Things Change

Life is funny, ya know?

A week ago, my life was fairly normal; laundry, dishes, cleaning up after cats and kids, reading posts on Facebook and the internet, watching the debacle of the election cycle, trying to finish some anchor replacement at the older crags in WV and making plans to hit the road for Colorado the day after tomorrow, to begin another season as staff in Pike National Forest's 11 Mile Canyon.

An hour later, I was in an ambulance with a wife who I did not know would live to see another day, holding her hand as EMTs worked on her, my heart in my throat and all plans for the future annihilated and scattered to the winds.

Late that night, the doctors at RMH told us their diagnosis; not the worst, but not the best, not by a long shot.

Cindy, a fourteen year stroke survivor and Multiple Sclerosis fighter, had suffered a brain aneurysm; a massive swelling in the carotid artery just inside her skull, like a loaded cannon pointed directly at the base of her brain. She was transferred to Richmond's Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center for more tests and scans, her condition analyzed by some of the leading neurosurgeons in the country.

On Saturday, her pain was minimal, her condition stable, and we came back to the Shenandoah Valley.

Eight years ago, I met a funny, beautiful lady with a heart of gold; taught her to climb, shared her battle with Multiple Sclerosis, supported her fight to stop using the medications that were killing her, and listened as she fought with the darkness that had been poured into her soul by demons in human form at such an early age.

In turn, she accepted me for the bipolar, sardonic, irascible, irreverent fool that I am; reached down into my well of isolation and self-pity and drew out the very best of me. If I have failed to live up to that ideal, the fault is mine; Cindy has always believed in me, no matter how badly or how often I have failed.

We have traveled the country from coast to coast, climbed and hiked, laughed and cried at the folly and loss of friends and family, celebrated victories and struggled to find a silver lining surrounding the storm clouds of our occasional defeats. We've learned more about friendship, hardship, love and life in the last few years than either of us suspected could be known in a lifetime.

Today, Cindy and I have a slightly clearer picture of a much different future, and in the light of that knowledge, we are living each day to the fullest, loving and appreciating each other, so thankful for the family and friends who have put aside their own burdens and reached out to support us in our darkest hours of need.

The Road ahead is uncertain; there are trials and storms on our horizons, without a doubt, as there are for every person living in this consensual illusion of reality that we share. But for now, we are holding each other in this safe haven, cherishing each touch, each kiss, each word, and together, we will get through whatever may come.

No matter what may transpire, each of us knows the other will be waiting, there in that forest meadow at the end of the Road; waiting and calling, "Come home".

You and me, kid; forever.

And, for now, that is more than enough.

Another Gypsy Ramble

Out on a wet morning for a short hike along the North Fork Trail from the FS 79 campsite above Shreve's Store and Sanctuary.

Ghosts of Christmas

Dawn came with a crimson scattering of high thin clouds and temperatures below freezing.  With my Cindy wrapped in a warm robe and lights twinkling in the window, we toasted our 5th Christmas together with mugs of strong mocha and breakfast brownies.

Two hours later, we parked on a quiet side road and gathered our gear to repeat a Christmas tradition, climbing a new line.

Christmas trees

Ready for another adventure.

Miss Pink Pants braces for the cold.

With temperatures standing at just below freezing, ice chandeliers hung over green moss in the shady corners of the cliffs.

The rock was frigid, the sun bright and the conditions perfect if colder than the Devil's heart.  We rapped in, cleared a small belay and I began climbing.  As I moved out of a corner onto the face, Cindy spied a pin I had climbed right by, set in a crack that had obviously been used for practice as shown by the number of previous placements visible.

I found three more pins set at regular intervals as I climbed the short, fun face and tried to imagine what it would have been like in a pair of infantry boots, with a pack and rifle, likely in the dark.

With numb feet and freezing fingers, I pulled the top and brought Cindy up in short order.  The rope was coiled, anchors dismantled and stowed and we hiked back out to the waiting vehicle.

 With tradition secured for another year and bellies rumbling in anticipation, we steered Icy Blue south, past Seneca Rocks, to rendezvous with our old friend Pyro and his family for a Christmas luncheon before heading home to our cozy next.

Hoping that all of our friends and family scattered across the country and the globe have a safe and happy holiday and a fantastic New Year.  Stay tuned to see what we put up and where we go to welcome in 2014!

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...

Makin' the Scene

We showed up at Secret Crag #7 to find three cars from 3 different states.  Up the hill, we found friends and newcomers, all enjoying a day among the forest and hills and mountains of West Virginia's Pendleton County.

Alex on "Thieves in the Temple"

Synchronized sending

Simon Moore between jugs on "Gypsies"

Dueling shredders

Spring Send-a-thon: No Free T-Shirts Required

Trail work and trash clean-up, new climbers on new lines, no dogs, no national press coverage, and no free T-shirts required.

One from the Back of the Rack

New Routing for Christmas in Devil's Canyon

We started out the week before, one day after the End of the World.  Having seen no sign of the Mayans, the Altasrians, the Pleiadeians, or the great black hole that would open with alignment, we resolved to ACT!

The day went well, if with a few set-backs and delays.  The hike to the Troll Hut was breezy, with a sharp, biting north wind breathing down our necks, which helped cool the sweat of carrying 60 pounds of drill, bolts, hammer, wrenches, rope, gear, snacks and food.  The feeder creek below the crag turned out to be running, necessitating an alternate high-water trail to the crag... one which I fortunately possessed the foresight to have constructed about a decade before.

Work soon proceeded apace.

The line was classic; the rock, solid... enough.  but cold weather, a few false holes, and an uncooperative first bolt put paid to our dreams of a first ascent... that day.

Gypsy Conditions, a sustained 5.8, stalled in progress by a single bad bolt and a dead drill battery.

Close-up of the traitor bolt.  Oh, well, a good day, regardless... not like it was the end of the world or anything... THAT WAS YESTERDAY!

We worked another partially-completed line, named in honor of my friend Mike, The Fisher King, before heading back towards lights and "civilization", which seemed doomed to continue for another millenium or so.

Three days later:

Christmas Day, 2012: 34 degrees F, 20-30 mph gusts, heavy overcast.

Full-on Gypsy Conditions.  An hour's drive east did nothing to change the picture.  Cindy looked at me, I looked at Cindy.

"We're already here," she said.  "We can freeze in camp, or freeze with a smile on our faces."

So.... we went out and bolted and climbed a new route, in the sheltered corridor of the Troll Hut, and started another new line on the opposite wall, just for good measure.

We ended the day with a smile and a last look into the canyon, where water rolled over the volcanic boulders, before hiking out to hot drinks and dinner with friends.

Gypsy Conditions, 5.8, 4 bolts and anchors, First Ascent: Michael and Cindy Gray, 12/25/12.

Turkey Reunion in Upper Devil's Canyon