Yesterday, my homebro Dan Mirsky and I went on a man-date. As they say on textsfromlastnight.com, no homo. And now, I'd like to present plenty of evidence to contradict that no homo claim:
Started out with a trip to the BRC. Sunny Sunday? Check. Rocks of all shapes, sizes and types in Boulder's backyard? Check. Two dudes in tanktops in the air conditioned rock simulation station? Double check!
If there was a way to capitalize capital letters, I would, as it would be the only appropriate type style with which to portray my psych for tying back into a rope. My foot's still swollen a bit, and I used a climbing shoe on my right foot but kept the sore left foot in the tennis shoe. Even using it so lightly, monkeying around a bit and getting the feeling of weight on my hands and arms was fantastic. I went upstairs and managed an ab and upper body workout - my first in 10 days. As only an emaciated Boulder sport climbing poseur can, I was beginning to worry about putting on weight. Burning a few calories felt like blowing a line of coke. So good! And I'd sell my TV to do it again.
Totally not unrelated: Kate said I was starting to sound addicted to climbing. Think she's full of shit? Me neither. Oh well.
After the gym session, Dan and I headed down to Nordstrom Rack so he could return a pair of kicks and we could prowl for new threads. I came away with three new pairs of Smartwool socks and a new shirt. The short sleeve button down will surely make its way into the heavy rotation of my summer selection, but the new socks are really the ticket. I don't know of any other way that you can spend $10 dollars and feel this good. Rob just got back from Asia and tried to give me some suggestions, but they're neither legal nor moral. I'm sticking with footwear as the biggest bang for the buck.
Dan had heard some solid reviews for a Belgian beer hall/eatery down on Colfax, so after the shopping we headed downtown and met a few friends for Chimay and frittes. Any time you can drink a rainbow of beer and dip fries in mayo, smile with the knowledge that God loves you. I had a Monte Cristo sandwich that was deep fried and literally dusted in powdered sugar, while Mr. Mirsky opted for the mussels. Stuffed, we pushed the plates away and hopped into the car, destination: Mayan Theater and a viewing of The Hurt Locker.
This film has gotten some insane reviews, and I've been looking forward to seeing it. The release was limited, and it wasn't showing in Boulder. Fine with me, though, because The Mayan is a badass theater on Broadway that serves booze and good chocolate. We snagged tickets to the 10PM showing, and settled into the reclining seats in the sparsely populated hall with whiskey snifters.
Katheryn Bigelow, producer and director of The Hurt Locker, also gave us Point Break. (Side note: Point Break gave us a reason to holler, "Utah, Two!") With her visceral portrayal of the Iraqi War, she's now given us a fantastic look at the stress and magnetism of war. "War is a Drug," we're told at the intro, and the next two hours take us down the rabbit hole of that very intoxication. Without the pedantic, hamhanded "war is bad" dialogue that could easily worm its way into the dialogue, The Hurt Locker lets the audience sift through complex characters and their ambivalent motivations.
Whatever your take away, you can't help leaving the theater remembering that war, in fact, is an addiction. I can't see people blown to bits and think I'd trade my drug for the soldiers', but at least I can begin to relate. Dan and I rolled back to Boulder discussing the film, and then climbing. I can't wait to get back to Rifle for another tour of duty.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sunny Saturday
I'm currently enjoying it on my ass, inside. Not the ideal. Having the forced time off has been interesting. There have been plenty of days where I'd rather be outside, running around and climbing, but with my foot the way it is, I can't hike to any crag, let alone climb. The gym is starting to look more and more appealing, and that's more and more depressing. I'm in the middle of summer, and am supposed to be able to avoid the old Boulder Rock Club.
I went into the doctor for a follow up last week, and he quoted an additional five weeks as a good lay off time. Obviously, Dr. Morris, you're not quite up to speed with my mania. I was thinking five days. He does have a point, though. If I can't walk without pain yet, it's probably a bad idea to be climbing. Each day is getting better and better, though, so I can say with a straight face that my goal for getting back onto routes is sometime next week.
The last time I took two weeks off from climbing was about a year ago. The fateful trip to Greece was the impetus, and the fallout from that was about as painful as my real life fall of the top of The Kind. Maybe I was due. Since that trip last year, a ton of things in my life have gotten shaken up. I've had a really strained time with my dad and stepmom, have completely lost contact with my sister Megan, and broken up with Kate. With that amount of interpersonal damage, I feel like the last 365 days could qualify for some sort of UN nation building relief. Christ! Especially when you factor in the horrid decline of the American economy.
