Uncle_Tricky

"continue up a steep water groove with marginal protection..." (still wondering exactly where that marginal protection was)

Unbeknownst to the CC.com contingent who convened at Murpheys on Tuesday, it happened to be Trivia Night at ye old pub. Fortunately, we had assembled a veritable brain trust of the brightest climbers in the Cascades, including Ehmmic, Beck, Mattp, Mike, Dr. J, To The Top, Chris_W, and a few anonymous lurkers. After a few pitchers of beer , we were primed and ready to onsight all the questions. The trivia competition was composed of three rounds of questions. After each round, results were announced and the winning team would receive money, fame, and beer. In the first round, Mattp, Beck, and Ehmmic each contributed clutch answers. We confidently submitted our first-round answer sheet for judging. After several minutes of tabulation, the judge announced the scores for the first round: The Cascade Climbers were announced first, having scored a remarkable 10 points! We toasted and cheered. Unfortunately, there had been 25 questions in the round, and results were being announced starting with last place... The judge continued: "Stunted Development, 16 points; Mental Midgets, 18 points; Dumb and Dumber, 21 points; High School Dropouts, 23 points" etc.... Unfazed, we ordered a couple more pitchers and redoubled our focus for round 2. With well over 250 years of combined nawlidge and life experience on our team, we were primed to dominate. Or maybe not...The judge announced second round results: "Cascade Climbers, 11 points; Rad Retards, 16 points; Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Survivors, 17 points; Special Ed Students, 22 points; Inebriated Ignorants, 23 points;" etc.... Somewhat dispirited and apathetic, we ordered a couple more pitchers and set out to redeem ourselves in the third round. With the immense collection of intellect present, we thought we still had a chance of taking a prize. I don't know if it was the beer or the questions, but it seemed our team focus started to drift to discussions of route beta, stories of recent adventures, and speculations about the coming winter. At the end of the third and final round, I submitted our answer sheet to the judge and walked over to the bar to get another pitcher of beer. Then out of the loudspeaker, a voice boomed "Cascade Climbers! Cascade Climbers!" I reapproached the stage where the judge woman sat, all eyes in the bar upon me. She handed our sheet back to me, and speaking into the microphone so everyone in Murphys could hear her loud and clear, said smirkingly "Here--you can grade your own sheet--after all you're just playing for fun, right?" Where was my dunce cap when I needed it? Chastened, our mostly blank answer sheet in hand, I slunk back to our table in the corner. In a last ditch attempt to be counted, we changed our team's name to Mensa Chapter IX, and Ehmmic tried to stealthily resubmit our sheet under our new alias. Denied. Apparently Judge Judy didn't think we were sufficiently smart or serious enough...So we scored our own sheet--generously giving ourselves the benefit of the doubt on any marginal answers. Even so, we only managed a score of 6 in the last round--thereby securing our hold on a third-straight last place finish! I guess the moral of the story is that we Climbers of the Cascades spend our time thinking about IMPORTANT stuff, like routes and weather and ice and snow and rocks. All of which is infinitely more interesting than a bunch of TRIVIAL trivia. At least that's what we tell ourselves..... ~Uncle Tricky [ 10-31-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

Yup, I work weekend graveyard shifts--gotta stay awake somehow...

I'm not convinced that rating fellow posters adds anything to the site. However, the option of rating THREADS might be kinda fun and maybe even helpful. If, for example, you were in a surly mood and found a thread to be a repetitive rehash of some stupid subject that’s already been beaten into the ground, you could give it the ol one-star salute. On the other hand, if you found a discussion highly entertaining or informative, then you could designate the thread a five star classic. You could have the option of rating a thread as if it were a climb: * A worthless, rotten, mossy, chossy over-bolted pile of calcified bat guano.** A contrived, boring, eminently forgettable line. *** Interesting climbing on good rock. **** A challenging, entertaining climb on great rock. ***** Classic: A wildly fun, memorable, and thought-provoking adventure on excellent rock. There could even be an archive section where you could take a look back at the "classic" five-star threads this forum has generated since its beginning. (As for this post, I'm feeling generous, so I'll rate it two stars.) [ 10-27-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

