An Open Letter to Rock and Ice

The following was sent to me by a friend, but don't hold that against him; Steve's also a former West Virginia teacher, Harper's Ferry activist and trail-building Smoke Hole climber, who lead the FA of Native Sons at the Ninja Walls.

mg

Dear Rock and Ice Magazine,

I am writing in regards to your November 2018 article on Smoke Hole Canyon, West Virginia.  The pictures of this beloved area were outstanding, and certainly made this former West Virginia resident of 30 years yearn for winding country roads, the smell of fresh cut red oak firewood in the fall, and conversations with the locals surrounding the canyon.  However wonderful the pictures may be, the purpose of this letter is to outline a number of aspects wrong with the article (numbered and in bold), as well as ask you to amend them for your readers. As great as pictures are to the magazine glancing eye, getting the correct information out there is even greater.  This is especially true when it comes to parking issues, local points of contact, guidebook information, and trail maintenance opportunities.

#1 Smoke Hole and surrounding crags have great parking. There are 3-5 spots at Smoke Hole for cars.  There are a number of spots at a pull-off at Reed’s Creek, too.  If those spots are filled up, people just start parking along the road.  No big deal, right? More often than not, vehicles aren’t all the way off the road, clogging already narrow paths.  Additionally, long before climbing, these areas were (and continue to be) storied fishing spots and peaceful escapes for the people who live in the area.  Consider the other users of the canyon and the people who choose to call this place home. 

Because of the proximity to a number of metropolitan areas, Smoke Hole is the first taste many city-goers have at clipping bolts outdoors.  Also, it has become increasingly popular with the crowd who doesn’t want to tack on additional hours to drive to New River Gorge.  Before venturing out to the crags, coordinate carpooling.  If schedules don’t mesh up, drop off cars at a number of locations in the town of Franklin. Better yet, frequent the Smoke Hole Canyon Facebook page to get into contact with other climbers who frequent the area.

*By not providing this key information about the crags, it’s setting the area up for future conflicts with residents.

#2 The headlining photo is a classic!  True, that 5.9 is quite a route.  It is on private property and has no trespassing signs posted.  While this area previously allowed climbing, it would be in everyone’s best interest to respect the “No” in “No Trespassing” means “NO”.  Yes, the Mid-Atlantic Climbers webpage says the crag is de facto open; that is not an excuse to encroach on someone’s private property when there are other crags in the area that are open.

#3 Smoke Hole Canyon magically has trails and rock steps leading to belay areas.  Trail maintenance is an ongoing project for the area.  When you walk up the stone steps at Reed’s Creek or take the switchback up to the Guide Walls, one must comprehend the countless hours of work by volunteers to make our approaches easier, safer, and above all, least damaging to the environment.  Stay on the trails that are already there.  You can also go on Smoke Hole Canyon’s Facebook page and see updates of trail progress or important notes about problem areas.

Also, you can have a positive impact on the climbing areas you frequent by attending one of the local climbers’ stewardship events called, Trail Daze.  Local climber and crag steward, Mike Gray, has been instrumental in organizing these clean-up and trail building efforts for years, while Tyrel Johnson has come on the scene in recent years.  Mike’s even coordinated with the Syracuse University Outing Club  periodically to make a cornerstone experience for many outdoor club members- a weekend of crag stewardship and climbing. If you’re on the fence about attending, just go. I made the choice years ago to attend Trail Daze and was rewarded with meaningful friendships and Mike’s homemade breakfast burritos.

Also of note:  If you see an Adopt-a-Highway sign that says Friends of Smoke Hole, you can thank Mike and his wife, Cindy, for cleaning the road into the canyon.  They do it for free and have sacrificed many perfectly good climbing days for proactive stewardship.

*By not mentioning the good things happening because of locals, you are not supporting their cause nor giving your readers access to that information.

#4 When did all the new, shiny bolts start appearing?  If you have ever been to Smoke Hole, Reed’s Creek, or Franklin, there is a 99% chance you have climbed a route bolted by Mike Gray.  Most times, we don’t think about the time/effort/money involved with equipping the routes we climb. We just clip the bolts and move on to the next one.  We’ll even complain of the spinners or the rusted ones, or question why the bolter drilled in a certain location.  Mike has been equipping and retro bolting climbs out of his own pocket for years. With a couple hundred routes now in the area open to climbing, Mike and Tyrel have dedicated a chunk of their time to taking care of reequipping routes in need. A GoFundMe page was created to help the cause and the experience is transparent—frequent updates to which routes have been bolted and what materials were purchased.  If you clip bolts at Smoke Hole, consider donating to the bolting campaign. At the very least purchase the Rakkup guides!

*This is a critical piece to any crag write-up.

