ivan

2019 Annual Report n' Ruined Recollections: for soloing, by far and away the grandest season at beacon ever, blasting away all notions of what i could accomplish - for anything else of honor out there, a true desert, and such is the price we pay for delusional obsessions 2019 stats: free-soloing days: 68 other climbing days: 6 recorded, but i got distraught come spring and didn't bother for at least a half-dozen others, during which time, among other things, we put up the new line i dubbed the "heretic's highway" on the west side total laps soloed: 161 average laps/solo day: 2.37 total Climbers Batted In: 314 (though i didn't start tallying these until sometime in september) average CBIs/lap: 1.96 (a lovely # really as it makes complete sense - roped climbers tend to come in two's ) most CBIs/day: 55 (11/23 - my last solo day of the season) hat trick days (x3 laps): 9 reverse golden sombrero days (x4): 3 reverse platinum sombrero days (x5): 2 farmer's daughter days (x6): 1 el cap days (x7): 2 elizabeth hurley days (x10): 1 (on 9/21 - to date my biggest beacon day ever) historic solo lap summary 2012 (first year i began record-keeping, albeit in a shoddy fashion): 38 2013: 54 2014: 42 2015: 19 2016: 23 2017: 24 2018: 60 2019: 161 lifetime recorded laps soloed: 421 average laps/year: 52.6 i suspect 2020 is going to be, in the grand scheme, a shit-show of historic proportions, but here's to hoping it'll be even better on the personal level as i tangle with the little undertaking i'll call Project 365 daily summaries 1/1 - 2019, the Year of the Marmot and Beacon Day One - adam n' i gallivanted up the gloppy, sunny, wistfully-windless south side n' grabbed in the process the first ascent of the year - strange start though, w/ adam's work-buddy chesta-the-molesta dislocating his shoulder just 3 feet up the first pitch, then crashing back down to the ground to re-set it against a tree, rambo-style - wish i coulda seen it as instead i was just 90 feet off the ground and awful confused as to what the hell exactly was the deal w/ all that screaming down there ole'boy scuttled back up the trail as adam and i continued up the corner, both of us feeling very much out of practice and half-hung-over, but stoked indeed to have such ridiculously pleasant conditions for climbing - mild as milk was this day, and so hopefully too the next 364 days to come 1/26 - day 2 - chilly, solid cloud murk west of the gorge, but wonderous warm n' calm by cape horn - rapped down to join adam n' steve n' baylen (sp?) lapping stuff on the west side - a party on stone soup, and another on that new bolted arete route on jensens, packing a portaledge too 1/27 - day 3 - a lord alone in an empty hall the night before, and still off the sauce, i rattled around the mansion lunatic-like, sucking down tea n' nodding off near midnight - just north of freezing fog come morning, delayed the beacon mission an hour to give the sun a chance to make its appearance - adam n' steve at the little road estate n' the clouds still closing us in, we nattered on over to the rock anyhow and ambled upwards, the corner still a tad mucky but the sky eventually opened and the mercy of the world descended upon us again - quite the crowd on the west side later, crazy fools enjoying the taste of an indian summer... 1/30 - day 4 - a month after the solstice and just enough sun's left afterschool to scoot out quick n' get a corner crawl in before the falcon-fornication deadline dawns on the south side - adam's at 4, the wind blowing good n' stiff, but nothing 8 layers of clothes couldn't conquer - up we rushed, the blue-steel breeze at our backs, spilling over the railing on to the lonely trail as the last light of the frigid new-born night sunk into the west 1/31 - day 5 - the Final Winter Ascent of the south side as the falcon-fornicating season saunters in and it becomes a federal crime to even *think* of setting foot on boss's trail - shame the jig is up, really, as ole'adam and i'd had gotten it down to damn near a science the past few days - like free-soloing lite, actually, w/ a rope for the one place i like it when it's decidedly winterish - and now our ambitions amble on over to the west and north sides... 