Unsung Heroes; The Early Days of Smoke Hole Climbing

Unsung Heroes

The canyon that stretches from the hamlet of Upper Tract to the riverside community of Cabins is unlike any other, at least for the handful of climbers I came to know and love as friends.


Smoke Hole is where so much began and where so much ended, where inexperienced fear gave way to discovery and adventure, where solitary experience became community and lifetime friendships, where naïve trust became realistic expectations and personal limitations a matter of choice and willingness to go for it.


The two guys below were largely responsible for fueling the positive aspects of our transformation; Chris Riha is the belayer with the Boreal Aces and Izod colors, while Troy is the leader in purple.




Chris was a friend of Germany Valley legend Sandy Fleming, and was one of the most energetic, positive climbers I ever met, always encouraging us towards our better angels, trying always to commend ethics over convenience.

Chris undoubtedly holds the record for belay hours logged on a single line in Smoke Hole, because I know he spent a week without food or sleep lashed to a tree and fed intravenously while pretty much everyone in Harrisonburg tried to send Shattered Illusions.

Chris was there to belay and clean gear when I sent a dozen 5.10 lines at Franklin in a single day. Chris once hiked up Second Mountain carrying all three of our backpacks because he was training for an excursion out of country.

Chris drove to Seneca to meet me for a moonlight ascent of the classic 5.7 Green Wall. When I realized my headlamp and spare batteries were toast and moonlight was four hours away, Chris was game when I said we'd climb by starlight and waited half an hour for my eyes to adjust before I led us up three pitches of perfect hands and fingers without artificial light.

When I hit bottom after months on the road, living the dream out of a backpack, riding luck and my thumb to the next classic line, dumpster diving, and discovering a secret America with an amazing assortment of gypsies, one of whom stole every scrap of clean clothing, cash and food I had, it was Chris who sent a hungry, homeless Virginia boy $250 via the Flagstaff Western Union on Christmas Eve.

When I came home and tried to hand it back to him, it was Chris who almost punched me in the face for the first and last time, before commencing plans to use me shamelessly as a ropegun on a trip to the Wind Rivers.

When I smashed my knee without insurance after coming home from six months on the road with no job, it was Chris who, I suspect, covered the majority of my bill to get the collection agencies off my back. 

For years after the group went their separate ways, Chris continued to stay in touch; when I flew into D.C. one stormy Christmas Eve, it was Chris who came and ferried me home from the redeye lounge, Chris who fed me a sumptuous breakfast before he handed me the keys to his truck and said "The tank is full, go see your family and Merry Christmas."

I haven't seen Chris in too many years.

Gonna have to do something about that, soon.

Troy Johnson was the grandson of the Berdeaux family, who owned and ran Endless Caverns in the Shenandoah Valley, but you would never have known his family had a dime more than anyone else to meet him. He lived in one of the rental cabins as campground manager and drove a beater truck or gas efficient small car the entire time I knew him.

His uncles were veteran cavers with whom Troy had crawled miles underground, and it was through that medium that he met Mike Artz and Ed Begoon. I climbed with Ed and his partner George Powell quite a bit back then, and was invited to a massive bonfire party at Endless where we met the wiry, energetic wunderkinder who would open his heart and home to a tribe of knuckleheads. 

We camped at Endless, usually for free, explored the Blue Ridge skyline behind his home, fished and hiked, grubbed with Troy when he fixed enormous feasts and paddled around the Caverns pond by moonlight. 

It was with Troy that I was invited by Darrell Hensley to explore and develop climbs in the lost garden of Smoke Hole Canyon and with Troy that I put up my first route there.

Whether you climbed lead or top roped, if it was 5.5 or 5.12, Troy was a great partner on trad or bolts, patient, supportive, encouraging, self-effacing, going out of his way for partners and friends at all times. 

Up before dawn, Troy led us up the long and winding trudge into the awe-inspiring backcountry of Old Rag, sandbagging us onto gruntfests and spotting highball boulder problems on granite nubbins.

Troy worked at the ski resort on Massanutten Mountain, where he shredded on the ski team and is renowned as a great guide, employee and friend who loved to jam some serious tunes when things got hectic.

I have a picture of Troy grinning in rainbow tights, leaned against the wall of the JMU Music Building where we would often 'builder' on sweltering in-town afternoons. That's Troy in a nutshell, making silly look good, the impossible look easy, and laughing through it all.

Troy's life took a hard turn in 2003 when he was ejected from his car in a head-on collision on his way to work. Mike fisher and I were on our way home from a weekend of climbing when we got the news and drove straight through to UVA, where we became frequent visitors until Troy was released.

The fight back to anything like a normal life has been a journey of years, and like any route, has had cruxes and falls. I wish I could say I have been there for him every step of the way, but few of us are the heroes we wish we could be. 

Today, Troy lives in Virginia Beach, where he is a Zen master in the art of extracting large fish from any body of water, and the myriad ways to convert them into fare fit for human consumption.

With my wife Cindy, he remains one of the most inspiring examples of courage in the face of adversity that I know.

We all know heroes; friends and strangers who go out of their way for no better reason than to to pay it forward from a place of plenty, to hold themselves accountable, if only for a while, to a standard that we can be better, all of us. 

To fail is to be human, to overcome defeat, to try to be more is inspiring and to succeed, divine. To spend as much time and love lifting up others as we do in pursuit of our own dreams is the highest path we can aspire to walk.

It is important to acknowledge and remember; we stand on the shoulders of giants.

These are the unsung heroes of Smoke Hole Canyon; I'm just the guy who was lucky enough to climb with them and call them my friends.

Congratulations!

 

Congratulations to Cindy Gray for being one of 20 Ambassadors chosen from a field of 150 by @rockclimbingwomen on Instagram!

 

Adopted from poverty and abuse into loving family, Cindy grew up in Ohio, making the choice to rise above her beginnings. She's been overcoming challenges ever since.

 

As a teen, Cindy joined her family on mission in Nicaragua, discovering the beauty of the jungle and native culture while working to improve the lives of the people they lived with.

 

After attending Eastern Mennonite College, Cindy became an EMT, was one of the first women certified as a firefighter and crash truck driver, and worked tirelessly for equality in that field.

 

Damage to her spine, complicated by degenerative disc disease, required two surgeries to install rods and screws.

