Flipflop

“It’s a shirt.” I contested.

“Ma’am, remove your jacket.” He said, again. I wondered what kind of mark on my already marred TSA record would result in calling a security agent a pervert.

I stood half naked in a sports bra. Unflappable, he gestured toward my feet.

“Your shoes” he said flatly.

Now I was pissed.

“They’re flip-flops!” I spat, unable to hold my tongue.

“Ma’am, please step over there”

He pointed to the enclosed glass corral for problem passengers.

“Female assist!” He hollered.

Now I was screwed.

I waited in the black plastic chair, flip-flops obediently placed in the outline of feet in front of me.

Now I was late.

Eventually, the woman with the wand waddled up and looked down her nose at my feet. They were filthy from a week spent in the dirt at Tahquitz.

BEEP! The wand responded as she waved it over my right foot, detecting the twelve screws and metal plate. I pointed out the six-inch surgical scar and after considerable consideration, she released me.

“Have a nice day (delay)”

I grabbed my laptop and Ipod, and leapt into a sprint toward terminal 8, gate 88.

A gap opened up ahead. In haste, I went for the hole shot and stepped in the puddle of spilled smoothie everyone else was avoiding. The sticky residue produced a rhythmic crackling sound each time my foot lifted from the floor. My breaths came in open-mouthed gasps as I raced to the beat of slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip; slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip. I imagined O.J. Simpson. My left arm, which clutched my laptop, pumped faster. I hurdled the outstretched power cord of a charging cell phone. I overtook a portly bike cop on a straightaway. I disruptively burst through the line at Starbucks.

At the end of the terminal, the bouncing, illuminated vision of ‘GATE 88’ grew larger.

As the last confirmed passenger to board, I collapsed into seat 34C. Ironically, I was still only wearing my sports bra.

Trade Show Mania

Feeling a slightly uneasy nostalgia, I entered the Salt Palace the Monday before the tradeshow. The lights were dim, crates were scattered everywhere, heavy machinery beeped and competing boom boxes scratched out every genre of music.

I’ve been to eighteen Outdoor Retailers. I’ve arrived in planes, box vans, Uhauls, a 1976 RV, and countless road trip vehicles. This time, however, I drove my own vehicle the ten blocks from my house. That’s right, after all the years of dissin’ Salt Lake, I now live here.

I self elected myself to design and take charge of the AAC booth for this show. My vision was to erect a mini library. 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. 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.

Because of budgetary constraints, I didn’t have much to work with so I did the best I could. My boyfriend came home from work after the first day of setup and exclaimed, “Where’s all our living room furniture?”

The Wednesday before the show started we hosted an eclectic group of friends including: 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. Needless to say, this was not the most restful or detoxifying way to start the show. Over the course of the four days of the show, we had personalities come by for ‘Story Time’. Lynn Hill, Heidi Wirtz, Ivo and Ammon, and Chris Lindner all came by to share stories, videos, pictures and gossip. And of course, there were the old guys, Jim Donini and Jim McCarthy (who devotedly manned the booth most of the time). Also seen and heard were Ed Viesteurs, Conrad Anker and Jim Bridwell. We even smuggled in a case of 3.2 Pabst (oh no we dih-int)

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. Located right across the street from the Salt Palace, folks started assembling as soon as the beer started flowing. The wall faced south, the temps were in the 90s and the women finalists started at 6pm. Conditions were not crisp. The women were HOT! And I do mean HOT—half of the competitors wore Verve’s barely-there boom-boom shorts and teeny tiny micro-bras. And let me tell you, they wore them well. No way my mother would have let me out the door when I was 14 wearing that get up. For the men, who were unfortunately dressed more modestly (baggy shorts, boo-hoo), new AAC member Chris Sharma, took first.

A crazy after party was held at Club Sound where I had the occasion to meet yet another member from the Lynn Hill family. Her brother Tom owns the place. This normally means free drinks, but thing is, drinks were already free! Mammut, EMS and Revolution really know how to throw a party. Did I mention the cage dancers? Although I still maintain the women’s finalists were hotter.

Idyllwild, 2007

We were supposed to drive to Cabo. JT didn’t have a job and wanted to make the most of his month of unemployment. We were down in Ventura, spending a few days in the offices of Patagonia. I woke up the first morning with a hot, blistering, painful rash the shape of Asia spread over my left lat. “Looks like armpit herpes” Jonathan offered. Our friend Rob, whose house we were staying at, looked at my condition and winced. “You should go to the emergency room, I’m going to physical therapy in ten minutes, it’s right next door.” 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. After 45 minutes, the doctor came in, took a peek behind my gown and said flatly, “Shingles.” Thoroughly disgusted, without even knowing what shingles were, the picture of the filthy bed I slept in for two weeks in Morocco came to mind. “Kind of like adult chicken pox, but much more painful.” The doctor explained.

This, coupled with horror stories from YC about head on collisions and muggings at gunpoint, lessened my enthusiasm on our impending road trip through Baja. I scanned my mental catalog of southern California climbing areas that would appeal to JT. Hmmm, he was banned from Joshua Tree for another six months…then I thought, Idyllwild!

