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| El Chorro (via www.escaladamutante.com) |
"Jello" lives no more than two hours away from Denver International Airport (DIA). In fact, on a good day, it only takes him 90 minutes. Thursday was not a good day.
A lot was on my mind while I drove through the snow towards DIA. Was my aid gear from Fish, the gear I desperately needed for this trip, going to get to my house in time? Would we leave for Utah today? Is my car sliding right now? Or is that the quiet sound of snow and ice melting under my tires? It only takes me a few hours to get to the cell phone lot outside the airport. I get out of the car to take a piss. Freezing wind cuts through my thin clothes, "stupid spring weather." I shiver and return to the car stinging with damp clothes, and I waited for Greg to call. I was impressed when he called twenty minutes later to tell me he was on the ground. As I pulled up to the curb, he shoved, and I mean that quite literally, his bag into my tiny car and we sped off. The weather had gotten to the point where the airport was now shut down and all the highways that would take us to Moab were closed. It was probably for the best because it allowed me to get all my gear together and it meant I wouldn't have to improvise. Greg pressed the imaginary brake a lot on the ride home. Luckily nobody got in my way and got hurt. We only slid once or twice and only came close to dying three or four times - overall pretty standard.
I had just spent an awful past six weeks planning this trip and trying to stay out of all sorts of trouble at work and in life. If it was one thing I was looking forward to was the sunshine. Yeah, the stress relief was high on my list, too, but I find that stress relief is easiest when one doesn't have to worry about the little things. When things such as the weather take care of themselves, enjoying the bolder tastes of life is simpler. And so when my plane aborted its first landing attempt because of white-out blizzard conditions, I was ready to wash an entire bottle of ibuprofen down with gasoline - grade 87. It took us more than three hours to get to Colorado Springs. I've never seen so many cars off the road.
Man do I love driving to Moab. Let me rephrase that. I don't like driving, I like travelling to Moab. The route is scenic, it signifies a descent onto the western slope of warmth, and the road ends in an ethereal landscape of towers, buttes, and mesas of sand frozen in time.
We sorted gear once we got back to his house, and even took a side trip to his boss's house in order to obtain a few more important items: tent, a sleeping pad for me (so I didn't have bring mine), and a few cams and assorted other items of protection capacity. We were pretty well sorted when "Jello" realized that he had left probably one of the most important pieces of gear at his gym: ascenders. These were important because I had already told him that I was only able to aid climb this trip. My ankle wasn't at full strength yet, and this seemed to be the best way to get to the top of something and still have fun. We needed the ascenders for jugging, so this was important.
I've climbed in quite a few places. I think Greg has me beat on major destinations but I might have him beat in out-of-the-way places. Of these locations, the desert is probably my favorite thus far. It's surreal, you can always find a spot where the weather is pleasant. New England and Colorado it isn't. It challenges me in a lot of ways, too. The dirty and broken rock is mentally challenging because it is scary. The climbing is generally physical - crack climbing, which I like more and more as my climbing acumen grows. The desert is intricate and delicate despite it's stark look with it's deep contrasts of soft, red mud and hard, brown stone.
The gym that he works at is about an hour out of the way (if one considers having to go out and back 30 minutes each way). We thought about heading out that evening so we wouldn't have to delay our start the next morning, but the snow was still coming down hard and so we decided to wait. "Jello" and "Iowa" snugged in their bed for the night and I flopped on the air mattress into a deep sleep. I awoke the next morning to pancakes and a foot of snow on the front porch. It was still snowing, too, and we were concerned. But we weren't to be deterred. We couldn't go the day I flew in because I-70 was closed. Route 24, on the other hand, was sure to be open by the time the storm fizzled out. The snow would be long behind us when we would finally intersect with I-70. We noticed that it was cold, but we were somewhat surprised to see on the bank signs that the temps were hovering only in the high teens.
It was now about 24 hours after the storm had begun and the roads were an absolute mess. I'm not talking about side streets. I'm talking about the freaking interstate! Cars were still sliding all over the place. I mean, seriously, you live in a desert (OK - somewhat of a desert) and you can't find any sand to put on the roads?
Forty-five minutes after we left, we arrived at the far end of the gym's parking lot. It was a scene of mixed white and grey tar; spotty with no clear path to safely follow. The road to the back of the building, where the gym is located, alternated between snow, ice, and road. We thought we could make it, and so "Jello" pressed on the gas and - THUNK! WHRRRRRRRRRRRRR...
- What's up?
- Um, what do you mean, what's up?
- Why did you let up on the accelerator?
- Um, so, you notice how we're not moving right?
- Yeah, but that's because you let up on the accelerator. If you would have just kept going -
- So, look out your window.
- Yeah, so. There's a lot of snow here. We could've plowed through it if you had just kept -
- Open your door.
I rolled my eyes, pulled the door handle, and pushed...and pushed...and pushed really, really, really hard. I couldn't believe what I saw. By opening the door I had just pushed about 15 pounds of snow out of the way. I stepped out to get a better look and my leg was instantly buried up to my knee. This was the first time I had ever been in a car that was legitimately stuck in the snow. Seriously, the bottom of the door frame in his car is about a foot off the ground and we had driven into snow that was higher than that. I looked in front of us and saw about six feet of 18-inch-deep snow taunting us to push forward. I looked behind and saw that it was less deep, but we had driven about 15 feet into the drift. Going forward would have meant pushing the car through deep snow, and going backward would have meant pushing the car precisely in the same tracks in reverse whence we came. Fuck! We were stuck.
The gym was about 200 yards down the parking lot and "Jello" knew there were a couple of shovels there. I returned to the car to warm up while he ran to get the tools (did I mention that the wind chill was at zero degrees and that the wind was howling at about 20 mph sustained with the occasional more-powerful gusts?). He returned a few minutes later and we both started to shovel away, except we realized that it was really cold at this point. The wind was constantly blowing snow and cold air on our exposed skin. I was glad I had gloves, but he wasn't so fortunate.
We decided to take turns shoveling, thus making our little detour a little longer on the clock. The snow was the dry, blocky type; it was neither wet and heavy nor light and puffy, but instead it formed in powdery blocks that were difficult to move. We had to use the metal shovel to chop it up first before using the plastic one to move it. To make matters worse, the wind was so strong that we had to throw the snow in the same direction every time. Shoveling the left side of the car was easy. The right side was considerably less so.
The shoveling was hard, the wind was unrelenting, and the traffic on the road that goes past the gym was nearly empty. The only vehicles we saw driving by were the ones we desired - snow plows - but not a single one stopped to give us a hand (we didn't expect anyone to stop, really - particularly the big, state-owned plows, but we hoped a small private owner would help us out. I can't blame them for not stopping. After all, snow season is money season for them and we all have to put food on the table). I chopped and shoveled, and then he chopped and shoveled some more, with each of us using my gloves for work and our jacket pockets for warmth when resting. We got a good deal of the snow in front of the car shovelled away in about forty-five minutes, but there was still a lot to be done. We nearly felt defeated. What was even more demoralizing was that we knew the snow was also pushed to the top of the wheel wells. Getting that cleaned out was going to be a major pain.
But just as things started to get unbearable, just as the wind started to rip through the fleece gloves, and just as the cold began to claw away at the last bits of healthy skin still stuck to our cheeks, the owner of the building drove up in his four-wheel-drive pick-up truck. A cut piece of climbing rope and the ol' heave-ho-with-him-pulling-us later and we were free! We'd left the house at 930am. It was now just after 11am. The whole drive was supposed to take us seven hours at the most, and we were at the quickest a 30 minute drive from the beginning, which was back in Colorado Springs.
By the time we made it to Route 24 we discovered it wasn't great either, but there were spots where it was better than I-25, which is the interstate that leads north to Denver and the road we took to and from his gym in Monument. But we were finally on our way and decided to stop for gas in the town of Divide. We passed the first station because it was more expensive than the second one. Unfortunately, the second one had a hill and a Wonder Bread truck spinning its wheels trying to get up. The third station was priced right, but it was closed and the pumps were turned off. So we turned around to go back to the second station, and just as we started to power up to get enough speed to make it up the hill, a pick-up truck decided to leave the station and take up the entire entrance on its way out. So, the first station we passed, the more expensive one, just for your information, has really good doughnuts and an easy-to-drive-in-snow access road.
The road after Divide was starting to lose its snow, but there were still moments that made both us nervous wrecks. The stretch of road from Buena Vista to Leadville is a two-lane road that splits a wide plain on either side. The sun was out in all of its glory, but that meant the roads weren't plowed and there were plenty of pockets of black ice.
