tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35186773370428380922024-03-12T21:18:15.626-07:00BAG-gageThe Adventures of Brittany Griffith (BAG)American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-33342485888446285862008-04-11T10:20:00.000-07:002008-04-11T10:26:57.314-07:00Operation Oman<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Uh… where’s <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>?” I asked ignorantly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“On the <st1:place st="on">Arabian Peninsula</st1:place>” JT answered. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was too embarrassed to ask where that was. I’ve traveled to more than 30 countries, but still my geography lacks. Which is why I suppose I appreciate travel so much. I wouldn’t be bothered to learn about far off places unless I was to go there and see for myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Preparing myself mentally for JT’s next fervent scheme that would send us off to some obscure, far-flung corner of the globe few people have ever heard of—and fewer still have ever visited for climbing, I forced a look of enthusiasm and said that, sure, I would go to Oman. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">As usual, I agree to go to these places with JT <i style="">before</i> I actually know anything about them. Examples: Adrspach in Czech Republic (scary traditional chalk-less climbing on sandstone spires using only knotted cords for protection), Stolby near Krasnoyarsk, Siberia (free soloing en masse with locals 450 feet off the deck on greasy 5.9 slabs). Not your typical relaxing vacation, which I have to admit is exactly what I’m looking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once the plan is hatched, JT does all the research. He gets maps, makes local contacts and attempts to get some beta on the existing and/or potential new climbing. I do little but secure the financial support, figure out the airport code (<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Krasnoyarsk</st1:place></st1:city> is KJA, just in case you were wondering), and book the tickets. Then, until we leave, when people inquire about what big trip we are going on next, I fake like I have a clue.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So, where are you off to next?” Someone at the tradeshow will ask.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>” I boast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Where’s <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>?” they, of course, quickly counter. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I answer with the only bit of information I have memorized, “<st1:place st="on">Arabian Peninsula</st1:place>.” I mumble the words, mortified that I might possibly mispronounce “Arabian.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Beyond knowing the name of the landmass, I find out that the country is Muslim, which means I’ll need to pack long-sleeved shirts, long skirts, scarves, no shorts, and a 1.75 liter jug of tequila.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Only once we are on the plane, do I attempt to educate myself by pulling out the Lonely Planet guide or scan through JT’s stack of notes and topos. First things first: I find <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region> on the map. It’s bordered by <st1:country-region st="on">Saudi Arabia</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region st="on">United Arab Emirates</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Yemen</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Oooh, and there’s a coastline, which means the beach! </p> <p class="MsoNormal">JT has all the climbing info sussed out, which frees me to focus on other important facets of our trip, primarily the shopping. Each time we travel to an international destination I figure out what commodities the country is known for, so I know what to buy as soon as I get there. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region> is famous for gold, frankincense and copper.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then I read up on lifestyle. “Within the living memory of most middle-aged people outside of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>, traveling to the next village used to mean hopping on a donkey or bicycle, education meant reciting the Quran under a tree and medication comprised of a few herbs from the mountainsides.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Because I’m fascinated by religion, I always study this. I learn that 75% of Omanis follow the Ibadi sect of Islam, an austere form of Islam that eschews decadence of any kind. Oh, boy. I stress that they will hate Americans, who generally embody the term decadence. I contemplate what climbing is—decadent or merely frivolous? This thought, and 3 mg of Lunesta, carries me to sleep. I wake up eight hours later, the Lonely Planet book still in my lap, the flight attendants scurrying down the aisles serving breakfast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No matter how often I travel overseas, I always feel anxious as I look out the window at the landscape of where we will soon land. It’s dawn and our 16-hour flight from <st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state> to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region> is nearly over. JT presses his face next to mine to get a look out the window. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Cool! A sunrise over <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>,” he excitedly says, noting that the adventure has officially begun.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">This is the first of a three part series on my travel this past February to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">The next installment will be “Goat for a Rope at the Hibshe Oasis” <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-31383297168312604162008-01-14T09:37:00.000-08:002008-01-14T09:39:45.583-08:00Moving<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve moved four times in the past 18 months.<span style=""> </span>I’m not talking about moving in the sense of loading up my van and switching crags, like the good old days.<span style=""> </span>When everything I owned had its own crate and tucked neatly under the DIY bed in the back of the van, and it was as simple as securing anything that could kill you in a sudden stop, paying for old laundry or camping tabs, picking up bottle tops and garlic skins around the camp, filling up water jugs and the gas tank, and hitting the road for the next crag in season.<span style=""> </span>No, the move I’m referring to is not like that at all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Over the past few years, I’ve acquired more and more belongings. It started out small—my stuff in a friend’s basement and sleeping in the spare bedroom on a borrowed futon to a yurt in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:State>.<span style=""> </span>Then it was a townhouse in <st1:city st="on">Carbondale</st1:City> to a rental house in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Salt Lake City</st1:place></st1:City>, and now, the BIG ONE: a three-bedroom house with a mortgage. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>You might think it’s moving the big stuff around that irks me.<span style=""> </span>Like the new, and first in my life, big grown-up bed.<span style=""> </span>It is one of those fancy Tempurpedic things that weighs a ton and cost more than my van did. Or maybe it’s the antique oak desk that I’ve had since college that has been actually Fed-Ex’ed to me twice.<span style=""> </span>No, it’s the peculiar things such as:<span style=""> </span>the same can of vegetarian refried beans that doesn’t expire until Jan. 2010, a Costco brand bottle of Glucosamine Sulfate, a dozen random, chipped coffee mugs I never use, a value-sized tube of No Ad sunscreen, or the $250 pair of size 26 leather jeans I will never fit into again and only wore once. These are things I <i style="">can</i> live without, but <i style="">can’t</i> seem to get rid of each time I move.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The “Things I rarely use and I am sick of moving, which I would like to get rid of but cannot because I will someday inevitably need them” are:<span style=""> </span>boxes of tax returns, chains for my truck, aid climbing gear, iPod warranty and original packaging, 6/4 wetsuit, and a bridesmaid dress and black pumps.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Then there are the things that although I seldom touch, look at or think about, I cannot live without. A note, scrawled in a five-year-olds handwriting on faded-brown lined paper my little sister wrote me for my 16<sup>th</sup> birthday, my heart rock collection, the flute I played in grade school, a red lacquered fake diamond turtle pin my grandmother bought me from K-mart when I was four, my first (and only) climbing journal, a poem a boy wrote me in Jr. High, my college student I.D., and a tacky southwestern-patterned fleece jacket my mother (who no doubt got it from the Sundance outlet) gave me for Christmas the year I moved out west from Iowa.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Considering all the moving around I’ve done for the greater part of my adult life, it’s a wonder I have been able to keep track of much more than my passport and proof of car insurance. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-17148145751833288292007-11-29T08:57:00.000-08:002007-11-29T09:00:15.007-08:00Sandstone Drama<p class="MsoNormal">A four-mile 4x4 road literally dead-ends at the rim of the canyon. The view is outstanding—sprouting from the valley floor poke the twin towers of Crow’s Head Spires, as the <st1:placename st="on">West</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Shafer</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Canyon</st1:placetype> spills out before you for miles, reaching deep into <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Canyonlands</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The rarely climbed Crow’s Head Spires are less than four hundred yards away from the edge of the rim, but to reach their base requires a 450-foot rappel down vertical Wingate from the end of the road.