As we departed Ventura, YC left us with a chuckle and sadistic grin, “Beware of the 5.8s”

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 United States. 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.”

I also read that it was here where Chuck Wilts, Royal Robbins and Don Wilson devised the modern “Decimal System” during the 1950s. 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 Yosemite credit for the innovation.

Simply put, every route at Tahquitz is a sandbag.

Day one

Sundance, 5.10b. Described in the guide as ‘a scenic cruise up the Sunshine Face’

Pitch one—a wide, 5.9 layback, un-protectable without a six friend. We didn’t have one.

Pitch two—crux pitch. 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. 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.

Pitch three—JT backs off a 10a thin ‘crack’ version and opts for a 10b face finish. After a lot of wobbling and cursing, he gets to the belay. I follow, shrieking when the rope has even an inch of slack.

This route was done in 1967.

Day two

The Vampire, 5.11a, “A fantastic line that achieves magnificent position, perhaps Tahquitz’s finest route”

Pitch one—It takes me over an hour to lead the 10d Bat Crack. I barely barely barely do it without falling.

Pitch two—we get stormed off (it was a little windy) and bail.

This route was done in 1973

Day three—Beer deck in town.

One of the best things about climbing trips is meeting the locals and today we had the good fortune of meeting Clark Jacobs. Clark 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. One such tale involved a stray vial of coke found at the base of a new boulder problem. Not confessing as to whether or not he indulged, he defended, “It was the 80s!” He described one partner as being so slow that, “It took her two hours to watch 60 Minutes!” Recounting epics, whippers and strippers, he had us hysterical for the next four beers. During a slight lull in the debauchery, Clark sighed wistfully and said, “Ah, then there was Lynn Hill.”

“What’s this Clark, you know Lynn Hill?!” I asked, with exaggerated interest.

“I kissed her one night, a long time ago.” He sheepishly whispered and added, “but she probably wouldn’t remember.”

“Well, let’s give her a call and see if she does!” I gleefully offered. Clark paled when I speed dialed her on my cell.

She answered.

“Lynnie! I’m at the bar in Idyllwild and there is a guy here named Clark who thinks you wouldn’t remember kissing him 25 years ago!” I blabbered in a boozie bawl.

Luckily or unluckily, she remembered.

“Oh yeah! A short Latino guy! I was a little drunk! Tell him ‘hi’!”

Clark blushed and appeared delighted.

After a couple more Sierra Nevadas, we attempted to get Clark to agree to climb The Vampire with us the next day. He had climbed it dozens of times in the past, but felt he wasn’t in proper shape to do it now.

“Come on!” I pleaded. “It will be so much fun!”

“No, I’d just slow you down.” He said with quiet nostalgia.

With more drunken enthusiasm, we got him to a ‘maybe’.

I surreptitiously paid the entire bar tab and JT and I headed off to our campsite.

“Bye Clark! See you tomorrow morning!” We both knew we wouldn’t.

At the summit of The Vampire, JT and I sat there for a good long time. I squinted down at town, imagining Clark looking up from the beer deck, watching over us and smiling.

The Old Man's Torso

“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.

The old man’s torso, Santa Claus face, ragged Orlando Magic baseball cap and Members Only nylon jacket, disappeared down the slab.

Jonathan who stood nearer, cried, “He fell!”

Nooo, there’s no falling here. We were 300 feet up. But he was gone and it was silent.

What is happening? I was suspended between a moment of disbelief and reality.

Oleg, the old man’s son, broke the silence with eerie laughter, pointing down a gaping chimney. Thirty feet down was Valery, stuffed to a stop, leg bloodied, but not dead. He wrestled his way back up and tackled the very same slab he had moments before slipped off.

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.

The summit, however, offered little serenity. 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. This was crazy! John, in his southern drawl said, “Man, this shit would be illegal in the States!”

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. 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.

An hour later—

We reached the ground. This was the other terrifying part of climbing in Stolby; no ropes meant no rappels. We had to down climb everything.

I stood waiting near the base for Jonathan, John and our Russian friends. I looked up a hundred feet at the three-foot high Cyrillic letters painted on the main face. I was told the graffiti translated meant “Freedom” and had been there for over a hundred years. I realized that the taiga forest we were in had provided a freedom, of sorts, for Soviet/Russian people for over 150 years. I also thought about the fact that there was a time, not too long ago, in the era of Gulags, that Siberia was synonymous with death.

Jonathan joined me and we waited for John, who is constantly fumbling around with camera cases and lenses, to stumble down. Meanwhile, I watched the continuous parade of people ascending the rock. 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. My consciousness told me it was a pack. Minutes later, I saw someone running through the foliage toward the area where the pack landed. Jonathan had surreptitiously walked off. More people started running and I heard a shriek. Other people spoke in hushed Russian as they continued down the trail. Two of our Russian friends were on cell phones. Where was Jonathan! I started to worry and slowly walked toward the place, near the cliff, where a few people were standing. Two of our Russian guides were crouched down in the brush, Jonathan stood just behind. “Jonath..” I whispered. He shook his head at me and pointed back up the hill. His pained expression and wet eyes told me it wasn’t a pack.