Why plow when the snow will melt? A half-dozen 18-wheelers screaming past us on slick roads later and we were half convinced this whole trip was a stupid idea. At one point we had one car pull out in front of us that forced us to pass him whether we knew there were cars coming the other way or not. He pulled out. We didn't slow down. He didn't speed up. We caught up to him very quickly. There was 50 feet between us, and the gap was closing. An 18-wheeler flew by in the other direction, and "Jello" peered down the road to see if it was clear to pass. A car shot out of the glare and the gap between us and the car in front closed to 20 feet. He started to pull out, but then another car blew by. I felt the car slide when "Jello" turned back into our lane, and I grabbed the oh-shit handle above the window as we approached the car in front. Ten feet...five feet...two feet... He had three choices: 1) ram the car in front; 2) send the car into the gully on the right-hand side of the road or; 3) pass on the left and pray to God that no one else was hiding in the glare and coming the other way. He chose three. I couldn't see if anything was coming because we were too close to the car in front to see around it. I held my breath...
I hadn't really understood why Greg had been so quick to pump the imaginary brake while I was driving until I was in the passenger seat. It's a damn terrifying feeling when on ice because you can't tell if the driver is in control, if they know they're sliding - and I know how bad the tires are. I was able to calm down after a while and also to let Greg know that my car had a 5th gear. It wasn't long until we were on I-70 and on our way to paradise.
We pulled over a few minutes later in Leadville to switch driving duties, regain our senses and, as we discovered upon exiting the car, to knock the remaining massive chunks of snow out of the wheel wells (that took us a good 20 minutes to kick, poke, and dig the brown and white solids out). We stopped again in the town of Fruita for lunch, and we were on our way out of Colorado by the end of the afternoon. We were both glad to be alive, and happy the worst was behind us. The one part of the trip that I'd like to mention that was amazing to drive through was the canyon near Glenwood Springs. That is truly something to see. I'd like to return there someday to explore the area.
After we passed through Glenwood Springs (before lunch), the road was as clear 
as a desert highway - no snow and devoid of cars. We took the shortcut on Route 128 (River Road) and I saw the canyons for the first time. I had seen desert canyons before, and I had seen desert towers, too. But I had never seen what was before me: there were miles and miles of imposing brown and red cliffs, towers, buttresses, and steep, crumbling slopes looking down upon me. The view wasn't just on the road, either, but instead the expanse was in all directions such that I swore the paths in between the different towers and canyons was endless. It was a claustrophobic version of gazing at the ocean, except the ocean is wild in its exposed emptiness and the canyons seemed a relentless journey of twists, turns, hopeless thoughts of unseen dead ends. It seemed a world of infinite first ascent opportunities. They formed a maze of infinite paths.
I admit that 
I was a little awestruck when I first saw Castleton's Tower. I'm not a big fan of the desert, but this inspired me. We came across one particular buttress that damn near convinced us to get a first ascent that week. We had it all planned out. "Jello" knew how to get in touch with the main desert-guidebook author for more info and we even pulled over to scout the ascent. Would we need to camp at the base? What about atop the plateau? We realized after a few moments that the moment got the better of us, so we drove on.
Our next mission was to find a campsite. I figured since "Sungam" was already there that we'd just crash at his site. But our cellphone reception wasn't the greatest and we didn't get in touch with him that evening as a result. On the other hand, "Jello"'s roommate, "Texas Flake", managed to get through to us.
*Ring Ring*
- Hello
- "Texas Flake": Hey, are you headed to Moab?
- Yeah, are you guys out there or are you back at Joe's Valley.
- "Texas Flake": We're still in Moab, my transmission went out on my truck, do you think you could pick us up when you get into town.
- *sigh* Yeah, let me call you when I get closer.
- "Texas Flake": Thanks brother.
"Texas Flake"'s birthday is the same week as mine and was supposed to be in Joe's Valley bouldering and out of my way. I was disappointed, but how bad could it be? The sun was getting lower in the sky and is was now directly in my face. It didn't help that my visor has this habit of falling off and, thus, offers no visual relief. And it wasn't all about the sun either; there were cows on the side of the road, too. It was an open range, and one is never quite sure when rolling over the blind hills if a half-ton heifer will be in the way. I wanted to get to Moab, and so I sped around corners at double the recommended speed while pointing out the Fishers and Castle Valley to Greg. I think his eyes were on the road more than mine.
- Hey
- "Texas Flake": Are you in Moab yet?
- Yeah we just got here. Where are you at?
- "Texas Flake": We're in town, why don't you find a campsite first and then we'll talk again.
- Ok, you know where to stay?
- "Texas Flake": A campground near Wall St. There was nobody there when we left.
- Ok, talk to you in a bit.
We discovered that the first two campsites on Potash Road (near Wall Street) were be full. This surprised us since we were driving in on Thursday. But then we remembered that we were supposed to have driven in on Thursday and that it was now fairly late on Friday. Crap. We had hoped to crash near Wall Street because we wanted to meet up with "Sungam" and we assumed that was where he was staying, but since those campgrounds were full, we headed back out to River Road (Route 128) to check all the campgrounds there. We saw about five on the way in, so we figured at least one would have a site. The first one we stopped at was full, so we went on to the second one. That one was full, and so was the third. We thought we had a spot found at the fourth campground, but nope, after a little more research it turned out that spot was reserved. And so we drove all the way out to the last campground...only to find out that it, too, was full.
It was now pushing 8pm and we had a half hour drive before we got back to the end of River Road. I mentioned to "Jello" that I saw a lot of headlights on the other side of the river back where River Road intersected with Route 191. So we drove there and turned down that dirt road. At first we were happy to see that there were loads of people nearby. But then we realized this wasn't a campground but a rafting drop-off instead. It seemed that we were screwed, but "Texas Flake" had told us in another phone call that we hadn't been to the campsite he mentioned earlier. "Jello" and I drove and drove and drove until, counting our blessings, we stumbled across the Bell Campground - and it had one spot open.
"Jello" dropped me off with the assignment of setting up the tent and then he drove into town to pick up the rest of the crew. It took me forty-five minutes to set the damn tent up (there will be a gear review of the Kelty Orb 3 soon, I promise). I was tired and cranky. It didn't help to discover that the sleeping pad we had taken from "Jello"'s boss didn't have an air valve. It appeared I was going to rely on it's un-filled thickness for comfort.
I phoned “Texas Flake” again to find out where they were. Of course it was on the far end of town at some obscure 4x4 garage. I saw their truck, turned in, and pulled a few donuts in the gravel parking lot up the street out of frustration. I counted five people in his posse. My car barely fits four, let alone six. They had gear, too, of course. We tossed the sleeping bags, tents, more liquor than seems required for someone asking for a ride (with two underage kids, too!), coolers, food, and other assorted items anywhere the stuff would fit. I tried to speed off with everyone sitting on top of someone else, but the car lurched - I don't doubt for an instant that it had more weight than it was supposed to have in it. The car bottomed out after every bump and I wonderd if we'll make it back to the campsite. We made it, but Greg was struggling to put the final touches on the tent. "Texas Flake" borrowed my car to retrieve his bouldering pads and some other stuff. I helped set the tent up, and Greg and I settled in by the smokey fire and tried to talk some sense into the whee lads who came to a trad climbing mecca to wrestle pebbles, all the while poking fun at them under our breath. I'm not someone who looks down on boulderers, as I boulder on occassion myself. It's good for developing strength and can keep my attention for about an hour. But why, for the love of all that is climbing, would someone come to a place with such tall towers, arches, mesas, and buttes and choose to climb things that are small enough to piss on top of from the ground? I asked why they didn't just do some roped climbing in Moab. "We didn't bring ropes and harnesses," they said. You can boulder without a pad pretty safely, especially in Moab but most of the time it's just good sense to bring a rope and some harnesses. By the looks of what they're pouring down their throats, I guess the price of a harness and rope amounts to several jugs of malt beverages. For shit's sake, it's like going to a gourmet restaurant and ordering the house salad, no dressing - the lowest denominator. The hell if I was going to let them interfere with my roped climbing the next couple of days. I wasn't going bouldering unless there wasn't enough interest from my partners to rope up, and considering Greg hates to boulder, well, I knew I'd be staying off the pad. It was late, and so Greg and I crashed. Tomorrow would be a learning day for him. I didn't anticipate it being a tough day physically, but I needed a good night's rest.
It was 9am when we heard the rumble of ATV's all over the place. We had apparently come to Moab during Jeep Week. There was also an adventure race being held right next to our campground. Welcome to Moab.