 

That didn't stop her.

 

A copperhead snake bite hospitalized her and almost cost her a leg.

 

That didn't stop her or lessen her love of nature.

 

Cindy has been instrumental in organizing a dozen trail work and trash clean up events, and was a founder of the Friends of Smoke Hole, a local independent alliance of climbers giving back to the crags and the communities that surround them.

 

She encouraged me to launch the Smoke Hole Anchor Replacement/Upgrade Project and has spent days hauling gear and on belay to support that effort.

 

An aneurysm in 2015 and the 3.5 hour surgery that stretched the capabilities of modem medical technology did not prevent Cindy from returning to Colorado for a second year as a campground host and entrance booth staffer in Elevenmile Canyon, nor did it prevent her from completing another handful of first ascents and impressive hikes during our days off.

 

To date, Cindy and the Punisher have done 53 first ascents in Smoke Hole Canyon, Reeds Creek and Germany Valley in WV, in Flagstaff and Northern Devils Canyon in AZ, and in Elevenmile Canyon in the Pike National Forest in CO.

 

A proud mom and grandmother, Cindy is still working to encourage a new generation of climbers to reach further and rise above their own challenges while giving back to the places in which she has both given and received so much inspiration.

 

After a decade together, I'm still awed and humbled by her every single day, incredibly proud to be her husband and equally grateful for her friendship.

 

Above: Cindy with the Lindy, our home on wheels for two years, across thousands of miles and through a hundred adventures.

Tour de Force

What a week and a half can do...

One day, you are completely wrapped up in trying to get your hillbilly landlord to just finish the apartment you live in, return a call, or adhere to the conditions of the lease in any way, trying to support yourself and a disabled wife by working at an ancient, decrepit hotel, originally built by slave labor and housing a restaurant that was obsolete by the beginning of the Reagan Administration.  When not immersed in the day-to-day folly and frustrations of a decaying southern city filled with and run by corrupt politicians and  inbred dynasties struggling to hold life back to the age of The Waltons, you spend a lot of time and effort trying to teach a pig to sing; trying to introduce fresh food and new ideas into a stagnant culture, all while surrounded by the oxymoron of cafeteria-style "fine dining", created by an owner/manager with delusions of grandeur and more mental issues than a lifetime subscription to "Psychology Today".

Life and crisis laugh at planning and routine.

All the tedium and petty annoyances seem precious and golden in the hindsight of sudden, traumatic change.  you long for the simple challenges of dealing with crazy, as opposed to the helplessness of facing life and death with no option but to sit and wait, to hope if you must and pray if you still can.

Instead of blowing up balloons and wrapping presents in preparation for her 27th birthday, we instead spent the end of last week with our daughter in the hospital; separated from home, husband, and a two month old daughter of her own.  Life went into that sporadic stop-and-start of a bad European film; sleepless nights, early morning, changing schedules and plans while still trying to live a day-to-day routine of necessity.

Friday night, our lass was stable enough to return home, and Saturday, her mother watched the bouncing baby while the exhausted parents relaxed and I prepared coconut shrimp and "drunken" beer-battered tilapia, steamed broccoli and baked potatoes for a small birthday dinner.

Rain soaked the weekend, interrupting the Columbus Day holidays of scores of visiting NoVA and D.C. hikers, mountain bikers, campers and rock climbers.  Carloads of timeshare victims slogged past in long lines on their way to musty condos in Canaan and hunt cabins up the North Fork, while tour groups stared out at soggy leaves and rolling clouds atop Dolly Sods and Spruce Knob.  Friends who had planned to wed atop Seneca spent the weekend eating at local restaurants and climbing wet rock at Secret Crag #7.  Boaters stared in frustration at a river still too shallow to do more than wet the hull between hundred-yard portages.  The fall foliage season's promise of economic boon once again faded, settled to earth in a slow sigh of red and yellow leaves.

Monday, stir-crazy and getting creaky from sitting watching the weekenders and the dog hunters and the rain, sorting gear and reading sci-fi, Cindy and I tossed packs in the truck and went to hike a fire road in Germany Valley that we knew would be good for a hike up onto the Allegheny Front, with the added attraction of a short side trip from parking to check on some old crags and climbs.  I had a rope hanging there, unfinished business on a steep route from back in 2006 that had I had become determined to finish before the holidays.

After the brisk hike along the shoulder of the road, eyes and ears tuned for the sound of onrushing tractor trailers, we slowed the pace and relaxed; stretching out slowly, adjusting lighter packs as we walked the muddy gravel road in new boots, conversation wandering among our recent troubles and old friends, past travels and crazy settings in which we had camped, cooked, and climbed.  Fall was there around us; quiet, muted in the mists and rain, but still gorgeous in her own right, a different sort of beauty from the bright splash of chorus girl colors that attracts throngs of tourons to Seneca and Smoke Hole, the Skyline Drive to the east and the Blue Ridge parkway to the south.  Bright crowns of fallen leaves decorated beds of ferns and hung throughout the underbrush of spice bush and red oak, laurel and juniper, while Virginia creeper blazed red where it hung from golden hickory trees.

The road climbed steadily, bringing a burn to disused leg muscles as we wound up through the ancient forest, traffic now far away as the sound of birdsong and the occasional distant dog's bark became our soundtrack.  Occasional rifts in the low-hanging clouds revealed deep hollows dropping away on one side or the other, tiny cabins nestled at the base of threads of wood smoke, dreaming above mossy tumbling streams.

Two hours later, we found ourselves at the foot of walls that were impossibly dry after three days of mist and rain.  Fox grapes, creeper and poison ivy draped routes soaring 80-90 feet, all of them overhanging to the point that rain was not really an issue.  My fixed rope still hung on the steepest line of them all, a wall 80+ feet tall with an overhang of more than 25 feet from top to bottom along the line I had chosen.  Recent massive deposits of chalk indicated that either we had seen newcomers, or one of the three or four parties that know of the area had returned for a brief visit and taste of two of the best lines in the cirque.  Chalk on several other spots told a tale of exploration... and of hasty retreat in the face of steep, thin, run out lines on somewhat intimidating terrain.

No shame there... some of this stuff scares the crap out of me, and I bolted it.  Discretion is the better part of valor.

We clip open one of the trails leading directly to the good stuff and head back to the car and a supper of stir-fry and wild rice, cold brews and anticipation.

