pope

Young man, you've been drinking. You seem terribly confused, like all of your values are ...missing. Anyway, are you getting married in a church? Maybe the pope should preside!

What da fuh? I can't believe it's Donna...I guess she wasn't kidding when she said her post-separation depression had contributed to an eating disorder. Must have bailed at the right time, just before she went blimpy on me.

Dateline: Joshua Tree National Monument. A young pope gets his first taste of whiskey after drinking beers with a crowd of celebrities: A high school soccer coach who dated a porn star from L.A.(used to be a local girl!), an art director from Hollyweird, Dick Cilley, and a super-jock-college-football-womanizer type. Anyway, beer than liquor, never sicker. Pope goes to bed, but before he can pass out the stars start spinning, and pope knows he's gotta purge the poison. Out in the desert, leaning on a Joshua tree, pants down, pope's so sick he can't even pee. He falls over, passes out, but remembers football guy yelling from camp, "You OK?" Next morn', pope is roused from his slumber by the high desert sun beating on his bare ass. Back in camp, football guy says he was worried 'cause the pope was out in the night and a pack of coyotes was not far...but not that worried. Next day, pope develops the symptoms of an STD and spends the rest of the trip in agony. Back in Seattle, he grabs his girly friend by the scruff of the neck and drags her down to the clinic where she is examined and described as "clean as a whistle". Pope endures the pipe cleaner test and is told he is suffering from something which couldn't be identified. Rumors about coyotes and experimentation ensue.

You know, there's this route just around the corner (west) of the Tooth's South Face that I climbed once. It's got a piton in a little dihedral...felt like about 5.9 or so. Anyway, I was on a training hike in the area and decided I'd check out this climb, see what it was all about. I got up to this ledge somewhere below the piton and I was touching cloth...no, I had to crap so bad I was pushing cloth! I figured not many people climb the route and I had to get rid of this monster, so I sat it down nice and neat on this ledge, then wiped with an old hanky. I tied the soiled hanky around a stone and, after checking for climbers below, threw it off, then soloed the route. On the way out, I ran into some guys I knew from Tacoma who were on there way to do the S. Face. I didn't mention what route I'd done because I didn't want them to go over there. Sure enough, the guy called me that evening to say that he'd found this hanky tied around a rock down near the woods at the base of this dihedral climb. Then, he said that when he climbed that pitch, he looked down to see his rope snaking it's way through the biggest brown-bear of a turd he'd ever seen. The End.

I used to think soloing was an expression of confidence and competence, rather than just a recklessly stupid activity. I learned. I learned this lesson on that waterfall just five minutes up the trail to Source Lake. I decided to solo this climb on a snow January day, and I must have been thirty feet from finishing when I began to question the wisdom of the adventure. As snow from above the falls sluffed with increasing frequency, I had to put on my hood and pull into the wall to let it pass over, but it was light stuff and didn't seem to bother me too much. I'd shake it off and think about my next moves when--ah shit, here it comes again. After shaking it off for the third time or so, I quickly made a move out and up that seemed like it might be difficult to reverse given the conditions, but at least I was out of that spindrift. The exit involves 10 or 15 feet of steepish ice, and as I worked up between two pillars, I noticed that the ice at the lip had been kreeping away from the wall, resulting in an enormous void behind the ice. The ice itself appeared to be leaning out from vertical as though pushed from the kreeping ice over the lip. I remember kicking my right foot into a pillar when it suddenly collapsed, leaving me with just the left pillar for crampons and some precarious ice above for tooling. At this point I didn't think retreat was possible; of course, I looked at the exposure, at just how bad my position was, then entered something of a controlled panic. Pulling it together, I struggled for the top, where deep powder over the lip precluded finding that bomber tool placement I so desperately wanted. I must have dug around in the snow, getting really pumped, for 10 minutes trying to make the exit secure, when I finally decided something had to be done: I placed my tools nice and low, grabbed the head of each and applied mantling downward pressure while I shoved the knee of my wooly trousers in the snow at the edge. F--king precarious, with an ultimate price for failure...but it worked. I collapsed in the snow bowl, got really emotional, gathered my wits and stood up. My first step triggered a 10-inch deep slabby, wind-pack/powder avalanche that swept around my ankles, through my legs and over the 200-feet of emptiness behind me. I guess I got the adventure I was looking for, but I haven't been able to justify really risky climbing since.

