Venting about the scripted sadness of pinched property in my longest ever blog failed to deliver complete satisfaction. I decided that another round of bitching was in order. This time, on a climbing website called mountainproject.com.
Mountainproject is a big database of people, climbing areas, and route descriptions that allows for its users to post information and share rants and information. SCUM has its own page on mountainproject, and I decided that I should put up a note on the public forum associated with the route. A wiser man would have gently asked if anyone had taken his draw, and politely asked for it back. I, however, am not wise.
"These anchors are accessible from Sing it in Russian by stepping left after this route's crux. If you are working Sing It, you can easily hang a TR on S.C.U.M. if you have a friend that wants to do it. Don't, however, leave one draw on S.C.U.M. as a directional, as some half brained imbecile will assume you've bailed off of SCUM and steal your draw. Goddamnit! This is Rifle - If it ain't yours, leave it on the wall!"
To which there was a response a couple of hours later. A guy named Aeon told me he had taken it, assuming that it had been used by a climber who couldn't get any higher. Fair enough, and it's what I assumed the culprit must have been thinking as he took the draw. He posted that he'd get it back to me, aparently forgiving the accusations of low IQ and general stupidity.
I suppose that it would have been just as easy for him to ignore my post and keep the draw, and I don't know why he didn't take the opportunity. I do know, however, that it might not be a terrible idea to take a breath now and then and not run my mouth. I wonder if I possess ANY tact. My luck held pretty well on this one, and it looks like I'll get the draw back. This is similar enough to the act of opining about a certain Grecian sailing trip without giving credence to potential repurcussions that I have to wonder if I'll learn to think before opening mouth and inserting foot.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Rundown of The Sharp End
Last Night was the world premier for the new climbing movie from Sender Films. Boulder played host to the first screening, appropriate given the bulging population of climber-weenies in town. This film, called The Sharp End, is about risking big falls on small gear, or THE fall on no gear. Read: high stakes. Some of the scenes were inspiring, but most of the atmosphere of the night was deeply depressing.
When Micah Dash, one of the featured climbers from the movie, is shown on screen having narrowly escaped with his hide after a serac cut loose above he and his partner, he says "I shoulda stayed at the Boulder Rock Club." The audience echoed with self conscious giggles as most in attendance would MUCH prefer climbing indoors and talking a big game over traveling to Chamonix for a brush with the reaper.
The crowd seemed more moved to clamor for free t-shirts and wristbands during the intermission than to get out and attempt to replicate the feats they saw during the film. Nothing says "I pull down" like a free Prana hoodie. And nothing stops a man from feigning the act of pulling down like an ankle breaking fall onto a micro-stopper. During the pull up contest, everyone in attendance, save a few select, brave souls, decided to stick with the stick clip.
Pull Up Contest!?!?!
There were men in their skivvies vying for chalkbags, and I even came away with tickets to another film screening (though I kept my pantalones on). The madness was contagious!
Lately, my therapist has been asking for me to focus on certain feelings in my body. So?
My eardrums are still ringing from Dean Potter's speech where he managed to say "possibilities" 17 times, yet somehow managing to say nothing at all. My palms are still a little sweaty and my eyes a little wide, given some of the featured footage. How does it feel, given that I'm not currently on The Sharp End? It feels pretty good.
It must have felt good for Chris McNamarra, too, given his aparent ability to fly in a wingsuit and basejump rig. Good, too, for Mikey Patz and 5.14 first ascents on shiny, tiny gear. Not so good for Ammon McNeely, the El Cap Pirate with a broken helmet and bruised brain. Worse still for Cedar Wright and the gang in the Czech Republic. They might still be fueled on beer, but when that wears off, the bruised heels and egos will smart.
And I know one thing. When I go to Rifle this weekend, The Sharp End is going to feel pretty safe. I'll have a half inch bolt at knee height, and I doubt I'm ever going to have to look death in the eye and whimper for a return to the plastic palace of the BRC.