I learned tonight of a certain incompatibility between fist jams and tequila shots--at least until you're too wasted to feel pain. Instead of licking that concave spot between thumb and index finger so salt sticks there, tonight my friend showed me that squeezing a little lime on that spot and THEN coating it with salt was the way to go for the pre-shot set up. As she said with a lascivious wink, "you never know where that saliva has been." Unfortunately for climbers, rubbing salt AND lime into their fresh fist-jamming wounds has potanitally painful implications--at least until the 5th or 6th shot of tequila (w/mandatory Mexi beer chaser ), whereupon pain seems like an abstract sort of concept. [ 10-26-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

Hey Will, you're best bet is probably to visit a place that specializes in solar power applications, as they commonly sell LED/battery arrangements which are well-suited for solar or other low-draw applications. I'm not as familiar with the Portland area, but if you're ever up around Olympia, there's a cool place there that sells LED lights and related stuff. If that wasn't convenient, they're helpful and well-connected and could probably refer you to a place closer to Portland. Also, you might visit the library and check out Home Power magazine--there are advertisers in there that sell battery powered LED set ups. The webiste for the place in Olympia is:http://www.climatesolutions.org/center.html

I was amazed when I showed up at the Pike Place place to find at least 50 Cascade Climbers in attendance. I was impressed at the eclectic nature of the group: young kids, smartly dressed 20, 30, 40 and 50 somethings, and even some grampas and grannies had showed up. I eyed the clusters of distinguised white and blue-haired oldsters, but didn't see Fred Becky. They had even reserved a whole area of the brewery, and the catered food looked delicious. Having never been to a pub club before, I had no idea what to expect, but this far exceeded my wildest expectations. I felt a little underdressed. Had I known this was such a shindig, I would have worn my best gaiters instead of the ripped, duct-taped ones. Before I sat down to meet and greet some of my fellow Cascade Climbers, I decided to stand in line to sample the exquisite looking lasagne and chocolate cake. A guy in a tux approached me, "Excuse me sir, are you with the bride or the groom?" "Huh? You mean this isn't the Cascade Climbers Pub Club gathering?" He gave me a suspicious look. "This is a private wedding reception sir. I'm afraid you'll have to leave." Humbled, I retreated to the bar with my beer, nary a slice of lasagne to show for my effort. I scanned the crowd: aside from the Stanton wedding, there are lots of groups of two and three, and one large drunken boisterous group of 7 or 8 crew cut guys accompanied by 5 or 6 big haired girls. I walked over to the loud group and gave it a shot. "You guys with the Cascade Climbers?" "No brother, but were with the 8th Infantry! Cheers!!!" I learned that they are partying down because tomorrow they were shipping out for <<<location withheld because I'm pretty sure they weren't supposed to tell me in the first place.>>> Good guys, hope they stay safe. Anyway, at this point I started to lose hope. Maybe nobody showed up. Maybe I got stood up by all the climbers in the Cascades. Just to be certain, I wandered around and asked every group of 2 or 3 in the brewery if they are Cascade climbers. I get some strange looks and weird answers. Maybe its because I forgot to turn off my headlamp. If there's one thing I've learned, its NEVER go anywhere at night without your headlamp and bivy sack.) Fortunately one of these people clued me in the the fact that there's ANOTHER Pike Place place a block away. Aha! Hope restored, I tightened up my crampons (good traction on slick beer-covered wood floors) and frontpointed north up the hill to the other Pike Place place. There I was relieved to meet, at last, the good folks of the actual Cascade Climbers pub club. A fun evening--good beer and good company. Though I managed to pull off the whole excursion car-to-car in one day without having to bivy, next time I'm going to get some more detailed approach beta and maybe a topo too. --Uncle Tricky [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 10-24-2001).]