Too much sitting on my ass has obviously got me thinking in hyperbolic, apocalyptic terms. I know that my foot isn't the end of the world, and I'll be back at things in no time. And I know that it's a rough spot in terms of several relationships in my life, but that will change, too.
As I've had my feet kicked up, resting over the past little bit, I've had a chance to try to spend my time in novel ways. I don't know if I've ever spent so many consecutive days in Boulder, or if I've thrown a big dinner party in all my time here in town.
Over July 4th, I threw a party at the house where I've been crashing. My friends who own the place were out of town, and were more than generous with the suggestion that I make myself at home. This house is by far the nicest place I've occupied while I've been in Boulder, as it's actually a single family home with room to entertain, as opposed to a studio apartment with minimal light and David Gray quietly crooning from an iPod dock. I cranked up some livelier tunes, fired up the grill and had a posse to the domicile.
My buddy Dan, a total foodie when not obsessing over rocks, met me at the farmer's market and helped me gather some supplies. At the time, I was still on crutches, so his help was appreciated. First, he was coming up with great menu ideas, and picking up appropriate ingredients for the bruschetta, beet green salad, and snap pea risotto. Equally important, he was schlepping the foodstuffs through the street market and letting me crutch around unhindered. After we got all we needed, we headed back home to prep.
We'd stuffed the fridge with two cases of beer and had a half a case of wine ready for consumption. In addition, I asked most the guests to bring a bottle or six pack to add to the arsenal. Knowing we'd have such a vast quantity of BTU's of alcohol, we needed to have some serious food to offset the inebriation, or we'd be facing WWIII in my borrowed casa.
We marinated chicken and shrimp, made three pounds of sweet pea, onion, and celery risotto, grilled corn, baked yam fries, and stirred up two different salads. And yet, by the end of the night, I was dancing to hip hop with my oxford shirt unbuttoned. It's not really gangstah when you're holding a bottle of riesling. At least I didn't pull the fire alarm like my buddy Dave did back at his apartment complex.
Having a ton of friends over proved to be a really nice way to spend the weekend. It was tough, though, because many of the guests were climbers. I overheard plenty of plans made for bouldering in Rocky Mountain National Park or trips to Rifle, and simmered with jealousy. I'd just have to sit back with a little coconut gelatto and bide my time until I could reenter the game.
Side notes:
My cousin is in flight training for the US Air Force. He'll be blogging about his experiences, and he did go to Harvard, so I assume he can write. Check out Michael Arth's blog here if you're interested.
I went into the doctor for a follow up last week, and he quoted an additional five weeks as a good lay off time. Obviously, Dr. Morris, you're not quite up to speed with my mania. I was thinking five days. He does have a point, though. If I can't walk without pain yet, it's probably a bad idea to be climbing. Each day is getting better and better, though, so I can say with a straight face that my goal for getting back onto routes is sometime next week.
The last time I took two weeks off from climbing was about a year ago. The fateful trip to Greece was the impetus, and the fallout from that was about as painful as my real life fall of the top of The Kind. Maybe I was due. Since that trip last year, a ton of things in my life have gotten shaken up. I've had a really strained time with my dad and stepmom, have completely lost contact with my sister Megan, and broken up with Kate. With that amount of interpersonal damage, I feel like the last 365 days could qualify for some sort of UN nation building relief. Christ! Especially when you factor in the horrid decline of the American economy.
Too much sitting on my ass has obviously got me thinking in hyperbolic, apocalyptic terms. I know that my foot isn't the end of the world, and I'll be back at things in no time. And I know that it's a rough spot in terms of several relationships in my life, but that will change, too.
As I've had my feet kicked up, resting over the past little bit, I've had a chance to try to spend my time in novel ways. I don't know if I've ever spent so many consecutive days in Boulder, or if I've thrown a big dinner party in all my time here in town.
Over July 4th, I threw a party at the house where I've been crashing. My friends who own the place were out of town, and were more than generous with the suggestion that I make myself at home. This house is by far the nicest place I've occupied while I've been in Boulder, as it's actually a single family home with room to entertain, as opposed to a studio apartment with minimal light and David Gray quietly crooning from an iPod dock. I cranked up some livelier tunes, fired up the grill and had a posse to the domicile.
My buddy Dan, a total foodie when not obsessing over rocks, met me at the farmer's market and helped me gather some supplies. At the time, I was still on crutches, so his help was appreciated. First, he was coming up with great menu ideas, and picking up appropriate ingredients for the bruschetta, beet green salad, and snap pea risotto. Equally important, he was schlepping the foodstuffs through the street market and letting me crutch around unhindered. After we got all we needed, we headed back home to prep.
