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.