Uncle_Tricky

A couple years back, a number of my friends gathered in Bend, Oregon. The occasion was the wedding of our good friend Eric, who was to be married the next day. He and his fiancée grew up a couple blocks from each other in Bend. They had been best friends since first grade, but it wasn't until a couple years after college that they finally acknowledged what was obvious to everyone else: they were a perfect match and deeply in love with each other. Anyway, the day before the Saturday wedding, we took Eric up to a cabin on Elk Lake, which is out near Mt. Bachelor, for the bachelor party. On the way there, my friend Dan and I noticed some cliffs along the road. Sure, they looked loose, shattered, and flaky, but hey, it was rock--or at least something that vaguely resembled rock. We drove on and arrived at the cabin at Elk Lake, where typical bachelor party festivities commenced: heavy drinking, smoking of strange aromatic substances, lighting each other on fire with lighter fluid, etc. After a couple hours of such fun, Dan and I got the brilliant idea of returning to the cliffs down the road to do some altered climbing. The two minute approach to the cliffs crossed a field of sharp, shattered talus that appeared fresh off the cliff. It seemed that the cliff was actively eroding at a very rapid rate. As we discussed whether or not we should hike around and set up a toprope, Dan amused himself by throwing rocks at the cliff face. Each rock he threw caused a small avalanche of rockfall, as plates of crumbly volcanic choss broke free from the face. By comparison, the rock at Frenchman's or Peshastin was bulletproof granite. We stopped at the base of the most obvious feature of the cliff: a wide dihedral 100+ feet high. The dihedral appeared slightly more solid than the flaky unprotectable faces nearby. It looked like there might be protection in the corner, but it was hard to tell, because there was a bulge at about 20 feet that prevented us from seeing what lay above. Since enough Obsidian Stout renders once absolutely 100%invincible, I decided to lead it. Dumb. I bouldered up easy ground to just below the bulge, where I found one uninspiring placement in fractured rock. Hoping there would be some real protection available above the bulge, I sketched up and over the slightly overhanging section. Bad idea. There were some positive holds, but I dared not touch them for they appeared to be attached by nothing more than cobwebs and chance. Once above the steep section, I found myself committed and in serious groundfall territory. The corner where I was hoping to find pro was nothing more than a shallow, flaring moss and grass filled groove. I smeared and stemmed in the slippery, insecure dihedral, my feet oozing down and out as I tried to excavate some pro. No luck. At this point, I started to feel a little less than invincible. Maybe I should have had another beer before beginning this venture. While I was only 25 or 30 feet up at this point, I was convinced that I couldn’t down climb the bulge—I didn’t trust the one piece of pro I had in below it any more than I trusted the absurdly loose rock I would have to downclimb. That option seemed like a guaranteed groundfall. Up seemed like the best and really the only option. Another 15 or 20 feet above it looked like there might be some gear. Like mirages in the desert, the apparent protection opportunities dissapeared as soon as I reached them. Down was not an option. Falling was not an option. Upward and onward! Climbing as conservatively and delicately as possible, ("light as a feather!") I was expecting the whole dihedral to spontaneously exfoliate at any moment, killing me and burying my belayer. At 70 feet, I finally got found a decent placement (the first and last one) that gave me confidence that I wouldn’t ground out. I doubled it up and continued. The last 35 feet was exciting. I moved out onto the right arête, which was like climbing a teetering stack of broken dishes. Nothing seemed to be attached to anything. The last move was a joy. Facing a 70 footer into a corner if I fell, I had to climb up and then through a dead, barely rooted pine tree. I flopped over the edge at the top, punctured and bleeding from the tree adventure. I was physically, emotionally, psychologically wrecked, and yet I was flying--perhaps even higher than when I started the climb! If the rock had been solid, the whole climb would have been easy—maybe 5.8 max. But given the incredible shittiness of the rock, I had climbed what felt like 5.10, because I was only willing to commit my existence to the few semi-solid holds hidden among a plethora of worthless ones. After a few minutes of recovering and rejoicing, I set up an anchor off a few trees and belayed Dan up. As he climbed it, pulling and kicking off rocks ever other move, all he could say was “holy shit” over and over. When he arrived at the top we just looked at each other, laughed and had the same thought—“let’s get back to the bachelor party and have a beer or eight!” As we walked down, we wondered if anyone else had ever been stupid enough to climb this line. I have no idea, but we took the liberty of naming the line anyway. In honor of Eric’s wedding the next day, we named it “To Death Do Us Part Dihedral” 5.8 R/X. Epilogue: The next day at the wedding we told Eric’s dad (a Bend local) of our adventure. He told us a story that made our name for the climb even more appropriate. Apparently a few years earlier, a guy killed his wife at this very same cliff. He told the police that he and his wife were climbing and had an accident which resulted in her death. But after the police brought in some climbers to help the police investigate the guy’s story, the police concluded that he’d murdered her, and tried to make it look like a climbing accident. I can only guess what the climbers helping the police investigate the incident might have said: “Nobody in their right mind would climb here—there’s no way to protect it, and the rock is so crappy it’d be suicidal!!!” I’d give the climb no stars, and recommend it to none but my mortal enemies, yet the experience was unforgettable! [ 02-18-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