Well I guess this was last week instead of the weekend, but for me, the weekdays are my weekend. Had a few short days down in CA. Tuolomne: NW Books .9 variation on Lembert, West Crack on Daff dome, Alimony Cracks, SE butt Cathedral peak. Yosemite: Point Beyond on the Apron and Committment. Got lost/nearly stuck in the sand dunes and washes of Black Rock desert with no water on our way back. Also got lost in the dark and nearly ran out of gas on the hundreds of miles of unsigned dirt roads in NW Nevada and SE Oregon. Saw one car in 230 miles. When we finally arrived at a town, (McDermitt) it was 70 miles away from the town we thought we were arriving at (Denio). Found some incredible hot springs along the way though. Of course it started pouring rain as soon as we crossed Snocrummie Pass on the way home. [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 10-22-2001).]

Choco-latte--names don't ring a bell. If you even get in touch with them tho, I'd be interested in taking a look at their place. The Methow has more straw bale houses than any other area in the NW--something like 10 or 12 of em. I've had the chance to tour a few of the houses in the valley and have been really impressed. Properly done and combined with passive solar design, you'll have a house that is warm in winter, cool in summer, long-lasting and unique. Perfect for a relatively dry climate like the Methow which has large temp swings over the course of the year. For now, I'm just trying to get an illegally habitable shed up before the winter sets in...judging from the weather this week, I may be too late...

I'll be there. How to recognize all ya'll? I guess sometimes its not that hard to spot climbers...

Hayduke Lives is not nearly as good as Monkeywrench--its raw and bitter and lacks the humor of the original. It reads like a rushed rough draft written by a dying man angry that his life was over before he was ready to go. Which it was--Abbey wrote it in the last month or two of his life and died before he fully completed the book or even had the chance to edit it. Still worth reading if you're a real Abbey fan though. Though his strength was never fiction, I'd highly recommend a couple of his other fiction works: "Black Sun," a short bawdy love story and "A Fool's Progress," which is a great, sad, powerful and funny story that is also basically a fictionalized autobiography of his life. In my opinion his best work of fiction and you learn a lot about the man behind the writings. Anyway, I'm in the process of building a shed\shop and dreaming about building a house someday, so I've been reading a lot of technical stuff recently--Building the Straw Bale House, A Pattern Language, The Solar House, Building Tiny Houses, etc. One of my favorite fiction authors I've read recently is T. Coraghessen Boyle. His "Budding Propects" is a hilarous story about three guys trying to get rich in a season by cultivating a huge crop of weed in Norcal. The various misadventures they experience along the way with bears, cops, women, weather and hillbilly neighbors will have you laughing out loud. If you like rolling hysterically, fire up a fattie and crack open this book. [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 10-21-2001).]

Lucky--I'm sorry to hear that these climbs that mean a lot to many people are apparently going to be gone. And I can empathize with the anger at whoever told the landowner about the climbs and offered to chop them and post the property--especially if it appears this was done for selfish self-rightous reasons. I don't know enough about the people and the situation to make such judgements. Regardless, I do feel strongly that everyone's interests are better served if landowners are consulted before people establish new climbs on private property. Who knows--maybe if the landowner had been approached, her permission politely asked, and her liability concerns adequately addressed--BEFORE people started installing new climbs on her property, she would have been a lot more open to the possibility. At that point, the involvement of the FCCC or the Access Fund or the ACC might have made a positive difference. Now, I doubt that she would consider allowing climbers access to her property. Asking somebody for permission to use their property AFTER you've already taken that liberty usually doesn't work very well. It sounds like bad feelings and further access restrictions are the only thing coming out of this whole situation, and that's sad. [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 10-19-2001).]

Seems pretty simple to me--yes, the idea to which I refer is the concept of private property. The woman has a right to decide who's invited onto her property and what they're allowed to do there. If you're on private property without the owner's permission or consent, you're trespassing. If you alter or destroy that person's property (which would include installing bolts, crowbaring off blocks, or cleaning a crack) without their permission while trespassing on their property, its some sort of vandalism or property destruction. If you decide to trespass and mess with somebody's property, you're taking your chances. Trying to blame others or justify such actions if you're discovered misses the basic point. Trail and error has taught me that the best way to get an owner's permission is NOT to trespass first and ask permission only when you've been caught. When it somes to someone's else land, the "access problem" is those who feel they have a right to trespass and alter somebody else's private property without their permission. They are doing fellow climbers no favors. [ 10-25-2001: Message edited by: Uncle Tricky ]