7/20/19 - south side day 1 of the summer, well after le grande opening i'll grant you as i sallied up n' down the coast courting more arduous adventures - swimming in the olympics, multi-day colonel bob bumblefuck, marriage counselor sheenagins n' regular ole climbing in leavenworth w/ the silvermans shit-talking each other at every turn, then near a week about mt whitney w/ the whiskey hooligans - 2 solo laps in the shade, every hold an old friend and unforgotten - geoff n' kyle n' larry the gnome at the top n' beers n' bullshitting at the base - managed 60 solo laps last summer, so that's 1/30 of the way to repeating that unbelievable total 7/21 - day 2 - laps 3-4 - hey, only 33 more days at this rate to top last year - foiled upon arrival at battle ground lake, i bounced off fallen leaf lake too n' resigned meself to clambering out at beacon - once again the rock all to myself, despite the weekend situation - a lap alone, then another w/ some folks thrashing their way up the original dods exit at the end - summer's halfway home n' i'm still all smiles 7/22 - day 3 - laps 5-7 - a hat trick on a hottish day, 2 in the sun and the third in the shade the hottest of all w/ numerous half-clad hotties along the way 7/23 - day 4 - lap 8 - swam a slow wetsuit-less mile in fallen leaf under cloudy n' cool skies, fetched the boy child from camp, then deposited him again before darting out to the bacon-wand for a single ascent before coming back camas-ways to peruse new houses and ultimately sup on delectable thai takeout 7/24 - day 5 - laps 9-10 - ten laps in five days not so shabby - nary a soul in sight on this sweatyish day, but steve in the parking lot - a week in paradise it would seem... 7/25 - another hat-trick makes it 13 laps in 6 days, a healthy clip - irish death's n' lovely crowds n' sun n' shade and all after a right-nice long swim continued a paradise-theme-of-a-summer so far... 7/26 - the end of my first summer beacon week and a productive one with 2 more laps to bring the total to 15, 1/4 of the way to last year's ludicrous total, but at a pace to bury it should that be my jealous jam on looking back (i've heard tale there's no more nefarious thief than nostalgia though) - a mile swim in fallen leaf while the wulf-man paddled away on lake vancouver, then beacon just after noon in the brutal brightness - shed my black shirt in favor of royal blue - lovely pair of sheilas atop tree ledge on the first lap - sucked down my beer in a patch of shade in the gut under uprising, panting like a bitch - a horde of latinos on the way down, one fella w/ a pack to support the lot of them for a month if need be - the second lap lonely but bearable in the breeze, fat drops of sweat drip-dripping and sizzling away on the stone - then house-hunting and general real-world bummer concerns... 7/27 - summer beacon day 8 - the late morning meetup out near no'bo - adam n' claire n' naterring as we waited for ole'geoff to arrive w/ his prized n' feared jet-ski - beers n' bullshitting n' plan forming - claire drove us up near the dam and we flung ourselves into hamilton creek, expecting far more fun than the fickle world felt like paying out, stumbling mid-knee forever through the stream in wetsuits w/ stuff sacks full of beer - the main current at last and drifting down under the beacon face, admiring some hard-dudes dancing on the journey to the east above big ledge - many more bevies on the dock afterwards n' some soft-porn skinny-dipping by the masses, than back to the little road hold-out before cursing them fools n' cutting loose to clamber up the corner in the gloaming-dark before darting back to home for chicken salad n' discoursing over stranger things 7/28 - beacon day 9 - 2 more laps makes it 18, a tear beyond my tenous memory - wurst to drag adam's esposita up the corner at first, but she foreswore the morning heat and when adam got froggy on the immediate details i said fork-it n' went n' did a lap while he helped a timberline high-to-do set up a big kayak shuttle down to kalama- soggy as hell from sweat i returned as his business was concluded, having to concede another climb in the immediate future was fucked - we repaired to the river again then n' had a mort of swimming n' redneck shenanigans before i felt honor-bound to take advantage of the recent shade for another clambornation n' siddle on back home - plenty of folks casting about at the base, one