tread_tramp

I believe the Sloop IN BALLARD has taco specials on Tuesdays.

Check this thread in the south cascades forum: here

You also like sheep. tup ewe

time to

Look again chirp; the longhaired dude in the grey shirt at center of 2nd pic.

....

Yeah; Kerouac wrote about his stay at the fire lookout on Desolation Peak at the beginning of the novel Desolation Angles . He went stir crazy up there and couldn't wait to get back to the scene in SanFrancisco.

Kenneth Rexroth.... TOWARD AN ORGANIC PHILOSOPHY 1 Spring Coast Range The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless, The circle of white ash widens around it. I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller. Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw; The moon has come before them, the light Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees. It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish, Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons; The foetid adder's tongue lolls by the waterfall. There was a farm by this campsite once, it is almost gone now. There were sheep here after the farm, and fire Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch, The Douglass fir off the ridge; today the soil Is stoney and incoherant, the small stones lie flat And plate the surface like scales. Twenty years ago the spreading gully Toppled the big oak over onto the house. Now there is nothing left but the foundations Hidden in poisin oak, and above on the ridge, Six lonely, ominous fence posts; The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge Over the deep waterless creek bed; The hills are covered with wild oats Dry and white by midsummer. I walk the random survivals of the orchard. In a patch of moonlight a mole Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein; Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean; Leo croutches on the hills. There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees. The purity of the apple blossom is incredible. As the wind dies down their fragrance Clusters around them like thick smoke. All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight They are silent and immaculate. 2 Spring, Sierra Nevada Once more golden Scorpio glows over the col Above Deadman Canyon, orderly and brilliant, Like an inspiration in the brains of Archemedes. I have seen its lights over the sea, And the coconut beaches, phosphorescent and pulsing; And the living light in the water Shivering away from the swimming hand, Creeping against the lips, filling the floating hair. Here where the glaciers have been and the snow stay late, The stone is clean as light, the light steady as stone. The relationship of stones, ice and stars is systematic and enduring; Novelty emerges after centuries, a rock spalls from the cliffs, The glacier contracts and turns grayer, The stream cuts new sinuosities in the meadow, The sun moves through space and the earth with it, The stars change places. The Snow has lasted longer this year, Than anyone can remember. The lowest meadow is a lake, The next two are snowfields, the pass is covered over in snow, Only the steepest rocks are bare. Between the pass And the last meadow the snowfield gapes for a hundred feet, In a narrow blue chasm through which a waterfall drops, Spangled and sunset at the top, black and muscular Where it dissappears again in the snow. The world is filled with hidden running water That pounds in the ears like ether; The granite needles rise from the snow, pale as steel; Above the copper mine the cliff is blood red, The white snow breaks at the edge of it; The sky comes close to my eyes like the blue eyes of someone kissed in sleep. I descend to camp, To the young, sticky, wrinkled aspen leaves, To the first violets and wild cyclamen, And cook supper in the blue twilight. All night deer pass over the snow on sharp hooves, In the darkness their cold muzzles find the new grass At the edge of the snow. 3 Fall, Sierra Nevada This morning the hermit thrush was absent at breakfast, His place was taken by a family of chickadees; At noon a flock of hummingbirds passed south, Whirling in the wind up over the saddle between Ritter and Banner, following the migration lane Of the Sierra crest south to Guatamalla. All day cloud shadows have moved over the face of the mountain, The shadow of a golden eagle weaving between them Over the face of the glacier. At sunset the half-moon rides on the bent back of the Scorpian, The Great Bear kneels on the mountain. Ten degrees below the moon Venus sets in the haze arising from the Great Valley. Jupiter, in opposition to the sun, rises in the alpenglow Between the burnt peaks. The ventriloquial belling Of an owl mingles with the bells of the waterfall. Now there is distant thunder on the east wind. The east face of the mountain above me Is lit with far off lightenings and the sky Above the pass blazes momentarily like an aurora. It is storming in the White Mountains, On the arid fourteen-thousand-foot-peaks; Rain is falling on the narrow gray ranges And dark sedge meadows and white salt flats of Nevada. Just before moonset a small dense cumulus cloud, Gleaming like a grape cluster of metal, Moves over the Sierra crest and grows down the westward slope. Frost, the color and quality of the cloud, Lies over all the marsh below my campsite. The wiry clumps of dwarfed whitebark pines Are smokey and indistinct in the moonlight, Only their shadows are really visible. The lake is immobile and holds the stars And the peaks deep in itself without a quiver. In the shallows the geometrical tendrils of ice Spread their wonderful mathematics in the silence. All night the eyes of deers shine fore an instant As they cross the radius of my firelight. In the morning the trail will look like a sheep driveway. All the tracks will point downward toward the lower canyon. "Thus," says Tyndal, "the concerns of this little place Are changed and fashioned by the obliquity of the earth's axis, The chain of dependence which runs through creation, And links the roll of a planet alike with the interests Of marmots and of men."

ahh grasshopper

When I busted my feet on Chimney Rock we had no choice but to go down. And a good thing too. The Ledge I spent the night on was at 7,000, which is the limit at which they like to do rescues with the Huey, which is what they came in with to help me.

Good article. I had a similar experience a couple summers ago. This sort of shit sure gets your attention.

SEF Has done this; and not by the easiest routes. A notable accomplishment.