When Micah Dash, one of the featured climbers from the movie, is shown on screen having narrowly escaped with his hide after a serac cut loose above he and his partner, he says "I shoulda stayed at the Boulder Rock Club." The audience echoed with self conscious giggles as most in attendance would MUCH prefer climbing indoors and talking a big game over traveling to Chamonix for a brush with the reaper.
The crowd seemed more moved to clamor for free t-shirts and wristbands during the intermission than to get out and attempt to replicate the feats they saw during the film. Nothing says "I pull down" like a free Prana hoodie. And nothing stops a man from feigning the act of pulling down like an ankle breaking fall onto a micro-stopper. During the pull up contest, everyone in attendance, save a few select, brave souls, decided to stick with the stick clip.
Pull Up Contest!?!?!
There were men in their skivvies vying for chalkbags, and I even came away with tickets to another film screening (though I kept my pantalones on). The madness was contagious!
Lately, my therapist has been asking for me to focus on certain feelings in my body. So?
My eardrums are still ringing from Dean Potter's speech where he managed to say "possibilities" 17 times, yet somehow managing to say nothing at all. My palms are still a little sweaty and my eyes a little wide, given some of the featured footage. How does it feel, given that I'm not currently on The Sharp End? It feels pretty good.
It must have felt good for Chris McNamarra, too, given his aparent ability to fly in a wingsuit and basejump rig. Good, too, for Mikey Patz and 5.14 first ascents on shiny, tiny gear. Not so good for Ammon McNeely, the El Cap Pirate with a broken helmet and bruised brain. Worse still for Cedar Wright and the gang in the Czech Republic. They might still be fueled on beer, but when that wears off, the bruised heels and egos will smart.
And I know one thing. When I go to Rifle this weekend, The Sharp End is going to feel pretty safe. I'll have a half inch bolt at knee height, and I doubt I'm ever going to have to look death in the eye and whimper for a return to the plastic palace of the BRC.
The Wheels on the Bus Go....
Round and Round, sucka!
All the live long day.
And yesterday marked another year around the sun for me, filled with bus rides and the turning of the screws, wheels, and worms.
Q: What do we make of that?
A: That I've spent my 26th year gnashing my teeth and spinning my, drum roll please, WHEELS, without making much of a mark upon the world.
Not even tire tracks. I've done a little climbing, made a few dollars, written a few paragraphs, but I haven't found any purpose, at least not yet. Maybe I need to find Jesus. I'll book a flight to Guadalajara and see what shows up. I hope it's tacos al carbon. Avocados renew my faith in that elusive, improbably myth man. Spirit? Triumvirate? Three tacos, please.
So on the bus just two days ago, I met a friend of Kate's (sig-oh) and Megan's (sis-toh) from their days at Lululemon (uh-oh, oh-no). They hated working there.
This friend of theirs, acquaintance of mine, got me started talking about work. Maybe it's because she is about to finish college and is looking at a world of employment as an adolescent begins to wink at the other gender. Potentially fruitful, often-times unknown, typically dangerous. Give it a go? I gave her my opinion.
I try not to work too much, I try to play more than is recommended by the FDA, and certainly the IRS. When I do need to work, I try to get it to coincide with places of play, generally Rifle Mountain Park and Indian (desert) Creek. I've somehow stumbled into a situation that pays me to go on vacation. Sure, I have to kiss the "man's" rings now and then, and provide for America's continued dependence on petroleum to fuel the economy, but hey....I get to rock climb a lot. It's almost as good as being a professional rock climber.
You do what?
I have no idea. Maybe I'll go back to grad school.
Why?
Because I don't really love my job.
Why Not? You get to goof off more than anyone else...
Good point. Plus, an MBA infers a certain focus on business (the B in the acronym, after all) and B isn't my A game.
Back to the drawing board, back to Rifle and the Creek, back to another year of the unknown. Welcome home.
All the live long day.
And yesterday marked another year around the sun for me, filled with bus rides and the turning of the screws, wheels, and worms.
Q: What do we make of that?
A: That I've spent my 26th year gnashing my teeth and spinning my, drum roll please, WHEELS, without making much of a mark upon the world.