Some observations: It seems to me that "Sport" and "Trad" are loaded labels that are used mostly for purposes of self-identification/differentiation with or from a group. Its easier than thinking. While the terms themselves implicitely describe the protection possibilities of a given climb, which is a fairly specific and quantifiable factor, they have also come to imply a whole layer of vague and variable ethical attitudes, fashion tendencies, political beliefs and environmental values. In any case, I think its true to say that "Sport" and "Trad" are commonly posited as opposite/opposing clubs more because of the people and their attitudes rather than the climbs. Sure, the generalizations about sport and trad climbers are sometimes true and entertainingly accurate. Perhaps that because different kinds of climbing natually attract different kinds of people. At the same time, the climbing experiences shapes the person. For example, it seems obvious to me that a climber placing his own protection must rely more heavily on his own judgement, skills and experience to be safe. This requires a initial willingness to trust one's self and in the process of learning and pushing our limits, we are changed. Although the terms Sport and Trad are basically rooted in describing the different means of protecting a given climb, the terms are all about the people climbing them and tell us very little about the climbs themselves. Personally, when describing a route, I usually avoid the loaded terms and describe climbs as bolted climbs, gear climbs, or climbs with mixed pro. Any of the above can be well protected or poorly protected, tame or bold. Personally, I really enjoy the challenge of placing my own gear and relying on my own judgement to protect myself when climbing. For me, this type of climbing provides a rewarding fusion of physical and mental challenges. Sure, I'll toprope now and then or climb a climb that is partially or entirely protected by bolts. But this doesn't mean that I need to choose between Ethical/cultural/fashion Dogma A or B. Instead of relying on my identification with "Sport" or "Trad" to define me, I like the challenge of trying to define myself. ~Uncle Tricky [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 10-06-2001).]

http://www.unitedstates.com/news/farticle/586975?20010924233604

Betcha anything this is closed because of the events of September 11. The government has made it clear that the nation's water supply is a vulnerable point for potential chemical/biological attacks. The Sultan basin watershed serves as a water supply for most of Snohomish county. You do the math. The ripple effects caused by this event are truly mind-boggling, but I never imagined that climbing, which seems like such an escapist pursuit, would be affected. ~Uncle Tricky

Had a good day in Skaha, and only climbed a couple sport routes the whole time. Was impressed with the number of quality gear and mixed climbs. Among those that stood out were grassy glades, mrs. palmer, double exposure, storming the ramparts, primal dream.

Hey skitty, I'd recommend going outside, exploring someplace new, and climbing something within your ability level. Sure, we learn by flailing and failing, but sometimes it feels good to climb something you can climb with style. Also, hopefully you're climbing with somebody that shares your sense of fun. There's so many places to discover, and climbing is a great excuse to do exactly that--its not just the time on the rock, but the whole adventure. ~Uncle Tricky