It's funny 'cause you're not the first person I've heard who's promoting the idea that trad climbers are guilty of condescension. Most guys I know who are against bolts are disgusted by what they see, and perhaps vocal about the fact, but I don't see them as big ego trippers. And remember, even if we were a bunch of arrogant A-pipes, bolts are still trashy...I sometimes think bolt drillers continually bring up this perceived trad-climbers "attitude problem" because they think it diminishes their own guilt.

Hey Dwayner, Just read your account of that Big Lou dream, and I'm probably making too much out of this...the imagination can work over-time when you've got that much juice in your veins(got that liver replaced yet?). Anyway, something's been bugging me. When Donna and I broke off our relationship, things got uglier than I could have imagined. She'd call up in the middle of the night and say nothing, just listen. She hired some peek-a-boo to follow me around..I assume to find out for whom she'd been dumped. She planted objects around in my car to make my wife suspect I was fooling around, took my wallet to Hooters, etc. Then one day, it just stopped, and I found an old Jansport pack at my door with a note from Donna: Here's your shit. Have a nice life. Anyway, in that pack were some briefs that I knew weren't mine: I wear boxers (my dad said that a big dog needs a big yard). Also, because I've always got a side-dish cooking, I always mark my boxers so I'll get them back when the flame burns down. I didn't see any marks in these briefs (there was sort of a brown racing stripe I suppose), so there was no way of knowing...wait a minute, didn't I see you running down Icicle Canyon Road last month in a pair of briefs? Dwayne? That dream you had..are you sure Lou said to mark your 'biners? Have you been boffin' Donna?

That's the Imabone I know. I just feel terrible 'bout last night. I was reading through that crap in "We're So Sorry", trying to figure out where the mutual joking, yo-mama-type jabbing turned so sour. Somebody said something that hurt your feelings and, well, if it was I, then let me just say it wasn't my intent. Anyway, I don't want to make an enemy out of somebody I've never met, and if my "arrogant" attitude (I swear I was just trying to be funny) is getting in the way of you attempting to see why bolting is evil, then I hope we get to meet and have a civil discussion without all the posturing. I'd like to attend your self-rescue clinic but the wife's got me doing yard work. So, do me a favor and say hello to an old friend: tell Jason Mikos that some a-hole named "pope" says hello to "the boy idiot".

So, bolts aren't the most environmentally pathetic thing you see around Index. True enough. But listen to yourself: you are a fraction of a step from justifying rock rape by the existence of some greater tragedy. That's like asserting that talking with a mouth full of food is OK since your buddy is picking his nose. May I direct you to one of your previous posts in which you express disbelief that anybody was taking seriously your questions about admission to the Trad Kings? Is it possible that all of the jabs at sport climbing are also intended to be humorous? And by the way, I've spent many days passing down my values and understanding of this sport to youngsters such as yourself. If you feel animosity every time you see an "old timer" out at the crags, perhaps you're allowing a bad experience to project hostility unfairly onto an entire demographic. Perhaps this hostility toward "trad climbers" prevents you from perceiving how evil bolts really are. Perhaps this hostility is something you have developed in defense of your bolt clippin' ways. I'm sorry to have pissed you off, but maybe it's the fault of my beliefs about bolting more than my personality or communication skills.....Also, when you meet Donna, you'll change your mind!