Kenneth Rexroth... A Living Pearl At sixteen I came west, riding Freights on the Chicogo, Milwaukie And St Paul, the Great Northern, The Northern Pacific. I got A job as helper to a man Who gathered wild horses in the Mass drives in the Okanogan And Horse Heaven country. The Best We culled out as part profit from The drive. The rest went for chicken and dog feed. We took thirty head Up the Methow, up the Twisp, Across the headwaters of Lake Chelan, down the Skagit to The Puget Sound country. I Did the cooking and camp work. In a couple of weeks I Could handle the stock pretty well. Every day we saddled and rode A new horse. Next day we put a Packsaddle on him. By the Time we reached Marblemount We considered them broken. The scissorbills who bought them Considered them untamed mustangs Of the desert. In a few weeks They were peacefully pulling Milk wagons in Sedro-Wooley. We made three trips a season And did well enough for the Postwar depression. Tonight, Thirty years later, I walk Out of the deserted minor's Cabin in Mono Pass, under The full moon and the few large stars. The sidehills are piebald with snow. The midnight air is suffused With moonlight. As Dante says, "It is as though a cloud enclosed Me, lucid, dense, solid, polished, Like a diamond forged by the sun. We entered the eternal pearl, Which took us as water takes A ray of light, itself uncleft." Fifteen years ago, in this place, I wrote a poem called "Toward An Organic Philosophy." Everything is still th same, And it differs very little From the first mountain pass I Crossed so long ago with the Pintos and zebra duns and Gunmetal roans and buckskins And splattered lallapaloosas, The stocky wild ponies whose Ancesters came with Coronado. There are no horsebells tonight, Only the singing of frogs In the snow wet meadows, the shrill Single bark of mountain Fox, high in the rocks where the Wild sheep move silently through the Crystal Moonlight. The same feelings Come back. Once more all the awe Of a boy from the prairies where Lanterns move through the comfortable Dark, along a fence, through a field, Home; all the thrill of youth Suddenly come from the flat Geometrical streets of Chicogo, into the illimitable And inhuman waste places Of the Far West, where the mind finds Again the forms Pythagoras Sought, the organic relations Of stone and cloud and flower And moving planet and falling Water. Marthe and Mary sleep In their down bags, cocoons of Mutual love. Half my life has Been passed in the West, much of it On the ground beside lonely fires Under the summer stars, and in Cabins where the snow drifted through The pines and over the roof. I will not camp here as often As I have before. Thirty years Will never come for me again. "Our campfire dies out in the Lonely mountains. The transparent Moonlight stretches a thousand miles. The clear peace is without end. "My daughter's deep blue eyes sleep In the moon shadow. Next week She will be one year old.

Clouds From Both Sides is another great book that was written by one of those first five women you mentioned, Julie Tullis.

-Gary Snyder ELK TRAILS Ancient, world-old elk paths Narrow, dusty Elk paths Wide-trampled, muddy, Aimless...wandering... Everchanging Elk paths. I have walked you, ancient trails, Along the narrow rocky ridges High above the mountains that Make up your world: Looking down on giant trees, silent In the purple shadows of the ravines-- Above the spire-like alpine fir Above the high, steep-slanting meadows Where sun-softened snowfield share the earth With flowers. I have followed narrow twisting ridges, Sharp-topped and jagged as a crosscut saw Across the roof of all the Elk-world On one ancient wandering trail, Cutting crazily over rocks and dust and snow-- Gently slanting through high meadows, Rich with scent of Lupine, Rich with smell of Elk-dung, Rich with scent of short-lived Dainty alpine flowers. And from the ridgetops I have followed you Down through the heather fields, through timber, Downward winding to the hoof-churned shore of One tiny blue-green mountain lake Untouched by lips of man. Ancient, wandering trails Cut and edged by centuries of cloven hooves Passing from one pasture to another-- Route and destination seeming aimless, but Charted by the sharp-tempered guardian of creatures, Instinct. A God coarse-haired, steel-muscled, Thin-flanked and musky. Used to sleeping lonely In the snow, or napping in the mountain grasses On warm summer afternoons, high in the meadows. And their God laughs low and often At the man-made trails, Precise-cut babies of the mountains Ignorant of the fine, high-soaring ridges And the slanting grassy meadows Hanging over space-- Trails that follow streams and valleys In well-marked switchbacks through the trees, Newcomers to the Elk world. (High above, the Elk walk in the evening From one pasture to another Scrambling on the rock and snow While their ancient, wandering, Aimless trails And their ancient, coarse-haired, Thin-flanked God Laugh in silent wind-like chuckles At man, and all his trails.) Mt. St. Helens, Spirit Lake, 1947

"If the Curse is killing minor players like this what's it gonna do to the guy who ripped his dick off???" "Yikes. That shite is freakin me out man." Tell us what you did Greta.

You might find decent conditions for triggering an avalanche. The consolidated conditions you find in the spring are much better for learning self- arrest.

I've been told over and over again that they can't do much in stretching the length of boots but they can get some lateral stetch. Not sure about heels though. Just call a couple good shoe repair shops in your area.

Phil Dickert, 1st ascender of Mt Goode, Spire Peak and Mt Challenger, dies at 95. RIP http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2002138174_dickertobit02m.html

Sigmund Freud Willie Mays

Actually evaporation does have an effect with the burning efficiency of the canister stoves. Out in icy conditions the canisters will ice over from the evaporation in them if they are not heated from an exterior source. I have a Markil Hanging pot setup that did piss poor out in snowy conditions. But when used inside the tent where the heat from the stove warmed up the tent the Markil burned like a champ.

When I did the Fuher Finger route on Rainier there was a non-stop rain of pellets peppering us. On Chiwawa's Lyman glacier I watched a television sized boulder lift a guy off his feet when it hit. That shit's for real.

I sacrificed #1 and #3 forged friends, a #11 BD stopper and a rope to the mountain gods when I was lifted off Chimney Rock a couple summers back. Was just glad to get out of there alive. But my partner retrieved the stopper and one of the friends when he climbed the route this summer.