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>On Thanksgiving Day, Jonathan and I climbed the left tower, Don Juan Spire, by the route, <i style="">Yesterday’s News Variation</i>—5.10, two stars. The plan was to have JT lead the crux second pitch since the description read, “Climb the offwidth to easier OW…” In my opinion, there is no such thing as easy offwidth, let alone an “easier OW.” Plus, JT forgot to pack the essential #5 Camalot, so it was his punishment. But because I got lost on the first pitch and couldn’t deal with the ensuing rope drag, I didn’t make it to the first belay and ended up with the lead for the OW pitch. The pitch started with an unprotected 5.9 traverse for 20 feet on brittle, flaky crimps right off the belay. This was not the scary part. Easy hand jamming led to the OW. With my last piece of gear at my feet, I headed up the wide crack. After five feet, I made a futile effort to place the #4 Camalot. It wasn’t even close to fitting. Seeing that the crack only widened, I didn’t try again. Because it was such an obvious thing to be upset about and I knew he felt badly about it, I didn’t actually scream at JT for forgetting the #5. Instead I grappled on, trying not to think about the ledge below me that I would hit if I fell. I was out of JT’s sight and all alone with my battle. It was one of those rare moments I personally experience in climbing when things are so bad, that it is impossible to consider them. As a result, I was uncharacteristically calm and quiet and completed the task without drama. When JT reached the belay he was impressed with my 20-foot OW run-out. He said he would have for sure backed off. I wanted to at one point, as summits aren’t very important to me. JT has climbed nearly 50 desert towers. Summits are <i style="">very </i>important to him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Despite the typical nuisances of desert tower climbing (i.e., loose rock, difficult route finding, and bad anchors), the route on Don Juan Spire was quite good. It was given two stars, so I naively expected the same out of the similarly graded <i style="">Lizard Action</i>, on the sister tower, Luminous Being Spire. Not so much.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It started out bad—really bad. I backed off two different first pitch variations because of loose rock, or lack of proper gear (yes, the forgotten #5 Camalot). I managed to lead a meager 100 feet off the ground, gave up, and put in a belay. JT then led an equally chossy, but much more difficult pitch up a super loose chimney and corner. It was so bad that at one point I heard him say from around the corner, “Uh… this is a significant situation. If you hear a lot of rockfall, don’t freak out… it’s just because everything I’m standing on just shifted.” I was so pissed and scared following this pitch that I bitched the entire time, screaming obscenities and things like, “This is bullshit! We are going to bail… it’s not worth it!” When I got to the belay and saw JT’s conflicted expression: He loves this tower choss shit, but hates to see me stressed. I knew I couldn’t force us to bail. We were only 130 feet from the top. I took the rack. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I set off, jamming the stout, 15-foot crack off the belay, but broke a hold on easier ground and whipped, nearly landing on JT’s head. Great. I went back up, got to the base of a dirty, disgusting wide crack and said forget it. I was over it. I down-led 10 feet and was prepared to go all the way back to the belay, but then thought about JT again. “Alright, I’ll try another way,” I told myself.<span style=""> </span>I climbed a farther right line, through better, though still crappy, rock to a small ledge. I saw a drilled pin higher up, but couldn’t help worrying about the ledge that I would hit if I fell before getting the pin clipped. I saw JT’s eager (but still concerned) face and clawed the soft, eroding, sandstone slopers for 10 feet and clipped the pin. And then what? There was nothing but sandy slopers and crumbly edges. “Take!” I couldn’t handle it any more. I hung on the end of the rope and shook from the cold and the stress. Before conceding once again, I took out the route description JT had printed from Mountain Project. It read, “Move left to a drilled pin, move up and left to the arête and another drilled pin and an alcove/roof. Place as much shit gear as possible (I had 5 equalized pieces that wouldn’t have held a fall). Relax. Make final moves to the anchor.” I was <i style="">definitely</i> coming down now. I was again out of JT’s sight, but could imagine him holding me on the rope, worried. Shit, ok, one more try. I unweighted the rope and climbed left. No pin. I hung on the rope again. “There’s nothing to the left!” I shrieked. “Then it must be right.” JT’s small voice came from below. I went right and did finally see it, but it was still 20 feet above me. Again, the thought of hitting the ledge vaporized and I methodically climbed the slabby face to the higher pin. 20 more feet to the top. After coping with rope drag, more runouts, and route finding, I beached myself on the summit.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Off Belay!” I thankfully called down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>JT had been patiently belaying me for nearly two hours in the freezing, shady cold. I would have been hollering like my head was on fire, but not him. Although he followed the pitch with composure, I knew he was suffering big time from frozen hands. He enthusiastically stood atop the summit, which was technically 10 feet above my belay. I couldn’t be bothered. I was more concerned with getting back to the ground and safely up the 450-foot jug and haul back to the.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>There were two anchors on the summit and I wanted to use a different (better) anchor than the one the guide described for the rappel. The tower was 250 feet, and I illogically figured we could make it to the ground in one double-rope rappel. JT, sensing I was in no mood for an argument, reluctantly threaded the ropes through the rap rings. I insisted on going first. After rapping for about 100 feet, I could see the ends of the ropes swinging in midair, 50 feet from the ground. Damnit! Two feet from the ends of the ropes, I swung into a shallow chimney, plugged in two big cams and clipped myself off to them. I screamed up to JT the situation and he started to rappel. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>On a ledge, 50 feet above me, JT said evenly, “Why didn’t you stop at these anchors?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Because I obviously didn’t see them!” I snapped in a super bitchy tone, annoyed that I had somehow missed the rap anchor. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>As if JT had never been involved in a rappelling epic on a tower, I screamed the obvious, “Pull the ropes, thread that anchor, and we’ll both make it to the ground from there.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I could hear JT struggling with the pull.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“It won’t pull… the knot is stuck at the lip.” He calmly shouted down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I thought fast and yelled up, “Fix the rest of the tag line (I had the end of it in my hand) to that anchor, cut as much of the lead line as you can, rap to me on the tag with the piece of lead line, and we can fix that from these cams to the ground.” I screamed up with self-appointed authority.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“No way… I’ll up-rap to the knot and free it.” He dared to answer. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Forget it, it is getting late and I want to get out of here!” I yelled. “We have dozens of ropes… it’s not worth the risk!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>“No I’ll up-rap real quick,” he explained. “I don’t want to leave ropes littering the tower.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“I don’t give a shit what you think! I want to get the hell out of here NOW! Leave the ropes! We have 100s of ropes!” I was out of my mind with fear and frustration. I also was so afraid of JT up-raping the scary thin tag line and it cutting. I was completely overcome with the ghastly vision of his body hurling past me and exploding 50 feet below where I helplessly hung. JT wasn’t going to leave the ropes, though, and quickly set off, up-rapping the 150 feet back to the stuck knot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“I will never climb with you again you shithead jackass unless you leave the goddamn mother-fucking ropes!” I sobbed in a crazed, insane, hysterical voice. “We have millions of ropes!” (I’m certain I have never behaved this badly in my life.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“It’s okay baby, don’t yell at me, I’m almost to the knot.” He said in an assuring, yet ineffective manner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Screw you! I’m going to unclip and down climb to the ground! I can’t deal with this anymore!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Don’t do that baby… that’s too dangerous.” He cooed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Poor guy, not only did he have a rappel epic to contend with, he now had a mental case to counsel. I didn’t unclip, instead, I waited for what seemed an eternity for JT to free the knot, rap back down to his anchors, re-pull the ropes, until finally both ends of the ropes reached the ground.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We didn’t talk to each other much as JT coiled the ropes and we walked back to the jug out. As I jugged and hauled more than my share (I was feeling extremely guilty for how I acted), I thought about how climbing can bring out the very best of you and the very worst. And that although the thought of losing the person you love most can make you insane, one of the bonuses in loving that someone, is learning to become a better human being by that person’s example. </p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-74683996832119958662007-10-22T14:58:00.000-07:002007-10-22T15:11:18.809-07:00Everything I Know I Learned from Sue McDevitt<p class="MsoNormal">There aren’t too many memories I retain from when I very first learned to climb 15 years ago.