Not even tire tracks. I've done a little climbing, made a few dollars, written a few paragraphs, but I haven't found any purpose, at least not yet. Maybe I need to find Jesus. I'll book a flight to Guadalajara and see what shows up. I hope it's tacos al carbon. Avocados renew my faith in that elusive, improbably myth man. Spirit? Triumvirate? Three tacos, please.
So on the bus just two days ago, I met a friend of Kate's (sig-oh) and Megan's (sis-toh) from their days at Lululemon (uh-oh, oh-no). They hated working there.
This friend of theirs, acquaintance of mine, got me started talking about work. Maybe it's because she is about to finish college and is looking at a world of employment as an adolescent begins to wink at the other gender. Potentially fruitful, often-times unknown, typically dangerous. Give it a go? I gave her my opinion.
I try not to work too much, I try to play more than is recommended by the FDA, and certainly the IRS. When I do need to work, I try to get it to coincide with places of play, generally Rifle Mountain Park and Indian (desert) Creek. I've somehow stumbled into a situation that pays me to go on vacation. Sure, I have to kiss the "man's" rings now and then, and provide for America's continued dependence on petroleum to fuel the economy, but hey....I get to rock climb a lot. It's almost as good as being a professional rock climber.
You do what?
I have no idea. Maybe I'll go back to grad school.
Why?
Because I don't really love my job.
Why Not? You get to goof off more than anyone else...
Good point. Plus, an MBA infers a certain focus on business (the B in the acronym, after all) and B isn't my A game.
Back to the drawing board, back to Rifle and the Creek, back to another year of the unknown. Welcome home.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
American Glut
It needs to be said that I'm writing this from the Boulder Reservoir. A full four bar wireless signal is powering this blog post while I sit at a picnic table on a patio out on a beach. I may hate a lot of what the world is coming to, but free public wireless at an outdoor venue is certainly fine with me.
And speaking of the res., I'm here to watch Kate race a triathlon. Given that we're in Boulder and the game today is one of expensive gear, we're seeing the requisite number of waspy, shorn men and women. Look, I'm one of these salt of the earth, lunch-bucket Democrats, so it would be rude to deride my own people. Nice Audi, Schuyler Winthrop Hansen, Jr.!
But how did Kate and I get to this race on a beautiful Saturday morning? We came through Thornton, of course. But why would anyone drive to one of the most sprawling, soulless suburbs of Denver in order to get away from that very thing? To buy a couch, of course.
Kate and I are moving (don't tell my Grandparents, the shock might undo them. Then again, it might not. A lifelong Republican, he's planning on voting Obama because he can't stand McCain. If he'll go that far, he might go an extra inch and allow that boyfriends and girlfriends can share a set of keys.) and we needed to get a few things for the new house. High on the list of priorities was a couch and end table, but we were pressed for time and would love to avoid the $2,000 Restoration Hardware loveseat, so to American Furniture Warehouse we went.
Before we delve into the drama, it should also be noted that I really hate to shop. I feel like most, if not all, sales pitches revolve around the principle that you are fat, ugly, and stupid, but you might, MIGHT, just get laid if you buy our product. If you decide to buy the exact same thing from our competitor, then God help your worthless soul. I also feel like the vast majority of Americans have bloated credit card debt because they can't differentiate between the fleeting and ultimately hollow happiness of a big Target run with living with some sort of passion and consciously spending your time on the planet. But what do I know? I don't even have a nice car.
Jake Jabs runs American Furniture Warehouse (AFW), and his empire includes a billion square feet of showroom space. I told Kate when we got to the store that if the place caught fire, we'd never hope to find our way to an exit. The place is like a Vegas casino, except without any remote possibility of winning money. Blue hairs and oxygenated air come standard, though.
As Kate and I were helplessly stumbling around room after fake room, Bob Rizzo found us and quickly got us pointed towards the correct fake room with a real couch. With Bob's intimate knowledge of the store gleaned from over a decade as an AFW employee, we found the couch of our dreams, or at least one that would work for our purposes, in about 4 seconds. Bob got us to the checkout station quickly enough to keep me from having a nervous breakdown, but then I think he realized I let my guard down. I assumed that since we were handing over the dinero, he'd release us from the Casino/Showroom/Prison with haste. Instead, we were treated to his tale of survival. Bob, real name Norbert, had recently suffered a stroke.
