Bear with me, I'm writing this from a tempemental laptop in an uncomfortable crouch on a wooden chair with a sore old ass and a huge grin on my face.
We've been at it for thirty days now, from the time we locked the apartment door until now; living out of a small truck and a big tent full of backpacks and climbing gear and smelly clothes and assorted gadgets, in a series of National Forest and private campsites, backroad pullouts and friend's houses.
Spent the weekend hiking around some favorite old spots in Germany Valley, pruning back half-forgotten trails, shoring up steps and cleaning up old lines. Getting back in touch with the local store keepers and landowners to confirm access and ownership. Downloaded a vast store of beta on West Virginia countryside marryin's and buryin's, reunions and feuds, slow business, high prices, flash floods, pillbillies, mean young men and fast young women. Sat in camp in the slow-falling shadows of evening watching my wife-to-be organize and artisan and wander peacefully through her own space, the purple air filled with the scent of honeysuckle and green grass and sage and birdsong.
We now have a topper for the S10 affectionately known as Icy Blue, acquired from a kindly, chatty little fellow on the outskirts of the town of Stuart's Draft, Virginia, on Saturday morning of the holiday weekend. The money was a traveling gift from my parents following two days of work in their hundred-foot oak trees. Cindy and I rose early, skipped coffee and crossed the various mountains and rivers and state lines to reach Stuart's Draft, near Waynesboro, where we checked out the goods, paid the man, mounted the new unit and finished a 200 mile round-trip loop, including visits to Doc Goodwack and a few other friends, in time for late lunch back in camp at The Bluffs. Happy hour was declared early in celebration of our new acquisition.
We crashed early and were deep into REM sleep when a familiar voice called out "Hello?" a light shone into the tent and someone asked "Are you guys naked in there?" I confirmed the truth and we were granted a few moments of abuse-filled dimness in which to remedy the situation. We emerged into welcoming arms and there were soon open beers and seats found for everyone.
Plans and introductions were made, amid jokes and smokes and laughter, and an hour or so later the raiders wandered back out into the night. Miss Cindy and I crashed smiling and rose early, determined to beat the heat, spending the day in the river with friends, toproping and doing a bit of rappeling on the private cliffs close to camp. There were big plans elesewhere, but the weather and the humidity seemed determined to thwart first ascent ambitions, with a heat advisory for West Virginia and humidity hovering around 80 or 90 per cent. If nothing else, I knew that Cindy's MS would NOT react to conditions like that in a favorable way. Having dealt with her seizures from heat and dehydration before, I was determined to take it easy and err on the side of caution. Besides, after three seasons of riding herd over the small riot of Eagle Rock Campground on this first major outdoor holiday of the year, it felt nice to have no obligations, no one else's messes to clean up. There were opportunities enough to climb in the future. For now, it was time for the Power Couple.
We're settling into this lifestyle of simplicity, something natural to the heart of what we both really ARE, deep down; gypsies, wanderers, travelers. With the topper to keep our gear dry, safe,and out of the sun, we're thinking of taking a week or two to help out in Joplin, before heading on out to Colorado to see if my friend DeChristo (Tom Reid) is as ornery and ugly as ever, if the cliffs are as fine and tall, the air as sweet and clear. From there, who knows? But make no mistake, we ARE getting married and California IS on the schedule... the schedule is just very, very liquid, right now. If we have promised or threatened to visit, please bear with us. We both lived on other peops schedules for years and we're being a bit irresponsible right now. The vacation will turn into tour soon, I promise.
We have challenges ahead, some known, many not. I am still trying to find work and still finding very little. People who are building are not hiring, and if so they aren't hiring carpenters closing in on 50- those guys know too much about the building code and labor laws. They ask too many questions and bend too few rules and have opinions that are not all about the bottom line. As in the rest of my life, my inability to stay silent regarding stupidity, waste, responsibility and safety costs me a great deal in the search for gainful employment, as well.
Cindy is still fighting the battle with MS, and some days ae better than others. We are living this life a day or a week at a time, accepting what is, trying to change what we can, trying to save our energies for the adventures ahead rather than worrying about the things we have no control over in the puppet theater most folks call day-to-day life.
We lazed in the river until mid afternoon, when I climbed the hill to retrieve Cindy's fishing gear and met our late-night party rolling down the hill to the Hole. Coco the chocolate Lab was in the lead by several hundred feet, tail wagging her whole body, deflated football clenched in her teeth. The others came wandering down the hill, gawking at the soaring, private cliffline over the road and asking me questions about access and privacy and climbing.
We swam and fished and watched eagles soar over the Gorge, waved to the landowners wading downriver from us, tossed sticks and blls and otherwise tried to coax Coco into the water. As shadows fell over the river, we retreated to hang gear from the Sandbagger's Buttress and enjoy some shady rock climbing; Jaynie shooting up the cliff liike a natural and Mike showing the same kind of determination he had on his initial outing the week before, Cindy cranking the thinner line to the left with determination after being spit off the week before.