<span style=""> </span>One, exceptionally vivid memory is of sitting on the pot, reading a Climbing magazine article and being completely captivated by a cover feature about Sue McDevitt.<span style=""> </span>WHY? She lived in the Valley, did big walls and climbed cracks.<span style=""> </span>She seemed so bad ass.<span style=""> </span>Fast forward five years, I was at the tradeshow and met Sue at the Black Diamond booth.<span style=""> </span>I cheekily introduced myself and announced, trying desperately to sound cool, that I was “coming to the Valley.”<span style=""> </span>She unpretentiously offered that I call her when I was there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The next day, as I packed my van in the driveway, my boyfriend nervously asked what I was doing.<span style=""> </span>When I told him I was going to the Valley, he shrugged and mumbled something about discussing it first with him.<span style=""> </span>Sue invited me to come climb with her and I wasn’t going to let a single unnecessary second pass before I got there.<span style=""> </span>Eighteen hours later, I was enjoying a glass of red wine with Sue McDevitt—the Sue McDevitt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zy__C5Q-YRViwLiaSpym2XoY02f5GKCXtUwC6O1u6o2YfBUxr3YQilnQ79c-dX-8iFBGeBcjfP-a3uFg7OCAogF0l_-EDyKuExFRB1kKPCDe73pOCmYh7ngI0gQuiFTqnGD-9dbgdVo/s1600-h/Sue+and+Brittany.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zy__C5Q-YRViwLiaSpym2XoY02f5GKCXtUwC6O1u6o2YfBUxr3YQilnQ79c-dX-8iFBGeBcjfP-a3uFg7OCAogF0l_-EDyKuExFRB1kKPCDe73pOCmYh7ngI0gQuiFTqnGD-9dbgdVo/s320/Sue+and+Brittany.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124287054294353010" border="0" /></a>Problem was, despite the fact that I had aspired to climb the famed routes of <st1:place st="on">Yosemite</st1:place> and I was a solid 5.12 sport climber, I had only led three gear pitches in my life.<span style=""> </span>The next day we were on the Rostrum.<span style=""> </span>I was too intimidated to confess the truth, so I took the rack pitch after pitch, gulped at each placement and managed to do the route.<span style=""> </span>Although she has never admitted it, I’m certain she sensed my inadequacies and steered me accordingly. Throughout the next month we climbed nearly every day, long free routes and my first real wall route, sharing a single portaledge, eating beans straight from the can and sipping carefully measured out tequila from a Nalgene.<span style=""> </span>She shared stories from her early days in the Valley, climbing with the various partners and subsequent epics, which included getting benighted on the route, a forced bivy in a tree and her partner, another girl, peeing her pants during the night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sure, Sue taught me how to how to trad climb, aid climb, and how to rack, but more importantly, she taught me lessons that have guided me throughout my life as a climber:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">• <span style=""> </span>How to tolerate guests--Whenever I am tempted to freak out on dossing dirtbags in my house, I remember that I lived at Sue’s for TWO months and never once did she vibe me for leaving a dish in the sink or drinking the last beer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">•<span style=""> </span>How to trust your husband--When Sue was out of town, Dan, her husband, and I slept in the same portaledge for five nights on El Cap.<span style=""> </span>Now, if a tinge of jealousy creeps in when my boyfriend volunteers to spot a young hottie, I let it go. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">•<span style=""> </span>How to raise a child--In today’s world of overbearing, overprotective and inattentive parenting, it is refreshing to see Maykala, now eight, thrive despite being raised at the crag, running feral, playing naked in the garden and sampling Fancy Feast cat food.<span style=""> </span>Plus, she’s an exceptional artist and can do a one arm.<span style=""> </span>Seriously.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Other lessons include:<span style=""> </span>How to be humble… how to drink a bottle of wine and still get up the next morning to climb Astroman… how to make incredible pasta sauce, how to build an outside shower, how to outright own two properties in California, one with 40 acres and one 15 miles from Yosemite, building the homes with bare hands—all the while maintaining “the life of a climbing bum.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>More than eight years have gone by since those early days spent with Sue. I had let five years pass without climbing with her at all.<span style=""> </span>Now, she is a mother and I have multiple jobs and my enthusiasm for the Valley has waned.<span style=""> </span>But it really isn’t so simple to blame my lax attitude with the Valley and spending time with her on that.<span style=""> </span>It is much more nostalgic.<span style=""> </span>God willing, we all experience “The Glory Days”—whether it occurs in high school, college or, in my case, the beginnings as a well-rounded climber.<span style=""> </span>What made those times so meaningful then and so bittersweet now is the very fact that they were so extraordinary and seminal.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I’m not really avoiding her because I’m afraid of things not being the same, but more out of respect that they won’t.<span style=""> </span>So many times, as an itinerant climber, you connect with exceptional people, have amazing times with them, say good-bye and NEVER see or hear from them again.<span style=""> </span>I guess that is what separates Sue from the mundanely special.<span style=""> </span><br /><o:p><br /></o:p>There are important lessons one learns from being a climber that directly apply to life.<span style=""> </span>Many of these values I acquired from Sue. </p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-57436454961779143192007-09-17T13:03:00.000-07:002007-09-17T13:06:59.269-07:00Flipflop<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“It’s a shirt.” I contested. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Ma’am, remove your jacket.” He said, again.<span style=""> </span>I wondered what kind of mark on my already marred TSA record would result in calling a security agent a pervert.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I stood half naked in a sports bra.<span style=""> </span>Unflappable, he gestured toward my feet.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Your shoes” he said flatly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>Now I was pissed.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>“They’re flip-flops!”<span style=""> </span>I spat, unable to hold my tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Ma’am, please step over there”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">He pointed to the enclosed glass corral for problem passengers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Female assist!”<span style=""> </span>He hollered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>Now I was screwed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>I waited in the black plastic chair, flip-flops obediently placed in the outline of feet in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>Now I was late.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>Eventually, the woman with the wand waddled up and looked down her nose at my feet.<span style=""> </span>They were filthy from a week spent in the dirt at Tahquitz.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">BEEP!<span style=""> </span>The wand responded as she waved it over my right foot, detecting the twelve screws and metal plate.<span style=""> </span>I pointed out the six-inch surgical scar and after considerable consideration, she released me.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Have a nice day (delay)”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>I grabbed my laptop and Ipod, and leapt into a sprint toward terminal 8, gate 88.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>A gap opened up ahead.<span style=""> </span>In haste, I went for the hole shot and stepped in the puddle of spilled smoothie everyone else was avoiding.<span style=""> </span>The sticky residue produced a rhythmic crackling sound each time my foot lifted from the floor.<span style=""> </span>My breaths came in open-mouthed gasps as I raced to the beat of slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip; slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip.<span style=""> </span>I imagined O.J. Simpson.<span style=""> </span>My left arm, which clutched my laptop, pumped faster.<span style=""> </span>I hurdled the outstretched power cord of a charging cell phone.<span style=""> </span>I overtook a portly bike cop on a straightaway.<span style=""> </span>I disruptively burst through the line at Starbucks.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">At the end of the terminal, the bouncing, illuminated vision of ‘GATE 88’ grew larger.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>As the last confirmed passenger to board, I collapsed into seat 34C.<span style=""> </span>Ironically, I was still only wearing my sports bra.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-36330372024489930892007-09-17T13:00:00.000-07:002007-09-17T13:53:59.819-07:00Trade Show Mania<p class="MsoNormal">Feeling a slightly uneasy nostalgia, I entered the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Salt</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> the Monday before the tradeshow.<span style=""> </span>The lights were dim, crates were scattered everywhere, heavy machinery beeped and competing boom boxes scratched out every genre of music.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been to eighteen Outdoor Retailers.<span style=""> </span>I’ve arrived in planes, box vans, Uhauls, a 1976 RV, and countless road trip vehicles.<span style=""> </span>This time, however, I drove my own vehicle the ten blocks from my house.