We'd stuffed the fridge with two cases of beer and had a half a case of wine ready for consumption. In addition, I asked most the guests to bring a bottle or six pack to add to the arsenal. Knowing we'd have such a vast quantity of BTU's of alcohol, we needed to have some serious food to offset the inebriation, or we'd be facing WWIII in my borrowed casa.
We marinated chicken and shrimp, made three pounds of sweet pea, onion, and celery risotto, grilled corn, baked yam fries, and stirred up two different salads. And yet, by the end of the night, I was dancing to hip hop with my oxford shirt unbuttoned. It's not really gangstah when you're holding a bottle of riesling. At least I didn't pull the fire alarm like my buddy Dave did back at his apartment complex.
Having a ton of friends over proved to be a really nice way to spend the weekend. It was tough, though, because many of the guests were climbers. I overheard plenty of plans made for bouldering in Rocky Mountain National Park or trips to Rifle, and simmered with jealousy. I'd just have to sit back with a little coconut gelatto and bide my time until I could reenter the game.
Side notes:
My cousin is in flight training for the US Air Force. He'll be blogging about his experiences, and he did go to Harvard, so I assume he can write. Check out Michael Arth's blog here if you're interested.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Double Trouble
I got out of bed this morning, much too early thanks to the dogs I'm watching. The mutts are habituated to breakfast at 5:45 or so. I, however, am habituated to selfishness, and a woofing snout in my face before daybreak is fully annoying. Rob and Rebecca get back this weekend, and I can't wait to pass these flea bags off to their rightful owners. (I'm just grumpy, they're actually fine canines)
Shutting the door and locking them out doesn't really work because of the cat. There's a kitty door in the closet, and if I shut the doors, he drives me insane with his incessant howling during the night. My dilema: weigh an early wake up call with a night of insomnia. Win, Win? Absolutely not.
So when I planted my feet on the floor this morning, I weighted the bum left foot and felt better than yesterday, happy to improve with each day. With my first step, my right arch twinged a little. I looked at the right sole and saw a big bruise. How did I miss that one? Focusing so heavily on my left foot, I must have ignored the pain in the right side because it was so dwarfed by the foot I thought was broken. Huh. This has been an interesting week, and it keeps throwing curve balls.
During my time on the shelf, I've realized just how much time I usually devote to climbing. In all honesty, every day that I go climbing, it takes at least 4 hours of my day. I've had to fill all that additional time during the day with something, and I've pretty much picked television, work, and reading, in that order. I was up until midnight last night, riveted by a Charlie Rose interview. I've seen all of the Tour de France stages, and am fully caught up on baseball at the moment. Hear about that big Dallas trade for Shawn Marion? I did. Did you read Matt Taibbi's roasting of Goldman in Rolling Stone? If you didn't, you should. Though you'll likely finish the article and wake up in a pool of blood because you repeatedly punched yourself in the face after the final paragraph. Not because it's poorly written, but exactly the opposite. It's so well written, and chronicles the depressing state of the American political economy.
Two nights ago, my buddy Jesse and I were inspired by Hebrew National's dollar hot dog promotion at Coors Field. And last night, my mom and I went to Mustard's Last Stand by DU. That makes two hot dogs for me in two days. A record. So in addition to lazing around on my ass while I've been infirmed, I've been eating crap. And I've been loving every minute of it! Regardless, I'm foaming at the mouth to get back to a regime of climbing for tens of hours every week. A quick side story about Mustards:
They have a location in Boulder, and at one point during my college career, I applied for a job there. Under related experience, I plainly wrote, "No hot dog stand experience," thinking that the tough, Chicago themed restaurant would appreciate my no nonsense attitude. They never called me back. I spent the summer coaching lacrosse camps, instead, and it was glorious!
I gotta get back to work, but I wish you all a fine summer day.
Shutting the door and locking them out doesn't really work because of the cat. There's a kitty door in the closet, and if I shut the doors, he drives me insane with his incessant howling during the night. My dilema: weigh an early wake up call with a night of insomnia. Win, Win? Absolutely not.
So when I planted my feet on the floor this morning, I weighted the bum left foot and felt better than yesterday, happy to improve with each day. With my first step, my right arch twinged a little. I looked at the right sole and saw a big bruise. How did I miss that one? Focusing so heavily on my left foot, I must have ignored the pain in the right side because it was so dwarfed by the foot I thought was broken. Huh. This has been an interesting week, and it keeps throwing curve balls.