Evening faded into cold Stella Artois and laughing conversations as we sorted and swapped gear by the cars, bidding them goodnight as we headed for camp and a late dinner. Stars gleamed from the skies overhead as a whipporwill launched into his endless refrain. Honeysuckle blew on the breeze as Cindy turned to me and smiled, her forest eyes dancing, and for just a little while, all was right with the world.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Aborted Rapture
Survived the end of the world and spent the weekend at the crags (surprise! Of course, with the weather we had, if I hadn't been there, the world WOULD have ended, so you are all welcome. I'll look for the checks in the mail. )
Cranked Saturday with Doc Fisher and Cindy B, at an increasingly popular Secret Crag #7. The Stewarts and Randy L, along with amanda and Johnathan showed up and pulled and partied, and several of our D.C. neighbors wandered in as well. The hundreds of feet of new trails and edging constructed since their last visit went unremarked.
Mister Fisher vocalized his way up the steep and still-crumbly 5.10R sport route Grain of Sand, but fell below the anchors. After a prolonged rest, he returned and sent the route then retrieved his anchors. No progress was made on the heinous project just L of Cold Day in Hell.
An early evening turned into late-night pizza fest after several hours of Guiness, pool, humorous commentary on the Apocalypse/Rapture and as designated driver for a friend who called from the bar as we passed through phone coverage.
Back to camp late and crashed hard. Up early to run errands and fetch coffee and see if the world had gotten the day wrong by 1 (no change). Mike D and friend show just after noon, with Coco the chocolate Lab bounding happily through the woods. We wander out through the thick forest covering the private land and private crags near camp and set a top rope/rappel for Mike's first experience at each. He rocks it, and we all have fun on a moderate wall.
Later, while taking a break, we discover a baby copperhead about 9 inches long coiled right in the midst of our set-up. babies, of course, are the worst due to their tendency to completely drain all venom into the victim during a bite. We dispatch our unwelcome guest after a round of photos and more smokes all around are called for to steady jazzed nerves.
Cindy gets on rock, as does the Curmudgeon and Mike D , who aced the first and second rappels like an old hand and proceeds to climb in the same manner, crimping small holds and stepping high in work boots.
An awesome afternoon hike out through a sunlit forest along a rushing stream, dozens of songbirds filling the air with music as butterflies dip and soar through the mountain laurel and rhododendron. We crack cold Stellas and enjoy a few moments of conversation and recounting before the needs of home and pet ownership call our friends away and we head back to camp and dinner.
Cranked Saturday with Doc Fisher and Cindy B, at an increasingly popular Secret Crag #7. The Stewarts and Randy L, along with amanda and Johnathan showed up and pulled and partied, and several of our D.C. neighbors wandered in as well. The hundreds of feet of new trails and edging constructed since their last visit went unremarked.
Mister Fisher vocalized his way up the steep and still-crumbly 5.10R sport route Grain of Sand, but fell below the anchors. After a prolonged rest, he returned and sent the route then retrieved his anchors. No progress was made on the heinous project just L of Cold Day in Hell.
An early evening turned into late-night pizza fest after several hours of Guiness, pool, humorous commentary on the Apocalypse/Rapture and as designated driver for a friend who called from the bar as we passed through phone coverage.
Back to camp late and crashed hard. Up early to run errands and fetch coffee and see if the world had gotten the day wrong by 1 (no change). Mike D and friend show just after noon, with Coco the chocolate Lab bounding happily through the woods. We wander out through the thick forest covering the private land and private crags near camp and set a top rope/rappel for Mike's first experience at each. He rocks it, and we all have fun on a moderate wall.
Later, while taking a break, we discover a baby copperhead about 9 inches long coiled right in the midst of our set-up. babies, of course, are the worst due to their tendency to completely drain all venom into the victim during a bite. We dispatch our unwelcome guest after a round of photos and more smokes all around are called for to steady jazzed nerves.
Cindy gets on rock, as does the Curmudgeon and Mike D , who aced the first and second rappels like an old hand and proceeds to climb in the same manner, crimping small holds and stepping high in work boots.
An awesome afternoon hike out through a sunlit forest along a rushing stream, dozens of songbirds filling the air with music as butterflies dip and soar through the mountain laurel and rhododendron. We crack cold Stellas and enjoy a few moments of conversation and recounting before the needs of home and pet ownership call our friends away and we head back to camp and dinner.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Another adventure afternoon
Spent yesterday morning clearing trail and pruning around camp while Cindy ran into nearby Petersburg on errands. High broken clouds brought morning sun and soft breezes to our rain-beseiged little camp, a welcome change after a week of daily storms and precipitation. Tiny maples, red and white and chesnut oaks, lady slipper and sassifrass glistened with drops of moisture along the forest floor, spiderwebs spun to diamond in an instant of dewfall, the rich smell of the growing, ancient forest heavy as the mist that swirled in the shafts of sunlight. Stone and concrete foundations peek through leaf and brush derelict ships in a leafy sea, and a shattered length of beam slowly sinks into the earth under a burden of multicolored fungus and moss.
