. I don't even think she asked for the price.

She nodded and walked off. I helped customer after customer, unaware of Wendy's (the assistant manager) attempt to help the woman. The woman asked Wendy about bananas, and as I suspect being overcome with the same impressions that I had, Wendy offered to buy a banana for the woman. The woman refused, and just then Wendy spotted a box of crackers in the woman's sleeve. After a few attempts to get the woman to go into the office with her, Wendy called over Hala (the manager). They both did their best to get the woman into the office. After they had the woman in there, they called the police. Two cops came, and the next thing I knew I witnessed a woman being escorted out of the gas station in handcuffs to be placed into an unmarked cop car.

And as it turns out, the woman had a knife on her and one in her bag. The police officers had to threaten the woman with a taser to get her to "give up the knife" on her person. I don't know the woman's intentions with the knife, nor will I ever. I don't know why she was shoplifting. To feed herself, her children, the thrills?

After the police left, and the store slowed down, a co-worker said to me, "man, that there was funny."

No, it wasn't. In what capacity could someone being arrested ever be considered funny?

"You done too much . . ."

I got the job at the Shell station. As of right now, there is so much that I need to catch up on this blog, it doesn't seem plausible that it will happen.

I met up with some really strong climbers. All climbing 5.12a's at least. Some even 5.13's. The things I thought I knew turned out to be only half true. I have learned so much more just by watching these climbers. I went out twice with them. The second time I climbed one 5.10d over and over. I learned (more or less) how they got to the point of climbing so hard. It's not what I thought. The simple "just climb more" isn't enough. You have to keep climbing, but if you take a fall, try it again, and don't stop working a route until you 'scend it. That means no hanging rests or falls. Starting projects seems like a good idea. And everyone is urging me to climb beyond my limits, into 5.11's. I got up my first 5.11a (with a bunch of hanging rests) just a few days ago, but it was rough. I need to keep climbing. I have 5.12's in my sights. As Warren told me, I "just need to get the mileage in."

It would behoove me to hang around those climbers to learn more.

Today, I climbed 6 5.10's, and one stout 5.9+. That's all.

Slaying Dragons Warrents a Pizza.

Thursday, June 17^th, was spent at Roadside Crag. We started on the slab wall, working some 5.7s, .8s, and .9. Deck tried to lead the first .7, and after working through the beginning he became sketched out half way through and didn’t finish. Climbing a slab, even a 5.7, can become never racking, especially if it’s one of your first leads. A fall that results in grated skin all down your body is not an appealing outcome to a bad foot placement.

                I hoped on to another 5.7, then 5.8 when some other climbers showed up. For the most part we had the cliff face to ourselves, save the couple around the corner climbing a .11. We got to talking to this group of climbers out from Columbus Ohio. Shared some jokes, talked about some woman who was blogging about a plastic Wal-Mart bag that has been snared in a tree outside her window for the last ten years (and how it would be ironic if it suffocating ended up involved in the woman’s suicide).

                They talked about heading out to Military Wall to try Fuzzy Under-cling, a supposedly phenomenal .11. They then took off, we wished them the best, and I went on to climb a .9- slab. Chris and I decided to take a look at the popular A.W.O.L. around the bend, back near the approach. It’s a slightly overhanging crag with pockets and jugs so chalked up that telling which ones are worth a desperate grip becomes frustrating and just annoying. But after some time studying the formations it becomes clearer where the good holds are. We walked up to the route only to see other people already climbing on it. However, it was the same group that was up climbing near us before.

                Again, we got to talking, and discussed the route. I asked if they would let us hop on their top rope. With a “go-ahead,” I cranked through the pumping route, not falling, and thinking that I could have led it, but not clean. On the ground our new friends gave us some pointers, that with over hangs it’s a time game.

                “Once you’re on, the clock starts ticking, and you have to keep moving,” they told us. It was only then that I asked their names: Pat, Gabriel, Matt, and Charlie; all of them nice people, decent climbers, and good company. I got to talking to Pat about the route next of A.W.O.L. called Dragon Slayer; a .10d with a brief start to some mono’s then just a pumpy climb the rest of the way. I offered my rope if Pat led on his draws. He smiled and said he was in.

                Up he went, brutally pawing his way up the wall, past all of the mono’s like they were nothing. About two bolts away from the anchors he took a hanging rest, then back on he finished and came down.

                I hoped on just the same and motored through the mono’s falling only after I had worked through them. Because of rope-stretch, I had to do them again, but if once was hard, twice was nothing. At the top I again fell, and then finished it up quickly. Some of the other guys went, then Deck. He tried his best, but got to the monos and couldn’t get past them.