I have fond memories of Orange Sunshine, the 10b finger crack at the Royal Columns. This was the first climb I ever attempted to lead. Bad idea. I went to school out in the wheatfields of Eastern Washington. We had a climbing wall and there was also a column of basalt 30 miles down the road with a steel cable wrapped around it for toproping. So after a month or two of playing around on toprope I felt strong and (way overly) confident. A friend and I borrowed a handful of stoppers and a couple cams from an experienced climber and headed out to the Tieton. We hiked to the Royal Columns, and spotted the first obvious crack. Some nearby climbers told us it was a 10b. I knew that my younger brother (who was 17 at the time and a fanatical climber) was climbing 5.12s so I figured that as his bigger, older brother, I should be able to climb a measly 5.10 no problem! It would be a good warm-up if nothing else...Of course I had never lead anything in my life, or followed anything, or placed a piece of gear, or cleaned a piece of gear, or even climbed an officially graded route, but hey, how hard could it be? My friend was even more clueless than me, but at least had the sense to know it: he was happy to let me lead. With a sense of invincibility, I started up the climb. Ten feet up, the reality of not being on a top rope started to sink in. I fumbled with the unfamiliar gear, and managed to place a nut. I moved higher and struggled to get in a couple more pieces. The rock went from slabby to steep to vertical. I had already used over half of the meager amount of gear I had, and I wasn't even halfway up. Above me, the route just got steeper and steeper and became gently overhanging.... My sense of invulnerability was long gone, and had been replaced by successive waves of terror and panic. My arms ached from gripping the rock and my legs starting shaking spastically. At this point my belayer alerted me that my first piece had come loose and slid down the rope. I looked down at the other wobbly pieces below me and immediatly lost all confidence in the gear. Fear sweat stung my eyes as I clung desperately to the rock. I knew I couldn't go on, but I was also convinced that if I fell, or even weighted the rope, my gear would pull and I would die. Finally, my stength and composure fading fast, I took the only option I thought gave me a chance of survival. Motivated by the fear of death, and too scared to consider hanging, I downclimbed and cleaned the borrowed gear as I went. I reached the ground without ever weighting the rope and collapsed, physically destroyed and psychologically broken. That was almost ten years ago. I've been back to Tieton many times since, but so far I've never led this particular climb... [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 09-01-2001).]

>>>"we fumigated" That's classic. ps. Also be aware that Saturday night is officially designated as "Hard Liquor and Handgun Night" at the Hang Up. Unlike most Sasquatches, which are shy and retiring, this particular subspecies is aggressive and heavily armed. And for further entertainment, don't neglect to ask the local Bigfeet about the stories behind the various bullet holes in the walls and ceiling...

Hey Drul, I've also seen plenty of Sasquatches out of the Olympic Peninsula. If you doubt, just stop by the Hang Up Tavern in Forks on any given Saturday night!