even who recognized my nom de guerre n' threw a compliment my way that in hindsight i think i mighta thrown back a tad too heelish - perhaps if i spent more time on my people skills instead of scratching the Endless Itch? 7/29 - was supposed to be a beacon-less day but the beacon lords giveth n' they take away too - beacon day 10 (in a row!) at any rate, n' solo lap 19 - met the k19 near noon after carting the boy child to row-row-your-boating on lake vancouver and stuffing in a quick swim at fallen leaf lake - after dressing his sadly chapped hands i cast out camas-ways - the plan was the adventure swim to phoca rock from the washington side, a jam i've yet to even get wet for yet despite numerous attempts, and this one the same - nastia said she was illish and prefered a columbia crossing at hood river instead, so sure, why not? we both drove to set up a car shuttle and noticed near arrival that the wind was whipping, the waves white-capped and their swells nice n' rolling long - gave me the heebie-jeebies a bit, soul-scarred as i remain from the one and only trans-columbia transit i made a few years back w/ ole'pat when the gorge was freshly burnt and i was perhaps drunk by naval standards at our 10 am departure (holy jeebus, that incident still ranks high on my most-terrified ever list) - after setting up the shuttle though we gave her a go, me in my wetsuit and snorkel and boots and web-gloves and day-glo orange personal swimmer buoy (and sober besides, having learnt all kinds of lessons that chilly october morning) but the russkaya of course was just in her dainty 2-piece and rocking the doggy paddle stroke, true russian-berserker style and blazeningly loving it - not too far from shore the waves and winds announced their presence with authority and our humble tribe quailed at their querulousness, first she then me after starting a 2nd attempt alone - retiring to the oregon side once again to recover her car n' kick about the conversation-can we revolved the rubik's cube of future combinations and settled upon giving something/anything a chance someday soon, assuming we live that long - a solo beacon lap on a wind-wracked n' shady south side sans shirt was my true reward for listening to the Little Voice Inside Me and chopped the voyage home neatly in half - all i have to worry about now is tomorrow... 7/30 - 11 back-to-back beatard days and i'm a bit drained - 2 more laps for 21 total on this still youngish summer - crater lake complications and house-swapping horseshit clouds everything, my spirits low - might it be that nothing ever really gets better? 8/1 - sou'side summer beacon day 12 of 2019 - solo laps 22-23 - early morning rising to house-hunt n' tidy up domestically, kinda lame really but we are rarely masters of our own destiny i reckon - the daughter-child to her amiga's skamania abide in the late afternoon left time for yours truly to scramble up the bacon wand twice before achieving apogee and getting sucked back west once again to stuff more things into the bursting garage before the photo man comes to record it all in the morning - the great crater lake creep south at sunrise, all mortal concerns cast aside in the gawdamned interest of aquatic glory 8/8 - day 13 - laps 24, 25, 26 - a sad week away from the bacon-stone, but well spent - a swim-trip to crater lake - cock-blocked by the feds, we found better refuge at waldo lake, which was much like taking the 2nd hottest girl at the party home - union bidness in mcminville and quite alright, though it brought the summer death-knell to the forefront of a keening mind - rain in the west, after hours the beaconwand cast its spell and the world was my oyster again - gnome the larry in the gloaming lot, then kyle n' company came crawling in - three laps passing through numerous parties - some-guy-named-steve earned his Hero of Beacon Rock w/ oak-leaf clusters - placid blood flowed freely as it should in the scraping places - kyle got the kid up though competent legal counsel would eagerly have urged him not 8/9 -estival beacon aeon 14 - laps 27-28 - a lazy friday summer sleep-in, the first in some time - warm coffee n' cold eggs w/ the wifey over steven colbert n' some orange-is-the-new-black - the kids like college students, slow to rise - afternoon i ambled out to beacon to meet