                “I don’t have the finger strength,” he said. Deck is a solid climber, very leisure about it. That’s good. It is a sport for fun after all.

                No, what I think a lot of the problems are when someone climbs are purely mental. Not say that’s Deck’s problem, because I believe him when he says that he lacked the finger strength. It’s just that I’ve seen many climbers flat out tell themselves that they can’t do the moves (guys and girls alike). Yet the strength is there, but when you can’t get the move the first time, you become discouraged at trying it again. Every new attempt, every new way of going about the problem that fails is one more demerit to your confidence. But by not being able to find the solution doesn’t mean you can get through the problem, it just means you haven’t seen the solution. The physical strength may be there, just not the mental sharpness to see the progressions of hand movements, where to put your feet, or how to adjust your body weight.

               But knowing your physical limits is even harder sometimes. You could keep trying a problem knowing full well that you can’t complete it because of the lack of strength and seriously injure yourself. That’s when to call it quits. And that’s even less discouraging than just not being able to figure out the problem itself.

               In the end the more you climb, the better you get physically and mentally.

               The day was getting late. I gave Pat and Charlie my number. They said they may make a trip back to the Red next weekend and would give me a call if they did. It’s good to know I have potential partners.

              We parted; Deck and I picked up some beer, tall-boy PBRs, and headed back to Miguel’s. I made food and then worked on some of my Whiskey. A lot of climbers apparently have a taste for Woodford Reserve Kentucky Bourbon. While eating dinner Pat and all of them came to Miguel’s for pizza before their ride home. I walked over to their table, uncorked my bottle of whiskey, and slammed it on the table.

             “You guys can’t head out for a three hour car drive without some whiskey in ya,” I told them, and passed around the bottle. They too we pleased with my choice of drink. We talked some more. They thanked me, and took off after they finished their pizza and Busch Light.

Another beer run was in order, and PBR was on the menu once again.

When we got back Jon was sitting at a picnic table and we sat and talked for hours, watching some kids play basketball. Jon told us about how he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here again, staying at Miguel’s.

              It was the rowdy nature of some of the younger climbers that I think bothered him most. He seemed like an old fashioned kind of man. He worked for the State of Colorado fixing refrigeration and heating units in government buildings. He had a bad shoulder problem that gave him trouble in climbing. He was worried about getting it looked at then having to take time off of work to let it heal. Jon had no more sick days left because his wife also went through a surgery, and like a good husband he took time off to watch over her. The way he talked about his wife showed how much he loved her.

             The kids’ basket ball bounced all around, bouncing wildly in all directions off of the gravel court.

             “I’m just waiting to see that ball hit someone in the head,” Deck joked. We all had a good laugh. The picnic tables spilled out into the court, out from under the awning.

              Shortly after that comment, the ball went flying into a woman’s wine and pizza. A few shouts of “look out” weren’t enough. And some lanky kid took the ball, awkwardly stood there and mumbled an apology. Yes. He just stood there with his head down. The woman smiled and forgave him, but Jon was distraught by the lack of responsibility taken.

               “They shoulda bought her a beer,” he barked loud enough for the woman to hear. “Or a soda or sumthin’. Ain’t that Miguel’s kid, he coulda got her anything, but didn’t. Those damned kids, man. I’m sorry but that ain’t how my momma raised me.”

                “Me neither,” Chris added.

                “Yeah, I’m not staying here again, I’ll tell you what.”

                 Then he got up and went over to the woman and man sitting at the table, still sopping up the wasted alcohol. I didn’t catch what he said, but I suspect he offered her a drink, but she  shookher head at whatever he offered.

                 Jon stewed for the rest of the night. After seeing the awkward interaction between perpetrator and victim, and hearing Jon’s displeasure at how it was handled, I’ll make more of an effort to handle similar situations better than that.

The next day we met up with Jon and Jason Gould at Phantasia wall, where I led the 5.9 Creature Feature. It’s a route that starts with a small climb to a ledge where there is a roof that extends out over the bottom cliff face. With a left hand on a small pocket under-cling, I reached around the lip of the roof, slapping for jugs. I then match my hands, clipped a bolt, and then heel hooked and hoisted myself up to a slab finish full of more jugs. It’s one of the better climbs I’ve done thus far.