"Three, in fact. I'd been back on the job for about five months, long enough to get back into the swing of things. It came on suddenly, no pain. I was picking up a box..." From here, things get fuzzy, but I know for a fact that Bob talked for 15 minutes without taking a breath, lest we make a getaway. "I hates hospitals, so he got out of there ASAP, but man, those doctors sure had a tough time diagnosing what caused the stroke. They finally settled on three usual suspects: diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol."
Wait Bob! How could a man contract such maladies?
"I eat two Big Macs, a large fry, a coke and two pies for lunch every day. And you wanna know what I eat for breakfast? (not really) Six eggs, six sausages, six pieces of bacon, coffee and a doughnut. I figured it out, and I averaged 37 eggs a week. I'm cutting back now, though."
Well, no shit Bob. You're lucky you aren't dead. Can we leave? Eventually.
Bob really was a nice guy, just a little talkative.
All of Bob's talk about food, and the miles we put in on the Baton Death March before Bob rescued us, got Kate and me pretty hungry. The only suitable way to finish up the day filled with American Furniture Warehouse, a labor day sale, and a spending spree? That's right, a drive through burger and fries. Hell, we had a triathlon to race this morning, and it's not like we were waking up to bacon or anything.
And speaking of the res., I'm here to watch Kate race a triathlon. Given that we're in Boulder and the game today is one of expensive gear, we're seeing the requisite number of waspy, shorn men and women. Look, I'm one of these salt of the earth, lunch-bucket Democrats, so it would be rude to deride my own people. Nice Audi, Schuyler Winthrop Hansen, Jr.!
But how did Kate and I get to this race on a beautiful Saturday morning? We came through Thornton, of course. But why would anyone drive to one of the most sprawling, soulless suburbs of Denver in order to get away from that very thing? To buy a couch, of course.
Kate and I are moving (don't tell my Grandparents, the shock might undo them. Then again, it might not. A lifelong Republican, he's planning on voting Obama because he can't stand McCain. If he'll go that far, he might go an extra inch and allow that boyfriends and girlfriends can share a set of keys.) and we needed to get a few things for the new house. High on the list of priorities was a couch and end table, but we were pressed for time and would love to avoid the $2,000 Restoration Hardware loveseat, so to American Furniture Warehouse we went.
Before we delve into the drama, it should also be noted that I really hate to shop. I feel like most, if not all, sales pitches revolve around the principle that you are fat, ugly, and stupid, but you might, MIGHT, just get laid if you buy our product. If you decide to buy the exact same thing from our competitor, then God help your worthless soul. I also feel like the vast majority of Americans have bloated credit card debt because they can't differentiate between the fleeting and ultimately hollow happiness of a big Target run with living with some sort of passion and consciously spending your time on the planet. But what do I know? I don't even have a nice car.
Jake Jabs runs American Furniture Warehouse (AFW), and his empire includes a billion square feet of showroom space. I told Kate when we got to the store that if the place caught fire, we'd never hope to find our way to an exit. The place is like a Vegas casino, except without any remote possibility of winning money. Blue hairs and oxygenated air come standard, though.
As Kate and I were helplessly stumbling around room after fake room, Bob Rizzo found us and quickly got us pointed towards the correct fake room with a real couch. With Bob's intimate knowledge of the store gleaned from over a decade as an AFW employee, we found the couch of our dreams, or at least one that would work for our purposes, in about 4 seconds. Bob got us to the checkout station quickly enough to keep me from having a nervous breakdown, but then I think he realized I let my guard down. I assumed that since we were handing over the dinero, he'd release us from the Casino/Showroom/Prison with haste. Instead, we were treated to his tale of survival. Bob, real name Norbert, had recently suffered a stroke.