During my time on the shelf, I've realized just how much time I usually devote to climbing. In all honesty, every day that I go climbing, it takes at least 4 hours of my day. I've had to fill all that additional time during the day with something, and I've pretty much picked television, work, and reading, in that order. I was up until midnight last night, riveted by a Charlie Rose interview. I've seen all of the Tour de France stages, and am fully caught up on baseball at the moment. Hear about that big Dallas trade for Shawn Marion? I did. Did you read Matt Taibbi's roasting of Goldman in Rolling Stone? If you didn't, you should. Though you'll likely finish the article and wake up in a pool of blood because you repeatedly punched yourself in the face after the final paragraph. Not because it's poorly written, but exactly the opposite. It's so well written, and chronicles the depressing state of the American political economy.
Two nights ago, my buddy Jesse and I were inspired by Hebrew National's dollar hot dog promotion at Coors Field. And last night, my mom and I went to Mustard's Last Stand by DU. That makes two hot dogs for me in two days. A record. So in addition to lazing around on my ass while I've been infirmed, I've been eating crap. And I've been loving every minute of it! Regardless, I'm foaming at the mouth to get back to a regime of climbing for tens of hours every week. A quick side story about Mustards:
They have a location in Boulder, and at one point during my college career, I applied for a job there. Under related experience, I plainly wrote, "No hot dog stand experience," thinking that the tough, Chicago themed restaurant would appreciate my no nonsense attitude. They never called me back. I spent the summer coaching lacrosse camps, instead, and it was glorious!
I gotta get back to work, but I wish you all a fine summer day.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Results
The cannon fired when I fell off the top of The Kind on Tuesday, and even though I've got what appears to be a bloody baseball implanted in my left foot, I dodged the major bullet of broken bones. Dr. Moore took a peek at my foot and then reviewed the X rays, and basically told me I was one lucky bastard. A fractured talus bone would have almost unilaterally required surgery and a three month private hell of crutches. A broken calcaneus would have resulted in a similar fate. With nothing actually broken, the prognosis is another few days off my feet and then probably back to climbing in a week and a half.
Waiting for the results was agonizing. Weighing the differences between best and worst case scenario, I felt like I was locked in a windowless room, looking at a door that was the only way in. The door would either open on its own accord and let me out, or a mountain lion was coming in, but I had no authority over either eventuality. As my doctor took his first look and prodded around with his fingers, it felt like the door was opening a crack (no pun intended). When he cocked his head to one side and said that given my pain tolerance, he assumed nothing was broken, it felt like my chance to make a break for it before the puma crept in.
Even after I got the verbal reassurance that things were looking optimistic, I still had to wait nearly a day to hear back about the X rays. I felt like they would be that irrefutable proof that the cannon ball had missed. Last night, I got the word that they were negative for fractures, and I could let out a deep breath.
Several climbers that I've known have broken their talus and been forced to the sidelines for way longer than they were comfortable. Before the fall, the last six weeks or so had been jam packed with climbing and running around. I'd really been enjoying the recreation, but the thought of it all falling apart was so disheartening. Lucky, then, that I managed to come away with the best case scenario.
I'm certainly impatient, and have already gotten tired of lying in bed with my swollen and bruised foot propped up on a stack of pillows. When it gets oppressive, I just try to remind myself that it could have been a TON worse. Besides, now I've got a good opportunity to rest, relax, and finish up some things which I'd always found myself too busy to finish. Writing and GRE study, for example.
Hope all you Voyeurs have a fun, safe 4th. And thanks so much to all of you who have been supportive and caring over the past few days. Your calls and messages have really been helpful.
Waiting for the results was agonizing. Weighing the differences between best and worst case scenario, I felt like I was locked in a windowless room, looking at a door that was the only way in. The door would either open on its own accord and let me out, or a mountain lion was coming in, but I had no authority over either eventuality. As my doctor took his first look and prodded around with his fingers, it felt like the door was opening a crack (no pun intended). When he cocked his head to one side and said that given my pain tolerance, he assumed nothing was broken, it felt like my chance to make a break for it before the puma crept in.
Even after I got the verbal reassurance that things were looking optimistic, I still had to wait nearly a day to hear back about the X rays. I felt like they would be that irrefutable proof that the cannon ball had missed. Last night, I got the word that they were negative for fractures, and I could let out a deep breath.
