Changes

That's about enough. I haven't come through with a full scale post for what seems like months, and to my loyal voyeurs (all 4 of you) I offer my most sincere apologies. Perhaps you'll find consolation in the fact that I've endured a monumental shake up in my life, and forgive the inaction. As I've mentioned a few posts back, I'm going to keep details out of it, but Kate and I have faced facts and are busted up. Since I started the blog, I've tried to keep the profanity to a minimum at my mother's request, but I assume that she'll look past this one little slip: These last few weeks have fucking sucked.
There's no easy way to get past a relationship that has been a mainstay for the last three years. Time and bourbon might dull things a bit, but at the moment, it's hard to see much end to the storm. What's a wayward ship to do in such a situation, but talk about climbing as a gravity defying distraction?

I just got back from Rifle, my second trip in as many weeks. Throwing myself wholeheartedly into the last passion I can rely on, my trips have been some welcome relief. The results are already evident, as I sent a hard 12D in just a few tries and am making fantastic progress on a 13A at the Arsenal, in my mind Rifle's steepest and most intimidating wall. I had only hoped to make good progress on both routes this weekend, preferring to set the goals low and hope that humility would keep my wounded ego safe. The surprise of sending Blocky Horror Show early in the weekend lifted that veil a bit, and gave me a kick start to really go for a high point on the aptly named Pump-a-Rama. I don't give a damn if Samet calls the route 12D. Just because he lived in the canyon for enough time to wire the route into oblivion, likely doing it in Chuck T's, gives me little pause in labelling the climb with the benchmark grade (for me) of 13A.

Though the climbing was a success, camping and crag life was slightly less seamless. I realized that I'd forgotten my sleeping bag right as I drove through Glenwood Springs. Quickly seizing on the power of the cell phone, I begged my friend Mike to bail me out and hook me up with a loaner. He graciously forgave my "Liar and a Fraud" taunt and lent me a cozy duvet. I was happy to have it, as my only other real option was Samson, my friend's mutt. As much as I love canine spooning, even jumping at the chance to get an up close and personal view of any potential ticks, I'm happy to have had the blankey.
That's not all, though. I also managed to forget any backup contacts, and my only water bottle was a sad little half liter unit that consistently left me begging. I was forced to climb in glasses, and I've only got one pair. Every time I started up a route, I said a little prayer for my 'specs' hoping they'd survive the scrapes on the rock and the jolt of any fall. I only had one incident of falling more than 10 feet, and am happy to report that all four eyes stayed with me. The water situation? I just had to keep running to the car to fill up from my 5 gallon jug. Not my best show in terms of camping equipment, but at least I didn't forget my harness or shoes.

I've got some work that has popped up, and I'm happy to make some money while I rest up from the effort of the weekend. Next week, I start up an internship for the Access Fund, the national group that lobbies to keep climbing areas open. I am really psyched to put to use some of the skills I've gleaned from working over the past few years, while still being able to keep my job. The hours at the Access Fund will be limited, and they aren't paying me to do the work. That said, I am hoping that I can really connect with some of the people busting their asses to keep climbing available, and that I'll do my part in the same. The best news? I'll still have time to get back to Rifle. I'll keep you posted.

Lastly, and in accordance with the title of this post, there's one more little change here at Abaluba. I'm ditching the Fake Twitter section, as well as the climbing diary at the bottom. Instead of the sidebar, which I'm told just screws up the ability of anyone on a Blackberry to read the blog, I'll just add some random shit to the end of each post, if applicable. Let's start now:

I was in Greeley last week for work. The car in front of me had three provocative bumper stickers. The first, and most benign, was Obama's O. Instead of being in favor of the Prez, though, this O was one half of the word "NO." Fine. Homeboy doesn't like Barack. That's his right, and he's welcome to it. However, to the right of his presidential negative read "Honk if I paid your mortgage." Now I think it's admirable for this guy to try to single handedly fix the floundering American housing market by writing a check to all those distressed debtors out there. What a true patriot. And any patriot would love his third sticker: "I Love Waterboarding." In the interest of totally honest reporting, I should add that, instead of the actual word 'love,' stood a heart, but my socialist keyboard doesn't have that symbol.

This imbecile, we all realize, is the extreme fringe. But any fringe that so casually supports torture is one that gives me pause. Unless, of course, they'll actually come through and buy me a house.

Big Rain, Big Whips

Well, I'm in Kentucky. The drive took the required two days with little extra fanfare, save for the shuffle board table my grandfather recently installed in the basement. When you combine that with pool table, foosball table, bar, and bomb shelter, there's a recipe for some real living. To tell the truth, stopping in the middle of Missouri was pretty much the high light of the drive. I guess the only real competition was the dinner at Big Boy's. Neil and I met up just outside of Louisville, and we had about an hour to chat before we met the other two road trip companions for some seriously good, seriously greasy cheeseburgers sporting tartar sauce as the secret ingredient. If I've had it 1,000 times on fish sticks, Mr. Big Boy, your sauce ain't so secret.

Since we've been here, I've been fighting battles on several fronts. Personally, stuff at home has been tough, to say the least, but that's all I'm going to say. With that cloud hanging over the trip, I've had real life thunderclouds to contend with, as well. They've delivered a remarkable amount of rain, essentially unleashing a heavy downpour every day for the past three weeks. We've only been here for a few days, but the soggy shoes, muddy pants and drippy tent have made things tough at times. Even though the Red is reknowned for its super steep walls, a lot of the climbs have had wet sections, leaving the choices for projects fairly limited. When the holds aren't dripping with water running from the top of the cliff, the holds are certainly feeling like a sixth grader went a little nuts with the Elmer's glue on the wall. Slippery and grimy....that's for sure.

I've started working on a route that launches upwards, and when I lower off from the last carabiners, I'm a good 50 feet from the belayer. I'm sure I could calculate the angle somehow....as the climb goes for 95 feet from ground to chains. I suppose that would be the hypotenuse. And while we're doing a little math, there's the part about the run out at the top. I've only taken the big fall once, but there's a nice distance between the last bolt and the chains, and going for a 50 foot fall is pretty exhilirating. Don't worry mom, it's safe.

This project, named Tuna Town, sports some gigantic holds. That's good for two reasons. First, there's the part of the angle. And second, my finger has been giving me some serious trouble. Grabbing small holds is painful, so thankfully the smallest grips are still pretty big. I had to take an unintended rest day today to try to give it a little time to heal (as well as giving my mind a little bit of time to chew on the tough spot I'm in with Kate). We'll see how everything feels after a breather.