Cindy returns from town with a proud smile and a new inspection sticker, and we grab a quick lunch and head over to the rim in search of the afternoon's latest adventure.
After some wandering and peering, we locate the top of an old trad line of mine, a ground-up indulgence that proved interesting in the short section of crack just above mid-height. A complex anchor and a brief battle with some hanging deadfall and the resultant brush see us in place on a ledge about 20' above the game trail that winds along the bottom of the cliff. The route is partially wet but clean and we set about beating ourselves silly on the steep crack moves up a sharp dihedral (corner) to the awkward exit at the roof, which brings you out of the wetness and onto the shoulder, an easy stemming scramble up a steep slot to the anchors.
Easier said than done.
Cindy makes a mighty effort at the onsight TR, but wet rock and lots of recent weather-related downtime conspire to send her swinging into space. I am impressed by her determination when we trade places and I grunt through the moves more by dint of brute strength and bullheaded stupidity than finesse and superior skill. The line is a sweet bit of coner and crack, but the crack is wide even for my slablike hands, and the face around it is slightly overhanging.
I lower, and Cindy has another go of it, but a banged elbow ona blown chicken-wing jam takes her last reserves and we lower off to make the quick hike back up and around to the anchors. New "No Trespassing" signs remind me of the landowner's story of a recent burglary, and I am again very glad for having acquired and maintained both climbing access and good relations with these folks so many years ago.
Top anchors and gear are soon retrieved, cold adult beverages are soon acquired, and less than an hour later we are settling in to enjoy another fine pasta dinner and an evening of birdsong and forest breezes.
Cindy returns from town with a proud smile and a new inspection sticker, and we grab a quick lunch and head over to the rim in search of the afternoon's latest adventure.
After some wandering and peering, we locate the top of an old trad line of mine, a ground-up indulgence that proved interesting in the short section of crack just above mid-height. A complex anchor and a brief battle with some hanging deadfall and the resultant brush see us in place on a ledge about 20' above the game trail that winds along the bottom of the cliff. The route is partially wet but clean and we set about beating ourselves silly on the steep crack moves up a sharp dihedral (corner) to the awkward exit at the roof, which brings you out of the wetness and onto the shoulder, an easy stemming scramble up a steep slot to the anchors.
Easier said than done.
Cindy makes a mighty effort at the onsight TR, but wet rock and lots of recent weather-related downtime conspire to send her swinging into space. I am impressed by her determination when we trade places and I grunt through the moves more by dint of brute strength and bullheaded stupidity than finesse and superior skill. The line is a sweet bit of coner and crack, but the crack is wide even for my slablike hands, and the face around it is slightly overhanging.
I lower, and Cindy has another go of it, but a banged elbow ona blown chicken-wing jam takes her last reserves and we lower off to make the quick hike back up and around to the anchors. New "No Trespassing" signs remind me of the landowner's story of a recent burglary, and I am again very glad for having acquired and maintained both climbing access and good relations with these folks so many years ago.
Top anchors and gear are soon retrieved, cold adult beverages are soon acquired, and less than an hour later we are settling in to enjoy another fine pasta dinner and an evening of birdsong and forest breezes.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Adventure, Incorporated
Took advantage of the break in showers yesterday morning to run errands and then hit the crag. Cindy and I took light recon packs and rapped down a vegetated 30m cliff in the north end of Germany Valley. The line was composed of a series of ledges, faces, corners and chimneys to reach the steep slope at the bottom, adjacent to a harder climb called "The Fall of Innennin", a technical 5.10 mixed line which I hope to put the First Ascent on someday soon, Lord willin and the rain stops a-fallin'.
GREAT little 3-hour adventure made MUCH harder by climbing in boots and helmets- kudos to the FA parties, who likely did the line wearing combat boots and protected by a loop of hemp line tied around their waists. We only found the one piton, so the line likely wandered off to a different ending, but slung horns and sheer balls were likely the only pro for those brave lads of the U.S. Army. Miss Cindy did magnificently (of course) handling the exposure, the multi-pitch rappels and climbing, and the difficulties of carrying a pack in a vertical environment with the humor and concentration of a pro. We dubbed the line "The Climb of the Unknown Soldier", probably about 5.6, tricky and sparse protection, so PG/R... but lots of holds, many of them jugs, and plenty of rests. HUGE oak tree at the top to belay from, and a ten minute stroll to camp.
Planning a trip to Seneca Rocks for Cindy's first summit in the next two weeks, then back down to Asheville, Shortoff Mountain, Looking Glass, and the Red River Gorge in the first few weeks of June.
Adventure, Incorporated, at your service....