Several climbers that I've known have broken their talus and been forced to the sidelines for way longer than they were comfortable. Before the fall, the last six weeks or so had been jam packed with climbing and running around. I'd really been enjoying the recreation, but the thought of it all falling apart was so disheartening. Lucky, then, that I managed to come away with the best case scenario.
I'm certainly impatient, and have already gotten tired of lying in bed with my swollen and bruised foot propped up on a stack of pillows. When it gets oppressive, I just try to remind myself that it could have been a TON worse. Besides, now I've got a good opportunity to rest, relax, and finish up some things which I'd always found myself too busy to finish. Writing and GRE study, for example.
Hope all you Voyeurs have a fun, safe 4th. And thanks so much to all of you who have been supportive and caring over the past few days. Your calls and messages have really been helpful.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Rocky Mountain Gravity
It's hard to argue with the beauty of Rocky Mountain National Park. After heading up to boulder in the Park after work yesterday, I say the quality of the climbing matches the setting. Too bad, then, that my day ended so poorly.
Richard Lee and I raced up for a few hours of bouldering after work, and I was really looking forward to it. The only climbing I've previously done there has included ropes and hours of slogging to get to the wall. With just a crash pad on my back, shoes and chalk stuffed inside, I chased Richard up the trail and into Chaos Canyon. Chaos is a huge talus field on the valley floor, and the climbing is on perfectly sculpted rock shaded by looming rock walls above.
It seems like a playground for climbers, and as you boulder hop through the jagged stones, a new line to climb pops up around every corner. There's hardly enough time to grab all the holds that look so inviting, making our four hours of daylight seem all too short. Richard and I met another three friends in the talus, and decided on a blitzkrieg tour of the area classics.
After warming up, I tried a problem called Autobot. Essentially a miniature route, Autobot climbs out of a pit and up into the alpine breeze. From start to finish, it's perhaps 20 feet long....plenty for a bouldering problem. When you grab the last hold and heave yourself onto the top of the rock, Hallet Peak greets your gaze. The holds are ocassionally small but never brutal, and it's modestly graded V5.
From there, I went over to Tommy's Arete, perhaps one of the best problems I've ever tried. A touch harder than Autobot, "Tommy's" hugs an arete and calls for tough moves between good holds, heels pulling for added levitation. I worked on the moves but couldn't link them all together in one go, but was so excited to keep the tour going that we happily packed up to find more gems. The sun was starting to dip, and Erynn was hoping to head to a different area called Emerald Lake that held another good line. Three of us packed up and headed towards Emrald, leaving Richard and my buddy Blake back in Chaos.
The same grade as Autobot, The Kind sits above a beautiful alpine pond and starts out on good holds, but moves towards smaller and smaller grips before reaching the lip of the boulder at about 10 feet. Erynn had tried the moves on a previous trip, as had Bart, the other guy I was with at the time. Erynn and Bart each laced up their shoes and gave the holds a few pensive tugs, dropping down to the crash pads below with each attempt. I liked the looks of the problem, and studied the sequence they were using in hopes of doing it on my first attempt. Confident enough, I pulled my shoes on and threw some chalk on my fingers.
The first move is a reach up and right from a big starting hold, and from there, you tic tac your hands and left heel up a rib of rock. Quickly, I found myself at the section Bart described as the crux, but things felt good and I kept pulling through. I made one final thrutch up for the lip, and as I grabbed it, felt the rush of excitement that accompanies doing anything on the first try. I heard shouts of congratulations from below, and rocked my right foot up and onto the lip so that I could mantle over onto the top.
The next thing I knew, I was looking down at the top of Erynn's head, but without the typical sensation of boot rubber or fingertips on the rock. Shit. I was falling off.
In an instant, I gasped but was on the way back to Terra Very Firma. The crash pads were still under the crux, as no self respecting climber could fall off the top. Worse yet, Bart and Erynn had no reason to assume that I'd fall, so they were no longer looking up with ready hands to brace my fall. I flew past Erynn, narrowly missing driving her into the ground like cartoonish rebar. Landing feet first on a big, flat rock under The Kind, my momentum carried me out again and over another small ledge. Again, thankfully, onto a reasonably flat spot. So many of the landings at Chaos were precisely that, chaos, so I was lucky to be at Emrald when my fingertips decided to magically release from otherwise perfectly servicable crimps.
The fall happened so fast, and I scampered back up the ledge to take a seat on the pads. I assessed the damage and couldn't see any bones sticking through the skin, but I felt a pretty onerous pounding coming from my left foot. A good mile and a half from the car, my hike out was going to suck. That much I knew.