Four or five Aprils ago, I found myself alone out at a remote cove on the Olympic Peninsula, somewhere North of Westport and South of Neah Bay. A nice 5-6 foot NW swell pulsed through the ocean. As I watched the water, I become aware of the geysers of humid breath springing into the air just beyond the breaking waves. Less than 100 yards from shore, 6-8 gray whales took time out from their northerly migration to feed and roll and play. I suited up, negotiated the shorebreak, and paddled out to the shoulder-high right breaking on the submerged sandbar formed by the river which emptied into the bay. Even thought the air temperature was in the 40s and the water not much warmer, the weak April sunshine and light winds make the day feel balmy compared to the typical windy, rainy freeze-fests of spring surfing in the Northwest. I saw a whale spout a couple hundred yards south of me, but the grays in my vicinity seem to have vanished. Then, as I sat watching the blue horizon for signs of an approaching set, I felt a strange electric sensation: the weight of eyes upon me. What is it, that distinctive feeling of being watched? A sort of sixth sense? An instinctual legacy from the time that us human animals were prey as often as we were predators? I turned, and perhaps thirty feet from me, a huge, motionless whale head protruded from the water to a height a couple feet taller than my sitting form. In perfect detail, I could see the crease of the whale's mouth, the shiny wet skin mottled with patches of barnacles, and just above the waterline, a remarkably human eye looking directly into mine. In that eye I saw intelligence and some sort of whale wisdom. After a few seconds of mutual consideration, the whale's head sunk slowly, casually back into the ocean. I was buzzing with adrenaline, filled with an powerful sense of awe from going eyeball to eyeball with one of the most massive creatures on the earth--in its environment, on its terms. A smooth blue-gray set peaked outside and returned my attention to the waves. I paddled over the first couple waves in the set, then spun my board around and took off on the juiciest one of the group. A few minutes later I'm back outside. Apparently I passed the appraisal of the matriarch or patriarch who came over to inspect me, because before long, there are several whales going about their whale business all around me, including a baby maybe 15-20 feet long that never strayed far from its mother's side. For the rest of the day I surfed among several gray whales. Sometimes as I was waiting for a wave, a whale would surface headed in my direction then breathe, dive, and a few seconds later a big upwelling of bubbles would swirl to the surface right next to me as the whale passed unseen nearly beneath me. Other times, whales would appear as shadows in the faces of waves just outside of me, rolling like huge black sea serpents or corkscrewing along the surface, thrusting their massive flippers into the air. They seemed to have perfect awareness of where I was. Like seals, they seemed to have a knack for surfacing behind me, as if they can tell where I am looking. I got used to the feeling of being watched, and often I would look over my shoulder and find myself face-to face with a curious whale sticking its head out of the water to get a better look at this crazy neoprene-blubbered pseudo amphibian. I'd look at them, and they would melt slowly beneath the surface, becoming first a submarine-like shadow, then disappearing all together. In between waves, I would occasionally get a whiff of some horrible, rotten, fishy, low-tide stench. It was an overpowering smell that would last just a few seconds and then disappear. There's a huge number of seals and sea lions up here on the north coast, so its not uncommon to come across their decaying carcasses washed up on the beach. Which reminds me of one day earlier that spring: After a few hours in the water, I was making my way back to my truck through the jumble of driftwood above the high-tide line, jumping from one piece of driftwood to another. Suddenly, with a sickening squishy sensation like stepping into a bowl of jelly, my leg disappeared into what had appeared to be a piece of driftwood. I looked down and saw that my foot had punched through the skin of a decomposing sea lion, and I was knee-deep in decomposing flesh and squirming maggots. The new hole in the long-dead creature released a toxic cloud of wicked stink that sent me running retching back towards the ocean to wash to slime off my leg. Anyway, on this particular day the breeze was blowing gently off the ocean, so it couldn't be something on the beach. Probably just a dead and rotting seal floating around in the water outside of me. Still not a very comforting thought. If I could smell it, then whatever it was leaving a scent superhighway in the water--the olfactory equivalent of a huge flashing neon sign to the great white sharks that inhabit these waters: "FOOD! CARRION! COME AND GET IT!" As I contemplated this unsettling thought, a twinge of paranoia entering my mind, a whale surfaced maybe 50 feet upwind of me and exhaled its breath with a loud whoosh. I watched the cloud of heated mist sparkle and dissipate as it blew slowly my direction and then Bam! I got hit with that powerful rotten fishy stench I'd been smelling occasionally all morning. Bingo! I just learned something: whales have REALLY bad breath! Further observation confirmed my discovery, and I was amazed how far the smell carried. Even if a whale blew 100 yards away, assuming the wind direction was right, there would be an appropriate time delay and then I would get a 2-3 second whiff of whale breath. Truth be told, at first it was a little unnerving having shadowy creatures as big as busses swimming around and underneath me, but it was amazing how looking into the eye of that first gentle giant somehow personalized the experience and put me totally at ease. The whale seemed to assess me and then accept me as a harmless, if eccentric addition to their water world. From then on, I was surfing with friends.