<span style=""> </span>That’s right, after all the years of dissin’ <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Salt</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I now live here.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQARK-fNXR8yJStNGqpastsqv-qbkPNgpoy_0eGIMPDDElVE-iM-qT3AEURr7MAsWZB_ZkjHcdYUEJOzy-lxkouCmTVExD6KaefWmO8HUJPDzxAooyte3rgm9S9h7P-MCeSMQeJXi5FDA/s1600-h/IMG_0262-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQARK-fNXR8yJStNGqpastsqv-qbkPNgpoy_0eGIMPDDElVE-iM-qT3AEURr7MAsWZB_ZkjHcdYUEJOzy-lxkouCmTVExD6KaefWmO8HUJPDzxAooyte3rgm9S9h7P-MCeSMQeJXi5FDA/s320/IMG_0262-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111278754218044610" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I self elected myself to design and take charge of the AAC booth for this show.<span style=""> </span>My vision was to erect a mini library.<span style=""> </span>One of the greatest assets of the AAC, in my opinion, is the library, and I wanted to take that theme and design the booth with that in mind.<span style=""> </span>I wanted it to be a cool hang for people to relax and browse through old climbing publications and discuss who had the better mullet, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill, most outrageous lycra, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Because of budgetary constraints, I didn’t have much to work with so I did the best I could.<span style=""> </span>My boyfriend came home from work after the first day of setup and exclaimed, “Where’s all our living room furniture?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Wednesday before the show started we hosted an eclectic group of friends including:<span style=""> </span>Phil Powers, Jim Donini, Jack Tackle, Russ Clune, Lynn Hill (and her Mom), Christian Griffith (aka, Verve), Timmy Oneill, Ivo Ninov, Ammon McNeely, Joe Kindner, Dave Graham, Patagonia, Prana, Petzl, TNF, Black Diamond and our next door neighbor, Joe, a Vietnam vet from Guatemala.<span style=""> </span>Needless to say, this was not the most restful or detoxifying way to start the show.<span style=""> </span>Over the course of the four days of the show, we had personalities come by for ‘Story Time’.<span style=""> </span>Lynn Hill, Heidi Wirtz, Ivo and Ammon, and Chris Lindner all came by to share stories, videos, pictures and gossip.<span style=""> </span>And of course, there were the old guys, Jim Donini and Jim McCarthy (who devotedly manned the booth most of the time).<span style=""> </span>Also seen and heard were Ed Viesteurs, Conrad Anker and Jim Bridwell.<span style=""> </span>We even smuggled in a case of 3.2 Pabst (oh no we dih-int)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This year’s bouldering comp was held on top of the Shilo Inn’s parking garage, which turned out to be a fantastic location with a record attendance.<span style=""> </span>Located right across the street from the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Salt</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>, folks started assembling as soon as the beer started flowing.<span style=""> </span>The wall faced south, the temps were in the 90s and the women finalists started at 6pm.<span style=""> </span>Conditions were not crisp.<span style=""> </span>The women were HOT!<span style=""> </span>And I do mean HOT—half of the competitors wore Verve’s barely-there boom-boom shorts and teeny tiny micro-bras.<span style=""> </span>And let me tell you, they wore them well.<span style=""> </span>No way my mother would have let me out the door when I was 14 wearing that get up.<span style=""> </span>For the men, who were unfortunately dressed more modestly (baggy shorts, boo-hoo), new AAC member Chris Sharma, took first.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6qEbx23dU1oJz45G-xC9p7S0spO3ISBUuBpKSThvpl-eiU38YGXsilr4cvQ5qJpv3jsfK98A1aFtpGQKjIwdpKAKll8iBt3gODxmZJctFiFMqDXVbWOhekPbtM26qXrQ1rEI0MKNzaE/s1600-h/IMG_0270.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6qEbx23dU1oJz45G-xC9p7S0spO3ISBUuBpKSThvpl-eiU38YGXsilr4cvQ5qJpv3jsfK98A1aFtpGQKjIwdpKAKll8iBt3gODxmZJctFiFMqDXVbWOhekPbtM26qXrQ1rEI0MKNzaE/s320/IMG_0270.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111279046275820754" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A crazy after party was held at Club Sound where I had the occasion to meet yet another member from the Lynn Hill family.<span style=""> </span>Her brother Tom owns the place.<span style=""> </span>This normally means free drinks, but thing is, drinks were already free!<span style=""> </span>Mammut, <st1:place st="on">EMS</st1:place> and Revolution really know how to throw a party.<span style=""> </span>Did I mention the cage dancers?<span style=""> </span>Although I still maintain the women’s finalists were hotter.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-17734203238030385382007-08-20T11:33:00.000-07:002007-08-20T12:15:38.675-07:00Idyllwild, 2007We were supposed to drive to Cabo.<span style=""> </span>JT didn’t have a job and wanted to make the most of his month of unemployment.<span style=""> </span>We were down in <st1:city st="on">Ventura</st1:city>, spending a few days in the offices of <st1:place st="on">Patagonia</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>I woke up the first morning with a hot, blistering, painful rash the shape of <st1:place st="on">Asia</st1:place> spread over my left lat.<span style=""> </span>“Looks like armpit herpes” Jonathan offered.<span style=""> </span>Our friend Rob, whose house we were staying at, looked at my condition and winced.<span style=""> </span>“You should go to the emergency room, I’m going to physical therapy in ten minutes, it’s right next door.”<span style=""> </span>Still convinced it was an allergic reaction to my sports bra, I waited patiently on the emergency room bed, furiously texting and emailing on my BlackBerry, trying to ignore the groans from the next room where the unfortunate patient was being talked through a catheter insertion.<span style=""> </span>After 45 minutes, the doctor came in, took a peek behind my gown and said flatly, “Shingles.”<span style=""> </span>Thoroughly disgusted, without even knowing what shingles were, the picture of the filthy bed I slept in for two weeks in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Morocco</st1:place></st1:country-region> came to mind.<span style=""> </span>“Kind of like adult chicken pox, but much more painful.” The doctor explained.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal">This, coupled with horror stories from YC about head on collisions and muggings at gunpoint,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhDW_TVE3os2OjLEHA8nt3US-xqzqlhVzP97hyphenhyphenOM0M3Ifh0LUf4ev7K7xl74gfMh6vX1RBH21-4jmUhGAqFvNhgRV7yHQrEhVRNy5-o8fnr2wIXlf_0wFhqZ6vvxzzbDSnuw6955hz2Y/s1600-h/JT+Vampire.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhDW_TVE3os2OjLEHA8nt3US-xqzqlhVzP97hyphenhyphenOM0M3Ifh0LUf4ev7K7xl74gfMh6vX1RBH21-4jmUhGAqFvNhgRV7yHQrEhVRNy5-o8fnr2wIXlf_0wFhqZ6vvxzzbDSnuw6955hz2Y/s320/JT+Vampire.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100861971876066578" border="0" /></a> lessened my enthusiasm on our impending road trip through Baja.<span style=""> </span>I scanned my mental catalog of southern <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> climbing areas that would appeal to JT.<span style=""> </span>Hmmm, he was banned from Joshua Tree for another six months…then I thought, Idyllwild!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we departed <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Ventura</st1:place></st1:city>, YC left us with a chuckle and sadistic grin, “Beware of the 5.8s”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The authors of the guide book, Bob Gaines and Randy Vogel write, “The History of Tahquitz Rock as a climbing area dates back to the earliest beginnings of technical rock climbing in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>Many of the first 5.8, 5.9, 5.10, 5.11 and 5.12 climbs in the country were established here by many of the sport’s great innovators.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I also read that it was here where Chuck Wilts, Royal Robbins and Don Wilson devised the modern “Decimal System” during the 1950s.<span style=""> </span>Tahquitz local Mark Powell became one of the early Yosemite climbing bums and is credited by some with introducing the decimal system to the Valley, thus giving <st1:place st="on">Yosemite</st1:place> credit for the innovation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Simply put, every route at Tahquitz is a sandbag.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day one</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sundance, 5.10b.<span style=""> </span>Described in the guide as ‘a scenic cruise up the Sunshine Face’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pitch one—a wide, 5.9 layback, un-protectable without a six friend.<span style=""> </span>We didn’t have one.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pitch two—crux pitch.<span style=""> </span>Having barely reached the crux protection bolt and technically not weighting the rope, I slid six feet down the slab back onto the belay ledge.<span style=""> </span>I spit scrub the edge of my shoes and then 5.12 crimp past the abysmally thin 5.10 crux only to be terrorized by the remaining 150ft. of scarcely (3 bolts) protected, and equally un-featured, ‘5.9’ slab.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pitch three—JT backs off a 10a thin ‘crack’ version and opts for a 10b face finish.<span style=""> </span>After a lot of wobbling and cursing, he gets to the belay.<span style=""> </span>I follow, shrieking when the rope has even an inch of slack. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This route was done in 1967.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day two</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Vampire, 5.11a, “A fantastic line that achieves magnificent position, perhaps Tahquitz’s finest route”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pitch one—It takes me over an hour to lead the 10d Bat Crack.<span style=""> </span>I barely barely barely do it without falling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pitch two—we get stormed off (it was a little windy) and bail.