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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
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.
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.
 |
| 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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
"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.
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.
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