I personally don't mind climbing with newbies some of the time, cause I like to lead. And when you're the one leading, you get to decide what to climb!

Hey Jayb, I'm curious specifically how you fell--were you sliding on hands and knees? Did you tumble? Did you tear up your hands trying instinctively to grab the rock and slow yourself down as you fell? Where did you get the worst "slab rash?" I've never taken a big fall on a slab, so my thought are just conjecture and I'd be interested in hearing more informed opinions. On smooth pure friction slabs with no features, I've always prepared myself mentally to just stay balanced, keep my weight on my shoes while rapidly "crawling" backwards with my hands and feet. On a climb with smooth rock and no features I've thought this might be the best option. If its a knobbly slab or a slab with edges and features, the risk is that your feet could easily catch a knob or edge and you could break either ankle or flip yourself over sideways or backwards. Its hard for me to imagine that turning and running would be an realistic option unless you choose it before you actually fell. That would require that you give up and resign yourself to falling--which I think is a bad idea. My thought is that backpeddling or a controlled slide and some bad slab rash would be preferable to doing something "rash" that would cause you to tumble and risk breaking bones or whacking your head. On the sharp, crystal studded knobby slabs like in Tuolomne, you'd probably just shred yourself. In those cases, there seems to be no good options so I'd just focus on NOT falling. [ 02-13-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

Hey yungburra, the Park pub--it might also be called the Woodland Park pub--is on the hill west of greenlake (phinney ridge). It's on the same street at Woodland Park zoo (phinney and 60 somthingth). See all ya'll jokers there!

Anyone want to go climbing on Wednesday? I'm thinking maybe Index, Vantage or Mt. Erie. It'd be nice to climb in the sun. I haven't touched rock in 3 mo and I'm weak but I'm jonesing. If nothing else, I'll solo TR, but it'd be more fun to do some leading. PM if interested! [ 02-12-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

While I prefer teleportation as a means of descending a climbing route, rapelling on one or two ropes will get you down as well.

good green dumbs me down to a very socially appropriate state

Oh Yeah, somebody mentioned Sedro Wooley earlier. Around the turn of the century, it used to be called "Bug." I guess the Chamber of Commerce decided that wasn't going to draw people, so they changed it.

Uptha Creek (Olympic Peninsula) Halfway (NE Oregon) Shoulderblade (Kentucky)

I have seen a wonderous sight. Quite unbelievable really. Boulders of all shapes and sizes. Not fallen from a nearby cliff, but bestowed upon us by a great and generous Canajun glacier that carried them down here and plunked down in the middle of now green fertile fields. Great glacial erratics Batman! You'll find them in the largest county in Washington, right near the Castle of Aaarrrrgggghh....