I sat on the sloping entrance to the driveway. My left ankle remained straight up, as if I were still standing, and the rest of my body was crumpled on the ground to the right. I knew I had heard a crack. Was it broken? It had to be. Ankles don't crack if they aren't broken do they?
The last time I had slipped on the ice was two winters ago, and that was walking down the stone steps of my apartment building. My feet came out from underneath me and my airborne back landed on the sharp edges of the stairs. I have never had back problems in my life, but my father has and his pain never seems to fully subside. Thirty-three years old was not the age where I wanted to start having a lifetime of back problems. I was lucky that it was only a muscle spasm. My good doctor and his prescribed relaxants made the problem last less than a week.
But this was different. I was convinced that I was done. Climbing for the winter was over. I was going to have to shut down completely for at least six weeks. Walking on ice with two good ankles was hard enough let alone with a cast. But even as those cruel thoughts shot through my brain like pulses of pain, I had a more immediate concern - how to get someone's assistance on the empty street, because you can't walk on a broken ankle, right?
I waited a few minutes, and when the pain seemed to subside, I pulled in all the hope I could muster that it not a break but a sprain instead, and stood up. I took one limp forward, then two. Pretty soon I had limped to the corner. Fifteen minutes later and I was standing on the subway platform praying for an open seat.
I went climbing later that week believing that if my ankle was broken then I surely wouldn't have been able to walk on it. It hurt like hell when I torqued it, and so I said that I'd give myself two weeks of rest before climbing again. I could live with that. Two weeks of rest would surely beat six weeks in a cast. I kept telling myself that it was only a sprain, and that time and rest would take care of it. But then I went climbing again near the end of February, it hurt still, and so I went to a doctor. The diagnosis was clear: high and low ankle sprain, recovery was two to three months. I learned that it is possible to walk on a broken ankle, too. I was dumb to have not seen a doctor sooner.
- Phone: ring, ring, ring...
- Me: Come on...
- Phone: ring, ring, ring...
- Me: Answer the phone...
- Phone: ring, ring, ring...
- Me: Come on man! Answer the damn pho-
- "Jello": Hello?
- Me: Hey, what's up?
- "Jello": Not much, just at work. You?
- Me: Oh, slowly killing myself via spreadsheets. You know, living the dream...
- "Jello": That sucks. So what's up?
- Me: So this trip to Moab...
- "Jello": Yeah?
- Me: So you remember when I told you a couple of weeks ago that I slipped on the ice?
- "Jello": Yeah?
- Me: Well, I'm out for a couple of months.
- "Jello": Yeah?
- Me: Yeah, so that means I won't be climbing for the next couple of months.
- "Jello": Uh-huh.
- Me: Yeah, so...
- "Jello": So I was thinking the last week of March to early April. Does that fit into your schedule?
Two hours later I had purchased a round-trip ticket not into Salt Lake City, which is closer to Moab, but to Denver instead (near where "Jello" lives) for a Thursday, March 26 flight. That's me, the gimp with a high and low ankle sprain, flying four hours to Denver, getting picked up in "Jello"'s, erm, old and rickety?, car and driving six hours to Moab. Did I mention his car has problems?
Despite the frustration of being injured, and as my annual work project slothed into March, I was looking forward to the trip. I knew that by taking this trip I was putting myself into a very difficult situation at work; meetings that were normally difficult to schedule were going to have to be squished even more than normal, and late nights were going to be later. This isn't one of those projects where the work can be spread out over time. Instead, regardless of when the work is done, it has to be done before certain deadlines. I was going to be taking seven work days out of the process where five days is often the difference of a half percent of a few billion dollars. Despite this, I started telling folks on rockclimbing.com sometime in early March that I'd be out there. I knew one guy in particular, "Sungam", who was on a one-year rock climbing tour of the U.S., was going to be in the Moab area at the same time, and so I told him that "Jello" and I would be climbing with him. He was excited to meet us, and we were also looking forward to meeting him. Life was good.
- March 15 - I call "Jello" to start talking about gear. He mentions that his friends want to go to Joe's Valley instead of Moab, so that means an extra three hours of driving on top of the flight to Denver and the drive from Denver to Moab (so about 13 hours altogether). I tell "Sungam" that we aren't heading to Moab. He asks for a ride. We aren't sure if we can give him a ride. He starts making plans to head to Joe's to meet us.
- March 17 - I learn that Joe's Valley has a lot of bouldering. Bouldering has never been kind to me, and I'm even more leery with a sprained ankle. "Jello" considers this and tells me that he'll get back to me.
- March 18 - I look at my frequent flier statement and realize that I have 127,000 miles. It's 15,000 miles for a one-way upgrade to first class. With all this flying and driving, I figure the extra comfort will come in handy. United Airlines tells me that they can bump me up to first class for the flight out, but that I'll need to be put on a waiting list for the flight back. I'm OK with that.
Things are starting to line up pretty well considering the changes in plans, my ankle, and work. Work is at its full thrust of pain, but it is so numbing at this point that I hardly notice. It helps that Boston's shivering winter is lingering into spring. The temps are colder than normal, we've still got ice on the sidewalks, and we've had snow recently. Good weather would certainly make this more difficult.
But even so, my ankle is getting better from physical therapy. I'm going a couple of times of week right now, so you'd think that would be expensive. Well, it is to a certain degree. My work place participates in financial savings accounts (FSA), account where one can set aside health care costs tax free. I have money in my account, both from 2008 and 2009, so I'm spending it this way. Still, I'm in no shape to climb.
- March 19 - I confide in "Jello" that I don't think my recovery is coming along fast enough. My ankle is still sore, and it feels weak, even after several physical therapy sessions. I ask him about aiding, and he mentions it is much better on the ankles than regular climbing is. This gets his head spinning with ideas.
- March 20 - "Jello" calls to tell me that we aren't going to Joe's Valley anymore. I'm relieved because I wasn't looking forward to the extra three hour drive and the pressure that I'd be putting on my ankle. Instead, he mentions that his girlfriend, "Iowa", has friends in Vegas.
"How about Zion and Red Rocks for a few days?" he asks.
"Sure," I say, and then he tells me that Zion is another two to three hours farther than Joe's would have been (except in a different direction). "Great," I say, "I can't wait for a 15-hour travel day. Since "Iowa" is going, and since her car is normal compared to yours, can we at least take hers?"
"Jello" considers this plan and tells me that he'll get back to me. I tell "Sungam" that we're going to Zion, and that we can pick him up on the way. He is ecstatic. And oh yeah, we toss out the idea of hitting Red Rocks in Vegas. That's only a couple of extra hours from Zion. Why not? Actually, the better question is, why didn't I fly into Vegas to begin with again?
- March 21 - "Jello" e-mails me and says that "Iowa" doesn't want to put that kind of miles on her car. Bummer. Since she can't drive a stick, it looks as if the drive time is going to split between he and I. This also sucks because we're going to have 10 days worth of gear for three people in the car, and his car is smaller than "Iowa"'s. "Oh yeah," I say, "and we're picking up "Sungam", too."
We've also started talking about my first aid-climbing experience. While we've been warned that Zion isn't the place to learn, that kind of thing has never stopped us before. In fact, if "Jello" wants to cross a pond full of hungry alligators then he'll find a way. This seems less imposing than the alligators, but we admit that we'll likely be very, very slow and how we'll probably need to spend the night on the wall. He starts looking around to borrow a port-a-ledge, we both start looking at purchasing a haul bag, and he starts thinking of ways to make belay seats if we can't find a ledge. I'm actually excited about this, and so is he. "Sungam" can't wait.
- March 22 - "Jello" calls and tells me that "Iowa" isn't happy about us spending the night on the wall and, thus, leaving her alone in the campground. Zion is out. We're heading to Moab where the towers are smaller. "Sungam" is even more excited about this because now he doesn't have to move anywhere. He'll already be in Moab as originally planned.
- March 23 - "Jello" and "Iowa" are negotiating the terms of the vacation. She may not be going now. That means we can go to Zion after all. "Sungam" is OK with this. He was kind of looking forward to doing a wall anyway.
This day is also the first day of back-to-back-to-back meetings at work all day all week. I basically arrive at work, head straight to a series of meetings that don't end until the end of the day. I then go back to my desk and spend several hours in the evening getting ready for the next day's meetings. I'm also taking time to get ready for the back-to-back-to-back meetings I'll have on the first day I get back from vacation. And I still need to fit one more day of physical therapy in somehow.
- March 24 - "Iowa" wants to go after all, and we can take her car if we go to Moab. This means we can split the driving between the three of us. "Sungam" says, "Cool, I'll see you in Moab."