GREAT little 3-hour adventure made MUCH harder by climbing in boots and helmets- kudos to the FA parties, who likely did the line wearing combat boots and protected by a loop of hemp line tied around their waists. We only found the one piton, so the line likely wandered off to a different ending, but slung horns and sheer balls were likely the only pro for those brave lads of the U.S. Army. Miss Cindy did magnificently (of course) handling the exposure, the multi-pitch rappels and climbing, and the difficulties of carrying a pack in a vertical environment with the humor and concentration of a pro. We dubbed the line "The Climb of the Unknown Soldier", probably about 5.6, tricky and sparse protection, so PG/R... but lots of holds, many of them jugs, and plenty of rests. HUGE oak tree at the top to belay from, and a ten minute stroll to camp.
Planning a trip to Seneca Rocks for Cindy's first summit in the next two weeks, then back down to Asheville, Shortoff Mountain, Looking Glass, and the Red River Gorge in the first few weeks of June.
Adventure, Incorporated, at your service....
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Dispatches from the Road
"Dispatches?
DISPATCHES!?!?
We don' NEED no stinkin' DISPATCHES, caberone'! Ah-ahahahahhahhaah!!"
Just over 1200 miles later, we're home again, home again, hippity-hop. (Actually, we're house and dogsitting, but we've made ourselves at home, as ordered. So, sorta homeagain.. whatever...) Blue Ridge Parkway, Linn Falls, Grandfather Mountain, downtown Asheville, Western North Carolina highways and their charming lack of signs and the incredible beauty of the Smokies. New frinds for me, reunions and lot catching up for Cindy.
Full trip report with pictures to follow.
DISPATCHES!?!?
We don' NEED no stinkin' DISPATCHES, caberone'! Ah-ahahahahhahhaah!!"
Just over 1200 miles later, we're home again, home again, hippity-hop. (Actually, we're house and dogsitting, but we've made ourselves at home, as ordered. So, sorta homeagain.. whatever...) Blue Ridge Parkway, Linn Falls, Grandfather Mountain, downtown Asheville, Western North Carolina highways and their charming lack of signs and the incredible beauty of the Smokies. New frinds for me, reunions and lot catching up for Cindy.
Full trip report with pictures to follow.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Asheville, NC
Tuesday night, enjoyed a great evening and chimichanga dinner with our buddy Simon Moore, hiding out from the storms and rain and laughing at the vindictive mess his psycho g/f left when she cleaned out all the domestic goods "which she brought to the relationship" (half of which seemed to actually belong to Simon... go figure). Shared some of our multiple-backup domestic gear with the lad and left him in a much better mood Wednesday morning to begin the drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway to Asheville, NC to visit with some friends of my future bride and see a bit of that great southern climbing.
Loooong drive, and I honestly cannot recommend anyone ever drive the BRP between Roanoke and Asheville... too many houses right beside the Park "boundary", too little info about where you are, no beta on where the intersecting highways lead (like, "can I get OFF this road ahead and get onto an interstate, or just lost?"), and damned few pullouts or rest areas, as well as the fact that, despite the temps being in the 80s a week or two ago, most of the facilities STILL aren't open... so no potties for the girls or boys en route!
Got in late, ate steak and taters and crashed! Woke late and casual, lots of coffee and sorting the mess on the truck and now we're out exploring and planning for a shish kebab dinner tonite and maybe Looking Glass tomorrow... lots and lots of great moderate climbs up on the south end of the formation, according to the beta I snagged in a phone call from the Super Sensei, Ed Begoon.
Cindy has been a trouper; driving, map reading, and generally being good company on the trip.
The day is too gorgeous to spend in here, so we're out and after it!
More tomorrow... or the next day...
Loooong drive, and I honestly cannot recommend anyone ever drive the BRP between Roanoke and Asheville... too many houses right beside the Park "boundary", too little info about where you are, no beta on where the intersecting highways lead (like, "can I get OFF this road ahead and get onto an interstate, or just lost?"), and damned few pullouts or rest areas, as well as the fact that, despite the temps being in the 80s a week or two ago, most of the facilities STILL aren't open... so no potties for the girls or boys en route!
Got in late, ate steak and taters and crashed! Woke late and casual, lots of coffee and sorting the mess on the truck and now we're out exploring and planning for a shish kebab dinner tonite and maybe Looking Glass tomorrow... lots and lots of great moderate climbs up on the south end of the formation, according to the beta I snagged in a phone call from the Super Sensei, Ed Begoon.
Cindy has been a trouper; driving, map reading, and generally being good company on the trip.
The day is too gorgeous to spend in here, so we're out and after it!
More tomorrow... or the next day...
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Disassembling a Life
Taking a break from packing and sorting, winnowing away the excess to prepare for new voyages.
Long day yesterday between these final preparations and spending a few hours working on a friend's house til 11 pm last night.