The next day we are back early with food and gear, drill and bolts and a determination to climb and move the rope up the old project.

"Rock of Ages" is an incredible line; a 5.9 with a high first bolt that gives the climber clear and early warning of the commitment required to lead this line.  A 20-foot dihedral leads to a ledge, above which a steep, sparsely-protected panel offers scattered buckets and an off-balanced mantle move onto another ledge.

From here, over fifty feet above the base, you cast out into steeper and steeper territory, cranking pockets and edges past three more bolts in 30 feet to a final incredible rail clip stance that you reach through a mandatory step out onto a pocket with 80+ feet of air under your heels and the river roaring away another 100 feet below that...  massive exposure as compared to the average WV bolted line anywhere except the New River.  When you lower off the anchors, the wall falls away from you immediately, and your touchdown is several yards from the base.

We ran a couple of laps on this line, with Cindy climbing impressively and reaching a new high point, fighting through to a final stance almost to the anchors.  A snack and a smoke and we sorted gear and lined up on the project, placing a 4th bolt above a good rest stance (finally!), retrieving the old fixed rope and lowering out to land ten feet from the base... and that's just from the 4th of what will undoubtedly be 9 or 10 bolts!

A serious slog out, with heavy packs and trembling legs that required three rest stops in what is normally a slow unbroken march back to the car.  Hot food and cold brews led to calls confirming the next day's arrival of Doc Goodwack, primed to send.  I sorted my pack and we segued into an early night and dreamless sleep.

Crawling out of bed the next morning, I wondered what I had done, exactly, planning on climbing with the original WV madman after a day on some of the tallest, toughest lines on which I had ever put bit to stone.  Cindy answered a "grandma call" and went to babysit the grandchild and help out around the house, leaving me to keep up with the new, streamlined version of Mike Fisher making its debut at our crag.

Mike was out of the car, pack ready and coffee in hand when I rolled in, a hand rolled twist burning in the corner of his mouth as he shook my hand and smiled.  We shouldered loads and headed up the hill to warm up on some moderate moves before Mike stacked his rope under the steep broken maw that is the start of La Machina, a line he had bolted back in 2010 and had been working on sporadically ever since.  Like the rest of us, Mike's plans had run headlong into the roadblock and detours of Life, and it had been a long fight to finally narrow the crux to three specific areas of contention.

He worked through the moves as always, powerful  sequences interspersed with self-deprecating humor, inventive terms like "Parkinson's pop-lock" and "evolved T Rex hold" exploding between long pulls and titanic effort on small holds.

All too soon, I had to run away to work, but promised to return the next day.  Mike hiked down to grab his bivvy gear, his plan to throw down at the foot of the wall for the night, as he had many times in the past.  I went off to fry wings and burgers and try to make a living in the nadir of employment that is Petersburg, WV.

The next day I was back, after initial technical difficulties, with Cindy in tow and a bag of hot, fresh, homemade breakfast burritos in the top of my pack.  A grateful Mr. F chowed with gusto as we tossed down packs and climbed into harness.  We warmed up on his moderate Second Rule, debating the relocation of the final bolt for better clipping, reminiscing on the first ascent, enjoying the morning with just the three of us and a sky full of broken clouds.

Mike took a burn on his line, but fell at the fourth bolt.  he rallied and sent the rest of the route, then lowered for a rest.  Cindy and I ran up the newly-rebolted "Thieves in the Temple", and the new moves and bolts were just as enjoyable as they had been the week before, grateful confirmation of my decision to slightly change the line for reasons of safety as well as aesthetics.

Later in the afternoon, Mike pulled on his shoes, and put paid to a project he has been working on for the last two and a half years.

We celebrated in the small ways that three friends will, enjoyed a little more climbing and a few more hours at the crag, then hiked down the hill and went our separate ways with hugs and handshakes and smiles all around.

Today it's back to the grind; incompetent local bureaucracy, inconsiderate neighbors, idiot landlord, new job, worries for aging parents and step daughter and grandchild, uncertainty and frustration for that colony of imbeciles running our nation into the ground in D.C., watching my hairline and muscle mass recede, fighting old age and pushing through the dross and drudgery of day-to-day.

Until next time...

And so with Castles Made of Sand...

Fled the heat of Secret Crag #7 for the shade and close proximity of the river to be found at the Entrance Walls.

With so much rock and so few routes, we took on a new line or three...

The green and surprisingly steep start of "Castles Made of Sand".  The big detached block at the bottom later became part of the trail edging below the route.

Looking up the short, STEEP Sandcastle Arete... three bolts of fun to come.

Wall base in pristine condition- debris, spiders, stinging nettles, poison ivy, and plenty of loose rock.

The view from the top: beginning the bolting rappel.

Paleface- this short tower front the road.  Line comes up from under the roof right and heads through big holds above.

The loverly Miss Cindy, keepin' us hydrated on a 90 degree day.. and looking FINE!

In  the end, we ran out of hardware long before we ran out of rock.  Working toward an order of bolts and hangers, for now, and looking forward to creating more short, fun lines along the river.  

So glad everyone is convinced that New River and Seneca Rocks are the only worthwhile climbing in West Virginia!

Cudmudgeon Protocols

Tired of the backchatter.

Fed up with the endless questioning of my memories, the denial of routes stolen and access lost by the coffee house icons of Seneca Rocks, and sick of the ease with which three decades of travel and hardship, discovery and loss, experience and knowledge across the North American continent are dismissed by the armchair experts and hard persons of NoVA and D.C. who come running to the defense if the faintest whiff of unpleasant truth disturbs the rosewater of their illusions.

Common sense would dictate silence, retreat in the face of overwhelming numbers, perhaps some compromise in a stance that draws a line in the sand without option for negotiation.

I've never had much use for that kind of common sense.  I suppose, after all these years of walking it as I talk it, whenever I can, in every aspect of my life where I have a choice, compromise of that sort sounds too much like a good cover story for surrender.

And who would ever accept sweet reason from me after all of the toes on which I have stomped, all of the egos bruised, all the carefully-polished reputations spat upon and exposed for the thin varnish they truly were?

Besides, what in the world would I do for fun if not toppling brass idols with feet of clay, slaughtering sacred cows, advocating chlorine in the gene pool and cannonballing into the status quo?