My last day of physical therapy is strong. I do well in all of the exercises, but when it comes time to pay I'm flabbergasted. My FSA credit card is denied. I wonder how this can be and become very stressed because I know there is an up-coming deadline for using this money. I pay with cash and walk out somewhat frustrated.
- March 25 (the day before I leave) - "Iowa" is sick and may not be able to go. I ask when they'll know if she can go and if they'll still be picking me up from the airport and heading straight to Moab. "Jello" isn't sure, but the plan is to still leave right from the airport. I tell "Sungam" that Moab vs. Zion is a game-time decision. We may not know what our plans are until we get there. He's fine with whatever we do. I believe this is a good attitude to have.
I manage to steal a free moment at work and call my FSA company. They tell me it denied because I ran out of money. I tell them I'm confused because I had money left over from 2008. I had until March 31st to spend that. They realize there is an accounting error on their part, and they didn't give me credit for having spent that money. I tell them that starting tomorrow I'll be out of cell phone reach until after the deadline. They tell me all is well. I'm nervous, but I document the phone call and choose to believe them. My flight leaves at 10am the next morning and arrives at noon in Denver. It's the perfect flight itinerary, and so I'm focusing on the good things instead of the bad.
Finally, the end of the day arrives. I'm packed, fed, and starting to relax. No more work for 10 days. This is going to be good, whether we end up in Moab, Zion, Alaska, or Fiji. I check my flight status. All is good. I get an e-mail from Travelocity and figure it is my final confirmation for my flight. Just to make sure, I click on the link and read this:
- "Below is your confirmation. We're sorry, but one of your flights could not be confirmed. Below is your entire itinerary:
- Sat, April 4: Leave Denver at 4pm and arrive in Boston at 10pm"
"Um," I think to myself, "where is the flight from Boston to Denver?" This can't be. I mean, seriously, I fought an ankle sprain, I fought work, and I fought my FSA benefits company. I'm going on vacation tomorrow. I'M FLYING FIRST CLASS!!!!!
- Phone to Travelocity: ring, ring, ring...
- Me: Answer the phone
- Travelocity: Please listen to the entire menu as our options have chan-
- Me (hitting zero repeatedly): Fuck your options
- Travelocity: transferring you to an operator
- Operator (with a thick, non-English accent): Hello, how can I help you?
- Me: Yes, I had a flight from Boston to Denver tomorrow at 10am, is that cancelled?
- Operator (after taking my info): I have a flight at 7am would you like that instead?
- Me: Was the flight at 10am cancelled?
- Operator: I can do 7am if that works for you.
- Me: I don't mind the 7am flight, but I want to know what happened to the 10am flight first.
- Operator: I don't have a 10am flight.
- Me (slightly more annoyed than I was when I opened the e-mail): Was it cancelled?
- Operator: Hold on sir, let me check something.
- Travelocity on hold: Did you know you can check the status of your flight on line, just go to...
- Operator: Mr. Burns, I do not have you for a 10am flight, but I can do 7am if you'd like.
- Me: OK, look. I want to know if the 10am flight is cancelled. I spent 15,000 of my miles to get an upgrade to first class. I don't want to lose that.
- Operator: You want to buy first class on the 7am flight?
- Me: NO! I can't afford that. I had upgraded. UPGRADED!
- Operator: Do you want me to upgrade you to first class on the 7am flight?
- Me: I want to know what the hell happened to my miles that were spent to upgrade on the 10am flight!!!!
- Operator: Hold on one moment sir.
- Travelocity on hold: We'd like to let you know that changes in flights do happen. We're happy to work with you when this happens but we can't always guarantee...
- Operator: Mr. Burns, did you make changes to this flight with the carrier?
- Me (a light finally goes off in my head): Yes, I called United and upgraded using my miles.
- Operator: OK, well, I don't have a 10am flight. Do you want to book the 7am flight?
- Me: Is that my only option?
- Operator: I can send you to the actual carrier if you'd like.
- Me: Yes please (oh God, yes, yes, yes please!)
- United Operator: Hello, Mr. Burns?
- Me: Yes, hi, I had a 10am flight that was upgraded to first class. I just want to make sure that I still have that flight and my miles or the upgrade.
- United Operator: Yes sir, I can confirm you for first class at 10am on the 26th. Did you also request an upgrade for the return flight?
- Me: I did, but I was put on a wait list.
- United Operator: OK, sir, I can confirm that you have been upgraded on your return flight, too. Have a nice flight.
I turned to the window and looked out. It was raw - twenty degrees with a wind chill down to zero. The bare trees were shaking as the wind whistled past. The desert sounded so warm. Mid fifties in the shade would be fine for me. I was happy to be leaving this stress, this cold, this world. If I didn't already know that I could never live in the desert then I'd swear at that moment I'd never come back.
- March 26 - It was cold again, but the trip to the airport was easy. That might have been because of my state of mind, or it might have been the easy travel time. I didn't care. Once I was on the plane, it was only four hours to Denver, and six hours to sunshine. Unfortunately, things don't always work out as hoped. We missed the the runway in Denver on our first landing attempt due to this:
Denver was in the early stages of a white-out blizzard, and I was on one of the last planes to land. "Jello" drove up to the curb in his beat up car alone and I figured "Iowa" wasn't going. I also had heard that I-70, the road from Denver to Moab, was a serious pain in the butt during bad weather. Driving his car in this mess wasn't going to be fun.
He told me when we got out of the car that we weren't heading to Moab that day due to I-70 being closed. We'd have to wait until the next day, and even then the drive would be an adventure. "Great," I thought. "All this way to get away from winter and stress, and I land in a fucking blizzard."
Stayed tuned for Part Three coming soon...
My plan was the same as it had been the past few winters: to take no time off during my busiest time of year so that I could take more time off during my slowest time of year, which is summer. Thanks to my company's time-off program, I'm allowed to work holidays if I want to. I often work on all holidays except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and New Year's Day. I don't get paid extra for working on days such as Patriot's Day, but instead of taking a cold and blustery day off in the middle of the winter I torture myself with no time off throughout the rawest months. I then enjoy the low-crowd random summer weekdays under the warm sun instead. It's a deliberate decision with a concrete goal, but this year would be different.
It was early February and I was already beginning to feel the stress of a job that was quickly tiring me. President's Day was approaching and I couldn't help but think of how nice it would be to take a mental day off. I struggled with the thought of giving in so early in what would be a long and difficult annual project that was just beginning to stab its heels into me. I knew the day off would allow me one day of rest before the hard stuff began, but I also knew that I needed to prepare myself - to get over the hump, so to speak - of what would surely be long, intense hours of pure analytical tedium. I was slouched in my chair and twiddling a pencil between my fingers when the phone rang:
- Me: Hello?
- "Jello": Hey what's up?
- Me: Hey man, not much. How are you doing?
- "Jello": I could use some time off.
- Me: Couldn't we all?
- "Jello": No seriously, I'm stressed beyond belief, I haven't had a day off in months, money is pissing me off, the house is more work than I thought it would be, and so I was thinking of taking time off around my birthday at the end of March.
- Me (worried that this might eat into my plans of no time off during the winter): OK.
- "Jello": Yeah, so, how does Arches sound?
- Me: You mean, me flying out to meet you there?
- "Jello": Um, yeah. Why the hell else would I be calling?
I knew I was toast. I never had a chance. There I was contemplating taking one day off against my plans and here was "Jello" speaking of warm sunshine and a significant distance, both in body and mind, away from work.
- Me: Well, that's really my absolute busiest time of year. I'm usually jam packed in wall-to-wall meetings during that time. Some of those meetings are necessary and insanely difficult to schedule, too.
- "Jello": What do you want me to do about it?
Yup, I had no chance. He'd made up his mind. He (we) was (were) going to Arches sometime at the end of March. The dates hadn't been set yet, but that was the plan.
- Me: OK, let's talk more in a couple of weeks. I have to figure out my schedule. I'm still in the early stages of setting up my timeline the next few months, so I think I can work this in.
- "Jello": Cool. Just let me know.
We hung up and the phone rang again. The caller ID screen told me it was someone I needed to speak to. Her input was vital to my work, so I turned to my computer and started searching for flights.