Crappy crag day earlier this week- twisted the ankle I had sprained three days before just minutes after getting out of the car at the Entrance Walls. Resigned to remain earthbound, I did trailwork while Pat led an "interesting" variant of my line "Raindancer and Cindy B styled the TR and gear cleanup as always. Trying to remain on the Path is hard, some days, absorbed in thoughts of deterioration and the bitter spite of fair-weather acquaintances.
Raindrops heralded the first notes from the fat lady, and we headed home to watch the storms.
Putting all of this into some sort of shape... more later.
Long day yesterday between these final preparations and spending a few hours working on a friend's house til 11 pm last night.
Crappy crag day earlier this week- twisted the ankle I had sprained three days before just minutes after getting out of the car at the Entrance Walls. Resigned to remain earthbound, I did trailwork while Pat led an "interesting" variant of my line "Raindancer and Cindy B styled the TR and gear cleanup as always. Trying to remain on the Path is hard, some days, absorbed in thoughts of deterioration and the bitter spite of fair-weather acquaintances.
Raindrops heralded the first notes from the fat lady, and we headed home to watch the storms.
Putting all of this into some sort of shape... more later.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Strange Weather
In the first of 3 (or 4, I don't know yet) videos, the Lyndon State College Outdoor Adventure Program returns with sensei Jamie Struck to once again build trail, climb rock, explore, discover and bring a ray of sunshine to Wild wonderful West Virginia.
Enjoy Strange Weather, my friends, and let me know what you think!
Enjoy Strange Weather, my friends, and let me know what you think!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Cliche'
It is too cliché.
The old climber, full of wrath, a caricature of faded dreams and failed ambitions, railing against the failings of the younger generation and those who have made a more fortunate way in this life, alienating friends and wreaking havoc.
A loner with no social skills thundering judgments upon the social networking sites and climbing forums in which he is not only a member but an administrator.
Dramatic exit, cue the violins and isn’t that just the teensiest whiff of sanctimonious BS trailing in the wake of the tattered knight as he rides (predictably) into the setting sun.
Paulo Coelho says that every Warrior will at some time in the Journey, doubt, fail, betray, fall into the Abyss, lose faith and question the dream of his own Legend.
I have many times sought a way to impart the Vision that drives me to bend down and touch the earth and stones of the crags where I climb and enjoy so many days of my life. And I have many times lost patience and momentum to squabble and snarl like a junkyard dog with packs of fools and people just as opinionated as myself, imparting nothing but invective, leaving nothing but a bad impression.
I am only human, as I must so often remind myself. I have a dream, but nothing of grand and sweeping scope, nothing to change forever the lives of my fellow humans. It is in the end a simple proposition. We must be stewards to the lands and crags upon which we travel because if we are not, then we are some of the most destructive idiots on the planet. We do not come to harvest fruit or game, but in our passing we create massive impact. Our disruption of the biosphere stretches from the common ground, if you will, of the horizontal world up the perpendicular faces where few of the other users of the forest venture.
In other words, our IMPACT is twice that of our fellow users.
And all of this to climb up a piece of stone.
But me no buts about climbers being more environmentally conscious or active. I’ve been in this game for three decades now, and I’ve mangled the rules a few times myself. Climbers have good intentions and poor application. They carry reuseable hemp shopping bags to big “organic” grocery stores and shop fair trade goods from Indonesia and Zaire in the giant chain stores in the metroplexes where they live. They buy their gas (or the electricity for their hybrid) from huge corporations, then come to West Virginia and throw their trash away. They send their yearly check to the Access Fund and the World Wildlife Fund, Greenpeace and Amnesty International or Doctors Without Borders which are all wonderful organizations but few if any of them have a maintained, dependable impact on the communities near where 90% of the people in the United States climb. Yes, the Access Fund does sponsor Adopt-A-Crag. Yes, they do stay involved in the fight to secure and preserve access to climbing areas everywhere. Yes, a lot of influential people believe very strongly in their mission. And yes, they are introducing a lot of new people to the art of climbing every single day... and thus increasing impact, and the likelihood of access issues for them to resolve in the future.
It's called job security.
When was the last time you read or heard of the Access Fund, Climbing Magazine, Rock and Ice or anyone else sponsoring a sit-in or demonstration to stop mountaintop removal, or organizing a hands-on seminar on trail building and impact management, at a crag near you? And it’s that last bit that’s important, boys and girls, oh yes indeed. If you don’t get that beta a lot closer to home than the Regional Conference on Impact Management and Resource Conservation in Reno, then your shiny gathering of experts and celebrities amounts to little more than a headline, some filler, and a photo op for fundraising.
These mountains belong to all of us and they are being destroyed by greedy corporations and despoiled by irresponsible visitors and narrow-minded locals. The fight to save public lands is not a hobby, it is a war. And environmental activism is not accomplished with a checkbook or a regional conference.
Every day is trail day.
And every day is trash clean-up day.