                We then went and had Jason run up our rope an overhanging 5.10d full of laybacks. We top-roped the route for a while, talking with the other climbers that showed up. Jon and Jason had to take off and head home. Jon offered his place to Deck and I if we were ever in the area, and would show us some of the climbing near him. We talked to the climbers warming up on the stuff we struggled at. Clearly they were better. Rob is an elderly man, maybe mid fifties, but I heard he was closer to 65. They were at that specific crag to work a 5.12 called Twinkie. I talked to Rob some, he was soloing in the area, and I told him my similar situation. I offered to climb with him, and he I. In fact, he invited me along to climb with him, Eric and Dasha; the latter two coming from Salt Lake City. I gladly accepted.

                I let them climb on my pre placed draws on the 5.10d, provided that they clean it when they were done. They did, and Deck and I took some time, talking with them, resting and such. When they were done, we followed them to watch their attempts at climbing Twinkie. Rob was up. He worked his way up a balance required technical slab to a sheer overhang that could almost be called a ceiling. There were pockets littered with chalk, and permanently placed draws quick-linked to all the bolts. Rob grabbed jug after jug, grunting here and there. He clipped one draw, then the next, before his hand slapped a sloped hold and took a fall.

                “Shit!” he yelled. He knew exactly what it was he was trying to avoid, but not knowing where. And to his poor luck, he found it.

                He was lowered. The goal was to do it without falling. At that point Chris and I took off for Left Flank back up the road. I wanted to lead To Defy the Laws of Tradition, a 5.10. We got there just after another group. They offered to let us have at it, but they were there first. So I egged Deck into leading a fairly vertical 5.8 arête. He struggled at the second clip, but then pulled through miraculously. Then we hit To Defy. I completed it with two or three hanging rests. Making sure I didn’t grip the chains again, and to stay on the rock. Deck followed, and successfully completed it after a few failed starts, and beta on a side-pull and under-cling match. I had him leave in the two draws at the anchors so I could try to do the route clean, if only on top-rope. I walked through it, which aggravated me that I didn’t flash it the first time. Maybe next time.

                We got back to Miguel’s, and made some food, hung around, and talked about finding the reservoir that so many people had jumped in, or even checking out some arches in the area. Instead we ate some food, drank some beer, had some whiskey and played cards and talked with Rob, Eric and Dasha. It was a good night all around.

                At some point I met another climber soloing in the area, Pat. I asked if he had a partner, he asked if I had a car. I confirmed that I did, he then said that he had a rope and draws and that I had a partner. All was well.

The next morning, Saturday, Chris took off for home. I made it a rest day. I hiked to Grey’s Arch. It was only a mile away from the trail head. There was no one around. I hiked for a while, listening to some music has I walked through the forest. Then the path descended to a set of stairs, then to another set. There were so many bush-whacked paths that I had no idea which to follow.  I glimpsed something bright and red through the leaves. The sun bouncing off of something I couldn’t make out. Intrigued, I followed the path, taking out my ear plugs as I trotted on. After a few more steps I came onto the large alcove of sandstone that extended eighty feet into the air. Water was dripping off of a lip, and I took the opportunity to stand underneath it, soaking my greasy hair, and the rest of my body.

                The water trickled down, caught in the sunlight like fireflies in the night, or falling stars. Looking to my right I saw Grey’s Arch. It was larger than I expected and wondrous in appearance.  Just shy of being under the arch was a stump covered in loose change, a canteen, some candy, and other trinkets. There was a laminated tag that told about Jim Graff, who died in 1986 after trying to stop a burning log from falling off the arch. Graff “landed near this memorial, where he died 15 minutes later in his friends’ arms” it read.

                I’m full of questions now. Why was there a burning log at the top of the arch, especially since there wasn’t supposed to be any fires in the Daniel Boone National Forest. Was he breaking the law? Was there a lightning storm? Why would he worry about a burning log if it was going to be raining? Was it raining? The memorial had Jim’s brother’s address, and a message from him welcoming any letters from those who read the memorial. I wrote down the address, thinking of sending a letter of sympathy, not inquiring into details of his brother’s death. I don’t know if I will write him.

                I climbed on top of the Arch. Took a look around that the view. There wasn’t much, just some trees and a cliff across the gully. I climbed down and hiked out, stopping to soak again in the modest waterfall. I passed many people on my way out. I was thrilled that I had that place to myself for as long as I did.

                Out, I headed to find the reservoir.  I headed down Mountain View Parkway for ten minutes, found the construction site and the sign that read “Campton Water Treatment.” There was a large concrete wall that could be walked around. I parked my car, and walked around to the grassy area that dropped down into the water. I changed into a swimsuit, looked up at the over cast and drizzling sky and dove in. This is the way to spend a rest day. I then headed back to Miguel’s and took a shower. Then I read some, talking with a man named Warren. He took off and I went down to a gas station where I had dropped off an application the day before.