An early morning flight from Boston touched "Ratherbe" and I down in Oakland an hour ahead of "PBR"'s flight from Dallas. We were stuffed in the car and on our way by early afternoon with the hopes of getting at least a toprope in before the sun set that evening. But the road to Yosemite is slower than expected, and we were too tired to do much of anything except walk around Camp Curry to get our bearings. But that was OK, because that's not what was running through my mind when we entered The Valley. I'm not easily impressed. In fact, I would say that I'm least likely to rah-rah anything without first giving a critical eye toward any enthusiasm I may exhibit. I've both been around acclaimed people who deserved not an ounce of respect, and dirty alleys steeped with so much character that it would be a shame if they were ever cleaned up for the masses to enjoy. False excitement is rampant in our society. We're told what we should be happy about, for, and with; it is so much so that we rarely have time to decide for ourselves what is really impressive and what is not. The view of Half Dome from the plane as we coast across the Sierras is fun to see, but it draws merely a smirk and smart-alec response from me about how, "that climber's harness isn't double-backed." I guess at this point I wasn't looking to be overwhelmed. Getting away was enough for me, and I'm not sure if I look back on that moment with sadness or not. When we finally drive into The Valley for the first time, however, I'm blown away. The narrow valley is claustrophobic, and that's a good thing. The towering walls on either side aren't imposing the way I thought they would be. Instead they tend to curve at the bottom as if they are lifting me up into the streak of blue sky above. They look so... so... ... climbable. They're talking to me, and inspiring me to reach high and pull myself over the top in one full move as if I'm ascending to heaven on my own terms. I feel as if I'm being hugged by the soft side of nature's imposing features. "God I love this place." I've already made up my mind that I'm not going home. "I wonder if there's work here." And then we pull into the parking lot for Curry Village. "PBR" welcomes us to the ground floor of Yosemite Valley as a stream of yellow-scarved Boy Scouts march past the car. We check in and weave through the mobs of families, hikers, climbers, and everyone else. "There's no work here," I mutter to myself. "There's so much demand that they can pick the low wage beggars right out from the dumpsters." I've found paradise and suddenly lost it in less than 30 minutes. It may be sad for some to note that my disappointment in society wills me to get away as often as I can. I'm satisfied with myself and who I've become, and I am happy to forge ahead to see who I'll become in the future. But I feel as if I'm living poorly. I don't mean that I'm broke (though it certainly feels that way), and I don't mean that I am inefficient in my life (because surely I am not). But I do mean that I feel lectured to and driven like a herded sheep to place myself within the pen that society has supposedly built to make my life safer from the coyotes, wolves and other known threats. "If I just accept this," I think, "then I'll have my house and spare change for travel -" things that I dearly desire. Of course, I understand that if I don't accept it then I'm likely destined to live a life of thinking and retreating, which may be a wonder of life if I do end up in a position where I am able to forge ahead until my very end, despite the pleasure of uncertainty that stepping out of line brings. Is it possible to advance without accepting? Am I a fool for believe it is? What does this have to do with Yosemite? The starkness of nature's beauty against commercialization seems to be both a retreat and acceptance at the same time. While our public institutions may seem to be sending biased messages at times, propaganda is not their job. Society put this tiny section of the world aside to allow those who need to escape a place to runaway to, albeit within the confines of the pen. No one is here to place me. Everyone is here to watch the cliffs dominate over the dry, green valley. God's nature may be feeding a conforming, creativeless fury, but yet I'm here and enjoying it much the same as everyone else is. The escape is no more daring for me as it is the guy standing me, and it is clear that acceptance of what is handed to me is never far away, either, because that guy is still waiting in line for the only pizza that can be bought for miles. And I'm OK with that. It's far enough on the fringe to forget, and not so far to have to worry. It's this last point that worries me the most. "Have I accepted what I've been told already?" The most odd of all feelings is that I prefer the tourists over the climbers. Yes, I'd prefer to relax within a vast, empty world where I can sit back and not worry about performing up to expectations, which, I initially believe, is born by the tourists and spread by them on behalf of the conforming world. But they're just normal like me, and I'll take the normalcy over fused convention any day of the week. Let's not argue over this: there is certainly more pressure to conform here in Yosemite as a climber than there ever will be as a retiree with a pair if binoculars in hand. I've come to run away, and yet I've found a section of the sheep's pen that feels both isolated and safe all at the same time. Is this OK? I hope to find out. I'll be posting a day-by-day account of this trip over the coming weeks. Please be patient and check back often. As always, photos will be provided at the bottom of the posts. However, there will be multiple posts for Yosemite and Lover's Leap each, but only one photo stream for each. I hope you enjoy reading this... Pictures to come in the next post
Having not flown a great distance in quite a while, it dawned on me about four hours into my flight from Boston to Las Vegas that airlines don't feed their customers anymore. I was a bit miffed that I was surviving on a single croissant from earlier that morning, two very small cookies and several glasses of water without ice. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind not having the ice in my cup. Besides keeping your drink cool, all ice does otherwise is get in the way of the large gulps one wants to throw down. So not having ice to wet one's nose can be small victory in the world of fine dining. However, I really could have used something extra to eat, and the ice would have provided an honest snack to a single male flying to Vegas for the first time in his life. But let's not get caught up in the details here. I wasn't flying to Vegas to party. In fact, if it weren't for Red Rocks Canyon then I'd probably never go to Vegas. This isn't like Amsterdam, where the known qualities of each city are partying, sex, and, well if not for gambling in Vegas then more sex in Amsterdam. Amsterdam also has architecture, canals, and Vermeer (not to mention the longest legs one will ever lay eyes on). Vegas, as you probably can guess from my intro, is one, big disappointment. For starters, as I debarked from the plane, I followed my hunger-headache to where I thought there would be easy-to-find food. Naturally, because I rarely turn down food, I found a circular food court not far from the gate. Happy that my tummy was about get recharged before heading off into the desert to explore the weekend's approaches and climbs, I stopped on the perimeter of the circle and tried to scan the restaurant signs so that I could figure out what was available to eat and reconcile that with what I wanted to eat. But as I scanned the signs an odd thing happened to me; I couldn't read the signs. This was odd because I could see them very clearly, but there was something - something flashy, bright - that kept pulling at my attention. I tried for several minutes to study the restaurant signs: Appleb...China Delu...Something Pretzel...Wheel of Fortune...Candy Shoppe...Blah Blah Bar and...WHEEL OF FORTUNE?!?!?!?!?! My eyes slowly scrolled down at a proportional speed that which my nose followed by scrunching into a position of disgust - Jesus! There's freaking slot machines in the airport. And there's people playing them. What the f...? I was annoyed at the in-your-faceness of the scene around me. I just couldn't believe that it would be this pathetic, but there it was right in front of me: chain smoking Korean War heroes and their wives pulling levers and pushing on-screen buttons underneath the cheesiest, country-fair-likeness flashing lights trying to get rich...in a fucking airport. It was almost unbelievable. I didn't stick around long enough to begin to appreciate the beauty of slot machines, probably much to the dismay of the McCarran Airport capital venturists. So I picked up my rental car and made another discovery about Las Vegas that hadn't ocurred to me: Vegas is a town of has-beens. Seriously, no one doing Vegas, unless on a world tour, is relevant anymore. If they were relevant, they wouldn't be doing Vegas. Instead, they'd be doing New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo, London, Paris, Bangaluru (formerly Bangalore - seriously, check for yourself), Sydney, Boston (plug) and Sao Paulo. You see the difference? One is catering to millions of young fans at the edge of entertainment and the other is telling jokes or singing songs to forty-something bitter, single women and fat men who want nothing to do with each other but would probably screw each otherall night if the one asked when no one else was looking. Well, that and seniors spending the Social Security I'm never going to see back again (thanks, Boomers. Don't think we haven't thought of a cull). Speaking of forty-something: forty minutes after touchdown, I was standing in the parking lot of Pine Creek Canyon in Red Rocks Canyon National Conservation Area (which goes by the nifty acronym: RRCNCA), breathing in a deep sigh of removedness, and beginning my journey into a world that I desperately needed to venture into: a world known as Nostressland. But first, let me give you my initial impressions of Red Rocks. While there are red rocks in Red Rocks Canyon, the name of the canyon forced me to pause and wonder, where the hell are all the red rocks? OK, I admit, the first couple of pullouts, the ones that pass by Calico Basin, have very red rocks. And I also admit that throughout the canyon there are some fantastic horizontal bands of red rock streaking across the various mountains. But, for the most part, and by "most part" I really mean 90% of the park, Red Rocks Canyon is a blend of 1970s pale brown, unfashionable shades of tan, and a mix of varnished...I don't know what to call it...unhydrated piss-colored sandstone. In other words, the place is freaking ugly. OK, to be fair, I should mention that I grew up in picturesque Acadia National Park (see links on the main page) with its majestic, porcupine-like islands floating quietly in the sparkling sea below the wise, presiding Cadillac Mountain and all it's surrounding green forests, crystal clear lakes and soft-on-the-eyes bays and fjords (yes, Sommes Sound is not only not