If you find a fresh dump of trash in your local crag’s parking area, don’t just leave it. You can get free trash bags and gloves from most local Department of Highways garages any day of the week and they are often open on Saturdays. If you bag it and tell them where it is, they will come pick it up on any state road.
We are already altering the native environment forever, no matter how sensitive we are to that change, or how active, informed and involved we may be globally. We pay no fees, buy no permits, and bring the largest groups, by far, of any sport. I have seen fifty people crammed into a three-acre crag, with a half-dozen dogs and several children included in that count. At the end of the day, the trails and the underbrush surrounding them, not to mention the areas along the top of the cliffs, looked as though cattle had stampeded through the forest. I saw at least a dozen Access Fund or environmental organization stickers on bumpers and helmets that day, and on most other occasions that I’ve been to a crag with devastating impact and erosion.
I do not decry the dreams and ambitions of the next generation. I have always known you would come. Welcome to it.
But remember that honor is a gift a person gives to himself or herself. Honor the tradition that we, the few, have tried to pass down to you, one of both good routes up the cliff and good routes to the cliff. Harder numbers are nothing that will bring you great joy in the long run, believe me. You will eventually derive as much love and satisfaction from a well-crafted 5.8 as ever you felt cranking up some steep crimpfest. And if you make of the crag and trails a thing of function and beauty, as in balance with nature and the heartbeat that speaks with a thousand voices from the world all around you as any work of Mankind can ever be, you will honor yourself.
If we only take, and do not give as an act of selfless love towards the places that give us so much, then we are no better than the most selfish users of the forest. If we do not lead by belief and example, then our voices and our causes mean no more than any other in the decisions and fates of our public lands. By good stewardship we empower ourselves and the generations of climbers and adventurers to come.
So join what organizations you will. Head out to Adopt-A-Crag and National Trails Day and even those ridiculous Mid-Atlantic Climbers Coalition cleanups of car pullouts on the Skyline Drive. Do what you want.
But the next time you are speeding up the trail to hit that project or start your weekend, take time to stop, bend down, and replace that kicked-out border stone. Take a few minutes to slip off your pack, breathe some morning air, and fix that wobbly step. And speak up when you see someone else trampling the underbrush or crosscutting the trails.
Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to stop, take a deep breath, and control the urge to scream at basically good people who just don’t get it. I’ll be trying to mend some fences with former friends who’ve felt the razor edge of my sarcasm and wit. Not with much hope, but the only thing a man can do when passion leads him astray is to admit he has misspoken and bow deep in humble contrition.
And again, I have preached to this small choir, beating a dead horse, wasting space and the fleeting moments of my elderly life.
I thank you all for your patience with a crusty old man.
It is a narrow difference, the dividing line between caricature and ideal. I came to West Virginia over two decades ago, filled with youthful dreams and ideals. I traveled far and lost a number of both, then came back to find them waiting for me in those mysterious green hills and lost crags. I have tried and, to some degree, succeeded in changing a number of things in the places I have lived and climbed. I have also had some notable and spectacular failures. I lost a number of my illusions and found the love of my life.
It is my story, my personal Legend, and if it is trite, or banal, or cliché, well… I guess I’m okay with that.
The old climber, full of wrath, a caricature of faded dreams and failed ambitions, railing against the failings of the younger generation and those who have made a more fortunate way in this life, alienating friends and wreaking havoc.
A loner with no social skills thundering judgments upon the social networking sites and climbing forums in which he is not only a member but an administrator.
Dramatic exit, cue the violins and isn’t that just the teensiest whiff of sanctimonious BS trailing in the wake of the tattered knight as he rides (predictably) into the setting sun.
Paulo Coelho says that every Warrior will at some time in the Journey, doubt, fail, betray, fall into the Abyss, lose faith and question the dream of his own Legend.
I have many times sought a way to impart the Vision that drives me to bend down and touch the earth and stones of the crags where I climb and enjoy so many days of my life. And I have many times lost patience and momentum to squabble and snarl like a junkyard dog with packs of fools and people just as opinionated as myself, imparting nothing but invective, leaving nothing but a bad impression.
I am only human, as I must so often remind myself. I have a dream, but nothing of grand and sweeping scope, nothing to change forever the lives of my fellow humans. It is in the end a simple proposition. We must be stewards to the lands and crags upon which we travel because if we are not, then we are some of the most destructive idiots on the planet. We do not come to harvest fruit or game, but in our passing we create massive impact. Our disruption of the biosphere stretches from the common ground, if you will, of the horizontal world up the perpendicular faces where few of the other users of the forest venture.
In other words, our IMPACT is twice that of our fellow users.
And all of this to climb up a piece of stone.