old ben - beat him by an hour so got a lap in alone before he arrived with his boy asher, sullen n' silent, as a man should be in this shocking modern age - led them up the route sans belays, which i reckon counts as solo too, though a rope was technically tied round my ample beer-gut - a gaggle of elk gamboling about the meadows below the eastern train track, their worries little ones in this wonderous season - the drive home dominated by the sweet smell of summer rain n' the dying sun... 8/11 - day 15 - a rare reverse-golden-sombrero raises the lap count to 32 on the summer - the trip took weather-faith, for the rain fell throughout the gorge on the drive in, even in the lot itself a profound mist made its presence known - a fool's errand i thought, but took my shoes down to the base anyway to see if the stone was dry despite 2 days of storms and so it was, and with hordes of portlanders putting their dirty libturd-hands all over it in flagrant degradation too - kyle n' bill n' joe n' countless over fools all encountered and gavreeted with, and one parcel of folks i passed 4 times in total over the next few hours - the history of the world it would seem, and fitting that the soundtrack was 4 episodes of a podcast all about the ending of it 8/12 - day 16 - lap 33 - the smell of sudden fiery death roused me at 5 and an hour later i arose in protest at my prickly senses - after tea and trailer park boys i eased myself eastwards for a single lap in the sun - the stone alone, i savored my solitude, the drip-drip of sweat the only sense of time to contend with - afterwards car-chores and lake-swimming w/ many chilluns 8/13 - day 17 - laps 34-35 - the world waxes largish, so what exactly is the goal now? last year the improbable # of 60 made me think 61 is all any sane man might relish, or maybe just 62 to stick a fork in the eye of roger morris, but now something much bigger indeed seems possible - how about 74 to offer the proverbial bitch-slap to barry bonds? even if that is to be the improbable mark, such a tally looms already large in the wind-screen and is to be sought for - the hazy outlines of a plan for a phenomenal 14-in-a-day assault in september with a whole heap of fools to propel the thing to a frenetic conclusion - that's in the future though - tonight was sublime solitude and shade and space for easy contemplation - a podcast on theoretical physics' hapless potential to create an end of the world to keep me company - the peregrines on the scene after being rather silent this past month - stone throwing teenage tourists and a positive conversation on the merits of manslaughter - a road trip begins tomorrow w/ the family and maybe a giant swim in crescent lake at the conclusion - there's marrow still in the bone of summer boys, and meat on it to spare as well 8/19 - day 18 - laps 36-40 for the rare Reverse Platinum Sombrero - a near week at the beach w/ the fam - a crossing of quinault and an epic lake crescent thing - barely a week left in summer 2019 i awoke wicked sore but set out east anyways - the stone near alone for the first 4 laps, but then dave n' steve where there n' we cackled our way upwards together alone to mushroom ledge n' some serious meditation 8/24 - day 19 - laps 41, 42 n' 43 meant it was a douglas adams day (shamefully i must admit i forget my towel, but proudly i can say i did not panic) - 3 days in the alpine lakes wilderness didn't beat me down enough i guess, 'cuz the girl-child asked to get carted out to skamania for the afternoon to cavort w/ her polish friends and i rallied to run laps while letting her have her what-have-you - summer is doomed and so are you 8/25 - day 20 - laps 44-45 - 11 CBIs n' 13 runs (new stats, to keep things fun n' make a game of the mundane - every meat-popsicle lapped is a Climber Batted In - runs are laps plus CBIs - good lord, the record couldn't be higher than 50 runs in a day could it?) - the coast guard earns its gold from yuppie scum along the banks of the rude columbia - nastia n' her main-squeeze set to scramble up blown-out in the blistering shade under the heavy hail of tourist stone, our beers n' smokes n' smalltalk cut savage short - the experiment to substitute a cordelette in lieu of a bolted anchor at the top an abject failure within 24 hours, though kinda an apollo 13 