This cannot be the right train...

This cannot be the right train. We wanted to go to Adrspach, not Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood. We reluctantly boarded the single car train and chugged off.

There were stares, giggles and shaking heads by the other passengers. An official looking man wearing a funny hat approached our bench and flatly said something in Czech. Uhhh, the three of us looked at each other. Did he say ‘tickets please’ or ‘this train is going to Istanbul’.

Jonathan, a classic, Big Loud American Male, cracked a Pilsner and plugged into his Ipod. John Dickey, the quintessential absent-minded sensitive artist, fumbled and fretted over camera cases and lenses. I sighed.

“Otter spock” the man said as the train slowed an hour later.

Hmmm, could that be the pronunciation of Adrspach? We took our chances and unloaded. The place was a ghost town. Eerie and menacing grey rock towers guarded the village. We struggled down the main (only) street each hefting 70 pound bags on our backs for the next twenty minutes.

“Where’s the pub?” I whined. Jonathan, attempting to document my meltdown on video, tripped on a cobblestone and lay capsized in the street. Dickey, hypoglycemic, couldn’t even laugh.

We eventually found our apartment and ditched our bags. With renewed enthusiasm, we quested out into the myriad of the legendary dangerous sandstone pillars. There were over a thousand, each unique in shape, height and character, but all with the same renowned reputation. We had come to climb these monsters.

The climbing here was not for the timid. 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. Without a guide or guidebook, we remained optimistic and went our separate ways into the maze seeking a line we could climb. I was awed by the deep chasms and charmed by an idyllic spring. Thick green moss framed something on the wall….A memorial plaque for perished climbers! 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.

Jonathan crashed through the trees into the somber scene and hollered, “Ho lee feckin sheet! I didn’t see a single route I would be willing to lead!” At least now I didn’t have to say it.

“But, darling Brittany, I did find one for you!”

“I’ll take photos!” Dickey brightly offered.

“I’ll write the story!” Jonathan, the handsome editor coerced.

“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.

“Oh yes, we do.” Jonathan said with a smirk.

Because of staunch, archaic local ethics, modern, high-tech (safe) metal gear was not allowed. Fixed protection was scarce. Bolts were rusty, doorknocker like rings attached to spikes hammered into the soft sandstone. Other than that, threads and knots were the norm.

I squinted up at the proposed line and mentally rehearsed a sequence [scenario?]. 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. That was as far as I could see and psychologically digest. Oohh, I don’t want to be a rock climber today. I was scared.

“Come on, Brittany, you can do this” Jonathan said with such confidence and charm that I considered it.

I took one last look at his man hands holding my useless rope and stepped onto the awaiting pitch.

I wouldn’t be able to get in sufficient protection gear for a while, so if I fell, I would deck.

“Are you sure you can still catch me?” I moaned, twenty feet up.

“Yeah yeah, sure sure.” He lied.

I was afraid to look down to see just how small my Big Loud American Male spotter had become.

I fished the camera strap knot into the crack. I pulled lightly on it to set it. It came out. Becoming increasingly more pumped, I placed it a little higher and this time didn’t test it. I focused ahead on a big white hold. I clawed and paddled up the gritty face to reach it. It was filthy with bird poo. 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.

I rested my cheek against the face and breathed heavily. I cautiously tilted my head up toward the remaining terrain. A wide, mawing crack continued to the summit.

I started up the crack. It was wet. I panicked and tried to reverse my moves back down to the ledge. I blindly slid down with dangling feet and landed at my previous stance.

I swore with words that would have put a punk rock lyricist to shame and considered jumping. But I could smell the pine tree on the summit. I desperately wanted my rope (and arms) around its sturdy trunk. 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.

Six second passed before I was scanning the landscape for another summit....

BAG Recaps the New River Rendezvous

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).

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’.

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.

The festivities begin Friday night with Dessertapalooza.

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!

Saturday sees a day of climbing for all.

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.

Saturday night is the BIG night.

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.
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.
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.”)

Sunday afternoon; the calm after the storm.

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.

Sunday night

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.
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.

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.

Friday, May 25, 2007

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…)

Always going somewhere means always leaving that somewhere. It’s the bitter sweetness of life on the road.

Light and Fast, Lost and Lonely, and Freezing

“I thought we were sport-climbing in the Dihedrals?” Steve asked as I heaved my bulging pack from the back of his shaggin wagon.

“Yeah, that’s right” I wrestled the haul bag onto my back, casually forgoing buckling straps or waist belts. He picked up his pack with one finger and deliberately adjusted it to his form.

I disapprovingly assessed his clothing. Hyper high tech undersized pants three inches too short, exposing critically technical approach shoes, tightly laced. 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. How could he not know that hemp jeans, threadbare cotton tees and bikini tops were protocol? I scuffed down the trail in sloppy, unlaced sneakers checking my cell phone to see if I had any missed calls or texts.

At the base of the climb, I upended my pack and dumped half of its contents in the dirt. 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.

“Four pairs of shoes?” Steve yelped, uncontrollably astonished.

“Yee-ahh” I coolly responded. “One for warm-ups, a pair you are currently trying to break in, your red-point pair, and a prototype pair you are testing. (like, duh)

“Oh, I see” He said with mild, genuine interest.

Accommodating Steve’s alpine inclinations, I had planned on climbing a ‘long route’, a four pitch 5.11d (author’s note: Steve House CAN rock climb, very capably, in fact). The rack consisted of twelve quick draws. 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. By Smith Rock standards that means flurries and twenty mile an hour wind.

We topped out and quickly began the rappels (two whole ones). 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. “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. Steve’s eyes widened.

“BEER!”

“It’s a long hike out” I explained.

“It’s seven minutes” he gestured toward the parking lot, his van visible.

“It’s uphill.” I protested.

He squeezed in next to me, out of the elements and accepted my beverage offering.

“Oooh, this is good”

“Told you” I said flatly and handed him chocolate. I noticed he was shivering and enviously eyeing my shroud of down.

“Rookie mistake, Steve” I said mercilessly.

“But it was seventy-two degrees, high pressure and sunny when we left the parking lot” he whined.

“Light and fast, fucked and freezing, lost and lonely” I preached and handed him the last beer.