But me no buts about climbers being more environmentally conscious or active. I’ve been in this game for three decades now, and I’ve mangled the rules a few times myself. Climbers have good intentions and poor application. They carry reuseable hemp shopping bags to big “organic” grocery stores and shop fair trade goods from Indonesia and Zaire in the giant chain stores in the metroplexes where they live. They buy their gas (or the electricity for their hybrid) from huge corporations, then come to West Virginia and throw their trash away. They send their yearly check to the Access Fund and the World Wildlife Fund, Greenpeace and Amnesty International or Doctors Without Borders which are all wonderful organizations but few if any of them have a maintained, dependable impact on the communities near where 90% of the people in the United States climb. Yes, the Access Fund does sponsor Adopt-A-Crag. Yes, they do stay involved in the fight to secure and preserve access to climbing areas everywhere. Yes, a lot of influential people believe very strongly in their mission. And yes, they are introducing a lot of new people to the art of climbing every single day... and thus increasing impact, and the likelihood of access issues for them to resolve in the future.
It's called job security.
When was the last time you read or heard of the Access Fund, Climbing Magazine, Rock and Ice or anyone else sponsoring a sit-in or demonstration to stop mountaintop removal, or organizing a hands-on seminar on trail building and impact management, at a crag near you? And it’s that last bit that’s important, boys and girls, oh yes indeed. If you don’t get that beta a lot closer to home than the Regional Conference on Impact Management and Resource Conservation in Reno, then your shiny gathering of experts and celebrities amounts to little more than a headline, some filler, and a photo op for fundraising.
These mountains belong to all of us and they are being destroyed by greedy corporations and despoiled by irresponsible visitors and narrow-minded locals. The fight to save public lands is not a hobby, it is a war. And environmental activism is not accomplished with a checkbook or a regional conference.
Every day is trail day.
And every day is trash clean-up day.
If you find a fresh dump of trash in your local crag’s parking area, don’t just leave it. You can get free trash bags and gloves from most local Department of Highways garages any day of the week and they are often open on Saturdays. If you bag it and tell them where it is, they will come pick it up on any state road.
We are already altering the native environment forever, no matter how sensitive we are to that change, or how active, informed and involved we may be globally. We pay no fees, buy no permits, and bring the largest groups, by far, of any sport. I have seen fifty people crammed into a three-acre crag, with a half-dozen dogs and several children included in that count. At the end of the day, the trails and the underbrush surrounding them, not to mention the areas along the top of the cliffs, looked as though cattle had stampeded through the forest. I saw at least a dozen Access Fund or environmental organization stickers on bumpers and helmets that day, and on most other occasions that I’ve been to a crag with devastating impact and erosion.
I do not decry the dreams and ambitions of the next generation. I have always known you would come. Welcome to it.
But remember that honor is a gift a person gives to himself or herself. Honor the tradition that we, the few, have tried to pass down to you, one of both good routes up the cliff and good routes to the cliff. Harder numbers are nothing that will bring you great joy in the long run, believe me. You will eventually derive as much love and satisfaction from a well-crafted 5.8 as ever you felt cranking up some steep crimpfest. And if you make of the crag and trails a thing of function and beauty, as in balance with nature and the heartbeat that speaks with a thousand voices from the world all around you as any work of Mankind can ever be, you will honor yourself.
If we only take, and do not give as an act of selfless love towards the places that give us so much, then we are no better than the most selfish users of the forest. If we do not lead by belief and example, then our voices and our causes mean no more than any other in the decisions and fates of our public lands. By good stewardship we empower ourselves and the generations of climbers and adventurers to come.
So join what organizations you will. Head out to Adopt-A-Crag and National Trails Day and even those ridiculous Mid-Atlantic Climbers Coalition cleanups of car pullouts on the Skyline Drive. Do what you want.
But the next time you are speeding up the trail to hit that project or start your weekend, take time to stop, bend down, and replace that kicked-out border stone. Take a few minutes to slip off your pack, breathe some morning air, and fix that wobbly step. And speak up when you see someone else trampling the underbrush or crosscutting the trails.
Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to stop, take a deep breath, and control the urge to scream at basically good people who just don’t get it. I’ll be trying to mend some fences with former friends who’ve felt the razor edge of my sarcasm and wit. Not with much hope, but the only thing a man can do when passion leads him astray is to admit he has misspoken and bow deep in humble contrition.
And again, I have preached to this small choir, beating a dead horse, wasting space and the fleeting moments of my elderly life.
I thank you all for your patience with a crusty old man.
It is a narrow difference, the dividing line between caricature and ideal. I came to West Virginia over two decades ago, filled with youthful dreams and ideals. I traveled far and lost a number of both, then came back to find them waiting for me in those mysterious green hills and lost crags. I have tried and, to some degree, succeeded in changing a number of things in the places I have lived and climbed. I have also had some notable and spectacular failures. I lost a number of my illusions and found the love of my life.