I eventually hobbled back to the parking lot, my gear divided between the other climbers. Once Richard and I made it into Estes Park, we found some ice to try to slow the swelling, and my foot has been in the same frozen state since.
It happened about 14 hours ago, and my appointment with the doctor is this afternoon.
Christ. I'm hoping he tells me it's just a bruise and I need a few weeks to heal. That's the best case. I don't want to even start to think about worst case.
I'll post again today with the results and prognosis. Wish me luck.
Richard Lee and I raced up for a few hours of bouldering after work, and I was really looking forward to it. The only climbing I've previously done there has included ropes and hours of slogging to get to the wall. With just a crash pad on my back, shoes and chalk stuffed inside, I chased Richard up the trail and into Chaos Canyon. Chaos is a huge talus field on the valley floor, and the climbing is on perfectly sculpted rock shaded by looming rock walls above.
It seems like a playground for climbers, and as you boulder hop through the jagged stones, a new line to climb pops up around every corner. There's hardly enough time to grab all the holds that look so inviting, making our four hours of daylight seem all too short. Richard and I met another three friends in the talus, and decided on a blitzkrieg tour of the area classics.
After warming up, I tried a problem called Autobot. Essentially a miniature route, Autobot climbs out of a pit and up into the alpine breeze. From start to finish, it's perhaps 20 feet long....plenty for a bouldering problem. When you grab the last hold and heave yourself onto the top of the rock, Hallet Peak greets your gaze. The holds are ocassionally small but never brutal, and it's modestly graded V5.
From there, I went over to Tommy's Arete, perhaps one of the best problems I've ever tried. A touch harder than Autobot, "Tommy's" hugs an arete and calls for tough moves between good holds, heels pulling for added levitation. I worked on the moves but couldn't link them all together in one go, but was so excited to keep the tour going that we happily packed up to find more gems. The sun was starting to dip, and Erynn was hoping to head to a different area called Emerald Lake that held another good line. Three of us packed up and headed towards Emrald, leaving Richard and my buddy Blake back in Chaos.
The same grade as Autobot, The Kind sits above a beautiful alpine pond and starts out on good holds, but moves towards smaller and smaller grips before reaching the lip of the boulder at about 10 feet. Erynn had tried the moves on a previous trip, as had Bart, the other guy I was with at the time. Erynn and Bart each laced up their shoes and gave the holds a few pensive tugs, dropping down to the crash pads below with each attempt. I liked the looks of the problem, and studied the sequence they were using in hopes of doing it on my first attempt. Confident enough, I pulled my shoes on and threw some chalk on my fingers.
The first move is a reach up and right from a big starting hold, and from there, you tic tac your hands and left heel up a rib of rock. Quickly, I found myself at the section Bart described as the crux, but things felt good and I kept pulling through. I made one final thrutch up for the lip, and as I grabbed it, felt the rush of excitement that accompanies doing anything on the first try. I heard shouts of congratulations from below, and rocked my right foot up and onto the lip so that I could mantle over onto the top.
The next thing I knew, I was looking down at the top of Erynn's head, but without the typical sensation of boot rubber or fingertips on the rock. Shit. I was falling off.
In an instant, I gasped but was on the way back to Terra Very Firma. The crash pads were still under the crux, as no self respecting climber could fall off the top. Worse yet, Bart and Erynn had no reason to assume that I'd fall, so they were no longer looking up with ready hands to brace my fall. I flew past Erynn, narrowly missing driving her into the ground like cartoonish rebar. Landing feet first on a big, flat rock under The Kind, my momentum carried me out again and over another small ledge. Again, thankfully, onto a reasonably flat spot. So many of the landings at Chaos were precisely that, chaos, so I was lucky to be at Emrald when my fingertips decided to magically release from otherwise perfectly servicable crimps.
The fall happened so fast, and I scampered back up the ledge to take a seat on the pads. I assessed the damage and couldn't see any bones sticking through the skin, but I felt a pretty onerous pounding coming from my left foot. A good mile and a half from the car, my hike out was going to suck. That much I knew.
I eventually hobbled back to the parking lot, my gear divided between the other climbers. Once Richard and I made it into Estes Park, we found some ice to try to slow the swelling, and my foot has been in the same frozen state since.
It happened about 14 hours ago, and my appointment with the doctor is this afternoon.
Christ. I'm hoping he tells me it's just a bruise and I need a few weeks to heal. That's the best case. I don't want to even start to think about worst case.
I'll post again today with the results and prognosis. Wish me luck.
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