one since i got the cord returned as requested - 2 cruiser laps in the autumnally-building breeze with the crowds abounding, summer's done been set on a goddamn gibbet 8/26 - blackjack day - laps 46-7 make me prime again - 4 CBIs for 6 runs - a soft slumber ended in the gentlest fashion - the damned dentist - the dmv denied - summer slams into the brickwall while i straighten out the classroom - a big breeze builds as we stumble eastwards - the first lap looms into the time-traveler and his canadian dame, well over her head on the second pitch, so i stayed to help her suss out the sitch and sacrificed a hat trick - beers and the inevitable bullshiting - the world careens and carries us along in its endless crapulous fucking fashion 8/27 - summer beacon day double-deuce - laps 48-9 make me prime n' prone to wine - 96 degrees n' a big-breeze in the parking lot - the first day back to the what-have-you and the bullshite-factory appears to have been working overtime in my absence - cryptic runes n' rude cynosures, thank-fuck their clutches are so fleeting - a lap alone in the wild wind, and then another, all to seek and find the freek 8/28 - day 23, laps 50-51 - another hot day, minus the breeze - the mechanisms continue to rumble up to speed on the work machine, the corporate speak as thick as cancer but only half as deadly - hit beacon in a hurry w/ familialial functions to attend to in the soon-time - 26 minutes car to car on the first lap, but a bit more mellow on the second - a curtailed conversation on retro-bolting an anchor on the corner down in the parking lot, sadly one that seems to have concluded with them deciding to add yet another scar to the recently patched rock in question - i guess we'll see if they go through with it... - lovely thai dinner after back-to-school night at least and so it goes and goes 8/29 - day 24, laps 52-53 - awoke to the crack of thunder and the cold iron sound of roiling rain in the early hours - such wondrous slumber in a dry place, the wicked world just an open window away - the final pre-season day before the Big Show, the crest of bullshit surmounted and now we ride the flood tide to a preternatural future, knowing what is to come merely from a fleeting look back - work over, i walked out the door to doom-streaked clouds and rain but bounded east on enthusiasm alone, sure that the universe intended me to climb today or never again at all and not caring which it was to be - the deep funk of strange humidity on the trail down - mama deer and baby deer surprised me at close quarters on the trail and gave me a sudden sharp stab of quicksilver-fear, a sensation too rarely felt in this saccharine world where tomorrow is always assured and death is a landlord easily dispensed with - new friends re-encountered on the warrior path, lovely souls i'll never see again and that's a shame - ruminations atop the ridgeline, soaked in sweat and soon to get heading west, tower-bound yet pleasantly besotted with the present...surely someday this will all make sense? 8/30 - 7 days in a row at the fabulous beacon-wand summer-sweet spot makes it 25 total so far - corner laps 54-56, plus 11 CBIs for 14 runs on the day, the greatest since gestating the concept - the final friday before the big plunge - easy rising - dishes n' breakfast - the grey-gloom of many summer mornings that inevitably yields to glory soon after noon - adam's afterwards in the shade and breeze was total bliss - felt a bit frazzled n' forlorn before the end of the laps really, maybe a sign i need to sit my ass down for a few days, which would make some sorta sense i reckon given i can't remember a day i devoted to just lying around for a long while - that said it's a tower rock approach n' set-up tomorrow w/ a huge sunday afterwards, so maybe labor day will equal its lamentations and i'll rest then? 9/3 - day 26 - 1 lap (#57), 2 CBIs - opening day of the 19-20 campaign, the 22nd of my career - old enough now that i'm teaching my daughter's friends, apparently she talks to them so i can actually find out some things about her from them - only time for one lap before fetching the boy-child from crewing out there on the big lake - for the best really, i'm wicked whooped still from the trial of tower rock 9/4 - day 27 - lap 58 n' 2 CBIs -bill n' ujhan n' the