#5 Is there a town close by?  Franklin, WV is close to all the climbing.  It has local restaurants, accommodations, grocery shopping, etc.  Don’t forget Shreve’s Store on your way into the canyon.  Not many places like Shreve’s exist in today’s world. Do yourself a favor and put some money into the local economy.

#6 I see a lot of out-of-towners in the climbing photos in the article.  Are there any regulars?  Mike and his wife, Cindy are regulars.  If you haven’t met them by now while climbing, you either a) live under a rock or b) haven’t researched the area you’re climbing.  A little bit about Cindy- she started climbing in her 40s, has MS, and continues to outpace many volunteers at Trail Daze events.  She is a no-nonsense, tell it like it is person who has a heart of gold.  If you haven’t introduced yourself to her, you’re doing yourself a disservice and probably only care about the day’s tick list.

Tyrel Johnson is a frequent flyer from the Beltway.  He travels the 3+ hours to crush AND give back to the crags.  He has been an important figure in trail maintenance and retro bolting.  Rather than spending entire weekends knocking off more routes, Tyrel balances climbing with giving back—including helping to digitize the climbing  guidebooks so many of us use in the area.

Last but not least, there is Mike Gray (the one little photo of the gray-bearded man in the article).  Mike has been a presence in the area for decades.  More often than not, he and Cindy are the ones taking care of the crags, maintaining relationships with locals, and giving local climbing any positive image it has.  Much like his wife, Mike is no nonsense and heartfelt.  He is a true West Virginian (even if he spent his childhood years in Virginia), who leads by example and does not sit idle when things need to get done.  He is a patient belayer, encouraging climbing partner, and an open book to all things Smoke Hole.  

*These people are the reason the trails aren’t falling apart and new bolts are going in on old classics.  It would have been nice to read more about them.

In closing, I hope you consider the above points and amend the Smoke Hole article in the next issue.  Key points like parking, how to give back, contact info, local beta, are at the very least, beneficial when publishing a multi-page spread on the crag.  Explaining to your readers the headliner photo of Blood, Sweat, and Chalk is on private property and does not allow climbing is a necessity.  Otherwise, Smoke Hole will suffer a similar fate that much of our state faced with coal and natural gas extraction—giving up our natural resources to outsiders for little in return.

Best,

Steve Emswiler

Salt Lake City resident (but always a West Virginian)

From: Francis Sanzaro <fsanzaro@bigstonepub.com>
Date: Fri, Oct 26, 2018, 10:20 AM
Subject: Re: Smoke Hole article
To: Steven Emswiler <kemswiler18@gmail.com>

Hi Steven,

Thanks very much for taking the time to write. We do our best to make sure our writers are invested in an area and give proper credit and information when possible. Area profiles are always difficult because there are a lot of variables. It seems a few things were left out, however. Should we publish this article online, we will weave in some of this information for sure.

Thanks for writing and we always appreciate the feedback.

Best,

Francis

Francis Sanzaro, Ph.D.
Editor, Rock and Ice | Ascent | Gym Climber
1101 Village Road
UL-4B
Carbondale, CO 81623

Footnote: Yeah, that's a non-answer if ever there was one. Standard format disclaimer complaint response from a lowest-echelon editor.

Small wonder that every bookseller we contacted had sent back their previous month's delivery of R&I and stopped carrying the magazine.

Sad that an author who stayed in my house and ate my wife's cooking, spent time working on trails with us, camping and climbing, taking pictures of bolt replacement and putting up new routes with us, said so little and showed us nothing at all about stewardship or access issues.

For accurate beta:

 https://rakkup.com/guidebooks/smoke-hole-canyon-long-branch-and-guide-walls-rock-climbing/

https://rakkup.com/guidebooks/smoke-hole-canyon-reeds-creek-rock-climbing/

For images and updates:

on Instagram @smokeholecanyon

                          @wvmgray
                         @grayowlfeather

For info about the local people, region and events, as well as climbing images, access issues, stewardship events and updates, check us out on Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/smokeholecanyon/

    https://www.facebook.com/friendsofSmokeHole/

mg

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.

Blue Ridge Shadows

I am a boy of 4 or 5, standing in the cold morning air of the Blue Ridge, dressed in my Sunday best. Beside me, my sister Diana squints into the frosty sunlight as my mother, Joyce, a slim, nervous woman from New Hampshire, with dark hair and a wonderful smile, peers through the horn-rimmed glasses that were stylish at the time and holds her daughter gently but firmly in place.

My father is Gilbert, Jr., a slender man still in his twenties whose face is too serious by far for the laughter it owns. Braced against a great black car, a Packard, I think, his shoulders are square, the hair above his well-shaped ears a thick golden frost, still shorn in tight military buzz from recent service with just a touch of rise to a flat-top in front, a short wave front of individuality. He is holding my hand, limiting me to small arc of movement I have explored endlessly until the moment in which the picture is taken.