a sound, but it is also the only fjord on the east coast of the United States. We're beautiful. I didn't say we were smart). So, to compare such a blend of color and air with the dry and drab landscape of burnt juniper trees, crumbling sandstone mountains, and lots and lots of sand that doesn't have topless women walking through it on their way to the calm, beautiful, blue sea at the sand's edge isn't quite fair. They're two different things and I fully agree that one man's ocean playground is another man's desert solace; it just isn't my solace. Other than that, the climbing looked decent. I only had a couple of hours to spare before the park closed, so I wandered into Pine Creek Canyon (about 10 miles from the entrance gate) in search of the Dark Shadows Wall and Brass Wall. The goal was really to orientate myself so that I knew what to expect when "Tattoo" arrived later that night and we could plan with some pretextual knowledge. This hike was about 75% successful that turned into success a few days later. I had heard that the approaches into the canyons and walls were long. A quick look of the book while on the plane confirmed that by telling me the approach to Brass Wall was about 30 minutes, with an additional five to ten minutes added on to get into the canyon where Dark Shadows was. The timing noting in the book wasn't off by much, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that a 30 minute approach into Pine Creek Canyon is not the same thing as a 30 minute approach to the base of Whitney-Gilman at Cannon. The prior is almost exclusively a flat, easy walk on soft sand while the latter is a beefy scramble straight up a loose talus field. If this is what all the approaches are like, then I can handle this, I thought to myself. It's funny, too, because one of my buddies in Boston (I forget what his nickname is on the site - hey guy with a funny spelling to your typical name, what nickname did I give you?) had told me that one stands in the parking lot and clearly sees the walls in front one's eyes, but the path to happiness is not always as straight and obvious as it seems it should be. He was right because, while the main path is pretty easy to follow (in daytime - more on that in another post), the side trails leading from the main trail to the base of the cliffs leave a lot for the imagination to make up. In other words, just because one can see the cliffs, it doesn't mean one can get there easily. On a bit of a side note, and you can laugh at me all you want on this, but I was surprised that the deserts in the US actually have sand; soft, wiggle-your-toes-in-it sand. I know this sounds crazy, but I always imagined sandy deserts being in Africa and on the sub-continent. I never realized that the deserts in the US were not hard-cracked, dry, scorched earth. It was a funny moment for me, and I knew I was going to catch a few smirks going my way when I mentioned this. Anyway, I found a couple of climbs on Brass Wall Right that I thought "Tattoo" and I could handle on our first day. Both were in the 5.7 to 5.8 range, had easy approaches are were long enough for us to feel as if we had done some serious climbing by the day's end. What I didn't find, however, was Dark Shadows. I found the Dark Shadows Wall, but not the route of the same name. This was disappointing to me at first, but I scouted enough to know that there was a waterfall nearby and that I was, at the very least, in the right place. As it turned out (special thanks to the dude behind the counter at Desert Rock Sports), the route I was looking for starts directly above the waterfall. So all I had to do was find the waterfall and I'd find the route. Shivers went down and up my spine as he said this, but this was primarily because I had to piss worse than a Russian race horse. I left the store seventy-dollars lighter and went to the Suncoast Casino to see if I could check in. The Suncoast isn't a bad casino, as far as I could tell. For one, the slot machines were the same as in the airport, so I figured there was at least a semblance of consistency between the two places. I also didn't mind the fact that they pump so much air into the place because, as a result, one doesn't really notice the cigarette smoke. However, I usually pride myself on being able to find the alternative entrances to the hotels, just so I can avoid the normal riffraff that may be staying there. No such luck here. These casinos thought of everything: one must walk through the gambling area on the way to the elevators that lead to the rooms. That kind of sucked, but, as it turned out, the casino was only about 15 minutes from the entrance of Red Rock Canyon, so the minuses had plusses to average them out. If one wanted to get closer to the canyon, then one could stay at the Red Rock Casino...and lay one's head down for $400 per night. I took the $100 per night on average and slept just fine (well, after I picked "Tattoo" up at the airport, but you catch my drift). So what can one expect in the next couple of blogs? Friday's climb, Friday's actions that led to results later in the weekend, Saturday's climb, Saturday's adventure, Sunday's wet adventure, Monday's climb and Tuesday's climbs / flight home. I think there will be a different post for each day, with some being significantly longer than others, but we'll figure it out as we go along. In any case, enjoy the ride.
And Now For Something Relevant To Vegas: Pretenders
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In any case, I do have two updates. One is that I'm off to Red Rocks (Vegas) in less than a week to climb with "Tattoo" for the first time since he turned asshole and moved to the Left Coast. I'm excited about the prospect of finally going on my first, real climbing trip in years. I know, I got out a lot this summer, but gassing it to the various spots in New England and New York just aren't the same thing. These places may be destinations for some people, but they're in my backyard and I've never considered my backyard to be a destination (unless, of course, I'm really drunk and need to get away from myself). So Red Rocks is my first trip away from home since I went to Switzerland while in school in Scotland back in 2000. I will have a daily diary posted once I get back. I hope "Tattoo" has a camera, because if he doesn't the pics are going to be from a disposable camera, and I'm not confident of the quality they'll bring. So, for crossed fingers and anxious mouse-clicking index fingers awaiting my imminent return, stand down; I'll be alive here again soon enough.
The other update regards my new training method: that of leading a route that is beyond my range each time I go to the gym so that I become comfortable with being afraid and above my limits. I have to say that it is working. "Geneva" has also been inspired by my bug, so he is also pushing himself. I had a set-back last night as I just had a terrible day (thank you sugar. yes, you wonderful substance that lives in the candy brought in to work by all the parents of little children who don't want said little children to have that much candy). I had about fifteen highs and lows yesterday, with the climbing part of my day being a serious energy low.
Still, I'm getting better and more efficient at things I'm afraid of climbing. I'm happy that this is working out. I hope to be leading 11s consistently by spring. I also hope this translates in harder routes outside next summer. Only time will tell.
Why did I think this? For one, I felt that I was going up with people who valued discussion and variety. Two, I have my own car now and, despite driving others up and being responsible for their desires (which I should note is my preference for long trips), this means I have considerably more freedom to move about on my own if I should make that decision. I also don't have the commitments that I've had in the past and, while that fact is not all puppies and candy canes, it is a little load-lightening.
So when "Jello" first called me from Ray Brook (where he lives now - in between Lake Placid and Saranac Lake) last week, I knew I wanted to get out of Boston and get a good, solid weekend of risking my life on my terms for once. It was an exciting thought, "Greg's first step out in a long, long time." It was time to learn to trust myself and stop worrying about...well, I'm not sure what I'd worry about exactly, but that is my nature. Learning to look out for my own interests first is a new concept for me, and something I need to seriously focus on. It is odd because I wish I could do this with somebody else as my partner in crime. I know, that's a bit a hypocritical, but is an accurate depiction of my current state of mind.
Anyway, upon reading "Jello"'s long-coming e-mail to the group, I figured I'd ask the group if anyone else was interested in going up with me to meet our former karate kicking mate who never seemed to drain of physical energy. As it turned out, "Bikeman" was leading a group to the same region over Memorial Day weekend as well, so I made connections with him and then called "Jello" to confirm that I could stay with him (for me, it's about the climbing, not the camping. I don't mind camping, per se, but I prefer to have a roof over my head and easy access to the nearest bathroom - especially when I later found out that the campground everyone else was staying at lost their water supply Monday morning). I left a message with two phone numbers for him to call back to. And then I waited. And waited. Days went by and the trip on "Bikeman"'s end slowly started to come together. I was offered a place to stay at the campsite, but didn't have a tent (and was concerned that the two-tent per site limit would force me out into the cold - a notion I was foolishly worried about because I don't think "Bikeman"'s group would have allowed that to happen: such good people as they are). So I called "Jello" again, and left another message. I reread his e-mail. He was definitely going to be free beginning that Friday and through the weekend, but no return call came. So then I called yet again. Nothing. I paced. I fretted. I pulled out what little hair I have left. I even drank a bit too much whiskey wondering what to do.
"Where the hell is he?" I wondered, and began to realize that he was probably out in the thick of the woods working with the kids in the camp he worked for. The thought that he didn't have cellphone access started to creep in, and I wondered if I would actually hear from him for the first time enroute to his place Friday afternoon.
Tuesday came and went, as did Wednesday. No word from "Jello". Alternative plans were made. I could stay at the campsite, but needed a tent. I managed to borrow a tent, but I also knew the sites were filling up. I hated to be like this, but I knew my staying at the campground was going to be a last-minute decision. I secretly hoped that after everything was said and done there would remain one, last campsite where I could pitch my tent without the fear of kicking someone else out, someone who had likely been promised the site. This hope, sadly, replaced the hope that I'd get to stay with "Jello". I mourned the missed bed and slowly began to accept my fate.