But enough sleepless nights, enough angry debates with myself.  Time to step back, to dig deep, to give a little gift to myself and for the small group of people who agree with my perspectives and share something of my vision.

Recent rains have left much of the rest of the Gypsy Wall dripping with run-off from the long band of cliffs angling slowly down the hill to this final panel of rock above a winding back road.  Gypsies and Shaved Scamper, my two moderate bolted lines on this wall, are both streaked with runnels of water trickling down the pocketed, fossil-sewn grey stone to my right.

The left end of the wall overhangsabout eighteen inches in forty feet and is almost entirely dry, despite a short rainshower.  As the sun comes out and breezes shake the budding leaves of spring, driving back the mosquitoes and biting flies if only for a moment, I stack rope and drill gear, paired aiders and a variety of hooks, daisy chains and cams on a massive finger of stone that rests at the base of a steep initial panel of rock, eight feet of stone devoid of the pockets so common in the layer above.

A loose flake or two the size of laptop computers come off with gentle tugs, and one six inches thick and as long as my arm yields to the stronger persuasion of a prybar,  dropping like a guillotine blade to bounce between my madly-dancing feet, followed by a steady rain of 'potato chips'.  Unlike a lot of the folks who have put up routes here recently, I control the rock fall and limit damage to the surrounding environment, building up the base, keeping debris out of the road below. 

Finally, the face is clean and I pause for a sip of water before shouldering the Beast, slipping on sunglasses and bouldering up into the first clip stance.  Raising the Bosch Litheon into position, I call out, "Fire in the hole" and pull the trigger.  Behind me, I hear Cindy acknowledge as the motor growls to life and rock dust flies from the 3/8 inch bit. 

And so it begins, again.

The metamorphic limestone is dense, and it takes almost a minute and a half to drill a full-depth hole, during which I am reminded of my reduced physical activities of late and my unceasing love of my wife's cooking and southern food in general.  Deer flies and gnats take advantage of my lack of free hands to reduce my blood levels, as hopeful buzzards dip and swoop above, eyeing this potential meal.  Cindy laughs and calls out the old refrain, "It's just his feet!"

Pulling the bottomed bit free, still spinning, I release the trigger and step down from the holds.  My lovely assistant Cindy takes the drill and I boulder back up to insert one end of the blow tube into the freshly-drilled hole.  A puff of fine grey powder blasts out of the hole, the shifting breeze ensuring that most of it falls towards my face, but I have already shut my eyes in anticipation of this and feel only the sifting on my eyelids.    A three mile-per-hour breeze negates the effectiveness of safety glasses every time, and will invariably blow in your face only when it will bring dust, rather than respite from biting insects or burning runnels of sweat.

Occupational hazards.

I boulder back down blind, lean over, remove my glasses and carefully brush the dust off my eyelids before opening my eyes again.  Interesting the first few times you try it, it gets annoying after a while, but it's all part of the price for doing things by the protocols, instead of taking the easier route of rap-bolting.

Back up to the hole, the 3/8 inch Hilti bolt with Fixe hanger sitting nicely in the hole as the three pound hammer swings once, twice, three times.  Pause to back the nut off right out to the end of the threads for full depth, another tap, and I swap hammer for wrench; three good turns and the nut comes under tension, guesstimating the torque is second nature after placing well over a thousand such bolts in my careers of carpenter, rigger and climber.

Back down to the belay, a last shot of coffee and a bit of granola, flame to brass and a kiss for the lass as I step into the soon-retiring Black Diamond harness and thread daisies, clip on chalk bag and tie in the rope, thread the free end through the Wall Hauler and tie into the drill for ease of access and drop free gear lifting, add a dozen draws and runners, hooks and some DMM cams to balance my #1, 2, and 3 Camalots, step into my beat-up Evolvs and pull on my battered Petzl helmet.

"Good knot and buckle." I mumble, almost on auto-pilot as I scope out the moves above the first bolt and ledge.

"I have you on a good system, " Cindy answers, "Go get some."

Good call.  When surrounded by jackals and posers and fools, goaded by idiots and has-been with convenient memories and undeserved reputations, then pushed to the point of despair by the sight of the blind leading the deaf, stick with what you know.

Curmudgeon protocols; harsh, but honest, to a fault; self-aware without being self-serving; calling it the way I see it, and holding myself to the strictest standards of all.  Accepting total responsibility for my own words and actions, with the priceless reward of complete freedom.

Like a teetering hook on a great line, not what you might have hoped for, but good enough; you learn to work with what you get.

I guess I can live with that.

Ronin's Road

Some pics from the Ronin's Road

A Year In Motion, and Counting...

This post will continue to evolve as I add up different totals of materials used and think of tips for travelers.
-mg

On March 9, 2012, with my wife Cindy riding shotgun, co-pilot and navigator, I left behind a fantastic job with the Flagstaff Family Food Center in the northern Arizona city of Flagstaff and, with it, all the comforts of indoor living.  

We ate a fine dinner from the Food Center, then headed south through Jerome and Prescott as the moon rose, finally joining I-17 to reach Phoenix and make the run for Devils Canyon before sunrise.

This was not our first rodeo.

We left our longtime home in West Virginia on the July 4th holiday weekend of the previous year, camping our way across the west through most of the spring and summer of 2011.   After getting married in the tiny Chapel of the Holy Dove outside Flagstaff in August, we had spent the fall and winter months living indoors; moving into an apartment in September and starting two jobs in the same week; as a line cook for San Felipe's and a Bobcat operator for Flagstaff Snow Removal.

After five months in the furious rush of San Felipe's, I had applied for and landed the job of Operations Assistant at the Food Center; picking up donations, directing community service workers and volunteers, assisting the cooks, preparing and doing clean up in the facility before and after preparing meals for up to three hundred and fifty people.  With my lovely new bride, I'd weathered some tough times in those six months; crackhead neighbors, black mold, bedbugs, trying to find my way back into a young man's labor market on the verge of my 50th birthday and handling flare-ups of my wife's Multiple Sclerosis.

When serious news came back from the east, we were ready to break away, first heading to Joshua Tree, California for a week of high desert plateau sun and fantastic granite climbing, then camping on the rim of Northern Devil's Canyon, just outside Superior, Arizona, for another week of pulling down some serious desert dacite before being chased south and east by a two-foot snowfall.  