There is wood smoke in the air, the rank smell of livestock and the green of a nearby garden, still thriving below the frost thanks to dozens of carefully-placed milk jugs and a half-dozen feed sacks. Cats mill around the back door, unmolested by the short, fat mongrel dog, Poochie, dark as a sausage and just as round. Chickens scratch and cluck at the red and yellow soil through patches of blackberries and rank mountain grass, fearless and too feral for hawks, serpents, cats or hound, as if aware of their eventual date with an axe and frying pan.

Beyond the white-painted wood and screen door voices mix with laughter and the clatter of plates and pans as a shifting breeze carries the smell of cigarette smoke, coffee, scrapple, bacon and eggs, onions and potatoes frying in the lard of sausage freshly made from hogs which have grown to maturity in the hog wallow behind the cinderblock garage, beyond which the mountain drops down in a steep tangle of cedars, greenbrier, locust trees wrapped in honeysuckle, goat’s head thorns waiting for unwary feet in the poor soil that gives way to a boulder field.

Above, the Blue Ridge Mountains rise away in a shadowed mass of hardwoods, sprinkled with ancient cedars and groves of pine, bone white sycamores, catalpa and sumac adding their bright colors, fox grapes draping the trees shadowing forest floors covered by pine needles, skunk cabbage and the ever present poison ivy. Deer move through meadows bounded by autumn olive and mountain laurel, sometimes bear and bobcats and the rumor of a ‘painter’ or panther, something forest biologists deny with all their might despite persistent rumors.

Skunks and possum and raccoons inhabit the forest, garter snakes slipping through the leaves,  vicious copperheads and rattlers “big as your arm”, black snakes scaled like dragons chasing wood mice, moles and chipmunks, squirrels leaping madly through the high canopy, scolding the robins, sparrows and finches that hopped and flew through the branches, jays gossiping loudly as crows and blackbirds fight their age-old duels against the deep blue skies, buzzards riding thermals toward the clouds, transformed in their grace from scavengers to aerodynamic wonders. A red-tailed hawk screamed from somewhere, challenging the world, and locusts begin to sing in the rising warmth.

My grandfather’s land is perched high on a ridge in Kite Hollow, and across the steep narrow defile, through the towering sycamores, a grown-up might glimpse the trailer of my uncle, Philip. In the distance, the mountains roll down, hiding the valley surrounding the tiny, distant town of Stanley rising abruptly into the twisting mountain folds that are home to the Skyline Drive, once the hunting trails of the Seneca and other northern tribes.

Trash is taken to the boulder field on a regular basis, often burned, leaving the stench of charred plastic and paper, the reek of the hog lot and the faint undertone of rotting food hanging over this beautiful vista in a miasmic cloud.

The stench is the smell of Progress; at one time, ‘trash’ consisted mostly of cracked cups, broken plates and jars and broken wooden furniture that would burn. Food was not thrown away in a family that had known the hunger of the Depression; leftovers became new meals, and what few scraps were created went to the hogs, the legion of cats, and Poochie. Waste is not a plague among people who reuse jelly jars as glasses, whose food is grown or shot within sight of home, who catch their fish from rivers and streams within walking distance.

Society has moved away from simple containers to a world of petrochemicals and plastic, creating barren forests and toxic streams that require constant stocking, mountains of trash which will last forever. When one considers the vast quantities of household and industrial waste which are transported into these places and buried by contractors who profit from pollution, the small transgressions of an impoverished generation seem miniscule by comparison.

When even the burned debris piles up in ‘the dump’, someone with a machine is called in to push the berm of melted glass and unburnable debris further down the hill, although this has not been done in some time. Local legend holds that there is a bulldozer operator still on his machine somewhere in one of the numerous unstable talus fields that dot the steep mountains of the Blue Ridge, taken down by overconfidence and stupidity, buried alive.

As a child, I recall being briefly convinced that the talus field in the story was the one behind Granddaddy’s hog lot and that the ritual burning was to cover up the smell.

It was hard for me to understand the reasons behind the dump, hard to understand my father’s embarrassment for the place and life in which he had grown up, for the necessity that created the short arc between the hillside garden and smoke house filled with hams and bacon to the trash-strewn mountainside

Down the hill, out of the fall line of both the unstable boulder field and the spreading delta of trash, well out of sight of the family homeplace, live my great uncles, Shirley and Dick. Once, long ago in the era of great promises known as the New Deal, this generation of Grays had joined the masons who every day climbed down into the Potomac, trusting in great coffer dams to hold back the mighty waters of the Potomac and the Chesapeake Bay as they mixed mud and laid the millions of bricks that formed the foundations and soaring columns of the Memorial Bridge, an architectural triumph of function and beauty that became a landmark in Washington, D. C.