It is my story, my personal Legend, and if it is trite, or banal, or cliché, well… I guess I’m okay with that.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Production Mode
Following a Wednesday of loading crates and tubs and crossing mountains to set up a storage unit and run errands in Harrisonburg, Cindy and I spent Thursday dodging incredible runoff still cascading out of the hills. Tuesday's torrential overnight rains brought flashfloods throughout Pendelton and Grant Counties, washing out roads, ditches, and stripping soil from croplands and gardens. In some places, the water came up 6-8 FEET overnight, when as much as 2 inches of rain fell on already saturated ground. Even after a full day of cleanup on Wednesday, the conditions were still questionable Thursday. The morning dawned somewhat cloudy and cooler, leading us to doubt, but the sky cover gradually cleared and we headed into increasing spring sunshine.
Cindy B and I arrived to find Mr. Fisher loading pack at the car. We hiked up to the crag together, stopping briefly to eye the new project, then headed up to the main walls to see what conditions there looked like.
Fifty feet from the Reach, we cold hear water POURING over the rock. the right end of the wall looked like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, with a fine spray of mist glowing in the morning light and water falling over a 25 foot stretch of face, pooling several inches deep beneath and running off the hillside in a steady stream. Evidence revealed that flows had also poured out of several of the small "caves" in the base of the wall at a few points, but the new steps and trails stayed solid and seemed to have settled in quite nicely.
We climbed Superman, which Mike followed by "beating the crap out of (himself)" on Grain of Sand. He eventually lowered and we headed down for a run on Thieves in the Temple, and Second Rule, with Mister F using the last ascent to set a TR on the hard new project L of Cold Day in Hell. I then led Second again and Cindy followed to clean the gear. By now the skies were completely clear and warm breezes blew out of the west as we remarked n this amazing transformation in the weather.
After a short break, Miss Pinkpants wisely headed for the river and a bit of fishing, while Doc Goodwack and I set ourselves to work out the micro-crimper complexities involved in the bottom of the new project.
A steep face with now real footholds led to a wicked heel hook and a cross-over crimper to set up for the throw to the clip jug. Another cross over and fancy footwork led to powerful sidepuls and another bolt, then a grunt to the hands-free rest below the third crux and fourth bolt. Here, strength and determination finally ceded the day to pragmatism as the sun sank low in the west and the realization of draws to be retrieved from Grain of Sand sank in. Mike batmanned a section, then cranked the easier headwall and cleaned gear before lowering. An hour and a horrendous rap-and-swing session later, we were on our way down the trail.
We found Cindy in possession of no fewer than THREE proud catches, and soon inherited two more trout from a fisherman less interested in cleaning than catching. We made our good-byes, Mister Fisher heading home to prepare for work the next day and the Power Couple wending north to our increasingly empty abode.
Monday- Pyro Gets Rhythm! Desecration and Sacrilige at the Entrance Walls! Lies, Scandal, and Rumor!
And, of course, plenty of color commmentary by yours truly, The Curmudgeon.
Stay tuned....
Cindy B and I arrived to find Mr. Fisher loading pack at the car. We hiked up to the crag together, stopping briefly to eye the new project, then headed up to the main walls to see what conditions there looked like.
Fifty feet from the Reach, we cold hear water POURING over the rock. the right end of the wall looked like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, with a fine spray of mist glowing in the morning light and water falling over a 25 foot stretch of face, pooling several inches deep beneath and running off the hillside in a steady stream. Evidence revealed that flows had also poured out of several of the small "caves" in the base of the wall at a few points, but the new steps and trails stayed solid and seemed to have settled in quite nicely.
We climbed Superman, which Mike followed by "beating the crap out of (himself)" on Grain of Sand. He eventually lowered and we headed down for a run on Thieves in the Temple, and Second Rule, with Mister F using the last ascent to set a TR on the hard new project L of Cold Day in Hell. I then led Second again and Cindy followed to clean the gear. By now the skies were completely clear and warm breezes blew out of the west as we remarked n this amazing transformation in the weather.
After a short break, Miss Pinkpants wisely headed for the river and a bit of fishing, while Doc Goodwack and I set ourselves to work out the micro-crimper complexities involved in the bottom of the new project.
A steep face with now real footholds led to a wicked heel hook and a cross-over crimper to set up for the throw to the clip jug. Another cross over and fancy footwork led to powerful sidepuls and another bolt, then a grunt to the hands-free rest below the third crux and fourth bolt. Here, strength and determination finally ceded the day to pragmatism as the sun sank low in the west and the realization of draws to be retrieved from Grain of Sand sank in. Mike batmanned a section, then cranked the easier headwall and cleaned gear before lowering. An hour and a horrendous rap-and-swing session later, we were on our way down the trail.
We found Cindy in possession of no fewer than THREE proud catches, and soon inherited two more trout from a fisherman less interested in cleaning than catching. We made our good-byes, Mister Fisher heading home to prepare for work the next day and the Power Couple wending north to our increasingly empty abode.
Monday- Pyro Gets Rhythm! Desecration and Sacrilige at the Entrance Walls! Lies, Scandal, and Rumor!
And, of course, plenty of color commmentary by yours truly, The Curmudgeon.
Stay tuned....
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