pope

BACKCOUNTRY: What sort of circus you want to stage at Barney's Rubble is completely your business. I would assume that you engaged in such activity after a six-pack, as a stunt to shock and impress the nubiles. If it worked, you have my blessing. Once, in Leavenworth's Baren Haus, I faked a glaucomatous eye by concealing a coffee creamer under tremendous pressure in my fist, and while holding it to my eye, stabbing it with a fork. The ensuing mess caused my female Norwegian friends to scream so loudly that every diner within 25 feet turned in horror. The girls weren't too impressed with that one, but I did end up with a nice hand-made sweater. ZENOLITH: I'd be more impressed if you had purchased a tube-chock for your penance, but I suspect you learned your lesson 'bout trendy pants. DWAYNER: That sounds like a Christian G. story I once read. In case C.G. is a candidate to be your latest role model, I must advise you against becoming a disciple. I happen to know what you look like in shorts. I beseech you, therefore brother, to resist the temptation of posing for a studio-quality black-and-white photo whilst shaving your legs in the tub.

Ethics attempt to level the playing field in a game with very few rules. If you chip holds to transform the 5.14 you can't do into the 5.13 you can do, should people conclude that you're a 5.13 climber right there with Peter Croft? Horsecrap. Again, I personally don't care how many drastic measures people are willing to take to convince themselves that they're capable of climbing at a level they can't really handle, until they start beating the rock into submission. I hate to see guys like that on somebody's super-hero list. [This message has been edited by pope (edited 06-11-2001).]

Hey Rockrat, Couple of things: firstly, you misunderstood me when you inferred that I climb just as much as I did prior to having a family. Finding time to climb is certainly more difficult than before, but I wouldn't have it any other way. If your friends miss their free-and-easy climbing life to the point of regretting the choices they've made, maybe it's because because they're too self-absorbed to recognize how incredibly wonderful their children are. And if their children are obnoxious little poops, the acorn falls close to the tree: your friends should stop having children. Now, I've got to agree with recent analysis which concluded that your gender is quite ambiguous. I'm privy to top-secret analytical information and tools which, when applied to some of your statements, suggest that you're really just some man dissembling femininity, trying to usurp Donna's preeminent position on this site. That's right, I've scrutinized your posts for statistically signaficant grammatic and syntactic structure, anomaly and synonymy, and you're not fooling anybody! In fact, there's a very real possibility that your initials are really M.A. or P.P. (guys who post under other names who are always trying to be clever--but you probably know that don't you?). And the comment suggesting that maybe I'm the big Yaaaawwwwnnnn....guess what, I'll bet if I spent time with you, I'd need coffee and beer ('cause you're probably both dull and ugly).

Hey Jack Assidy, I'm not so sure there's a lot of hope for you. Know what I think? I think you're too worried about your image, that's what I think. All that sequence miming and disgruntled-hair flipping...it's getting in the way of your rehabilitation. Sure drilling yet another bolt into that sewer pipe named Frenchie's Coulee makes you feel better, because for you the act of drilling has become synonymous with climbing. You're one of these lads who thought it would be cool to walk around and be recognized as a climber, but you really don't like climbing that much. You're like one of these guys who doesn't like the effort that necessarily precedes the sense of accomplishment climbing may bring, and so you look for some short-cut to recognition. Sure, it's just like some guys I know in mountain rescue: for a minimal commitment, they get to walk around with a nifty rescue patch on their rain slicker, and they get a mountain rescue bumper sticker, when in fact, some of those guys are no more capable of rescuing your ass than the guys hanging on ropes in a Marlboro add. Again, my advice is to get a new role model. Like that Rurp fellow you ran into. When I was starting out, he was a tremendous inspiration to me because of his acute mountaineering skills and because of the way he avoided recognition. You never hear much about the guy, but ask anybody in the know, and they'll tell you: Rurp is like a Pete Doorish, making mountaineering merriment behind the scenes and doing it because it's challenging and because it's fun. Not for girls, not for a phototgrapher, not for some dubious distinction among the climbing "community". Go out to some boulder and try the most challenging route you can imagine...without an audience. Pull your car over on the side of the highway and scramble up the tallest peak you can find, just for the challenge, for the struggle, for the view. Put away your Gri-Gri and with just a rope and a few slings, climb an excellent route on Mt Stuart. It'll change your life.