I dunno, Captain, I got two smelly car stories. A year or so ago, I'd just finished installing wood panelling, carpet, and a futon in my Van of Sin. In the process, I drilled through my wiring, so my overhead lights didn't work. That week I went out and had a few beers with some friends. It was dark when I returned to my van, and hopped into the front seat. Although I couldn't see anything, I immediately sensed something was wrong. The smell was overwhelming, and I realized I was sitting in a deep pool of something nasty. Turns out my dog had chewed into and drank an entire quart of chainsaw bar oil, and then proceeded to spray (from both ends) the oily-puke-slime-shit mix all over my van: seats, walls, carpet, futon, etc. Luckily my dog was fine, but that oily shit slime don't come out too easy. I tossed the futon and cut out the worst parts of the carpet. A year later, my van still has a distinctly unique aroma. Anyone need a ride to the next pub club? ----------But by far the smelliest car I've ever ridden in was down in a town called Brilliant, Alabama (pop. 500). I was travelling around on my bike, and I ended up spending a couple rainy days there, during which time I got to know a few of the local characters. Being a dry town in a dry county (yes, those still exist!), social life in Brilliant revolved around three places: the domino hall, the gas station, and the taxidermy shop. People just kinda mixed and mingled between the three places all day long, drank coffee and talked about the ol days when Brilliant was a rip roaring coal mining town. The taxidermy shop was owned by a guy named Terry, who looked like Einstein on acid and was known as the town's harmless eccentric. He used to do taxidermy, but had lost interest after he'd leased a few video gambling machines (FOR AMUSEMENT ONLY). This explained the popularity of the taxidermy shop. Tucked into a dark corner of the store, amongst neglected deer hides, boar head and bass in various states of mummification, citizens of Brilliant (including the wife of the town cop) would plug money into the machines. If they quit while they were ahead, Terry would pay them cash for their accumulated credits before re-setting the machines. Anyway, on the second day I was hanging out in Brilliant, drifting between gas station, domino hall and taxidermy shop/gambling den, Terry invited me over to his trailer to meet his wife and kids, and experience a "real southern supper." When I hopped into his old boat of a 70's car, the first thing I noticed was the overpowering, eye-watering smell of decomposing flesh. The second thing I noticed was a very strange thing sitting in the back seat staring back at me. Seeing my expression, Terry began to tell me the story that had already become legend in the town of Brilliant. It started harmlessly enough. Terry had been out bass fishing, and done well. Absentmindedly, he left the 5 or 6 fish in the trunk of his car. After a week or so in the Alabama sun, they were nice and ripe. Terry's wife told him to get his *&%$ing fish out of the trunk. That was the wrong approach. See, Terry had been in the army for 20 years, and now that he was out, he wasn't taking orders from anybody. His motto was "ain't nobody ever tells me what to do. And if they try, I'll do just the opposite." This was HIS car (his wife didn't even drive it) and NOBODY was going to tell him how smelly his car should be. Instead of getting the rotting bass out of the trunk, he threw a couple of fresh, roughly skinned deer hides from the taxidermy shop into the back seat. After another couple weeks in the Alabama sun, he had a thriving colony of maggots living in his back seat. Anytime he left his car anywhere, a fresh batch of fat black flies would hatch from the maggots squirming in putrid pile of rotting slime. Whenever he drove anywhere, he'd speed as fast as he could, driving with all the windows down, craning his neck out the window in a futile attempt to outdistance the stench. Pretty soon, the whole town started to get pissed. His car, always parked outside the taxidermy shop, was stinking up all three blocks of Brilliant. Nearby businesses complained that the smell was driving away thier customers. Other people said his car was a public health hazard and threatened to have it towed away. Public pressure built on Terry to do something about his rotten, stinking, wreck of a car. Finally, Terry gave into public pressure--or maybe he just couldn't stand driving around in his malodorous ride anymore. He threw out the fish and the decomposing deer hides. For the first time since he'd acquired the video gambling machines, Terry put his taxidermy skills to use in a creative all-night session. He mounted the ass-end of a whitetail deer on a board--tail up, brown stink-eye clearly visible--and put it in the backseat of his car so that anyone walking by could see it. The message to his wife, and everyone else in Brilliant who'd been unhappy with how bad his car stunk, was clear: "Kiss My Ass!" [ 01-19-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