Thursday morning rolled in with me to work, and stomped out as I headed to lunch. I was getting desparate. Already, I was to take "Naples" and "Lucky" in my car, and they were to stay at the campsite properly (they made all their proper arraingements with "Bikeman", something I was still obscure out). My intentions, I felt, were becoming disingenuous. I needed to hear one way or the other that I could or not stay with "Jello" after all. All I could think about was leaving at three in the afternoon, getting to the campsite at nine at night, having to drop them off and somehow get in touch with "Jello" when in all likelihood my cellphone wouldn't have the reception to call. It was stressful, and I seriously came close to biting the bullet and committing myself to camping only.
But then he called, (thank God he called!) laughing at me as I picked up my phone at work. He apologized profusely and explained that, in fact, he did not have reception whilst in the woods during the week and over the weekend. I felt foolish, but was relieved that I would have a place to stay, under a roof, and with access to a bathroom at the very low cost of five dollars per night. I couldn't have been more relieved. For the first time, I was not stressed and looking forward to the trip, but was excited only. I actually felt my heart sigh, and a smile came across my face.
So now it was set. "Naples" and "Lucky" were to ride up with me, and I could safely drop them off before heading another forty-five minutes north to Ray Brook. "Jesus" called later that evening and asked if he, too, could catch a ride up. With me wanting to split the cost among as many people as possible, I said "sure" and we set up a time to meet at "Bikeman"'s the next afternoon. Finally, things were falling into place.
As another aside, it should be noticed that I have a new car. I bought it a couple of weeks ago and when I did, I was generally impressed with the size of the trunk. In fact, I thought the trunk was too big and that the engineers who designed the interior could have saved some leg-room space for the rear passengers. Still, as I bought the car, I kept thinking about how great it was going to be to be able to stash my climbing gear in the car without the fear of not having enough room. Boy, was I wrong about that. To be honest, I knew there was going to be a problem as soon I put my sleeping bag, sleeping mat, suitcase and climbing bag in the trunk: it had taken up nearly half the space, and I still had three other people to squeeze into the car. When I got to "Naples" and "Lucky" I was certain "Jesus" was not going to be able to drive up with us. After loading thier stuff into the trunk, there was just no room whatsoever for any of "Jesus"'s things, and I knew from talking to him on the phone that he had a tent, trad gear, sleeping mat, sleeping bag and clothes. Knowing that the rear seats had little leg room to begin with, and that it was going to be a five-hour drive, I did not want to have to load bags onto people's laps just to make us all fit. In the end, however, that's exactly what we did. "Jesus" piled food between his legs in the front seat, "Naples" took the middle, rear seat with "Lucky" in one of the side, rear seats by her side. They had food sandwiched between their legs too (excuse the pun) and two bags stacked in the other side, rear seat beside them. We managed to squeeze two more bags in the trunk (how, I don't know) and we were off - straight into I-93 rush-hour traffic...all the way Concord from Somerville.
As you can imagine, the five-hour drive was pushed back to six, and that was just to the campground. After I dropped them off, I still had another forty-minutes to an hour to get to Ray Brook. I had told "Jello" that I'd be there by nine that evening. I didn't walk through the door until two minutes before eleven - seven hours after we left at four o'clock in the afternoon. I arrived, met his roommate and co-worker("Unity"), showered, and crashed. I was looking forward to seeing the crew and getting up some long, trad climbs the next day. It was a relief to finally settle down once I did.
Apropos of Nothing: 1) Vermont is very green with mountains that don't have a single bald spot to break the line of oaks, maples and pines (I'm sure there are other species, too, but that's all I'm going to write about); 2) It is really a pretty drive to Middlebury; 3)CR roads in New York are not well signed. I felt like I was driving in rural Boston; 4) Google Maps is not as reliable of a driving tool as you'd think it is; 5) Lake Placid is a long, long way away from the rest of the world to have an Olympic Training Center and; 6) the freaking ski jump tower at night is scary to discover if one doesn't know that it is there.
Tomorrow - Day One.
Just got back from a three-day weekend in the 'Dacks. It was my first time there, and I have a lot to tell. But I am warning you, I've got board meetings Tuesday and Thursday and I'm climbing Wednesday, so it may be a few days before I get anything posted. When I d0 post, however, I will have one post for each day, including the drive up. One thing to consider too, my camera broke (a crappy one, so don't fret!) and I have no pictures from the weekend. If anyone has any, please send them my way and I will put what I can on the site. Otherwise, I had a great weekend and I hope you all did too.
It's going to be a long, hot drive today. We're looking at record temps in the 90s. I'm not sure what the temps are going to be like in Up-state NY, but I hope it stays nice throughout the weekend. I'm hearing rain on Sunday, however - thunderstorms to boot. But at least I was able to get in touch with "Jello". He lives in Ray Brook, about an hour north of North Hudson where the others are camping. While this is a bit of a distance, it is OK because I can drop them off on the way and pick them up on the way back. The only problem is them getting to the crags in between. I'm sure it will work out. "BikeMan" (this could get difficult, trying to figure out and remember all the nicknames I'm using) has said that we can possibly meet Saturday at Keene Valley on Beer Walls (great name for a crag eh?), but I suspect they are all going to want to hit Rodgers Rock with the weather being good on Saturday and not Sunday. Rodgers Rock, by the way, is apparently a massive cliff right on the edge of a lake that is only accessible by an hour-long canoe paddle (about 3 miles). It sounds like a lot of fun, but I'm not interested in paddling for an hour to get there and then an hour to get back after I've been climbing all day. I guess if I could camp at the rock then that would be OK, but I'm not camping there and so I'm not going. It'll be nice to see "Jello" again. He's an adventurous sort who's attitude toward like can be a bit intoxicating. I'm happy he found a good job that he likes, and I'm glad I'm getting the chance to drive up there to climb with him. Just for shits and giggles, I'm going to give some nicknames in advance to people I'm very likely to be associating with this weekend. I'm driving up "Jesus", "Naples" and her boyfriend "Lucky". I've already mentioned "Bikeman", but there's also "CellPhone" and his fiancee...hmmm, have to come up with a nickname for her by the end of the weekend. There will also be "Red" and a few others whom I don't know yet, or at least don't know well enough to give nicknames to. This could be an interesting time. Wish me luck!