Hey Rockrat! One day you'll meet a man who will help you realize that you don't give up that much to have kids...my kid is infinitely more of an inspiration to me than a mountain could ever be, but prior to her arrival, I never could have imagined myself saying this. But then, prior to getting married, there was just a parade of Belay Bettys marching through my life and you know what? Most of them were really stupid. Yes, they had focus...on just two things: themselves and my cookies, if you know what I mean. I grew tired of selfish girls who would just use me for my anatomical correctness, who would demand performance but who couldn't carry on a conversation about anything but Gri-Gri's and stick-clips. Yaaaaaawwwnnn. My wife thinks 90% of climbers are A-pipes, and that mountain climbing is a bunch of nonsense. More often than not, I have to agree.

Now don't nobody trip, I'm gonna unzip.

Well, I've heard of girls who can climb...I've got a Lynn Hill poster! But outside of Donna, I've never met a girly who cared about climbing enough to really learn something about it. Most women I've met are only interested in climbing because their boyfriend happens to be. There are exceptions. But come on guys, how many times have you met some woman who wants to learn about mountain climbing, yet after you spend a little time together, you find out she just wants to be part of your scene? Man, I get tired of women treating me as some kind of sex object. I am so much more than just a walking salami. When are women going to respect me for what I think, for who I am, and stop treating me like their little play thing? Before I met Donna, I ran with a "girl" who could lead 5.11 fist cracks, and when we'd get back to camp, she'd let met drink as much as I wanted and then crash. She wouldn't come creeping around my tent, trying to tame my Brahma. No, she'd let me pass out. Kind of weird...unlike no other woman I'd ever met. Well, that's the rest of the story: I found out that she was....well.....did you ever see the movie THE CRYING GAME? [This message has been edited by pope (edited 06-06-2001).]

I heard that Beckey used to insist that whoever carried the rack did so without hiding it away in a pack. The idea was to make a lot of noise and foster curiosity among females. I occasionally still climb with a guy who is a master of what he used to call props: rope in the car window, keys on a biner, baggage claim stub on the pack...all a bunch of whistles and bells designed to lure in the ladies, to convince girls that you're some kind of big shot. Once, out in Idaho, he met a couple of crunchy girls from Boulder who, I must admit, could give Donna competition. My buddy started sniffing around these girls, and next thing you know, I didn't have a partner: he was out setting top-ropes for these gals, certain that he was just a campfire from stealing home. After a couple of days, he announced that he was considering abandoning our trip, blowing off Jackson, to go out to Colorado and "be" with them. He went so far as to check into bus fare to Seattle--he was going to send me packing and pay! The night before the big departure, he phoned one of these granola girls and some dude named Sterling answered. Oh well, off to the Tietons.

Pope, I'm only just now beginning to understand how lost I am. After several years of living this Chris Sharma fantasy, it's not so easy to change. As you advised me to do, I went out and top-roped a sport climb, Model Worker, and found that that first crux is more difficult on top-rope than it is to lead. And I had that thing pretty wired, to the point I thought I was made out of the stuff of a 5.11 leader. My girly friend keeps wanting to know when I'm going to "send" this route on top-rope...how am I going to explain I can't do it without the bolts? And so, I've been back-pedaling. I went up to Prussik peak, as per your suggestion, intending to do the South Face, but I couldn't find any bolts up there....just some seasoned dude with dirty blonde hair free soloing this flaring chimney way off the deck. A gawker said this guy's name was "Rurp" or "Burp" or something like that, but I couldn't see how he was climbing these walls. My quick-draws simply wouldn't attach to the cracks, and after ten feet I realized I had nothing to hang from so I could flip back my disgruntled-youth hair and mime the next few moves. Since my girly friend was absent, I knew this climb was out of my league. I did the only thing I knew how, the thing that always puts a smile on my face when confronted with these kinds of challenges: I drove out to Frenchman's Coulee and found 12 square feet of bolt-free rock...right, you don't find that every day. But, I corrected the situation and I'm proud to say that on my new project, even a short guy can clip the first bolt from a sitting start. I don't believe in making spooky routes to inflate my ego, didn't you know. By the way, I don't understand why anybody should feel guilty for grabbing their partner's lycra-clad butt at a belay. It's my understanding that this gesture is a sort of sport climber's end-zone celebration, and I can't think of a single partner who's had a problem with it. Sometimes it seems a little silly...we can get carried away and forget why we're up on that wall in the first place.

Donna, Just like you to show up to confessional and start pointing fingers at everybody who's not guilty. Listen to me, little lady, my degree is in mathematics, not edjamukashun, but I do know that "moronic" can't possibly function as an adverb to describe how Pope behaves. I must object to the way you're trying to transform my hallowed confessional into a gol-danged Jerry Springer show. Lynn Hill is not my woman, and having a poster (that's all it was...all that scrap-book and collage stuff is ridiculous) wouldn't have made an ordinary woman so jealous. I never would have kicked your can to the curb if you hadn't gone psycho on me. You're just another hotty who thinks she needs to run with a righteous alpine master before she amounts to anything in this world. Well let me tell you, your psychotic behviour has only convinced me to turn my back, 'cause you know what? I've seen demon-possessed crack whores who've got more dignity and self-respect than you! Babe, it's over. OVER! Go back to that brew house with all of those mountain rescue types and see if you can wreck any more homes. [This message has been edited by pope (edited 06-05-2001).]