We spent the next two days outrunning microbursts and hailstorms while driving 2400 miles back to the east coast, there to deal with too many heartbreaks to list here.  We gratefully looked forward to our rendezvous with the annual migration of the Lyndon State College Outdoor Adventure Program, in Smoke Hole Canyon, a lost corner of heaven in West Virginia.  Jamie Struck was once again leading a group of enthusiastic students to the hills of the Allegheny to work on trails, climb our stellar stone, puzzle out our cruxes, explore our mountains and take something of God's country back north with them. 

The least we could do was meet up with them.

We spent five weeks building trail, taking photographs, climbing, visiting with family and friends, and polishing some of the details of the guidebook I'm writing and trying to publish.  We met a new class of Lionhearts, some of Lyndon State's finest young souls, saw our daughter Rebecca graduate from nursing school, and visited with Cindy's family in Ohio after her father's heart surgery.

On May 7th, we bid farewell, once again, to the green valleys and rolling mountains of the east, making the passage from Logan, Ohio to Colorado Springs in just over 72 hours (not bad for a couple of geezers in a thirteen-year-old S10 pickup truck full of gear).

After a bit of rest and recovery at the well-appointed home of our friend and brother, The Tall Man, we headed out to see more of this place called Colorado.

We camped and climbed and gaped our way through our allotted fourteen days in Boulder Canyon, clipped bolts and slung gear and in general loved every minute of Eleven Mile, then  hung out on for a week or three, working a handyman job and exploring the nearby hiking and climbing on BLM land surrounding the tiny pro-cannabis industry town of Nederland, Colorado.  

We lived at 10,500 feet amid moose and marmots at Brainard Lake Rec Area in the Front Range of the Rockies, jammed the splitters of Turkey Tail in the Platte and pulled on the crumbly granite of Buena Vista, Colorado. 

When we arrived at the entrance of the state park outside Gallup, New Mexico just seven minutes after closing time, we found the gates locked and no way to contact the host aside from waiting out the night, sleeping in our truck. Consequently, we finished the drive from Colorado Springs to Superior, Arizona in a single thirteen hour, eight hundred mile push. 

We've served as National Forest hosts and volunteers, line cooks and wait staff, restaurant management and janitors, dishwashers and landscapers, vagabonds and dumpster divers. We've dealt with divas and trophy wives, bureaucrats, boy scouts, high rollers and low riders, gangstas, cougars and crackheads.  We've eaten out of delicatessans, dumpsters and soup kitchens, enjoyed a midwinter bumper crop of desert produce and citrus from new friends and reveled in the simple luxury of a six-pack of brews or a CiCi's Pizza Buffet.

Most of our meals have been prepared on a single burner propane stove, requiring seventy fuel canisters over the last twelve months.  The stove, fuel cannister, steel 1 liter bottle for olive oil, french press, dish detergent, canola cooking spray, spatula, can opener, nesting pots and two bowls fit into cylindrical 4 gallon Igloo water cooler.  

Stove tip: an old metal bucket with the bottom rusted out makes a great windscreen for a Coleman single burner.  Raise on rocks for added venting or improved windscreening.  A rolled up ground pad will work, as well, but you will have to take care not to melt a hole in your sleeping arrangements.


We've brewed at least eighteen pounds of coffee, mixed it with about ten pounds of sugar and chocolate and creamer, brewed six pounds of assorted tea, eaten over twenty pounds of pasta, with ten gallons of sauce, gone through at least three gallons of olive oil, used roughly twenty pounds each of beans and rice, eight pounds of cheese, ten pounds of butter, filled about five hundred tortillas with everything from chili to peanut butter and honey, spread or spooned ten gallons of peanut butter, nearly as much honey and maple syrup, mixed about twelve pounds of pancake and biscuit mix, opened about eighty cans of chicken and tuna, and cooked over six cases of ramen noodles, as well as boiling about ten pounds of oatmeal with four pounds of raisins and three pounds of figs.  We learned to use solar energy to make tea, rice, pasta, and ramen noodles, saving on propane.

From that energy, we've pruned, built or repaired hundreds of yards of trail, shot sixty-four hundred plus photos and about nineteen hours of video, hiked over one hundred miles in exploration and climbed two hundred and six routes in four states, reuniting with old climbing partners Rich LeMal and Marty Karabin to create several new lines in the Pancake House of Upper Devils over the Thanksgiving holiday, as well as putting up four new sport lines (one bolted ground up) in five weekends over the 2012-13 Christmas and New Year's holidays, while revisiting and repeating a dozen of my old areas and lines in Northern Devil's Canyon.

Marty, Rich, and Cindy prepare Thanksgiving Dinner, Upper Devils Canyon, AZ

We've been through three tents, two from Coleman and one from Ozark Trails, and retired a Mountain Hardwear 2-man for anything except emergencies. 

Tip for tents:  standing room is nice, but a smaller tent means less wind resistance and fewer broken poles when those gales try to tumble your camp across the plateau no matter how much weight you put in it.  

Regular washings using a spray bottle and a wiping cloth will save the zippers from wearing out due to dust build-up, and a $20 tarp will save your $150 dollar rain fly from UV, falling twigs, hail, and ice.


We use an MSR water filter ($89 at Peace Surplus in Flagstaff, 'cuz we LOVE Local Businesses!), which field strips and cleans simply and quickly, and has pumped hundreds of liters of water without problems.  

A lot of folks have spoken in envy of their opinion that we are "living the dream."

Perhaps we are... if your dreams include hunger, arctic cold, gale force winds, ice and snow storms, hurricanes, tornadoes, baking heat, insect swarms, humidity, rats and/or mice gnawing the wiring of your vehicle and foodstores, wet feet, weeks between showers while living in the same clothes, or the reality check of dividing the number of packs of ramen noodles by the number of days til payday and coming up with a fraction.  

If you being dream of being looked down on and treated as a second-class citizen throughout your day, even in the "outdoor community",  and getting constant attention from police and Forest Service Law Enforcement (except, of course, when you need it, like when someone is shooting up your campground in the middle of the night), this is your dream.  

If you long to work for the cream of humanity, doing shit jobs for low pay just to make ends meet, worrying on a more or less constant basis about someone breaking into your truck or raiding your camp and leaving your destitute while you are doing this incredibly rewarding work, this is the life for you.