Well I ain't on the list, but someone needs to take up the slack.... ------------------ Four years had passed, four years of constant reminders. Every glimpse of a rock face, every postcard of a mountain, every carabiner keychain a reminder of that day. Looking in the mirror........I had to wonder if I still had it in me. Sure, accidents happen and people die in the mountains, but it wasn't supposed to happen to me. And it wasn't really my fault. Even my friends have told me that over and over again. But then why does it plague me so. Why does my gear just sit in the corner? My old partners don't even call me anymore. Deep inside I know I have to climb again. That's what Kristi would have wanted…. Things seemed simple at that time in my life when she and I first met, I was youthful and full of energy ready to conquer the world. Looking back now though maybe I was too careless, blind of my lack of abilities and too willing to take risks. I promised myself to change my ways when I first took her climbing, but I didn’t and my recklessness led to my demise… Remembering is like a dream. Dreams are surreal in color, things are out of place, but in the dream they are natural, the way things should be, the way they have always been. It was supposed to be just something basic. Kristi had been pestering me to go for weeks, so I finally hit the books (Beckey, Volume 3) and found something that would be challenging and suitable for both of us, but not too far out there. Kristi was a very good climber. She pulled down hard at 38 and plugged the pro on Davis Holland. I thought I was a stud because I ran laps on Godzilla. (It didnt matter that even after 2 years of trying I couldnt pull the opening move of The Second Pitch.) This was going to be no problem. Like all trips into the mountains, this one started with us hastily packing the Subaru on a lazy Friday afternoon. Getting to the North Cascades was going to be a casual drive, we were going to miss rush hour. After two hours of driving, we pulled in to the burrito joint in Burlington for an early dinner and a beer. Or two. Beers seemed in order as we were thirsty and having fun, and we knew we'd still make it to Washington Pass before dark. The mood was light; the Mexican beer was dark; I was horny. On the way out of the restaurant, we ran into an unlikely pair -- the mischievous Ray Borbon and the notorious sport climber "Lambone." They too were headed for the pass, but their agenda was different than ours. Different, to say the least. It involved a croquet mallet and ball, but beyond that they would not say, and we didn't want to know. Liberty Bell looked gorgeous in the late afternoon sun and I pointed out one of the 50 crowded climbs that I was gonna do someday. We pulled off and geared up quick to take full advantage of the daylight and crystal clear skies. Kristi was a climbers dream date: gorgeous, easygoing and able to carry her weight and more without a problem. We wanted to get ourselves setup for a solid push tomorrow up Early Winters Spire. We had heard there was some steep sections of ice, but everyone assured us it would be no problem. As we hiked in I was preoccupied with thoughts of my warm tent and how Kristi and I would make it warmer... However, lighting the tent on fire while starting the stove was not one of the ways I had intended to make it warmer. As Kristi and I dove through the flaming vestibule, I lost most of my hair and all my eyebrows. Thank god I had shaved my beard in anticipation of the trip, otherwise things could have been much worse. We both laughed hysterically as we watched the tent melt in a pool of bubbling nylon goo, feeling fortunate not to have lost more than some hair and, for me, a little bit of pride. As the last of the flames went out, Fred Beckey strolled up... "Thought I recognized that stench, seen folks try to burn their tent down like that, but never were they successful, I must congratulate you, a North Face down to the ground, how long did it take?" Embarressed as I was, the simplistic and harmless demeanor of the man whom I had only read about, soothed my wretched nerves. Uhhh, it happened so fast, I guess about... Kristi interupts in her zeal of excitement, "it was under 5 min", as if to impress Fred. She doesn't realize the only reason for this silly small talk that he is graciously engaging in, is due to the fact that she is standing there... naked and me in my wicking rei boxers. Finally, several hours later we find ourselves in the back of the car doubting whether or not to continue on with our misadventure filled trek. Most of our gear had been scorched in the fire, except for the important pieces of gear, we had left the rope outside and the few pieces of protection we owned were blackened, but upon closer inspection seemed to be useable. So the next morning we set off for the climb that changed my life forever… It had been a rough night (in more ways than one). With all of my gear and clothes now a melted pile of plastic, Kristi and I had to take turns sharing my REI boxers. But we survived, despite the frequent trips to the brush (those burritos had taken their toll). But, man! what a night of passion in the backseat of my Subaru! We set off at first sign of light. Kristi strategically placed the shoulder straps of her backpack and wore those cherished boxers of mine. Me? Well, I had the rope and the gear rack... so to speak. We made great timing with our light loads, picking up the pace even more so as to avoid encountering anyone on our approach. Still reminiscing about last night and contemplating our upcoming "climb au naturale", it was almost unfathomable that we ran into Rachel Babkirk the famous Rock and Ice pin-up girl. I managed to stammer out "Aren't..you..uhh..you know..uhhh" "Yeah I'm the hottie from Rock and Ice" Rachel replied without missing a beat. "Have you seen my agent? We're supposed to meet a photographer out here for a photo shoot. He wondered off to mark his territory and I think he got lost". "uhh....uhhh..aren't you.." the strong punch to the shoulder from Kristi dislodged me from my stupor. "Hey do you know you have a big zit on your forehead" Kristi directed to Rachel. "What the f&^%...do you have a mirror!" Rachel replied to Kristi. "Nope sorry..we have to get going..take care trail slu..I mean Rachel" Kristi spat out as she dragged me up the trail by my ear. We pushed on for what seemed like another hour burning more calories swatting at flies than hiking. Just then...... as we hauled our scratched and sunburned butts over yet another brush-shrouded boulder, a tentative male-sounding voice erupted from beside the boulder "excuse me..." Looking to her left, Kristi recognized a pasty white hand protruding from beneath the boulder's brush blanket. Reaching down, she grabbed the hand and hoisted a bald, bespectacled, modestly overweight carp of a man onto the rock beside us. "Excuse me," he began again while carefully wiping his glasses, "you wouldn't by chance have seen my client? - a ms Babkirk?" Noting Kristi's icy glare at the sound of the name, he continued "yes, I feared not... damn this miserable undergrowth! Well, could you perhaps... --- ...shed that backback and work a few au natural boulder moves for me?" he said grinning lecherously at Kristi and fondeling his telephoto lens. "After all, you're much more beautiful than that Rachel wench, and I need a centerfold for the next issue of Rock and Porn with marketing appeal for the 15 to 34 year old male adolescent demographic. Kristi blushed at his flattery. Annoyed at my earlier staring and stammering in the presence of Ms. Babkirk, she agreed to work a few trailside problems in the buff. Standing impatiently in my boxers, I stewed and slapped at the endless legions of mosquitos swarming up from Blue Lake. Finally, after a few too many closeups for my comfort, I drew the line when the perverse old bastard suggested a wide stemming problem. "Enough! It's getting late and we need to get to our climb." "OK, OK"--Kristi donned her backpack and continued up the trail. Seeing as how the creative cretin was lost and needed directions to get back to the trailhead, I was kind enough to tell him about a shortcut: "Just continue South over the next ridge, follow that drainage down a few miles and you'll hit a place called Stehekin in no time." They found the remains of the guy a few weeks later. His photos of Kristi were salvaged and published posthumously (for both of them) in the top selling issue of R&P of all time. I cry every time I see the cover. At the time, my conscience didn't bother me for misleading the old guy. But given what happened on the climb, I've always wondered if I was responsible for the bad karmic juju that came back to haunt us later that fateful day... [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 08-18-2001).]