Dwayner, Ever consider that little Texas firecracker, Jenna Bush? You could keep her supplied and out of trouble with the authorities, be her sugar daddy. I'll bet you could get a free Golden Eagle pass from the Dept. of the Interior if you play your cards right.

Mentioning turtle-heads, I know why Dwayner's helmet is purple.

Let's just say I've got too much love for merely one woman (that was Lou's problem too).

Mr. Dwayner, I've found just the opposite to be true. You see, as I confessed to Pope, I'm an exhibitionist...that is to say, I thoroughly enjoy climbing for an audience, and I must say, mountain climbing is one of those things, like fighting fires and choreographing a river dance, that the girlies find sexy. I once knew a fellow who had Joshua Tree's Gunsmoke traverse completely wired, and when he saw a car load of girls heading over to Barker Dam, he knew exactly where they were going, and he'd sniff that out every time. Just like that, the goal for the day would change from climbing to "hunting". He'd go over and work that problem, throwing in all kinds of cosmetic Frenchie moves, and these gals would just eat up this action! Learned a lot from this clown, I did. Ever since I got a harness and a rope, I've got girlies coming out my ears, the kind of problems I only used to dream about having. [This message has been edited by jkassidy (edited 06-05-2001).]

Not to mention, my helmet needed fixing. Heh heh.

CHARLIE: How you treat your "wimin" is your business...unless you climb with them, in which case you're doing irreperable damage to our noble tradition. If the broad in Curry Village continues to buy your B.S., it's probably 'cause she needs that kind of drama in her life. If you weren't emotionally abusing her, the next guy would. What I was hoping to hear is THE TRUTH ABOUT WHY YOU KEPT DONNA TOP-STEP'S UNDER GARMENTS IF YOU THINK SHE'S SO UGLY. It might be risky to wear them climbing....what if you had an accident and required medical attention? How are you going to explain that? I think you've got some questions to answer for yourself. You've strayed down an iniquitous path and when you're truly ready to repent for your deviance, then and only then can Pope lead you into the light. ALEX: Occasionally one must meet with Him in the valleys, when the trials and tribulations of a busy schedule preclude mountain-top communion. Far nobler it is to tend to family and business than to dwell at a sport cliff and climb like a Judas. DRU: Clothes do make the man...or the girl, in the case of Prana-clad fashion whores. Your penance shall consist of disrobing and soloing the Pipeline whilst Brian Adams serenades your bloody ascent.

Sorry guys, I had to help some choir boys get dressed. Now one at a time: DRU: You've nothing to confess. I think you've got your priorities straight for a young man. Next time I'm up in the Great White North, I hope to sample some of your mountains, wine and maybe even your....oh, I guess we'll take one thing at a time. Be nice to the rock and spread the good news: even the most pathetic and contemptible sport dog can, with proper guidance, see the light. JBLAKELY: It's one thing to be aroused by those pastoral creatures; it's quite another to try and score a phone number. Just keep your eye on the road boy, and aim the car for any dance club on International Boulevard by Seatac. They'll guide your footsteps toward the path to righteousness...just don't stop at any petting zoos or climbing gyms along the way (you might do something you'll really regret). Go and sin no more. [This message has been edited by pope (edited 06-04-2001).]

IAMBONE: I'm beginning to like you, young man. Sounds like you had yourself a fine weekend on some of Washington's best routes...oh, they might not have the biggest numbers attached, but as you found out, you get a lot of bang for your buck on these masterpieces. Bet you won't forget how much fun you had on these challenging climbs, because they've got the kind of character a clip-up will never possess. Let's see..uh, "Slow Chidden" is a pitch that thwarts some excellent climbers. It certainly helps to borrow every smallish TCU you can find and avoid this pitch on a hot day (probably 5.11 if it's hotter than 80F). Given that most people belay on the Thin Fingers ledge, I suppose your little trick isn't such a sin. Anyway, if you're happy with it, good enough. The point is that you've been honest with yourself and that's all that really matters. And don't apologize for reporting about your Thin Fingers success. Sometimes Pope wants to hear some good news in Confessional! I'm just happy that you found some dry rock at Index...I spent Saturday in the rain working on the yard. JKASSIDY: You are messed up beyond belief, but where others stepped over the edge to a climbing career full of arrogance, illusion and self-absorption, you at least had the moral fiber to recognize that the rock is more important than your little Sharma fantasy. One step at a time, buddy. First, set up a toprope on a sport climb, then go back and lead it to convince yourself that the clip-up ascent is no more satisfying and hardly more challenging than the top-rope. Then go up and climb a truly beautiful route like S. Face of Prussik, followed by a tour of the sewer called Frenchies Coulee, to convince yourself that bolts are evil. Finally, get yourself a new role model like Big Lou or Bed Freckey. Don't forget to report back to me on your progress. May God be with you as you go this morning.