Young man, My response to your peek-a-boo-I'm-not-really-a-pussy post....was intended to be humorous, just kidding around, the way I thought your original post in this thread was light-hearted. Trust me, I'm not into myself, and I think climbing is one of the least important things in life. Climbing is just for fun, just recreation, and your notion that I give a flying fu@k how you climb is a mistaken notion. You may notice that my posts to this site are just potty talk, smart-alecky stuff with which I intend only to entertain myself and anybody else who thinks it's funny. I don't solo Outer Space these days, and I don't even run it out much. I'm a father of a child who needs me to be around this world for a few more years, and so although I used to take pride in climbing in complete control at a grade I could honestly handle, regardless of the protection, these days I'm a quivering fear freak. Survival instincts man. But that doesn't mean I'll clip bolts. Bolts are equivalent to metalic fecal matter...those who place them on rap, without giving the rock a chance, are RAPING the rock. It's not about conceit; it's about an idea that the cliffs should be preserved in their natural state. It's about a theory that a top-rope is superior to permanently defacing the rock with rap bolts. What's so arrogant about wanting to preserve natural beauty?

Imer Bone, So, you like sport climbing. I just knew it, the whole time you were pulling my leg. Gee. Gee wiz. You're clever. Just in case you subconsciously want to be a hardman, bad-assed tradster, just in case you're pulling your own leg, I would sugggest that your affinity for shiny bolts and sport-speak (red point, pink point, purple point, brown point, etc.) will pass. I mean, I used to like boys, especially choir boys, but I soon realized how much shame I had been suppressing, and hey, girls are sufficiently cute. Donna helped me figure out that about myself. Like my naughty secret, your interest in sport climbing is something that will pass. But, I've got to say, on behalf of those who responded to your questions, we are big, powerful, important, and busy people who have ambitious itineraries. We could have thumbed our noses at you and your pathetic condition, but we feel we've got an obligation to perpetuate a few values. Someday, when you really need our help, when you know you're ready to step up to the trad-climbing plate, you might not find us to be so sympathetic.

Here's a couple more for you Donna (and I hope these will persuade you to give me another shot): Lou...Sofa King Big, The Girth Alone Inspires Awe. Brother Jim's Big Too. Yo Donna Top-Step, You Sexy Little Ho Bag, You Are HOT, HOT, HOT.

It goes boys!

Rope Gun, Don't take it personally. If you know Blakely, then you're OK by me. Yeah. I just thought you were showboatin' there with the history of your Red Rocks accomplishments, and although I've never climbed there, I heard things are a little easier than Index. But what do I know. Don't go bent out of shape...that was actually pretty good advice you were handing out. BTW, you got any favorite routes from your trip?

Once you get past the smell you've got her licked.

Dude those are mine. Are they Camalots? Yeah, they're mine. Just kidding. I once found a belay anchor rigged from TCU's on Logger's Ledge ate the base of Damnation Crack. Go figure.

Big Lou be big boy, a big hero big boy Lou: he's proportional.

Special Ed, You don't know from Paul Boving. Outer Space is a casual route for anybody with granite experience. I've climbed it in the rain. I've climbed it with a pack. I've climbed it with a girl. I've simo-climbed most of it. I've climbed it 3rd-class about four times. I've climbed it with a rope about 35(?) times, and there is nothing special about these facts. Nevertheless, for a sport climber, it's a feather in your cap, a notch in your chockbag belt, a trophy for your mantle. You just have to get past those disgusting girly photos stashed on Library Ledge.

Dwayner, here's my best shot at a Big-Lou Haiku: Big Lou leaves big tracks, from skis and God knows what else. What are his options?

You flashed a bunch of 5.11 pitches down at the Red Rocks. Thanks...that's information we can use, and isn't that what this site is really all about? Hey, now you can go back to Index and flash about 5.10b.