                I got an interview. The manager called me brave for being out here alone. She was older and friendly. She said after she checked with my employers and interviewed some other people, she’d give me a call. I hoped to hell I’d get the job.

                I went back to Miguel’s and began to read, talking to a girl named Leor and a guy named Neil. They took of climbing with Warren. Rob and some people arrived. There weren’t many people around in the afternoon.

                I ended up talking with a random person, Dana, about books, then literary theory and analysis for a few hours. Rob joined in then the discussion changed to history. It was a good talk.

                Food. Dinner. Sleep.

Chiggers, Ticks, Modern Kicks

Two days ago (Wednesday) was our first day of climbing. And it was something different all around. We started by making the 10 minute hike into Global Village to climb something easy: Eureka. It’s a 5.6 and a pretty fun one at that. I led, left all the draws in the bolts, and Deck proceeded to pink-point the route, making it his first lead outdoors.

                Then we hiked back the way we came, staying close to the cliff face and I successfully led my first 5.10 on a route called Kentucky Pinstripe. After a few attempts I made it through the crux, Chris followed, and all was well.

                Then shit hit the fan.

                I tried to lead Loosen Up, a 5.10b route a little further down. At least half the route was blanketed in the shade, and the memories of my last attempt flooded my mind. Back in March I was climbing with Scott. We had spent the four days climbing, my arms exhausted and blown out in the worst way, the cliff had just eaten through my climbing shoe, and I was a greenhorn in the way of leading. Yet, with the encouragement of my climbing partner, I attempted to climb Loosen Up, and I got as far as the second bolt before taking my first whipper. It was only maybe a three foot fall that I took, but I was already on edge because I was trying to climb with a toe sticking out of my right climbing shoe. I called it quites then, and down climbed, removing all of the draws as I went.

                So I decided to tackle the route again, and I got as far as I did previously, took a hanging rest, and started up again. I worked my way through the sloper crux, resting along the way. I just clipped the last bolt before the anchors which were 5 feet above me on a 60 foot anchor.  My arms are pumped, sore from gym-bouldering Monday night. All of this was running through my mind at rampant speed, and I was unable to stifle my nervously shaking body.

                I started to climb. The sandstone felt soft and gripped my hands and shoes nicely, yet as I went higher, I became more aware of the run-out.

                I got to the chains, and with a sweaty grip I grabbed one with my left hand. My breath was heavy, and I was afraid. Heart Racing. Stomach rolling. Then I realized I had to piss.

                There I was sixty feet above the ground, fumbling to get a draw off of my belay loop and into the chain. My sweaty palm became more and more in the fore-front of my mind. I clipped the draw to the chain, and dropped my hand to the dog-bone webbing, hoping for a better grip. And it was. But as I went to clip in to the draw, pulling out an extra 3 feet of slack, I noticed that my palm was covering the gate of the ‘biner.

                Fuck.

                I  let go of the rope, and tried to reposition my hand to make the gate unobstructed. I failed

                “Take!” I yelled.

                Then I dropped fifteen feet.

                A yell? Maybe. A scream?

                I don’t know.

                All I remember is seeing my last draw just before I fell. And then I felt the rope stretch, and was hanging around in my harness.

                “Let me down,” I told Deck.

                “Are you hurt?”

                “No. Just let me down.”

                I felt as thought I was about to vomit all over that crag. I’ve never felt a such a sense of nausea as that. The adrenaline that blew through my veins, the dizziness in my head was all I could take. The only redeeming factor in my mind was that I didn’t piss myself. On the ground I spent at least twenty minutes sitting, focusing on my breathing and nothing else. I tried to weigh the pros and cons of what just happened, but all I really came up with was cons.

                Soon, deck tried his own hand at it got to exactly where I was, and likewise took the 15 foot whipper. On the ground we decided that we were going to just bail out. I climbed back up, replaced the last placed draw with a bail-biner and lowered off. As far as I know the draw clipped to the anchor is still there, as is the bail-biner.

                We hiked out. In hindsight, I could have done some many things differently. But I dismissed such thoughts when I realized that I couldn’t go back in time. For future reference only.  Am I really that far out of it? How could I let something so simple psyche me out? Yet, I am back on the horse, leading various 5.7s, .8s, and .9s.