Mr. Pope, I was getting a beer this morning and it was like God was trying to tell me something. As if guided by His divine hand, I went to the computer and read your words and....oh Pope, the guilt, the shame I've been hiding is shaking my very foundation. I can hardly function; I've been suppressing these emotions for so long. I simply must get this out in the open. It started one day when I was leading a routine 5.9 climb out at Castle Rock. I noticed some gawkers checking me out and suddenly I felt the narcotic grip of being on stage. Those "gapers" got the show they'd come to see, as I chalked in the middle of the crux and threw a superfluous heel hook, then added a completely cosmetic cross-over move that left the audience gasping. None of this was necessary, but for just one moment, I was somebody special. It was like, for a moment, I was Chris Sharma. From there, things got out of hand. I started creating opportunities for people to see the new me. I got a trendy, disgruntled-youth haircut, which I keep looking good by going to bed each night with wet hair. Got some baggy clothes, a girlfriend who climbs, and I started sport climbing. And I learned a whole new dialect..if you're going to be like Sharma, you'll have to talk like Sharma, or so I figured. I started collecting Sharma posters, even got one autographed, and when I hang from my finger board, I look at those posters and imagine that I am he. I went so far as to get a Roto-Hammer...thought I'd add my own futuristic expression to the road-cut that is Exit 38...but as I put the drill to the stone, I began to ask myself whether this whole Wanna-be-Chris-Sharma thing hadn't gone too far, if messing up the rock was really necessary for my little fantasy/ego trip. I'm beginning to hate the person I've become...I just don't know who I am anymore or what I value. POPE! YOU'VE GOT TO HELP ME! [This message has been edited by jkassidy (edited 06-04-2001).]

Ah for crying out loud Dwayner, quit boozing! [This message has been edited by pope (edited 06-03-2001).]

GOOD SUNDAY MORNING. SOMETHING BOTHERING YOU? DID YOU STEP ON A PITON WHEN YOUR BUDDIES WEREN'T LOOKING? WHEN YOU RELATED YOUR LATEST FREE CLIMBING ACCOMPLISHMENT TO THE BOYS IN THE BAR, DID YOU OMIT THE PART ABOUT SNEAKING A REST FROM THAT FIXED SLING? DID YOU REHEARSE THE HELL OUT OF THAT BOULDER PROBLEM, ONLY TO LATER CLIMB IT IN FRONT OF STRANGERS WHO HAD NO IDEA HOW YOU COULD BE SO SMOOTH? HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING UNCLEAN THOUGHTS ABOUT KATIE BROWN? WERE YOU TEMPTED TO PINCH YOUR PARTNER'S LYCRA-CLAD BUTT AT THE BELAY STATION? DID YOU TALK YOUR GIRLFRIEND INTO LEADING YOU UP THAT SPOOKY PITCH THEY HAVEN'T RETRO-BOLTED YET? Years ago, a young climber was telling me about his lead of a particularly difficult pitch up at Midnight Rock. He had apparently informed a number of people that he had "flashed" this route, and as I congratulated him on his accomplishment, he was overcome with guilt. He confessed to me that he'd put the pro in on rappel, and this confession seemed to do him a world of good, to finally be honest with me and with himself. In fact, several times after that, he'd tell me about some pitch that he'd attempted, and he was always careful to disclose exactly which move had given him difficulty, where he had to hang (seems like he said he had to "take"), etc. Now, I don't know whether he was so honest with his buddies; I suspect that, being several years his elder, he saw me as sort of a father figure, and perhaps this is why he confessed to me all of his free climbing transgressions. If you're feeling a little guilty about clipping chicken bolts, or about misrepresenting your free climbing conquests, I'm here for you. Each of us has been down that road, and the first step back to self-respect is confession. I can help, help you to understand how it's only human to be a victim of narcissism, how everybody is capable of pretending to climb grades he can't really handle. Come on now, let's hear about it. Raise your hand and say, "Guilty! Guilty!" Feels good, huh? When you're ready to talk, just click on to pope's on-line confessional. I'll be waiting.

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.