Hey Ama Boner, Firstly, you need to lose the loser-speak. If you truly want to belong, you can't be hobbling around on the crutch that sport climbers so conveniently employ to euphemize their substandard peformances. Red point? What the fu@k is that? We have just two styles of ascent: free and aid. If you didn't set the pro during the ascent, you must have put it in on rap or on a previous ascent in which you fell or hung. Thus, previously secured protection points are the aid man's artifice. It's amazing what we have to explain to the kids these days. Secondly, Outer Space is popular among those who like a good read on Library Ledge. Since the reading materials found in the "library" require an appreciation for the female form, few sport climbers will be found up there. Third, Dwayner is a sloppy drunk who's drowning the memory of when Donna refused to dance with him at the Post Office. He gets obnoxiously emotional when he drinks, to the point where his addiction becomes everybody else's problem. Once, he and I went out to Exit 38 with a sixer of Oly. After a big day on Guye Peak, we thought we might reward ourselves by drinking a few beers and watching a free circus. Well, when we parked the car, Dwayner announced that our beer was running short: he'd drained six beers between the Pass and Exit 38! What a pathetic lush. I spent the rest of the day apologizing for my pal as he yelled up such encouragements as, "Hey, you might as well get your aiders out now.. I saw you pull on that sling. Pussy! Spot Dog! Wiener!"

That was going to be my other suggestion, if the previous advice didn't work out. And you know, I find Foofoo's method to provide a symmetric pump. [This message has been edited by pope (edited 05-29-2001).]

Now I'm not athletic trainer...if anything, I'm more of a supporter. But my advice (that is, the prescription I followed throughout my extremely successful climbing career) goes something like this: Back when, way back when, before rubber was all that sticky, back when Friends were just showing up on the average rack, I was just starting out and we didn't have much in the way of training apparatus or philosophy. I was up to Castle Rock one day, trying to lead my first 5.8, and mind you, Castle Rock has some stiff 5.8 climbs. I was struggling with a hand jam through a second "crux" bulge, trying to wank in the only Friend I owned, and only thing I owned that would fit for about a 20-foot stretch, when I noticed a group of Canadian climbers watching and shouting encouragement. These guys were leading 5.10+ routes on the Castle and were soloing everything in sight, but they were taking an interest in this sourdough's attempt at his first 5.8 lead. Anyway, I got this Friend in and I was so absolutely pumped, I thought I should hang on it. These Canadians must have read my mind and shouted that I shouldn't even think of that option. I worked up, climbed down, milked the rest, then repeated the explore/retreat cycle, all the while getting more pumped. But these Canadians kept screaming at me to hang in and give it everything, and eventually I did, and I could sense that although this was only a 5.8 climb, these guys were impressed that I HAD CLIMBED AT THE VERY EDGE OF MY LIMIT AND YET FOUND A WAY TO AVOID ALL AID. That would be my advice, to climb in a very pure style, at or just below your limit, to put everything you have into success on your first attempt, to train your mind to persevere and to relax. Your arms will get all the work they need, but your climbing will progress to a level where you become extremely confident in your ability to climb above protection, and consequently, you'll learn to relax which will get you higher up a pitch than all that gym ratting ever will.

"To Big Lou." And another offering: "To our wives and to our mistresses...may they never meet." To summarize testimony in the autobiographical MEMOIRS OF A MOUNTIN' GUIDE, once Lou and his buddy Wick were called up for a rescue on the Willis Wall. Apparently, when the chopper landed near Liberty Cap, Lou and Wick launched out into the night, into the rarified air, where the mountain was "really showing off." They raced to where a huddle of forty or so "would-be rescuers" were peering over the edge of the Willis Wall, overcome by inertia. One of them warned Lou that to step over that edge was to take one's life in one's own hands. A disgusted Big Lou protested, "What's with you asses? Somebody get me a rope." And with that, Lou and Wick belayed down the treacherous ice to offer hope where no other hope existed. What a life.

Great story Mike. Fossil is where I learned that my Honda Civic was capable of rally-style driving, when I used to follow Mike Massey's Suzuki Samari through the brush and around that gate. I pushed it too far when I tried to get a run for a gravel run-off diversion bar on the way to Twin Sisters. Stupid kids.