I got myself buried and dug up once. I wasn't wearing a transceiver. Then again, how many people wear transceivers in a snow cave? I was a "instructional intern" working with a real teacher, teaching winter ecology at an alterna-highschool in Colorado. We took 7-8 kids up into RMNP to identify some trees and dig snowcaves one day. It was late March or early April, with a deep, wet spring snowpack. A couple of the kids dug a huge mansion of a cave. (Probably at least as big as caveman's new digs.) Maybe 10x12, way under the surface of the wet snow. I crawled in there, marvelled at their creation, noticed the right-angle corners (not)supporting the roof and whoompf! I'm buried under 5 feet of heavy spring snow. I was stuck in the fetal position, like I was praying to the rising sun. Unable to move at all--I feel like I'm encased in concrete. But my head was turned to the side and there was air in front of my face. It was dark. I could breathe, but only in shallow breaths as it felt like I had the weight of the world sitting on my back, smushing me into the core of the earth. Well, maybe it wasn't that dramatic. But I was stuck, totally dependent on the actions of others to dig me out. I was essentially paralyized--powerless to anything but relax, breath, and hope that the mini-cave I had next to my head wouldn't go away. Its amazing how well snow absorbs sound. I tried yelling, but it was hard to get enough breath to really holler. When I did, it felt like my voice died before it had even left my mouth. I mentally willed the air pocket next to my head to remain. I hoped that somebody outside the cave noticed its collapse. Though apparently they were yelling and screaming above me, I couldn't hear a thing, and wasn't sure they were looking for me until a shovel hit me in the back. Above ground, the students had noticed the collapse right away, and started digging in the general area. After over five minutes of digging with shovels, snowshoes and skiis, thought they were going to be excavating a dead body. When the finally found me, dug my head out, and I came to life, they seemed somewhat relieved. 5 minutes isn't a long time, but its long enough to contemplate how much it sucks to be stuck in a situation where you can do nothing but wait and hope someone will come save your ass. In most crises situations, they are either over before they started, ("Whoa!--that was close") or you can do something: consider options, make decisions, take actions, etc. Anyway, I told the students I was just testing their emergency response skills and they done good! [ 01-15-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

The paper was dated June 17, 1989.

>>>I don't hang out in cities unless required to,<<< I read in a paper that Monroe may soon be incorporated into the MtvernoneverseattleacomalmpiaI-5megalopolis? Apparently, the T.V.A and the R.E.A already have plans to bring electricity out to Monroe, and possibly as far as the Greater Startup Area. [ 01-14-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

It really depends on what size of town you could be could survive and be happy in. If you're looking for a small cities like Salt Lake or Bend or Boulder, you probably won't like my suggestions. But hey, you asked for opinions... I graduated from high school in Estes Park, Colorado, which is a great climbing town and IMO a vastly better place to live than Boulder. There's great bouldering, cragging, multi-pitch granite and alpine climbing right out your back door. It's the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park, so in the summer, its a busy tourist town. There's no ski areas there anymore (there used to be a local hill with one poma lift) but there is plenty of nice stuff if you're willing to hike for turns, and there's resorts within an hour or two. When it comes to the Northwest, I'd have to agree with panther: the Methow Valley is my favorite place in Washington. In some ways it reminds me of Estes Park a decade or more ago, only smaller, more isolated, and less developed. There's world class alpine climbing, kayaking, mountain biking, fly fishing, hunting, back country and cross country skiing, and amazing wildlife. There's tall granite spires, crags, bouldering, ice, and mountaineering. There's the Sawtooth/Chelan Wilderness on one side, the Pasayten Wilderness on the other, the North Cascades on the other. Its very close to all kinds of cool rock and snow in the BC interior. There's hundreds of miles of singletrack for mountain biking. There's a funky, friendly community-supported ski hill called Loup Loup 12 miles from Twisp. They just bought a used chair lift from Crystal a couple years ago, and it accesses some fun terrain. There's a few different towns (Mazama, Winthrop, Twisp, Carlton) with different characters, but they are all close to one-another, and share a strong common community identity as Methow valley residents. Maybe 6-7 thousand people total scattered up and down the valley. Feels smaller than that cause people are so dispersed. Its a nice east-side rainshadow climate. Economically, its basically a seasonal tourist\outdoor recreation economy, though ranching, logging, construction and the forest service are equally important. There's no chain stores or franchised fast food restaurants or movie theaters. There were two different breweries, but one burnt down a month ago. It's a unique place populated with an interesting mix of people who'd rather live there than any other place in the world. That's the common bond. People work hard to find creative ways to be able to exist there. But its small and way out there--the nearest stoplight is 100+ miles in one direction and 50+ miles in the other. I like it that way. [ 04-28-2002, 03:55 AM: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