"Three, in fact. I'd been back on the job for about five months, long enough to get back into the swing of things. It came on suddenly, no pain. I was picking up a box..." From here, things get fuzzy, but I know for a fact that Bob talked for 15 minutes without taking a breath, lest we make a getaway. "I hates hospitals, so he got out of there ASAP, but man, those doctors sure had a tough time diagnosing what caused the stroke. They finally settled on three usual suspects: diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol."
Wait Bob! How could a man contract such maladies?
"I eat two Big Macs, a large fry, a coke and two pies for lunch every day. And you wanna know what I eat for breakfast? (not really) Six eggs, six sausages, six pieces of bacon, coffee and a doughnut. I figured it out, and I averaged 37 eggs a week. I'm cutting back now, though."
Well, no shit Bob. You're lucky you aren't dead. Can we leave? Eventually.
Bob really was a nice guy, just a little talkative.
All of Bob's talk about food, and the miles we put in on the Baton Death March before Bob rescued us, got Kate and me pretty hungry. The only suitable way to finish up the day filled with American Furniture Warehouse, a labor day sale, and a spending spree? That's right, a drive through burger and fries. Hell, we had a triathlon to race this morning, and it's not like we were waking up to bacon or anything.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Don't sing it, bring it
Kevin would usually try to get his friends and neighbors to do stupid stuff back in college by egging them on with taunts like that. Usually, I'd find myself hammered on Absinthe in the back of a moving van as we rumbled across Algarve. Thanks for the memories, Vino!
In other news revolving around silly human tricks...
I've obviously caught a sincere case of "Rifle Fever" when I'm hugely excited about a route called "Sing it in Russian". Why? The crux involves basically dynoing into a knee bar. I think I'll be able to get this thing done pretty quickly, and I won't have to wait in line while Team Petzl runs laps on any and all lines on the Project Wall. That's a nice chance from "Mousetrap,"
where I was literally having a conversation with Dave Graham as he and I took turns grabbing the holds that our routes shared. Kinda cool.
Ok, I'm going to bed. Off to Meeker tomorrow, and it's already 11:30. Night, Kiddos!
In other news revolving around silly human tricks...
I've obviously caught a sincere case of "Rifle Fever" when I'm hugely excited about a route called "Sing it in Russian". Why? The crux involves basically dynoing into a knee bar. I think I'll be able to get this thing done pretty quickly, and I won't have to wait in line while Team Petzl runs laps on any and all lines on the Project Wall. That's a nice chance from "Mousetrap,"
where I was literally having a conversation with Dave Graham as he and I took turns grabbing the holds that our routes shared. Kinda cool.
Ok, I'm going to bed. Off to Meeker tomorrow, and it's already 11:30. Night, Kiddos!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Growing up
Walking into a courthouse in these rural county seats gives me an odd sense of deja vu. I'll go into an assessor's office to check on some rancher's taxes, or the recorder's office to pry into mineral ownership of the lower forty, only to think, "I've been here before." One call to my father confirms the fact.
"Do they still have the buffalo head in the lobby? You used to love that thing."
So, I have been here before.
My father would drive all over Wyoming and Colorado for his job as an oil and gas attorney, and occasionally I would get to tag along. For a young son, this is close to an invite to Valhalla. These "see daddy's work" trips would last for several days, and include hotel nights, restaurants, and time spent with any young boy's hero, his father. Some of my better memories as a kid come from these trips.
My dad and I set off for Newcastle, Wyoming, county seat of Weston. Though not home to any decapitated wildlife, Devil's Tower looms nearby, and gave the two of us a fun diversion after a long day pulling books for one of his title opinions. This huge granite plug, the setting for a film called "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," patrols the northeastern corner of Wyoming's rolling grasslands, and offers tourists a pleasant hike around its base. It also offers rock climbers outstanding opportunities to practice. On this early trip to the tower, I was all of the former and non of the latter. That doesn't mean the climbing didn't leave its mark.