It is often the fate of those whose hands create great marvels to be forgotten, too often to live in obscure poverty. Although one of the greatest cities on earth lay less than three hours away, actually within sight of the highest peaks of the Skyline Drive, there was a vast disparity between what folks in the hollows of the mountain considered ‘well off’ and the Capitol’s bloated, self-serving definitions of that condition.

Different worlds.

At the time, I did not understand poverty, did not yet understand history, and had no concept of how it had shaped the cultures of the Appalachian Mountains for better and for worse, and created a mythical place called Appalachia, “a place about which more is known that is not true than any other place in the world”, and a population that is still the most unrecognized minority in America.

Although there had been many storms and oceans of passage in a life so short, for the most part, the world was still a bright parade of days and dreams; I knew only that these were my relatives and this was where he meant when my father said “Home”.

I could not understand why going there made him so happy and being there, so sad.

My grandmother is revealed as the door opens with a rusty squeal of hinges and the musical twang of the spring; she waves away a passing June bug and calls out to us.

“Y’all come eat!”

Hilda is a short, round woman, with red cheeks and a wide smile of bad teeth, thick strong arms and hands, bright eyes and a wicked laugh that can turn nasty or sink to a loving chuckle at a moment’s notice. Whether company comes at break of day or middle of the night, Hilda is always ready with a pot of coffee and a plate of food, and no one is turned away from her table hungry. Her grey-streaked hair is pulled back and she mops sweat from her neck with a damp cloth as she talks softly to the milling cats, promising them treats as Poochie waddles past, into the cooler kitchen, in search of scraps.

My grandfather is a great, stooping bear of a man with a face that I see more every day as I look into the mirror, although mine carries none of the incredible weariness that comes from being born and raised, then starting a family of your own, looking for work in the grinding poverty and lack of opportunity in the wake of the Depression. Perhaps it is because of those years that he is always ready to smile, and his eyes, netted in folds and creases, twinkle as his mouth fights against a grin.

Granddaddy is not a saint, by any means; he talks rough and he smokes Pall Malls and he has a past with parts he’d rather not talk about, like anyone who has lived through hard times. But he is one of the deepest loves of my childhood, a figure and a force that has shaped all our lives for generations.

Standing, looking back, I believe that whatever harm folks think he might have done in the world, he surely did a lot of good, as well, building monuments, working like a titan for every dime he earned.  

Now he snatches me up, freeing me from my father’s firm grip and his rough stubble of beard scratches at me as he hugs me close, smiling and laughing gently as I giggle and squirm, his lips against my face, the smell of his aftershave and tobacco a cachet that is love. His rough workman’s hands tousle my hair and he puts me down, says something to my father about ‘growing like a weed’, and turns to reach for my sister, who stretches eager arms and laughs as he swings her around into another hug and kiss, then hands her back to my mother, whom he calls ‘pretty as a spring day’. She blushes and smiles, a shy Madonna revealed, moves toward the house.

“Come on, Gilbert!” Hilda calls. “Don’t let it get cold!”

“Well,” Granddaddy’s voice is the rasp of a lifetime smoker. “I reckon we’d best git t’the kitchen, a-fore Hilda takes a switch to us.”

“Road kill?” my dad asks, despite having spent the previous day among the folks cutting up butchered hogs, grinding sausage and pressing out lard.

“Gil!” My mother’s voice is scandalized despite having heard this joke a hundred times.

“Reckon we can rustle some up in you’ve a hankerin’.”

“Well, as long as it has Hilda’s tomato gravy on it, I guess we can eat it.”

Hilda’s gravy, liberally sprinkled with black pepper and the occasional flake of wood ash, is legendary in the household, and deservedly so.

“Don’t get none o’ that gravy on your head, boy.” Granddaddy says and winks at me. “Your tongue’ll slap your brains out tryin’ to git it!”

I laugh because it is an old joke, one of the best, and because it is so good to see my father smile. My sister laughs because everyone else is laughing, a high, pure sound of joy.

My mother shakes her head, a grin breaking through the disapproval.

Together, we walk down an ancient path into morning, dappled in the shadows of the Blue Ridge.

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.

Tales from a Gypsy Campfire

One last touch of Winter for Elevenmile Canyon and the Gypsies, then Spring and Springer Gulch!

Spring, Elevenmile Style

Spring, in Elevenmile Canyon, CO

Other roads, other worlds

No rants, no politics, just pictures, videos and stories of friends, climbs, places we've discovered and trails we've walked.

Tales From a Gypsy Campfire

West Virginia to Colorado to Arizona: The Gypsies Spend A Week at Oak Flat

Crossing into New Mexico via Raton Pass; miles of rock, and no one climbing.

Winter weather gilds the desert

Sunset Point, on the way south from Flagstaff to the Valley of the Sun

"Don't think we're in Kansas, any more, Toto."

Upper and Lower Gaan Canyon, from the Northern plateau