If you feel no sense of despair, realizing the distance between ethics and action, between conviction and commitment, or wondering why all the folks who will spend a weekend pub crawling or soaking up "the Scene" at a "destination crag" even bother with the mealy mouth protestations about "wanting to get out to the new crags", when they obviously have little or no interest in pushing the boundaries or exploring new ground without an entourage, you were born to live like us. 

In the end, among many other lessons we've learned on the road, my wife and I have realized that all the people who sound so envious are the same people who never seem to have time to come out for even a day or two to live a little of "The Dream" for themselves.  Reality is a potent remedy for delusion, and most folks cherish those delusions far too much to so simply cast them aside in favor of hard decisions and uncomfortable facts.

Maybe it takes some of the same discipline of spirit, the same deviant orientation and stubborn individualism that keeps us out here, despite all the inherent epics and suffering, to consistently seek out and develop new climbs and climbing areas.  

Maybe that's why there's never been a crowd at the cutting edge.  For all of its hardships, though, this is a life with many rich rewards, treasures beyond price for those who will find the lessons in hardship and adversity, and look for the beauty in even the most desolate of landscapes or desperate of existences.  

I have not always been able, but I have tried.

As of yesterday, March 9th, 2013, the POWER (Poor Old White Economic Refugee) Couple has lived on that edge, on the road, out of a truck and a series of tents, tarps, and shelters, in campgrounds and climber ghettos, on BLM, NFS and state trust land, from Joshua Tree, CA to Albemarle County, VA, for exactly one year. 

No "roughing it" with a brand-new pickup and sixteen-foot-long RV, no international corporate sponsors, no Access Fund, American Alpine or Sierra Club grants, no donations, no viral Go-Pro video, no Twitter account or fan base, no book signings... just putting up new lines, building and repairing trails, seeing all the places America has forgotten in the rush to the next big thing; keepin' it real, and livin' on love and a prayer.

Turkey Reunion in Upper Devil's Canyon

Start with the Impossible

My Tribute to Cindy B- rock climber, homemaker, nurse, firefighter, MS and degenerative disc disease sufferer.

Serpents' Dance

I can only tell you.

I can't take you there.

Oh, make no mistake... I have no choice but to try.

Have tried, am trying, and no doubt will take up pen and paper, or reach reluctant hands toward the keyboard, breath held, thoughts racing, words tumbling to try again. It is an imprecise and sporadic effort, I know, and I thank you, gentle reader, for your patience and continued interest as I fumble toward Nirvana, or Meaning, or some such doubtful, highbrowed ideal. Too in touch with my own fallible mortality, I cannot trust this stilted structure of words and perspective to do what I want, what I must. I can only pour it out, one pumping crimson beat after another, the hot kiss of the artery against the razor’s cold, thirsty edge, hoping that some common bond, some dream or memory or fantasy half-recalled, a hindbrain echo, will do what I cannot.

What a poor tool language is. Nouns and verbs, gerunds and adjectives can't make you feel the burning of raw flesh and trembling muscles pushed one step beyond their limits, or fill you with the high, clear singing note that becomes your every thought and essence as the rope sways there below your feet and grit turns under your fingers. Cannot excite in you that giddy dancing with destiny, gravity a faithful companion that ever demands your return, pulling you back, back toward terra oh-so-firma, while beyond, the sky seduces, promising anything and everything, just beyond the next crux.

A victim of years of classroom education on the art of writing (inevitably taught by persons who have, in their entire lives, produced nothing more inspiring than pop-quizzes), I can use clever diction and punctuation, run on sentences one breathless stream pulling you inexorably forward or superlatives of color and light igniting a firestorm in your own imagination, recalling images from your own past, remembered or dreamt.

But I cannot make the leaves glow with the energy of life pouring out of them, or fill the wind with the hundred living perfumes of a growing forest.  I cannot close your throat with laughter and the threat of bright tears or fill your eyes with the high, drifting form of an eagle.

I can only tell you how it was, for me.

The party Friday night had gone long and ranged far. There were large weapons, blasts of lead and powder intersecting the arcing flight of clay targets, loud music, dancing, beer, and appetizers of every description. Smoke and mirrors. Body paint. Madness.

There were white tail deer bounding away under the moonlight, and bullfrogs croaking and belling from the tall grass along the ancient, bobbing dock that thrust into the wine-dark lake. Turtles and bass and carp splashed, and our voices drifted over the water as we watched the stars spin by.

Later, more laughter, and something clear that smelled like blackberries and sipped like water and burned like a southern girl's first kiss under an August moon. Doctor Gonzo came to call, and the party gained momentum again. There was bouldering with beer eliminations, penalty dynos and post-brownie campussing. Badly shot motocross victories played in the background, the silent screen accompanied by a jarring dichotomy of metal and chick rock.

There were giggles and staggering in the darkness, boots and sandals, stubborn denim and capilene and cotton kicked and pulled and tossed laughing.

Near daybreak, there was, at last, sleep.  To sleep, perchance to dream.  And is all we see or seem but a dream within a dream?  Given the first warning pangs of soul and gut as consciousness returns, one can only hope.

Either that, or a someone’s pet ferret has died in my mouth, probably from the thunderous concussions pounding through my head.

Oh, my dear sweet lord... I am NOT eighteen anymore. Not even close. Twenty-one was a bright light over a decade and a half fading in the past. I extracted myself carefully, silently, from bed and occupants, oriented through a hook-latched screen door, and stealthed across the campground towards home. Grabbed towel and necessaries, tossed hydration and medication licit and otherwise into my system, and staggered carefully through loose stone down to the ancient bathhouse. The shower creaked on and greeted me with a bitterly cold blast of needle spray, and my yell likely woke the mostly-dead, if not in fact stirring actual corpses into motion. Pipes clanked and steam rose, grudgingly, spiders scuttling to the farthest extremes of their webs as I scrubbed vainly at the aches and pains coming mostly from my skull and savaged gut.

The eyes in the mirror were still red as a werewolf's mugshot, and I fingered stubble that held far more salt than pepper, trembling fingers tracing up my cheekbones to matching silver taking the field from my temples.

Getting kind of old for this shit, bubba.