Speaking of forgetting shoes, a woman friend and I made the drive to Darrington on a perfect Spring day last year. We hiked up to the base of silent running, where she discovered her climbing shoes were still back in Sea-town. It actually worked out all right. Since we had two ropes, I would lead up to the anchors, take my shoes off, and clip them the trailing rope. We would then play tug of war to keep the rope tight, and the shoes would trolly down the free rope to her. She'd put on the shoes, which were clownishly large for her, and head up to me. We repeated the process over and over and it worked out fine!

Disclaimer: All content contained in Pub Club Trip Reports including persons, places, conversations and faces represented are purely fictional and should not be construed as literal or even figurative representations of sober reality. All impressions and memories conveyed therein are skewed through a small foggy window of booze, THC and private psychosis. Trip reports have been modified from their original form to fit your screen, and have been edited for the sake of time and offensive content. May cause perspiration, constipation, nausea, vomiting, diarreah, nervousness, difficulties in urination, dizziness, drowsiness, sleeplessness and sexual dysfunction. Do not operate heavy machinery while reading. Do not read if you are currently taking antihypertensive or antidepressent drugs except under the advice and consent of your alter ego.

bomb

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We had a great Pub Club turnout, with over 20 CC.com contributers in attendance. Many beerverages were consumed, many tall tales of triumph and tragedy were told. Wand length, stuffed snakes, and the herbal inversion at Muir were among the many topics discussed. AlpineK waxed eloquent on the joys of telemarking, and how this most pure form of skiing makes you feel closer to nature. Dwayner showed off his new "Sick Dyno X-tra Cush" bouldering crash pad he got for Christmas. Panther demonstrated how to make x-rated origami. Snowmuncher was 86ixed the establishment. Despite Dwayner's pleas, the venerable Cascade Climbers Pub Club was a veritable snausage fest. We're talking more bratwurst per square meter than an Oktoberfest picnic in Worth-Leavin. Fortunately, the lovely Jules showed up, gracing us with her feminine presence. Icegirl was a no-show. Perhaps her bike got a flat tire when she ran over a Red Spiny Star on the way to the pub? A few intrepid CC-ers triend valiently to improve the 20:1 male/female ratio by engaging three luminescent betties at a nearby table. ChrisW's cool climbing game http://home1.gte.net/res0fc86/climbing_wall.jpg was a slick ice breaker. The first vixen had never climbed before, but onsighted a tough route up the NW corner of the 2 foot plastic tower. She was ecstatic. It looked like they were going to join us for some beers until Dave started talking about fist jamming. "It can be a little painful at first, but once you get used to it, it feels really solid." I'm not sure why, but suddenly she acted all offended, and her and alluring friends left in a huff, muttering something about perversions?!? A couple of CC.com contributors made the fatal error of inviting their significant others along to meet some of their climbing buddies. I saw the shock and horror spread across the faces of those significant others as it slowly dawned on them that these cretins were the very people they were entrusting their loved one's lives to each and every weekend. After an evening observing the hard-drinking freaks, felons, and various miscreants of CC.com, those Cascade Climbers were summarily banned from climbing ever again. Very sad. We wish you guys well! Practice that golf swing! Til next week.... [ 01-09-2002: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

I'll be there at 8-ish, so stick around folks!