My father and I were walking around the Tower, when we passed a pair of rock climbers descending from a route. They were each still in their harness, and carried all the fun toys I'd enjoy as I got a bit older: cams, draws, a rope. Two details stand out. The first is a gold camalot hanging on one of the climber's harness. At the time, I had no idea what it was. Now, I get giddy at the thought of a perfect handjam every time I see one. The second was a bloody left leg on one of the climbers. He had obviously taken a fall and left some precious skin on the abrasive granite above us. I remember thinking to myself that climbing must be pretty bad-ass if you could walk away from it looking like THAT.
Fast forward about a dozen years. Instead of working with my dad, I'm dodging my own career with a trip to the Sierra. My friend Rob and I are walking into the base of a huge rock climb that has each of us salivating at the prospect of a tall granite face and a crux pitch of that perfect gold camalot size. Loaded with 60 pounds of requisite climbing gear, rope, and camping stuff, we pass a family of four. Rob and I march on with a quick hello, but I am in this family's presence just long enough to catch the eyes of the son who looks to be about 12. He watches me amble off down the trail, climbing gear visible under the lid of my pack if he'll take the time to notice.
That climber from Devil's tower must be 40 now. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties (my age now) when I saw him on that trip with my father. I wonder if he knew he'd be part of me, part of my memory of growing up. Did he know he'd come to stand as a sliver of inspiration to begin rock climbing? At the same time, I wonder where that kid is going after he and his family get off the trail in Eastern California. Am I going with him, at least in mind? Is he going climbing someday? Will he pass on the passion for this pursuit?
Maybe he'll grow up to be a hunter, and in a final show of irony, take the last buffalo from the American West.
"Do they still have the buffalo head in the lobby? You used to love that thing."
So, I have been here before.
My father would drive all over Wyoming and Colorado for his job as an oil and gas attorney, and occasionally I would get to tag along. For a young son, this is close to an invite to Valhalla. These "see daddy's work" trips would last for several days, and include hotel nights, restaurants, and time spent with any young boy's hero, his father. Some of my better memories as a kid come from these trips.
My dad and I set off for Newcastle, Wyoming, county seat of Weston. Though not home to any decapitated wildlife, Devil's Tower looms nearby, and gave the two of us a fun diversion after a long day pulling books for one of his title opinions. This huge granite plug, the setting for a film called "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," patrols the northeastern corner of Wyoming's rolling grasslands, and offers tourists a pleasant hike around its base. It also offers rock climbers outstanding opportunities to practice. On this early trip to the tower, I was all of the former and non of the latter. That doesn't mean the climbing didn't leave its mark.
My father and I were walking around the Tower, when we passed a pair of rock climbers descending from a route. They were each still in their harness, and carried all the fun toys I'd enjoy as I got a bit older: cams, draws, a rope. Two details stand out. The first is a gold camalot hanging on one of the climber's harness. At the time, I had no idea what it was. Now, I get giddy at the thought of a perfect handjam every time I see one. The second was a bloody left leg on one of the climbers. He had obviously taken a fall and left some precious skin on the abrasive granite above us. I remember thinking to myself that climbing must be pretty bad-ass if you could walk away from it looking like THAT.
Fast forward about a dozen years. Instead of working with my dad, I'm dodging my own career with a trip to the Sierra. My friend Rob and I are walking into the base of a huge rock climb that has each of us salivating at the prospect of a tall granite face and a crux pitch of that perfect gold camalot size. Loaded with 60 pounds of requisite climbing gear, rope, and camping stuff, we pass a family of four. Rob and I march on with a quick hello, but I am in this family's presence just long enough to catch the eyes of the son who looks to be about 12. He watches me amble off down the trail, climbing gear visible under the lid of my pack if he'll take the time to notice.
That climber from Devil's tower must be 40 now. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties (my age now) when I saw him on that trip with my father. I wonder if he knew he'd be part of me, part of my memory of growing up. Did he know he'd come to stand as a sliver of inspiration to begin rock climbing? At the same time, I wonder where that kid is going after he and his family get off the trail in Eastern California. Am I going with him, at least in mind? Is he going climbing someday? Will he pass on the passion for this pursuit?
Maybe he'll grow up to be a hunter, and in a final show of irony, take the last buffalo from the American West.
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