One Year Later

It turns out that today, exactly one year ago, Chris Deck and I left his home in Buffalo, NY at 6am to make the Early Bird Special at Amy's Place diner. Promptly after finishing breakfast, we began out nine-hour trek to Slade, KY to climb in the Red River Gorge.

The following day I flailed up Losen Up (10b) at Global Village, pitched off from the anchor-clipping hold and took my first whip, probably totaling a mere ten feet. Chris did likewise shortly after. After some thought, I made a gumby decision and left one Omega Pacific quick-draw on the chains, and a bail-biner on the bolt below. I've never gotten them back, and I have never heard of anyone taking them (though I know they are both gone).

Filled with doubt about everything I planned on doing - dirt-bagging, road tripping - I hit a wall. I never felt that pang of fear before. The sensations of falling seem to overflow into all my thoughts of the pavement before me. Do I really want to keep traveling into other states, across the country? Holy fuck, what am I thinking. After some deliberation I decided to keep going at it.

A few days later I met Eric Chastang and Old Man Rob. They put me on Air Ride Equipte (11a), and I whipped a little - but mostly took on the rope, afraid to push myself. That's the same day I also met Ben Page and Dana Whistler. The following day I was at shady grove. That day I met Sarah Rhomberg, Melissa, Margret, Phil Purney, Sarah Purcell, Warren Hulsey. Talk about the right crew to know. They taught me everything I needed to know. That day at Shady Grove was when I became comfortable with falling. Now it barely phases me. I've progressed to sending a few 12a's, and it feels fantastic to push my limits.

I've come a long way in the last year. I'd like to think that since then I've left most of my gumby-ways in a ditch somewhere in the Gorge. I still have those moments where hours later I want to palm my face. But I've got some cool friends who'll laugh at it with me.

I met Al last year as well. Despite our (mostly mine) foolishness, we're still climbing together, and crushing. Thanks to Al, there are certain songs I can no longer listen to because they've been so over played in my car. Somewhere along the line I met 'Bama Joe and a whole slue of other locals - and people just passing through.

I spent my first season bouldering outdoors this past winter, and prior to then, I despised bouldering. Now I love it, all thanks to Bishop and Vegas. And I'll probably spend another season pebble wrestling.

My trad rack as doubled in size. I've taken a whip on my own gear and it felt like that first one I took a year ago.  I've never felt like I had to project a 5.9 hand-crack, but here I am, unable to send Africa at Tower Rock. Maybe next week.

Fact is kids, I'm an addict. And If I could do it all again, I'd just do it twice as slow to appreciate it twice as much a year later.

Impresive

Jacinda Hunter on Fantasy Island from Mike Call on Vimeo.

Hometown Crags

I tell people that Syracuse is a climbing dead-zone. The closest climbing is in a gym about and 1.5 hours west in Rochester. Outdoors? 3 hours to the Gunks, or 3.5 hours to the 'Daks. Is it any wonder why I don't want to be here?

While floating around Kentucky, I flipped through Eric Chastang's copy of Rock 'n Road. Surprisingly, there was a star right over Syracuse on the map of NY.

The question, "what could that be?" didn't pass through my mind at all. In fact, the only thing was "Oh no, that's going to be the quarry. I know it." I flipped to appropriate page.

Sure enough, that's exactly what it was. And I still have no idea what Tim Toula was thinking when he wrote Rock 'n Road. Maybe he also found that Syracuse, a small city in the heart of NY, was a climbing dead-zone. Maybe he too, noticed how it didn't even have a gym. And the climbers were desperate for anything.

Sadly, he also probably thought there was some gem-of-a-crag that the locals were keeping secret. Maybe a hidden Motherload, or Jailhouse (I sometimes like to think that this is still possible, but I know it's not likely).

Then Tim most likely went to work, hunted down the two folks mentioned in his book, Pete and Dave Wiezalis, found out about the quarry, got direction, beta. Everything. Maybe it even took Tim over a week to find that information, and when he found out that it was essentially choss, he just couldn't bare to let weeks of hard research go to waste and included it in the book.

Yup. It's in there. It give you directions to the ol' haunted quarry. And I still can't believe anyone would say to themselves, "lets climb this."

THIS is the "crag" at the quarry.

Maybe Pete and Dave were visionaries, thinking to themselves, "hey, remember the quarry where the munitions depot exploded? You know how a ton of people died and it was supposed to be haunted? Lets go climbing at night. Haunted climbing! It would be SICK."

Sounds like a good time to get scared by climbing, and by ghosts.

Did I fail to mention that? The quarry is haunted. It's a hang out for ghost hunters. Or just teenagers looking to party. The ground is littered with broken glass, the walls covered in racist graffiti, and smells like piss.

Maybe someday, if I'm ever back in Syracuse for the summer, and I need something to do, I'll find a partner and rack up and . . . no. Actually. I wont. I'll just do some pull-ups instead.

Hometown Heros

My car is fighting for life every time her ignition is fired, every time her spark plugs tickle her, every time the altinater snaps. She still works, after having more work done to her than I thought possible. And after five interesting days of work in Vegas, she was ready to go.

The repairman in the shop looked at me as he handed me the keys. "Don't break down until you hit five-hundred miles," he said. 500 miles was when the warrenty wore off.

In eight hours I was sailing through Utah, and the odometer clocked in over 500 miles. If it broke down, I'd be shit out of luck, and dead in the water in the middle of Utah. Or sand, depending on how you look at it. Either way, I drove a full 40 hours, stopping thee times to take ten minute naps. At about 34 hours into driving, as the sun disappeared, I started to hallucinate. "Trippy," is how I'd describe it in hindsight. "Fucked-up," while it was happening. By all accounts, I should have just hunkered down in a rest area and slept. Instead I recklessly pushed through.

A year ago, I wouldn't have considered pulling that kind of stunt.

But now I'm home. Stuffing my face with everything I can get my hand on. I'm dreaming about climbing. Trying to stay active, working out, running, etc.

I'm dearly hoping that I will be able to get my job back when I arrive back in Kentucky. I'm sure that I will, but who knows? Maybe I wont, and I'll end up stranded. Or maybe I will and have the time of my life. Or maybe I'll just have to move to somewhere I can get a job.

That's bad thinking though.

Pretty sure one more season in the Red will get the Red out of my system. Then I'll head out west without an interest in coming back.

Pretty sure of that, at least.

The awesome thing about being 22 is a lack of responsibilities. For now I'll just fight off the stir-crazy.