Back to the World's Greatest Trundle stories.... As a disclaimer, this happened back when I was a wee lad, knee high to a grasshopper and not nearly as smart... One summer myself, my brother and a couple of our juvenile delinquent friends discovered the awesome destructive power of trundling. In Estes Park, Colorado, there's a high ridge that overlooks Wild Basin, in Rocky Mountain National Park. Only a couple miles from my grandparents cabin, the ridge was littered with perched granite boulders of all shapes and sizes. Below, a steep, partially forested slope dropped a couple thousand vertical feet to the basin below. It started off innocently enough. We rolled a couple bowling ball sized rocks and marveled as they bounded down the side of the valley, occassionally smashing spectacularly into thousand of pieces. Well, needless to say, things progressed from there... We pushed off larger and larger rocks, with increasingly impressive destructive results. Round granite boulders bigger than us, weighing many hundred of pounds, would roll down the slope, crushing small trees and starting more rocks in motion. Eventually they would dissapear into the thick forest below where the slope levelled out far below. Eventually we came upon a monsterous boulder, perched improbably, precariously, on the edge of a cliff. Amazingly, the four of us could wobble the thing, but we'd reached the limits of what four irresponsible adolescents could do without better tools. A few days later we returned with a couple of rock bars and lengths of 2x4 we'd pilfered from my grampa's tool shed. Using the bars to lever the SUV-sized boulder up and inch at a time, we'd then slide small rocks underneath it, and repeat. After nearly an hour of labor, the boulder finally cut loose with a groan. In what seemed like slow motion, the huge hunk of rock rolled off the edge of the small cliff, landed on the steep slope below, and starting accelerating, crushing anything and everything in its path. Speeding down the cliffy hillside, the boulder leapt 20 or 30 feet in the air, covering a hundred feet in a bound. Dozens of other boulders joined the mother of all boulders, some as big VW bugs. Perhaps a half mile below us, the rock dissapeared into the forest, but its progress was still quite visible. Trees the size of telephone poles were smashed like matchsticks, their branches literally exploding from the force of the boulder as it blasted through them without even slowing. The momentum carried the boulder far out onto the flats of the valley. The rumbling and crashing echoed across the basin like thunder, slowly subsiding. We stood, stunned and awestruck by the incredible power. Satisfied that we acheived the ultimate trundle, fearing incarceration, and sure that any ranger within 10 miles was being scrambled to our location, we hightailed it back down the trail. That was the end of my trundling career... Yup, we weren't the wisest or most responsible kids. Looking back, I feel lucky that we didn't kill someone. I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes there's objective hazards out there more dangerous than the Mountaineers.

Why is Moscow, Idaho so windy? Because Pullman sucks. (A friend of mine who had the good fortune to actually grow up in P-town told me that one.)

Fresh Icicle snowMemories of warm graniteNow winter winds blow---- Ceaseless gravityThin crack, rack lacking small nutsNow earthward I plunge---- [ 11-11-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

>>>So it is 24 degrees at Washington Pass, elev 5510 and 54 degrees at Paradise, elev 5410. Bizarre.<<< Yup, we had a powerful inversion going on for a while now. In Twisp last week (1500 ft elev.) lows were in the teens and it got down to 10 one night. Woke to find all the beaver ponds in the area frozen over. 3500 feet higher at Washington Pass, lows averaged 15-20 degrees warmer during that time. Looks like this pattern is finally breaking up though--let's hope the incoming wetness is cold enough to bring the fresh stuff to the hills. Ughh--just checked the latest forecast--wet and warm for the next five days--my least favorite winter weather combo... [ 11-11-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]