Some weekends are such a blur of activity that one never really understands that activities were partaken in until well after the fact. This weekend was one of those weekends. Saturday - Got up early and headed down to New Bedford with "Cody" to judge at the Regional Comps held at Carabiners Gym. It was an easy ride down and I was quite surprised at the gym itself: very tall walls with not a space in the place wasted. Nearly every inch, even in the middle where the only thing to attach a climbing wall to is the ceiling, seemed to have a climbing hold on it. It was an impressive site to see. One thing that this gym does too is use the same colored holds for one specific route. This is primarily what the European gyms do, while the American gyms tend to use tape to mark the routes. Granted, using tape is more cost efficient (one doesn't need to buy a million holds of one color to make one route, and one has greater flexibility in which holds to choose), but tape also falls off and, thus, makes the routes harder (and maybe more frustrating over time). One answer to this for "taped" gyms is continuously put up new routes, which my gym (MetroRock) does and Carabiners apparently does not (we talked to a couple of staffers and they said the comp routes would stay up because they really hadn't had new routes in a couple of years - unbelievable!!!). Still, I like both styles and see the benefit of each, but gyms have to continuously change the routes over. As one famous climber at MetroRock once told me (and I'm paraphrasing here), "the routes are the product. Without quality routes, you won't have a sustainable, dependable cash flow." Can't disagree there. One thing I'd like to point out, however, is the ridiculous requirement that some gyms have regarding the need to use GriGris to belay and for the belayor to be tied in while belaying. First off, teaching climbers to use a GriGri to belay is akin to teaching a kid to do math using a calculater. The answer is going to be the same, but the kid never learns how the math is actually done (carrying the one, for example). This sets a poor precedent for these climbers who start at the gym and then move to climbing outside. Not only is it important for them to learn proper, basic belaying techniques, but it is also important that they learn that a GriGri is self-locking while other devices are not (In my opinion, it is always best to learn the most basic method first and then trade up to more "luxurious" practices). Going from a GriGri to an ATC is probably not as safe as going from an ATC to a GriGri. Also, as I mentioned above, Carabiners requires the belayor to lock into an anchor, presumably to keep the belayor from going up in the air when the climber falls. This is the most bizarre practice of all. For one, by being anchored, the belayor has limited ability to shift the rope away from the climber. Sure, if the anchor is long enough then the belayor can move about more freely than if the rope is not long enough. But take that a step further and understand that no anchor means even more freedom. But I'm sure that the main concern is that if a lighter-weighing belayor catches a heavier climber then the belayor will go up in the air. This, however, is a good thing. Whenever the belayor goes up in the air, it means the climber has had a softer landing. I know, this isn't as much of a factor on toprope, but it is on lead. I think these types of requirements are clearly pushed by insurance companies to "limit" liability. But let's ask the question, unless the insurance adjuster is a climber, and the insurance company has climbing-specific policies in place, can the insurance company make the best decision with it's limited experience? My guess is no; they can't. As a result, "Cody" and I decided to use our own belaying methods to belay each other on the comps routes during our downtime. Not only was this more comfortable for us, but we think it was safer because it allowed us to do what we know best. In climbing, in my opinion, you don't take risks that you don't have to take (it may be why I'm stuck at 5.11 in the gym and 5.9 outside, but whatever). When one can climb safely and have fun, then that is better than climbing just for fun. The comp itself was pretty fun. The routes were long and pumpy and I think the route setting was outstanding. Only one kid flashed the hardest route on the wall (maybe 5.12d) and there wasn't a crux section where a bunch of kids got stuck. Everyone came off at the point where their ability took them. It was really quite impressive. Anyway, at one point "Cody" looked at me and said that she had to be back in Boston by 630pm. I looked at my watch at it was 637pm. Oops. We rushed back and I think she made it to where she needed to be later that evening. Sunday - I went to the gym and met up "Philly" and, as it turned out, "Geneva", who was flying out that night to visit family back home in Switzerland (oh how I wish I were going with him. I'd love to go back and climb again in Switzerland, even if to climb "Le Miroir" in memory of my friend Mat). I wasn't feeling overly strong, but these guys pushed me. There is a 5.11b/c (I think that's the grade, it may be 11d) that I've been struggling on, but I got up it with one fall at the crux at the top (both "Philly" and "Geneva" climbed it clean for the first time - "Geneva" flashed it on TR). That was the first time with only one fall, so I was pleased with that effort. Right after that we jumped on a 5.12a that "Philly got about half-way up before coming down. "Geneva" finished the route, but not without a few falls. It's too bad because I think he could have climbed it clean had he not gone to Switzerland. The route will surely be gone by the time he gets back (there is a divisional comp at MetroRock - divisional is the round after regional - in June and the 12a is a comp route from a few weeks ago that will need to be stripped to make way for new comp routes). I managed to get about two-third of the way up before coming down. I was truly toast at that point. My next climb I couldn't even get on a route that I normally do well on until the crux near the top. I didn't climb much, but I was pushed and climbed relatively well. I was pleased with the effort. Adirondacks - I'm supposed to be heading to the Adirondacks with a large group this weekend. It will be my first time visiting the "Dacks", let alone climb there. I've been to the "Gunks" before, and that was fun, but I've heard that while the "Gunks" are sandbagged, the "Dacks" are even worse. Looks like I'll be climbing 5.7s for the weekend. Still, I'm looking forward to it. It will be nice to get away (I seriously need to - my mental health is straining at the moment) and finally go on a climbing trip with friends where I have little or no responsibility. My only concern is that I'm supposed to stay with "Jello" and I haven't been able to get in touch with him. "TD" has offered a tent, but I'm not sure I can get my car onto the campsite (there may be too many people). I don't need this extra stress, but it's OK. In the end, it's all for a good cause. Hopefully, I'll have some great pics to post next week when I get back. Until then, have fun...
I made it in to Santa Fe alive, although barely. The flight from Denver into Santa Fe was on a two-prop plane that couldn't resist its blaring alarms every time we hit a patch of turbulence, and we hit those a lot. Anyway, I was in Santa Fe for a health care conference and was hoping to get a few hours of climbing in before coming home. I tried, I honestly did, but Santa Fe is an odd town that seems to tell you what to do instead of the other way around. I landed at the tiny airport (about the size of my apartment, I swear!) at about 4pm on Tuesday, rented a car and headed to the Eldorado Hotel to check in. My plan was to check in, change and head out to White Rock to get an hour of climbing in before checking in for the night. Before I left, I checked to see how far White Rock was from Santa Fe, and it looked like it was only twenty miles away. Piece of cake right? Apparently not. When I arrived at the hotel I asked the valet how long it took to get to White Rock, and he told me it was about an hour's drive. "An hour?" I asked. "But it's only twenty miles away." "As the crow flies," he said, which, as I think about it, that expression sounded so appropriately mid western for the first time in my life. "It's up in the mountains. The roads to get there are winding. It'll take a while." Odd, I thought, considering the sign at the airport said "Santa Fe, Altitude - 6532 feet". I thought about this and did some math. "Four-thirty now, ten minutes to check in, ten minutes to crap a day's worth of airport food...nope, make that twenty minutes, five minutes to change and get my car out of the garage. That left me a little after five o'clock. Then we're talking an hour to White Rock. So that's six o'clock. Probably getting dark. Twenty minutes to find the damn crag. Now we're talking six-thirty. Ten minutes at least to find a way to keep from getting freaked out by evil, hiding-in-bushes snakes. That's a bit before seven. Nope, not happening tonight." That was disappointing, but OK. I ended up walking around town in search of some decent food (found some at Del Charro - a must if you're in town. It's cheap and good). The city is much smaller than I thought it was; only sixty-thousand people. I swear one can walk from one end of town to the other in less than an hour. Oh yeah, and the Santa Fe River is a puddle in the city. I wish I had a picture (no batteries for my camera and didn't buy any - too lazy, sorry), but this one will have to do. It's not much different than where this guy was standing. Forget about what's behind him. There are art galleries everywhere. They make Dunkin Donuts in Boston look like hidden treasures. I did spend a little time at the Georgia Okeeffe Museum and bought a couple of prints. I don't like her flowery stuff, but her landscapes and building paintings are eye-catching. It's interesting because I think of her in the same way I think of Jack Vettriano, as a great artist who makes paintings that may not be considered art. It's pretty and nice to look at, but is it provocative and conceptual? I think it's art, but not everyone does. Anyway, you didn't come here to read about art (though I should start an art blog and maybe put some of my own work on it). You came to read about climbing and I decided to head out to White Rock after the conference on Wednesday. In fact, I planned on leaving after lunch to get some good old crimping in before the snow set in that evening. Well, as it turned out, the conference was pretty damn good and I came back with good information for the first time in a couple of years. The conference also ran a bit late, getting out at 4pm, too late once again to get to White Rock (that and Dice K's Fenway debut was a 5pm local time - I know, I'm a sham. Go ahead and tell me so, just make it painless and I swear I'll behave better). Instead, I hiked a couple of the hills in the area and browsed some more galleries before I headed back to watch the game. Two hours later I was downing my second Jack Sour at the conference dinner. That left Thursday morning. I was to fly out at noon and, considering the size of the this airport, there was no need whatsoever to get there two hours before take-off. I asked for directions to the ski resort and hoped there'd be an outcrop or two that I could scurry up on the way. Guess what I found. Nothing. Nada. Rien. There was a lot of snow on the ground (I'm glad I'm from Maine and can handle driving in the pretty, white stuff), but that was it. Even the views were disappointing. Bummed, I drove back down to the airport and realized I was going to make it to the airport two hours before takeoff anyway. I should have gotten up early and headed to White Rock, despite the threat of heavy snow in the area. At least I would have seen the Rio Grande. But I didn't go down without a fight. I was committed to not arrive at the airport early, so I spotted an Arby's at 10am on the way there. But a stop at a fast-food restaurant that I haven't seen since driving through Augusta, Maine on the way home to Bar Harbor isn't enough to kill an hour, so I missed the driveway and had to turn around. You'd think that would piss off someone who drives in Boston, but again, no one lives in Santa Fe. So turning around took all of two minutes. I didn't even bother to go in the damn restaurant. Five bucks for a frigging roast beef sandwhich with extra horsey sauce and I was at the airport fifteen minutes later. Two hours, three national guard fighter jet take-offs and two conversations between locals that would make anyone kill themselves later, I was on another bumpy plane ride to Denver, then to be delayed in Charlotte before landing without my luggage at Logan. Good conference, bad everything else. And now it looks as if my North Conway trip next weekend is going to flop (nor'easter coming through tomorrow that's sure to dump snow up there, making the cliffs unclimbable for folks like me).