                Later that day we went searching for a guide for the Red River Gorge. Miguel’s was sold out because there was a new edition coming out. So we eventually found ourselves down the road at the Torrent-Falls Climbing Adventure. There we met James, a very friendly fellow who called Eureka and Kentucky Pinstripe “one of his.” His name was James. He didn’t have any guide for sale, unfortunately. But he offered his to look through. We already had a public guide at Miguel’s to look through, so it was unnecessary. We then got to chatting, the same old small talk. We told him where we were from, and so on. After hearing I told him I was going to hang around, maybe try to find a job, he directed me to the “beer trailer,” who was looking for evening workers. We left and went to the beer trailer to buy beer, and I inquired. The woman there took my name and number, and I walked out the door, thinking Deck right behind me.

                I went back in and he was talking to the woman behind the counter, who, as it turns out, lived in Sandy Creek, NY. We got to chatting, and after a few minutes James reappeared. He offered for me to stay at a hostel he manages. He said that it’s owned by some photographer who flies in big name climbers to shoot them.

                “If you’re ever wantin’ to get off the ground, just gimme a call,” he said. “You can find me workin at the climbin’ place up the road. You know where.”

                I thanked him and we went on my merry, beer in hand.  We got back to Miguel’s and started to drink. We chatted it up with Jon Musso, a climber out of Pueblo, CO.  He told us about Dakota Sandstone found in only near his home town, describing the black sandstone with green lichen streaks. It sounded beautiful, and I’ll see if I can’t make my way out there.

                Then I we hit the sack, for a good eight hours.

More to come. Tomorrow is a rest day, and I'll recap the last two days.

P.S. The above photo is Deck on his first lead on Eureka!

Land of Derbies, Land of Bourbon: Kentucky

Chris Deck and I arrived in the Red River Gorge, Kentucky, today. We left Buffalo after a night spent at the local climbing gym, and some time at the Brewpub. Though it sounds like good fun (and it is), there is the slight issue that I haven't climbed in 4 weeks. After attempting some bouldering problems, my forearms exploded in exhaustion. I woke this morning with the inability to make a solid fist with either hand. I was confident that at least my body's endurance to that sort of strain wouldn't have diminished so greatly. But it has, and that give me worry.

We woke at 6am to go to Amy's Place, a diner that offers vegan and non-vegan options, for their early-bird special. After last night, I was struggling to keep my eyes awake. The nine hour drive to Kentucky was not one I would want to repeat any time soon. I'd rather climb. But with my fore-arms in such a state, I'm worried that I will be taking a gratuitous amount of whippers. I'll never know until I try.

The place Deck and I are staying is Miguel's Pizza in Slade. They even have a commercial:



Miguel's has changed some since I was here in March. Instead of $2 per tent per night, it is now $2 per person; and their Internet is no longer free. I've become slightly distressed about it, not because $2 is a lot to pay per night, nor for Internet, but because it's just a deterioration of the place that I held in such high esteem.

Either way, I'm going to be climbing a ton in the next few days (pending weather). There is a 40% chance of a thunder storm tomorrow, but the rest of the week looks stellar. Now if we could only get a hold of a guide book . . .

Hello!

I'm about to embark on an adventure that only comes around once, maybe twice, in a lifetime: I’m going to travel across the country in order to rock climb. I’m doing this because, frankly, I could see my life being spent in any other such way, and in what better manner to do this than hop in my car and go? I have six months before I have to start paying off my student loans that have ominously collected over the last four years of my existence. Four years ago, I couldn’t even suspect that this is what I would be doing after graduation.

Therefore, I have six months to see where I can go; six months to see parts of the world unknown to me; six months climb to my heart’s content. Pending that I can stretch what little money I have left in my checking account, I will see how long I can hold out before getting a job.

That said, this isn’t some search for “who I am,” I agree with Camus’ sentiment that “forever I shall be a stranger to myself.” I’m not searching for spiritual enlightenment, nor searching for a way to hash out my own existential troubles. I could just as well do that anywhere in the world. (Not to say it won’t be a welcomed result.)

My only goal is to rock climb.

I don’t know where I’ll be going, except that my first stop is the Red River Gorge in Kentucky, and eventually I’ll make my way westward. I will keep updating as long as I have a computer to do it from, and I’ll be posting at least every few days, assuming I have something worthwhile to say. As of right now, I am preparing to leave. I am heading for Buffalo, NY tomorrow, then Kentucky early Tuesday morning. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't nervous, anxious, or any other assortment of uncomfortable emotions. Any and all recommendations of where I should head are welcome.

This some is the gear and large stack of books I have collected together for the trip.

Location: Syracuse, NY