And then the grin flickered back, unbidden; the upsurge of impish, indomitable, wild Celtic spirit that has lifted me out of so many dark pits, pushed me up against my own limits and beyond my own beliefs, given me the ability to laugh, first and foremost, at myself.

Really, Mister "Path Less Traveled"? What... You got someplace better to be? Something better to do? The silent voice is like a ribbon of razor wire, but even as it slices, I know there is humor there, among the merciless barbs and talons of facts.

Got a timeclock to punch, there, do ya, Ronin?  Is this just too hard for you, bro?  Got a family to raise or a "real" life to be living, maybe some adult, mature Planning for the Golden Years and Putting A Little Something Back For A Rainy Day? You sleepwalked through that role before, remember? You don't work in that world, and that world doesn't work for you. 'Sides… you know that ain't what's really buggin' yer poor little melon...

I closed my eyes, leaned my forehead against the mirror, turning my thoughts to face what I had avoided, the ghost that had haunted me through climbs and work and days and nights over the last week.

Yeah, ya pissed away another friendship, you and yer "ideals" and that damned quick trigger finger about every friend you’ve ever had warned you about. Devil and the deep blue sea, bubba. Rock and a hard place, seems like this is just about where ya came in to start with… trippin over yer pride and goin’ in circles… How far to the next windmill, Don Quixote?

The laugh was one part sadness, one part sarcasm, and one part just plain old hell-bent-for-leather good cheer in the face of the inevitable Truth.

It's a little late for Making Something of Yourself, dude. Guess ya better just do your best to be what you are. Tell it like you see it, walk it like you talk it, swallow your pride and as much crow as it takes to make you messes right and accept when you've stepped in it too deep to ever wipe it all clean again.

The shower room door squealed open, and a paunchy refugee from suburbia waddled in with a towel big enough to drape a Lamborghini and a shaving kit that looked like the entire "Toiletries for Him" section at Nordies. Beads of sweat glittered on his face and in the V of his exposed chest, and his breathing was a bellows, deep beneath years of Haagen-Dazs and Red Lobster.

We stood for an instant, face to face, his tiny porcine features slack in that instant between sight and reaction. There was a flicker of something there... maybe the sheep to wolf recognition signal, I don't know... I don't feel it... then the shutters came down, inside those tiny fearful eyes, and he nodded absently "howdyadoin" all one breathy outrush of spearmint and tobacco as he rolled by.

The voice was there, just at the shoulder of my conscious mind...

You still think YOUR life sucks??

My laughter woke whatever residents of morgue and tomb had remained undisturbed through the earlier shout, and I went off in search of breakfast.

The Cruise Master is a thing of simplicity and functional beauty, an off-white 1978 Dodge camper van restored with patience and determination (as well as a great deal of sweating, swearing and personal insults against the lineage of the former owners), by my pater familias, the Commander. Double beds, galley, micro'fresher (WC and shower), bumpin' tunes, no bells and whistles but lots of functionality. In light of my nomadic lifestyle, and with an eye towards future plans to travel in Colorado, the Tetons, and points west, I had seen it as prudent to invest some of my spring earnings to purchase the same when the 'rents had decided to "trade up".

The full load of gear previously stashed in the cramped confines of the Panzer now dispersed to a myriad of drawers and cupboards; jumper cables and cords and chargers and tools finally out from underfoot, gear and ropes and packs and other valuables racked in their own organized locker, grub and books and toys and all the things a rovin' student of Life and the Path needs to keep him happy.

Or too busy to notice the difference between furiously active and happy.

The day was cool and clear, a few tiny clouds giving lie to the forecast of showers and rain on the western horizon, a gentle southwest breeze stirring the golden heads of tall grasses in passing pasture, swallows and robins and wrens winging through the sweet morning air, Jerry and the Dead lilting out "Dark Star" as I rolled the Cruise Master along the backroads of the Shenandoah Valley on its shakedown run. A steep bolted route awaited my attentions and a first ascent, across the hills and far away, in West-by-god-Virginia (smile when ya say it). Another season had come and gone, and it was time for me to take to the road, again, if only for a little while. I was wrapping up loose ends, saying my farewells and alohas, paying my respects and debts, making time to have all those promised and long-delayed breakfasts and lunches with old friends from school, work, and the crags. Leaving my nemesis undone wasn't in the cards...

The route had bested me for two months, shutting me down again and again in the intense inverted slugfest of the first roof. Legs buried in the eight-inch offwidth, upper body and arms dangling at a downward slant, linking the series of long, brutal throws while transitioning from flesh-shredding leg jams to precise, sequential foot placements seemed beyond me. I had come within one fall of redpointing the route, three times, over the last couple of weeks. Time to get my game face on; take the pain, accept the fall, just do it... or call it too hard and admit to myself that I'm just too damned old, too soft, too weak, too slow.

Memorial Day traffic was light, and I suspected that I had not been I the minority with the previous nights' world tour through systemic abuse. Haze lay thick upon the distant flanks of the Alleghenies as I piloted the yacht-like Cruise Master down through mountain curves and forests. I braked as fallen orange signs and broken pavement intimated the approach of road improvements, halted for the weekend and holiday, leaving graders and trac-hoes and backhoes clustered and abandoned along the road like forlorn, mechanical aliens looking for a cheap room and someplace good to eat.

Franklin was jumping like any other small town on a major road during a national holiday, and I smiled and waved at throngs of strolling old people and giggling kids, sultry sixteen-year-olds and young turks with WWF t-shirts, bar-b-cue and Mountain Dew, Coors and a Mean Gene burger, yard sale heaven and a marching band.

An hour later, Seneca reared its twin summits above the broad green fields of Germany Valley, and I negotiated the busy three-way stop, threading the van through gawking tourons and straining dogs, ponderously turning land yachts that made me look like a tugboat next to an aircraft carrier by comparison, Verve, Prana, Lands End and Teva-clad slackers and rockjocks and river rats wandering from Yokums to the Gendarme to the Front Porch Restaurant, staring across the road to the towering plastic and plywood idol of the climbing wall or swiveling ancient spotting scopes to scan the face of the glowing white fin for climbers for as long as their quarter kept the lens open.

I parked in the farthest lot, letting the engine cool while I arranged slices of honey ham and crisp spinach on grilled pita bread. I unfolded a camp chair in the grass beside the parking lot and sat down to enjoy my sandwich, staring up at the folds and wrinkles Seneca, the crag I had come to think of as "the White Lady". Learning to place gear, to lead and clean, retreat and rappel, among these high, polished fins and corners had taught me so much about safety, climbing, the outdoors, and the eager, often nave kid I was then.