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This route was done in 1973</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day three—Beer deck in town.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of the best things about climbing trips is meeting the locals and today we had the good fortune of meeting Clark Jacobs.<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> is small in stature, has salt and pepper bushy hair and mustache, and a deeply creased brown face. But behind his endearing smile and bashful eyes, live hundreds of outrageous stories.<span style=""> </span>One such tale involved a stray vial of coke found at the base of a new boulder problem. <span style=""> </span>Not confessing as to whether or not he indulged, he defended, “It was the 80s!”<span style=""> </span>He described one partner as being so slow that, “It took her two hours to watch 60 Minutes!”<span style=""> </span>Recounting epics, whippers and strippers, he had us hysterical for the next four beers.<span style=""> </span>During a slight lull in the debauchery, <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> sighed wistfully and said, “Ah, then there was Lynn Hill.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What’s this <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place>, you know Lynn Hill?!”<span style=""> </span>I asked, with exaggerated interest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I kissed her one night, a long time ago.”<span style=""> </span>He sheepishly whispered and added, “but she probably wouldn’t remember.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQRSjkwu653fkc34YXIVdSgwyNH9ssR_x6wOEBM5ZOP4dHrqnfQYmzSZyFENXy_GKmoutFrYFksU7I0DBggZhoL-wyq0W6236PNQF2QUrEFIHVA8FaSIFeZwOwwr-C_eVjQf2usBxkbg/s1600-h/Insomnia+Crack.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQRSjkwu653fkc34YXIVdSgwyNH9ssR_x6wOEBM5ZOP4dHrqnfQYmzSZyFENXy_GKmoutFrYFksU7I0DBggZhoL-wyq0W6236PNQF2QUrEFIHVA8FaSIFeZwOwwr-C_eVjQf2usBxkbg/s320/Insomnia+Crack.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100862397077828898" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, let’s give her a call and see if she does!”<span style=""> </span>I gleefully offered.<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> paled when I speed dialed her on my cell.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She answered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Lynnie!<span style=""> </span>I’m at the bar in Idyllwild and there is a guy here named <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> who thinks you wouldn’t remember kissing him 25 years ago!”<span style=""> </span>I blabbered in a boozie bawl.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Luckily or unluckily, she remembered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah!<span style=""> </span>A short Latino guy!<span style=""> </span>I was a little drunk!<span style=""> </span>Tell him ‘hi’!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> blushed and appeared delighted. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a couple more Sierra Nevadas, we attempted to get <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> to agree to climb The Vampire with us the next day.<span style=""> </span>He had climbed it dozens of times in the past, but felt he wasn’t in proper shape to do it now.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Come on!”<span style=""> </span>I pleaded.<span style=""> </span>“It will be so much fun!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, I’d just slow you down.”<span style=""> </span>He said with quiet nostalgia.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">With more drunken enthusiasm, we got him to a ‘maybe’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I surreptitiously paid the entire bar tab and JT and I headed off to our campsite.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Bye <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place>!<span style=""> </span>See you tomorrow morning!”<span style=""> </span>We both knew we wouldn’t.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At the summit of The Vampire, JT and I sat there for a good long time.<span style=""> </span>I squinted down at town, imagining <st1:place st="on">Clark</st1:place> looking up from the beer deck, watching over us and smiling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-7573059551087473032007-07-30T08:11:00.000-07:002007-07-30T08:14:23.592-07:00The Old Man's Torso<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Russians are endowed with the native facility of making the best of what would be disastrous for anyone else.”—Eric Newby, The Big Red Train Ride.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p>The old man’s torso, Santa Claus face, ragged Orlando Magic baseball cap and Members Only nylon jacket, disappeared down the slab.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jonathan who stood nearer, cried, “He fell!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Nooo, there’s no falling here.<span style=""> </span>We were 300 feet up.<span style=""> </span>But he was gone and it was silent. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">What is happening?<span style=""> </span>I was suspended between a moment of disbelief and reality.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Oleg, the old man’s son, broke the silence with eerie laughter, pointing down a gaping chimney.<span style=""> </span>Thirty feet down was Valery, stuffed to a stop, leg bloodied, but not dead.<span style=""> </span>He wrestled his way back up and tackled the very same slab he had moments before slipped off.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In a frantic panic to escape the ledge and the several other climbers assembled there, I scratched up the same 5.9 slab to the summit.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The summit, however, offered little serenity.<span style=""> </span>There were dozens of people, most of them ‘tourists’ in shabby sneakers or barefoot, who had come up various other routes, scrambling about un-roped, with seemingly little regard for the exposure and potential disaster.<span style=""> </span>This was crazy!<span style=""> </span>John, in his southern drawl said, “Man, this shit would be illegal in the States!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Although we had seen pictures and heard stories of the happenings of Stolby before coming here, I, myself, had never fully grasped the reality of it all.<span style=""> </span>Imagine dozens of people, toddlers to elderly, some with picnics, others with guitars, young boys with eager young girls, families of three generations and Russian climbing champions, all congregated on this beautiful, Siberian Indian summer afternoon, some three hundred feet off the deck.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p><br />An hour later—<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We reached the ground.<span style=""> </span>This was the other terrifying part of climbing in Stolby; no ropes meant no rappels.<span style=""> </span>We had to down climb everything.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I stood waiting near the base for Jonathan, John and our Russian friends.<span style=""> </span>I looked up a hundred feet at the three-foot high Cyrillic letters painted on the main face.<span style=""> </span>I was told the graffiti translated meant “Freedom” and had been there for over a hundred years.<span style=""> </span>I realized that the taiga forest we were in had provided a freedom, of sorts, for Soviet/Russian people for over 150 years.<span style=""> </span>I also thought about the fact that there was a time, not too long ago, in the era of Gulags, that <st1:place st="on">Siberia</st1:place> was synonymous with death.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p><br />Jonathan joined me and we waited for John, who is constantly fumbling around with camera cases and lenses, to stumble down.<span style=""> </span>Meanwhile, I watched the continuous parade of people ascending the rock.<span style=""> </span>I heard a loud thud and turned to see something brown hit a ledge, hard, and disappear into the trees, out of view, but again heard a loud thud as it hit the ground.<span style=""> </span>My consciousness told me it was a pack.<span style=""> </span>Minutes later, I saw someone running through the foliage toward the area where the pack landed.<span style=""> </span>Jonathan had surreptitiously walked off.<span style=""> </span>More people started running and I heard a shriek.<span style=""> </span>Other people spoke in hushed Russian as they continued down the trail.<span style=""> </span>Two of our Russian friends were on cell phones.<span style=""> </span>Where was Jonathan!<span style=""> </span>I started to worry and slowly walked toward the place, near the cliff, where a few people were standing.<span style=""> </span>Two of our Russian guides were crouched down in the brush, Jonathan stood just behind.<span style=""> </span>“Jonath..” I whispered.<span style=""> </span>He shook his head at me and pointed back up the hill.<span style=""> </span>His pained expression and wet eyes told me it wasn’t a pack.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p>We have five more days of climbing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-58815953914335782162007-07-17T07:54:00.000-07:002007-07-17T08:10:37.252-07:00Teton Climbers Week<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.americanalpineclub.org/images/GTCR-sign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.americanalpineclub.org/images/GTCR-sign.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I had only been to the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch once before.<span style=""> </span>It was two summers ago.<span style=""> </span>I had come to climb the</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> Cathedral traverse with Jack Tackle.<span style=""> </span>When I asked Jack what time we were heading out in the morning, he said in his deep, thoughtful voice, “Two would be good”<span style=""> </span>Two!