We have five more days of climbing.

Teton Climbers Week

I had only been to the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch once before. It was two summers ago. I had come to climb the Cathedral traverse with Jack Tackle. When I asked Jack what time we were heading out in the morning, he said in his deep, thoughtful voice, “Two would be good” Two! The only good thing I knew about 2am was ordering a drink during last call. Needless to say, I arrived at the ranch in the dark and departed in the dark, spending less than three hours in my bunk.

This week wouldn’t be a typical climbing trip, however. 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.

But my biggest anxiety was the fact that someone sorry sucker had paid $150 to climb with me. ‘Climb With’ day was a fundraiser for the club. Members could make a donation and have Jim Donini, Phil Powers, Charley Mace or Josh Wharton for the day. Apparently, I was the first to be booked. A wife requested me for her husband’s birthday present. This was sounding weirder and weirder. Anyway, I hope he wanted to go bouldering.

The Mertaughs, Tom, Karen and son Ryan arrived Sunday afternoon. I detected Midwest accents immediately and told them I was from Iowa. Their faces lit up when Drew, the ranch manager, introduced me.

“Brittany! We are going climbing with you tomorrow!” So these were the sorry suckers. “Grrrreat!” I feigned enthusiasm.

“What would you like to do?” Please say bouldering please say bouldering, I silently prayed to myself.

“Well, I was thinking Armed Robbery.” Tom said with a big giant Michigan smile.

“HA!” Drew laughed aloud. He was well aware of how intimidated I was by the Tetons. Let me explain. I, with the exception of hiking Teewinot and Owen, had never climbed here. The climbing didn’t scare me as much as the approaches and route finding did, and, oh, that I’m not a guide. A friend cleverly described the routes here as ‘for every mile you hike, you get to climb that many pitches.’

“Why are you laughing, Drew?” I asked nervously.

“Uh, that’s like a five hour hike, and I don’t know anyone who has done it…” I gulped and excused myself.

I found Jack at the keg. He immediately sensed my trepidation. I explained the situation. Normally, when Jack and I climb, our roles are quite clear. I am the rope gun and he is the approach gun. So Jack knows full well how hopeless I am at route finding and other critical details of adventure climbing. But Good Ole Uncle Jack put his arm around me (hmm) and reassured me he would take care of it.

As I introduced Jack to Tom and Ryan, I could read their star struck expressions, ‘Oh My God! That’s JACK TACKLE!’ Too bad Jack had a sales meeting the next day and couldn’t be my approach bitch. (He would have generously done it, too.) Instead, he rubbed his mustache and in his sonorous tone said, “Now, this is what you want to do…”

In the end, he convinced them that they did not want to climb some obscure, long, chossy beast, but in fact do Guides Wall.

A boat ride? A hike under two hours? Good rock? Clean cracks? Rappels? Back to the keg by five? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. AND, they both agreed that that was what they wanted to do. Jack’s Jedi Mind Trick worked! Still, this was the Tetons, not Rifle, and it was quite possible I wouldn’t even be able to find the boat dock at Jenny Lake. 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. How sweet.

The next morning, we promptly made it on the 7am boat. We squeezed past tourists and began the hike. I clutched Jack’s super topo in my sweaty hands and compulsively looked down at it every 30 seconds. ‘Get to inspiration point, hike to a small lake, head up talus to base of route’. I could handle that.

Oh god, a tee in the trail. I pretended not to look at the sign with arrows pointing in the correct direction. 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. Shit, did I pass the lake? Oh Jesus, an enormous moose was standing in the middle of the trail, twenty feet ahead. Ah, do we turn around? Tom was a veterinary so I asked him to please advise. But, just as dreams of margaritas on the deck at Dornan’s danced in my head, the moose yielded and we continued. I began to look up the slope at the cliffs, but all I discerned were great sections of broken, ledgey, crumbling crap. How in the hell am I to find this route? A line of chalked holds? Shining bolt hangers? Blue tape? Perhaps I would be able to get through this with my personality.

“Isn’t this just so fun?” I ventured. “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”

Bullshit.

“Now, well there’s a crack, a bush, some ledges, some trees and another crack. That could be our climb.” I offered hopefully. But then again, just like reading your horoscope, you see/believe what you want. We charged up hill. I thought I might have seen a cairn. I scanned the dirt for dot rubber tread marks, tape balls, anything to prove that climbers might have been on this trail recently. We reached the base of a wall. I dropped my cragging pack and started scanning the wall for a fixed pin. Found it! Ecstatic, I tied in, booted up and eagerly climbed to the piton, hoping the terrain I was covering was 5.7

For the next three hours we climbed steep clean rock, splitter cracks and belayed on sprawling, sunny ledges. Like a parent marveling at their baby’s first steps, I proudly watched Tom and Ryan thrust their virgin, Midwestern hands into cracks. Every wince and grunt made me smile. It was a magical day of climbing and I was having a brilliant time. Tom arrived at the last belay, breathless and beaming.

“Happy Birthday.” I said to him.

“Thank-you, Jack.” I said to myself.

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.