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.

Lost Worlds

If a picture is worth a thousand words, here is an encyclopedia of the back corners of Smoke Hole Canyon and the surrounding region.

Free solo, anyone?  Privately-owned Eagle Rock, last pitch of Karma Cracks.

Macdaddy Mike Stewart cranking into the sketchy section of Cherry Lane, Darkside.

Doc Goodwack- WV 's Unknown Hardman

There's this guy I know, have known for what seems like half of forever.  A few inches past 6 feet tall, he has a wide smile, an open manner and a straightforward delivery, in an unmistakable Southern accent, gesturing eloquently and making eye contact with every listener when he gives directions or beta or relates some hilarious construction tale or heinous epic in one of WV's many lost corners.

He's pretty quiet, keeps to himself, mostly, although at the crags he's usually noteworthy for the fact that he's one of the only people you will see actually working on the trail or replacing worn-out hardware at the routes, without Access Fund banners, a free T-shirt, or a horde of networking Facebook friend participants and their dogs.  You might also note that his is one of the few rides pumping serious metal as it rolls in or out of the crag... no Dave Matthews here, ladies. If it ain't metal, it's crap.

He is a master home builder and expert carpenter who has done more work for poor people for little or nothing than most Habitat for Humanity offices.  He is also an expert on the Shaw Brothers' kung fu films, and an ardent fan of science fiction and action movies, good cooking, beautiful women, motocross and the Colt AR-15.

He is a patriot in a country that has almost forgotten the real meaning of that word; a man who has stood by his ideals and what he calls The System; the way things should be done when putting up new routes, building trail, or traveling in the outside world.

This is my friend Mike Fisher, aka Doc Goodwack, the creator of some of Franklin Gorge's classic pumpfests; Two Blind Mice, A Moment of Clarity, Persephone, the fun Jump Start and the thuggish Davy Jones' Locker, as well as Pendelton County five star lines like Hunter's Moon, Shaolin Mantis, Apophus, Slight of Hand and Defenders of the Faith.  He's the man who introduced me to the key principles of the Fisher Manuals, inking them inside the front cover of my "Rockingham County Climber's Guide":

1.  Eat meat every day.
2.  Drink good wine or ale every day.
3. Work hard, play hard, go to bed hard and wake up hard.
4.  Accept NO STUDENTS!

Together, we've built miles of trail and put up somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 routes, sport and trad, many of them ground-up in bitter conditions on occasionally horrifying rock.  There are harder climbers in the region, but they don't build much trail or take the time to carefully craft high-quality routes anywhere outside "The Scene", and since most of them make a paycheck from climbing, one could view their involvement as just a trifle self-serving.

In sharp contrast to 95% of the climbers in the world, Mike Fisher has always tried to give as much to climbing as he has gotten from climbing.  He has raised the bar and never compromised his integrity to simply slap in another poorly cleaned/bolted 5.12 or impress anyone.

The Master at work: Mike Fisher focusing his chi on the first ascent of La Machina

And because I know that that few others have, it's high time I said, publicly,

Thank you, Mister Fisher.

Climbing in our little corner of WV wouldn't be what it is today if it weren't for you. Trails at the crags, especially Franklin and Reed's, would long ago have faded back into the landslides they were when we started.  God knows, it wasn't until they saw us working on those trails that the Access Fund had ANY interest in West Virginia, outside New River and Seneca, and they're still incapable of matching, as an organization with hundreds of members, the work two of us have done with little or no support or fanfare.

Most of the best and/or hardest routes I know of have your name on them, and few of mine would exist without your input, belays, and constant encouragement to never stop trying.

I have been and will ever be your friend and student, my master.

Climb on.

Trip Like I Do

The video that started it all... a quick tour of some of the wonderlands you humble author will be camping,  exploring and developing this winter.