<span style=""> </span>The only good thing I knew about 2am was ordering a drink during last call.<span style=""> </span>Needless to say, I arrived at the ranch in the dark and departed in the dark, spending less than three hours in my bunk.</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">This week wouldn’t be a typical climbing trip, however.<span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Since I am the AAC’s director of fun and games, camp cook and den mother, I was very busy tracking down slideshow presenters, preparing Mediterranean couscous salad, tapping kegs and doing dishes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">But my biggest anxiety was the fact that someone sorry sucker had paid $150 to climb with me.<span style=""> </span>‘Climb With’ day </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">was a fundraiser for the club.<span style=""> </span>Members could make a donation and have Jim Donini, <st1:personname st="on">Phil Powers</st1:personname>, <st1:personname st="on">Charley Mace</st1:personname> or Josh Wharton for the day.<span style=""> </span>Apparently, I was the first to be booked.<span style=""> </span>A wife requested me for her husband’s birthday present.<span style=""> </span>This was sounding weirder and weirder.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, I hope he wanted to go bouldering.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Mertaughs, Tom, Karen and son Ryan arrived Sunday afternoon.<span style=""> </span>I detected Midwest accents immediately and told them I was from <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style=""> </span>Their faces lit up when Drew, the ranch manager, introduced me.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“<st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Brittany</st1:place></st1:state>!<span style=""> </span>We are going climbing with you tomorrow!”<span style=""> </span>So these were the sorry suckers.<span style=""> </span>“Grrrreat!”<span style=""> </span>I feigned enthusiasm.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“What would you like to do?”<span style=""> </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4fYl0kM814GRlPmhNpxyG2aUmTpOFSBMwugtL3rjBIKrOGerF_5a7fdXzNoPb4OvcXRLVNSeM9aPh8UD42tMqhbfv3glfRBD9pnjO_W4SMaDXYENcB7GCowg8n0JNq-7OxHEYokieNs/s1600-h/GTCR_dorms.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4fYl0kM814GRlPmhNpxyG2aUmTpOFSBMwugtL3rjBIKrOGerF_5a7fdXzNoPb4OvcXRLVNSeM9aPh8UD42tMqhbfv3glfRBD9pnjO_W4SMaDXYENcB7GCowg8n0JNq-7OxHEYokieNs/s320/GTCR_dorms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088181849041605010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Arial;">Please say bouldering please say bouldering, I silently prayed to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Well, I was thinking Armed Robbery.”<span style=""> </span>Tom said with a big giant <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Michigan</st1:place></st1:state> smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“HA!”<span style=""> </span>Drew laughed aloud.<span style=""> </span>He was well aware of how intimidated I was by the Tetons.<span style=""> </span>Let me explain.<span style=""> </span>I, with the exception of hiking Teewinot and Owen, had never climbed here.<span style=""> </span>The climbing didn’t scare me as much as the approaches and route finding did,<span style=""> </span>and, oh,<span style=""> </span>that I’m not a guide.<span style=""> </span>A friend cleverly described the routes here as ‘for every mile you hike, you get to climb that many pitches.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Why are you laughing, Drew?”<span style=""> </span>I asked nervously.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">“Uh, that’s like a five hour hike, and I don’t know anyone who has done it…” I gulped and excused myself.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>I found Jack at the keg.<span style=""> </span>He immediately sensed my trepidation.<span style=""> </span>I explained the situation.<span style=""> </span>Normally, when Jack and I climb, our roles are quite clear.<span style=""> </span>I am the rope gun and he is the approach gun.<span style=""> </span>So Jack knows full well how hopeless I am at route finding and other critical details of adventure climbing.<span style=""> </span>But Good Ole Uncle Jack put his arm around me (hmm) and reassured me he would take care of it.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /><br /></o:p>As I introduced Jack to Tom and Ryan, I could read their star struck expressions, ‘Oh My God!<span style=""> </span>That’s JACK TACKLE!’<span style=""> </span>Too bad Jack had a sales meeting the next day and couldn’t be my approach bitch.<span style=""> </span>(He would have generously done it, too.)<span style=""> </span>Instead, he rubbed his mustache and in his sonorous tone said, “Now, this is what you want to do…”</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rlMea9VB9Wm5yZSNnsb5VQfeiZVqOQNGprjbnjza7c-r8relwU45Vu5fxgXqwtgMKxJHM3GGUn3GNAiKYjjWfK8XkVQaNGAdLAKVGKOToArhj5CkVAxaZw2mvaVcfnlmOUZEcdb2RcM/s1600-h/AAC%2520004%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rlMea9VB9Wm5yZSNnsb5VQfeiZVqOQNGprjbnjza7c-r8relwU45Vu5fxgXqwtgMKxJHM3GGUn3GNAiKYjjWfK8XkVQaNGAdLAKVGKOToArhj5CkVAxaZw2mvaVcfnlmOUZEcdb2RcM/s320/AAC%2520004%5B1%5D.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088182708035064226" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">In the end, he convinced them that they did not want to climb some obscure, long, chossy beast, but in fact do Guides Wall.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">A boat ride?<span style=""> </span>A hike under two hours?<span style=""> </span>Good rock?<span style=""> </span>Clean cracks?<span style=""> </span>Rappels?<span style=""> </span>Back to the keg by five?<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.<span style=""> </span>AND, they both agreed that that was what they wanted to do.<span style=""> </span>Jack’s Jedi Mind Trick worked!<span style=""> </span>Still, this was the Tetons, not Rifle, and it was quite possible I wouldn’t even be able to find the boat dock at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Jenny</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Lake</st1:placename></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Jack’s level of thoughtfulness went a step further when he diligently hand drew me a topo, which, to my delight, included not only the route, rappel route, approach, but also the left, right, left turns out of the Ranch parking lot to get me to the Jenny Lake parking lot.<span style=""> </span>How sweet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>The next morning, we promptly made it on the 7am boat.<span style=""> </span>We squeezed past tourists and began the hike.<span style=""> </span>I clutched Jack’s super topo in my sweaty hands and compulsively looked down at it every 30 seconds.<span style=""> </span>‘Get to inspiration point, hike to a small lake, head up talus to base of route’.<span style=""> </span>I could handle that.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Oh god, a tee in the trail.<span style=""> </span>I pretended not to look at the sign with arrows pointing in the correct direction.<span style=""> </span>I filled the tense air with small talk, what did they do, what was Ryan studying at school, what was their favorite place to climb.<span style=""> </span>Shit, did I pass the lake?<span style=""> </span>Oh Jesus, an enormous moose was standing in the middle of the trail, twenty feet ahead.<span style=""> </span>Ah, do we turn around?<span style=""> </span>Tom was a veterinary so I asked him to please advise.<span style=""> </span>But, just as dreams of margaritas on the deck at Dornan’s danced in my head, the moose yielded and we continued.<span style=""> </span>I began to look up the slope at the cliffs, but all I discerned were great sections of broken, ledgey, crumbling crap.<span style=""> </span>How in the hell am I to find this route?<span style=""> </span>A line of chalked holds? Shining bolt hangers?<span style=""> </span>Blue tape?<span style=""> </span>Perhaps I would be able to get through this with my personality. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>“Isn’t this just so fun?”<span style=""> </span>I ventured.<span style=""> </span>“I think it is so much more of a enriching experience when the guide hasn’t done the route and we all get to participate in the finding of the climb” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Bullshit.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>“Now, well there’s a crack, a bush, some ledges, some trees and another crack.<span style=""> </span>That could be our climb.”<span style=""> </span>I offered hopefully.<span style=""> </span>But then again, just like reading your horoscope, you see/believe what you want.<span style=""> </span>We charged up hill.<span style=""> </span>I thought I might have seen a cairn.<span style=""> </span>I scanned the dirt for dot rubber tread marks, tape balls, anything to prove that climbers might have been on this trail recently.<span style=""> </span>We reached the base of a wall.<span style=""> </span>I dropped my cragging pack and started scanning the wall for a fixed pin.<span style=""> </span>Found it!<span style=""> </span>Ecstatic, I tied in, booted up and eagerly climbed to the piton, hoping the terrain I was covering was 5.7<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">For the next three hours we climbed steep clean rock, splitter cracks and belayed on sprawling, sunny ledges.<span style=""> </span>Like a parent marveling at their baby’s first steps, I proudly watched Tom and Ryan thrust their virgin, Midwestern hands into cracks.<span style=""> </span>Every wince and grunt made me smile.<span style=""> </span>It was a magical day of climbing and I was having a brilliant time.<span style=""> </span>Tom arrived at the last belay, breathless and beaming.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p>“Happy Birthday.”<span style=""> </span>I said to him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:12;" >“Thank-you, Jack.”<span style=""> </span>I said to myself.