The fact is that only a tiny fraction of the USFS budget goes to maintaining trails or preserving what's left of our public wildlands. The vast bulk of the USFS budget goes to subsidizing logging, mining and grazing on public lands. They build roads, put up fences specifically to provide private corporations with easy access to public resources, and then give these resources away for a fraction of their worth. The forest service is even nice enough to foot the bill for the extractive industries by assuming the cost of "restoring" the areas they've just finished trashing. Another major outlay for the Forest Service involves accomadating the motorized tourism lobby by "improving" rustic facilities, i.e. building fancy new paved KOA-like campgrounds with RV hookups, pop machines, showers, halogen lights, flush toilets, pay stations, and of course buying vehicles and uniforms and hiring people to patrol, maintain and enforce the rules and fees of the new facilities. Don't get me wrong, I think that there's a place for multi-use of public lands, and National Forests in particular, including selective sustainable logging and grazing. But the current system of using public money to directly subsidize the destruction of public lands for the enrichment of a few private corporations, while making the public pay to even walk upon their public lands is absurd and wrong. The point is there's really no shortage of funds to manage public lands. Its just that they are busy spending most of their budget subsidizing the destruction of public lands and "improving" the public wilderness in ways that I'm not sure are really improving anything at all. Priorities need to change. Public lands need to be managed for the public trust. After those things, if maintaining public lands required higher taxes in order to insure free public access to them, I'd be ok with that. With regard to the new trail passes you can bet that most of those fees are going to be plowed back into hiring a new army of forest cops to drive around in Ford Explorers writing tickets and collecting the fees that are paying their salaries. Is this really a qualitative improvement? As the late great Abbey said, growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of bureaucracy and the cancer cell. If you're going to buy a pass, at least send a letter and tell them what you'd like to see them do with your money. If you choose not to buy a pass, good luck! If you get a ticket, please fight it. ~Uncle Tricky [This message has been edited by Uncle Tricky (edited 08-13-2001).]

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