The sandwich was crumbs, and I washed it down with ice-cold spring water from Endless Caverns. Soft, hazy clouds drifted overhead as I turned once more onto the highway, Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" providing the backbeat as I urged the old van up through its gears.

An hour later, I lay, hands and arms crossed beneath my chin, legs straight out behind me on the flat boulder, perched some sixty feet above the floor of the Cirque. Fifty yards away, and dead-on, my latest obsession glowed in the noonday sun.

I counted bolts again. Three out the eight-inch offwidth roof, a rising curve of stone and space and pain that soared out almost ten feet from the base. Four more bolts from above the Business to the lip of the second five-foot overhang, affectionately nicknamed the Kit-Kat Roof for the solidity of its appearance and quality of its cracks. And then three, wide-spaced and crafty in locale, to take you right up the perfect profile of the arete that capped the headwall.
Mosquitoes danced in front of my face, and gnats attacked my ears and nose. I took one Last long look through the monocular and packed it in.

The next day was wrong, mad, strange. Perhaps that was the secret, after all those perfect, clockwork days of predictably failing. I don't know any more than the frogs, singing out there in the new-fallen rain.

Start was late and leisurely, after realizing that my rope was likely still lying right there in the garage where I had carefully packed it into a new bag, the night before the party... Doc Doom showed, late but dependably THERE, Dokken cranking from his stereo as he slid into the drive at high speed, stepping out into the dust, he rolled a smoke, poured a cuppa and cursed traffic, NPS Law officers, unspayed dogs and holiday traffic. He laughed at my lapse of memory and pulled cordage from the trunk of the silver bullet.

Instead of the usual short hike and rappel to save energy and time, we thrashed in through the lower path. I didn't question, didn't doubt, just went with the flow. Like the man that threw himself naked into the rosebush said, it seemed the thing to do at the time.

The Cirque was like the set for some Brazilian epic, green and fecund and humid. Locust and cicadas and birds filled the air with song, backdropped by the trickle of drops to which the waterfall had been reduced and the song of the river a hundred yards below. Millipedes crawled slowly, impossibly up the rock, and a corn snake, no bigger than a bit of gear cord and just eight inches long, slithered and melted over ledges and cracks and holds.

I warmed up on "Rock of Ages", an old favorite that Melissa (the Muse) and I had put up to open the Cirque, nearly eight years ago. Fifteen feet of 5.8 stemming leads to big holds through a slight overhang to a rest ledge, from which you chase a crack and 5.9+ face holds to pumpy mixed finish almost 90 feet off the deck. I was sweating, my heart pounding and my moves all herky-jerky, and although I finally pulled off the more run-out direct start, I flagged and took a hang at the last bolt.

Rapping down, I cleaned the draws and recoiled the rope, carrying my gear to the foot of Brother Love, breathing deeply through my nose to fight off the brief surge of nausea that locked my jaws. What the hell-? I had been careful to steer clear of anyone I thought was infectious, spending most of the last week training, isolated from the myriad coughers, sneezers, wheezers, and carriers currently inhabiting the 'burg. I tried to relax, munching on some peanut butter and honey, drinking plenty of water. I cursed myself with the thought that this was, without a doubt, something left over from my night of excess... then grinned and shrugged. It was, in the end, only a rock climb.

I stretched, visualized, tied in, and bonked. The first run shut me down at the same predictable, impossible spot. Fingerlocks from a squat, clip first bolt, lock biners at hanger and rope end, bump the right out to the jug at lip, undercling left and pivot, match at the lip, swing out, pull up, heel hook left/toe cam right/Leavittate, second bolt, head down, blow it and you’re talus stain.

Deep breaths, pull up/atomic sit-up and throw left to a shitty jug, reset feet and throw right to a hidden horn inside the crack, more dancing, throw long left to another jug, slightly better.

And that was where I stalled. Legs locked into the crack, Our Hero vainly tries the moves three times before calling "Take" and lowering off to pull the rope.

I shrug it off. It's just that kind of day. I pass some time doing trail work with the Doctor, then tie back in, drink a long gulp of water, and go back up, into the fight.

And suddenly, its all right there, and the fire is bright inside, and I'm not weightless but I am STRONG as I pull, dancing out to the edge, pulling through; crimpers setting me up for the high left before the crossover, and the rest is just a flow...

Crank your right hand around into an impossible angle to undercling a calcite-toothed column, hips grinding in the narrow confines of the crack as you strain upwards, only friction and belief holding you against the merciless pull of gravity as you snake a left up, through the crack, to catch the positive lip of a hold on the right, all thought suspended as you turn, looking down to carefully, consciously NOT step on the bolt hanger, toeing a pencil thin edge, right hand sweeping out in a controlled fall to catch a dusty sloper pocket, stalling your descent for just long enough to SINK the left into the pocket, elbow deep, hand curling through spiderwebs and leaves, scrabbling aside nuts and bones, twigs and moss and dirt and pebbles to lock you in as you growl, deep inside.

The carabiner's click is a ringing note, and the rope seems to drift through my fingers, into the gate.

The rest of the climb is almost anticlimax; clean moves, good clip stances, a great day and beautiful moves. But that's the easy way out. Too many stories get lost in clichés down that path. Sitting here, at the keyboard, I smile with the twinging memory of hard moves, the feel of muscle straining against disbelief and gravity, and of dreams becoming reality. The weeks of effort, of doubt and soul-searching, the whole pattern of my life thrown into introspection over the success or failure of this climb, all that recedes now, the serpents' dance come full circle, self-doubt and hesitation drifting away on a wave of present contentment. I know that this season, as all others, will pass, and that the new day will bring challenges and obstacles, doubts and fears. In this moment of clarity, I accept it, without anticipation or dread.

Later, driving through Petersburg with the bright sun shining down through the pouring rain, I fold away the memory of this route and its lessons for another day, and another crux, to share with a friend, to carry on through deep water and heavy weather, to savor during long hours behind the wheel.

And to lay down another strand of the tapestry, here; another shining thread, weaving across the void, trying to tell a tale of the untellable, reaching out for forever.