</span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-84115185567016468672007-06-19T10:45:00.000-07:002007-06-19T10:52:52.315-07:00This cannot be the right train...<span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >This cannot be the right train.<span style=""> </span>We wanted to go to Adrspach, not Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood.<span style=""> </span>We reluctantly boarded the single car train and chugged off.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>There were stares, giggles and shaking heads by the other passengers.<span style=""> </span>An official looking man wearing a funny hat approached our bench and flatly said something in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Czech.</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style=""> </span>Uhhh, the three of us looked at each other.<span style=""> </span>Did he say ‘tickets please’ or ‘this train is going to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>’.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p>Jonathan, a clas</span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">sic, Big Loud American Male, cracked a Pilsner and plugged into his Ipod.</span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">John Dickey, the quintessential absent-minded sensitive artist, fumbled and fretted over camera cases and lenses.</span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I sighed.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p>“Otter spock” the man said as the train slowed an hour later.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p>Hmmm, could that be the pronunciation of Adrspach?<span style=""> </span>We took our chances and unloaded.<span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:";" >The place was a ghost town.<span style=""> </span>Eerie and menacing grey rock towers guarded the village.<span style=""> </span>We struggled down the main (only) street each hefting 70 pound bags on our backs for the next twenty minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Where’s the pub?”<span style=""> </span>I whined.<span style=""> </span>Jonathan, attempting to document my meltdown on video, tripped on a cobblestone and lay capsized in the street.<span style=""> </span>Dickey, hypoglycemic, couldn’t even laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >We eventually found our apartment and ditched our bags.<span style=""> </span>With renewed enthusiasm, we ques</span><span style=";font-family:";" >ted out into the myriad of the legendary dangerous sandstone pillars.<span style=""> </span>There were over a thousand, each unique in shape, height and character, but all with the same renowned reputation.<span style=""> </span>We had come to climb these monsters.<span style=""> </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWNwLNq118QVXyK-8hILNI7xgW8SIhRhZEmblZ-dBOq3tFz3VkOzTqw_JP1JWKO-et2HR8Gz6h3MM6VKN-PZcX3VAgt6N6ovIFbsdOqehvQ5NAo3oiK_ECUo1g09Unqw8DSlD52vYavo/s1600-h/Czech+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWNwLNq118QVXyK-8hILNI7xgW8SIhRhZEmblZ-dBOq3tFz3VkOzTqw_JP1JWKO-et2HR8Gz6h3MM6VKN-PZcX3VAgt6N6ovIFbsdOqehvQ5NAo3oiK_ECUo1g09Unqw8DSlD52vYavo/s400/Czech+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077833464910793730" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The climbing here was not for</span><span style=";font-family:";" > the timid.<span style=""> </span>Falling was usually not an option because of scarce fixed protection and the fact that other placements were knotted or threaded pieces of cord and webbing.<span style=""> </span>Without a guide or guidebook, we remained optimistic and went our separate ways into the maze seeking a line we could climb.<span style=""> </span>I was awed by the deep chasms and charmed by an idyllic spring.<span style=""> </span>Thick green moss framed something on the wall….A memorial plaque for perished climbers!<span style=""> </span>Spooked, I hightailed it back and found Dickey, who had previously been kidnapped and held hostage in Krykystan by rebels (true story), nervously rolling a cigarette.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Jonathan crashed through the trees into the somber scene and hollered, “Ho lee feckin sheet!<span style=""> </span>I didn’t see a single route I would be willing to lead!”<span style=""> </span>At least now I didn’t have to say it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“But, darling Brittany, I did find one for you!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“I’ll take photos</span><span style=";font-family:";" >!”<span style=""> </span>Dickey brightly offered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“I’ll write the story!” Jonathan, the handsome editor coerced.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“But we haven’t enough gear” I whimpered. We had ten quick draws, three shoulder length slings, and a piece of cordelette that I had been using as a camera strap.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Oh yes, we do.”<span style=""> </span>Jonathan said with a smirk. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Because of staunch, archaic local ethics, modern, high-tech (safe) metal gear was not allowed.<span style=""> </span>Fixed protection was scarce.<span style=""> </span>Bolts were rusty, doorknocker like rings attached to spikes hammered into the soft sandstone. Other than that, threads and knots were the norm. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I squinted up at the proposed line and mentally rehearsed a sequence [scenario?].<span style=""> </span>Ratchet fingers in small crack for fifteen feet, slot in camera strap knot for my first piece of protection, climb another fifteen feet, lasso a spike, continue on for an undetermined distance to a whitish jug.<span style=""> </span>That was as far as I could see and psychologically digest.<span style=""> </span>Oohh, I don’t want to be a rock climber today.<span style=""> </span>I was scared.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QzmyEmSMRUkua8P1K_yiHliwalzdNcmSGAuDfyLmcCsfBGGiVD7tLDsw5mjlWJg5jVRkKEVQrs5hlxMQ3G0y1ZeAZOrv7qBgL12G1t2s9obvWe9WvbDPQp3bdRKWljcFrsBD8Z7zXss/s1600-h/czech+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QzmyEmSMRUkua8P1K_yiHliwalzdNcmSGAuDfyLmcCsfBGGiVD7tLDsw5mjlWJg5jVRkKEVQrs5hlxMQ3G0y1ZeAZOrv7qBgL12G1t2s9obvWe9WvbDPQp3bdRKWljcFrsBD8Z7zXss/s400/czech+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077834177875364882" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Come on, <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Brittany</st1:place></st1:state>, you can do this” Jonathan said with such confidence and charm that I considered it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I took one last look at his man hands holding my useless rope and stepped onto the awaiting pitch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I wouldn’t be able to get in sufficient protection g</span><span style=";font-family:";" >ear for a while, so if I fell, I would deck.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Are you sure you can still catch me?”<span style=""> </span>I moaned, twenty feet up.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Yeah yeah, sure sure.”<span style=""> </span>He lied.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was afraid to look down to see just how small my Big Loud American Male spotter had become.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I fished the camera strap knot into the crack.<span style=""> </span>I pulled lightly on it to set it.<span style=""> </span>It came out.<span style=""> </span>Becoming increasingly more pumped, I placed it a little higher and this time didn’t test it.<span style=""> </span>I focused ahead on a big white hold.<span style=""> </span>I clawed and paddled up the gritty face to reach it.<span style=""> </span>It was filthy with bird poo.<span style=""> </span>Without a moment’s hesitation, I thrust my hand into the gooey hole, slapped the grimy ledge and stood up onto the refuge of the five-inch wide shelf.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I rested my cheek against the face and breathed heavily.<span style=""> </span>I cautiously tilted my head up toward the remaining terrain.<span style=""> </span>A wide, mawing crack continued to the summit.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I started up the crack.<span style=""> </span>It was wet.<span style=""> </span>I panicked and tried to reverse my </span><span style=";font-family:";" >moves back down to the ledge.<span style=""> </span>I blindly slid down with dangling feet and landed at my previous stance.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I swore with words that would have put a punk rock lyricist to shame and considered jumping.<span style=""> </span>But I could smell the pine tree on the summit.<span style=""> </span>I desperately wanted my rope (and arms) around its sturdy trunk.<span style=""> </span>In a blur, I reached the tree, and stood atop our first, albeit short, tower. I slumped against the pine and collapsed, saying out loud that I would never do that again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p>Six second passed before I was scanning the landscape for another summit....</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOe0BAdKvLivaGdbokKTCTNFJLemL4qXAYeeKjCrG2Tzm6v4dqHSEC32yhyphenhyphen0oCjaLzLWx3gnUIHhpt4qVyGTVHFnwv9t-GQygy6qjGpPvPFkn2ewPHiUuiH6ynRNN7lu5gqJ9RxG8dYw/s1600-h/czech+3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOe0BAdKvLivaGdbokKTCTNFJLemL4qXAYeeKjCrG2Tzm6v4dqHSEC32yhyphenhyphen0oCjaLzLWx3gnUIHhpt4qVyGTVHFnwv9t-GQygy6qjGpPvPFkn2ewPHiUuiH6ynRNN7lu5gqJ9RxG8dYw/s400/czech+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077834706156342306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-1110909488083436602007-05-25T10:34:00.000-07:002007-05-25T11:15:33.457-07:00BAG Recaps the New River Rendezvous<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgu8jd0EVKzSrBsYTCeNwQTKweo-GgCRfnu_ZpS6UgnJEZVfom9ZmxAndHGeHvlLnTmNxJNBQACchb-TjS9GV4dCcbLoDk8W8qSv17iKvdBWwes1khNvvoTCsMyoIqRp_RlYnhva2C3w/s1600-h/155199917_IMG_4157.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068563597292153138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgu8jd0EVKzSrBsYTCeNwQTKweo-GgCRfnu_ZpS6UgnJEZVfom9ZmxAndHGeHvlLnTmNxJNBQACchb-TjS9GV4dCcbLoDk8W8qSv17iKvdBWwes1khNvvoTCsMyoIqRp_RlYnhva2C3w/s320/155199917_IMG_4157.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It was that time of year again! The New River Gorge! What is it about the Southeast that I find so charming? It most certainly can’t be the humidity, bugs, surly cops, Tudor’s Biscuit World, or abundance of red necks (excuse me, I mean Appalachian American’s).<br /><br />Or maybe it is. After all, there’s nothing so endearing as local man folk holding the door for you at the CoMac and referring to you as ‘sugar’.<br /><br />This event, which I’ve been attending for the past five years, is my favorite climber’s gathering. It has all the ingredients of a successful event. Good organization, treatment of guest climbers and sponsors, laid back approach to this and some of the best climbing on earth. The free music, competitions, booze and pancakes boost the ratings as well. The venue is great. Show up, park your car, put up your tent and let the games begin. No need to get into your car for the rest of the weekend. Which means not having to secure your non-drinking friends or pregnant women as designated drivers.<br /><br />The festivities begin Friday night with Dessertapalooza.<br /><br />A diabetic’s nightmare of sweets set out on nearly a half acre of tables. Then the beer tent opens and slideshows begin. Don’t worry, there’s no death by slideshow here, the crowd is tough and won’t have it!<br /><br />Saturday sees a day of climbing for all.<br /><br />The vendors aren’t chained to the booth since the venue is conveniently closed, so we all get out there and get spanked on some exceptionally old school sandbags. I got spat off a 5.10, and then as though that blow wasn’t harsh enough, I tried a 12a that felt harder than most 13a’s I’ve done. But the thing is, no one gives a crap what the hell you are flogging yourself on, it’s all about good times with good friends and basking in the rainless atmosphere.<br /><br />Saturday night is the BIG night.<br /><br />Vendor booths open, the dinner line starts (this year it wrapped around nearly the entire circumference of the venue), the beer tent opens early, lots of spray swapin’ and Odub rapping on the mic.<br />The Little General (a sight to be seen in mutton-chops, faux Gucci sunglasses and trucker hat) commands the mic after dinner and chides the crowd into a frenzy during the Sumo Pad Wrestling matches and dyno comp.<br />Now that the Red Bull and Vodka tent has opened, hundreds of wrist-banded hopefuls wait patiently in line for the ultimate party elixir. Jacked up and inhibitions annihilated the dance floor comes alive around 11pm. This year’s band was AWESOME! A local band from Beckley who can cover and seamlessly mix Rush into the Smashing Pumpkins like nobody’s business. For the next three hours, the dance floor writhed and head banged with the ‘great unwashed’ from all generations (I have a fuzzy recollection of a foxy, barely of legal drinking age grinding on me during the rendition of Pat Benatar’s “Hell is for Children.”)<br /><br />Sunday afternoon; the calm after the storm.<br /><br />A skeleton of the event remains. Half disassembled EZ ups, piles of recycling, upside down tents drying in the sun and the hissing ashes of the bonfire silently stand tribute to the previous night’s carnage.<br /><br />Sunday night<br /><br />Those of us left drag our weary bodies, voices and enthusiasm to one last gathering at Pies and Pints. Some of us are showered, or have at least changed clothes, some managed enough energy for feeble attempts at climbing and some of us have come straight from the event take down. Here sit an anthology of climbers distilled down from the weekend’s crowd to some of my most favorite people in the world. Gene and Maura, Russ and Amy, Donini, Devaki, Achey, Mace, Malcom, Kenny and Elaina.<br />If it weren’t for the chance to spend one more night with these folks, I would have been happily passed out at the Quality Inn, drooling and snoring for the next 12 hours.<br /><br />Good-byes take 20 minutes. I hate good-byes so I surreptitiously leave and silently say my good-byes, which are not really good-bye, only see you next year.<br /><br />Friday, May 25, 2007<br /><br />And now, this very day, it is Time for me to say good-bye to yet another ‘home’. Good-bye City Market, good-bye Wells Fargo, good-bye airport, good-bye good friends and good bye 1601 Defiance, Carbondale, Colorado, 81623 (I had only just memorized the zip…)<br /><br />Always going somewhere means always leaving that somewhere. It’s the bitter sweetness of life on the road.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3518677337042838092.post-33227635691056353982007-05-10T09:22:00.000-07:002007-05-10T12:00:42.659-07:00Light and Fast, Lost and Lonely, and Freezing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1ZtD1HNNU1Mrf4yPrTqfYkEWCusvCkpxNdAURXKm1yzFyUiyHAE9-VEjh4KaYmLFXgIw9T-G7zXrmYZyXWx_fpMtayHjRAt2zcI9I36OrYRiM_Hdl_Ou15J5C58MMJ6UozKFbGIhfI0/s1600-h/BAGsmithrock.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1ZtD1HNNU1Mrf4yPrTqfYkEWCusvCkpxNdAURXKm1yzFyUiyHAE9-VEjh4KaYmLFXgIw9T-G7zXrmYZyXWx_fpMtayHjRAt2zcI9I36OrYRiM_Hdl_Ou15J5C58MMJ6UozKFbGIhfI0/s320/BAGsmithrock.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062968943144698898" border="0" /></a>“I thought we were sport-climbing in the Dihedrals?”<span style=""> </span>Steve asked as I heaved my bulging pack from the back of his shaggin wagon.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, that’s right” I wrestled the haul bag onto my back, casually forgoing buckling straps or waist belts.<span style=""> </span>He picked up his pack with one finger and deliberately adjusted it to his form.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I disapprovingly assessed his clothing.<span style=""> </span>Hyper high tech undersized pants three inches too short, exposing critically technical approach shoes, tightly laced.<span style=""> </span>On top he had some sort of wacky prototype R10.37 shiny shaggy fleecy thing stretched across his perfectly defined chest and biceps. I shook my head in mild disgust.<span style=""> </span>How could he not know that hemp jeans, threadbare cotton tees and bikini tops were protocol?<span style=""> </span>I scuffed down the trail in sloppy, unlaced sneakers checking my cell phone to see if I had any missed calls or texts.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>At the base of the climb, I upended my pack and dumped half of its contents in the dirt.<span style=""> </span>Quick draws, a Gri-gri, belay glove, harness, flip flops, beanie, shorts, wool cardigan, sun hat, sweat pants, ibuprofen, three types of lip balm, giant fake Gucci sunglasses, thermos, half eaten burrito, and four pairs of climbing shoes cascaded out of the big wall sized haul bag.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Four pairs of shoes?”<span style=""> </span>Steve yelped, uncontrollably astonished.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yee-ahh” I coolly responded.<span style=""> </span>“One for warm-ups, a pair you are currently trying to break in, your red-point pair, and a prototype pair you are testing.<span style=""> </span>(like, duh)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I see” He said with mild, genuine interest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p>Accommodating Steve’s alpine inclinations, I had planned on climbing a ‘long route’, a four pitch 5.11d (author’s note:<span style=""> </span>Steve House CAN rock climb, very capably, in fact).<span style=""> </span>The rack consisted of twelve quick draws.<span style=""> </span>Call it a fluke, (I’m convinced the alpine Gods were smiling down on Steve) but by the time we reached the fourth pitch, weather had come in and we were in a full-blown storm.<span style=""> </span>By Smith Rock standards that means flurries and twenty mile an hour wind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We topped out and quickly began the rappels (two whole ones).<span style=""> </span>We reached the ground and Steve systematically began coiling the rope and before I could point out that I had a rope bag, he had everything packed and was pointed in the direction of the trail out.<span style=""> </span>“Steve, it’s snowing, I’m not going anywhere” I contently sat down under an overhang and pulled out of my pack a down coat, dark chocolate and two beers.<span style=""> </span>Steve’s eyes widened.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“BEER!”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s a long hike out” I explained.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s seven minutes” he gestured toward the parking lot, his van visible.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s uphill.” I protested.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He squeezed in next to me, out of the elements and accepted my beverage offering.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oooh, this is good”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Told you” I said flatly and handed him chocolate.<span style=""> </span>I noticed he was shivering and enviously eyeing my shroud of down.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Rookie mistake, Steve” I said mercilessly.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But it was seventy-two degrees, high pressure and sunny when we left the parking lot” he whined.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Light and fast, fucked and freezing, lost and lonely” I preached and handed him the last beer.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5HCTM4LE7xBAHIHbn1SbAt5PMa1TjF3xIjs6k7kjxpLaW7aC06ikL5Mv_jgJGWyL9st_RQ3ivQA044w2XRDUJNVV9yqKxSTfUdNoiihrsr4f4uqVkevbCQQTZ6yurX9XoAwNkjbRlmM/s1600-h/Bonatti+is+King.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5HCTM4LE7xBAHIHbn1SbAt5PMa1TjF3xIjs6k7kjxpLaW7aC06ikL5Mv_jgJGWyL9st_RQ3ivQA044w2XRDUJNVV9yqKxSTfUdNoiihrsr4f4uqVkevbCQQTZ6yurX9XoAwNkjbRlmM/s320/Bonatti+is+King.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062993793825473570" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p>American Alpine Clubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08160093442530524287noreply@blogger.com0