prodigal-son-come-home adam in the parking lot - bill scooped up my dropped hook from tower rock's base yesterday along w/ plenty of other debris left over from my fellow floggers, yet he nay managed to bring it with him (no matter, we know he's good for it) - chris b' n company coming down from the party ledge, near the 2 year anniversary i reckon since i first made his acquaintance, busted badly at the base w/ nastia in the soon-time after the big burn had scorched damn near everything in site - shoulda stuffed in one more lap for sure, but its early school season still and it takes the zap oughta me working for the man, so i slunk back home for salmon n' spades w/ the fam n' an early turn-in 9/6 - day 28 - laps 59-60, plus 6 CBI's for 8 runs - with 6 prime-bacon-wedder-weeks to go, i'm plumb astride last year's all-time record w/ nothing to hold me back but random rain n' the rude restrictions of this love-shackled life - end of a week left me blinking n' bruised n' senselessly tired, thus the start of a third too terrible to comprehend, so home i crawled n' passed out in the midst of pizza n' bill maher, wine-cup perched on chest - clearly this world needs a li'l leg room 9/7 - day 29 (5 CBIs for 6 runs) - roger morris reclamation day w/ lap 61 i say, my personal best n' for all i can imagine beacon's too, at least for a single year of solo laps - on the horn early w/ adam but we thought it fucked yet somehow separately we crawled to the wall n' didn't say shit when we saw each other, me 'specially w/ only a few minutes of fucking-around time cooked into the cookie - a three-some at tree ledge, the poor sheila below certain she had to do the hard-core-headwall - kincaid n' norman n' the normal nattering high above the hills, me nut-booby n' stupid - could it be that this is it for the simple set? 9/12 - day 30 - laps 62-63 n' 11 CBIs for 13 runs - the soon-come cloud-bursts of baleful fall crashed down last sunday, tornadoes sweeping the neighbors with their gin n' juice to the middle of the street to natter over armageddon on the wing - 2 days of swimming for my daily-fun 'cuz ducks don't care if its damp out, but it just ain't the same, my soul shackled a wee bit to the corpse of coming winter - a sudden return to summer this morning though revivified my resolutions and at 330 out the door i went - the one-true-kevbone n' arent on the warrior - steve on my tail a few minutes behind, sounds like he lassoed himself a solo golden sombrero today, not too often i get out-cornered... a whole herd of folks suddenly come tree ledge, i cruised on through though on a ninja-mission to score another lap n' bounce back right quick to fetch the crewing feller from lake vancouver's teeming shore - the cherry on top the new-finangled high-tech contraption i plucked from the most obscure of places - my biiiiirthday prezent came early this year near-harvest-time-full-moon friday 13, day 31 - hops 64-65 - 6 CBIs for 8 runs, so sad... - 5% of the year in the can we crawl up n' encounter such lovely things - adam n' steve rooting around on rookie nookie - herds higher up - the sigh of september sidling away with wind n' cloud 9/14 - beacon day 32 since the summer broke open - a Big Day - laps 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72 (respectively referred to as the single, double, hat trick, reverse golden sombrero, reverse platinum sombrero, farmer's daughter, and El Cap laps - next will be the shelob's sugar-titties, the nirvana of nazguls, the elizabeth hurley and then the alexandra daddario - after that might need to go back to the well for some creativity, but i've found the increasing adlemindness that accompanies each lap is wicked good in that regard) - unconscious by nine the night before, i still didn't manage to rouse out at 4 a.m. like i'd thunk of a few weeks earlier before the weather got all weird, but woke instead w/ the first twinges of a back-to-school head-cold at 7 and settled for bacon n' eggs n' coffee n' kombucha n' rewatching the bill maher i'd slumbered through earlier, yet somehow still remembered the odd line of - beacon by 10 though, and 8:59:37 later completed the 7th lap, putting me just one shy of tying barry bonds record (sure, he was on the juice, but i doubt i'd pass muster w/ the ioc either at the moment, so will say no more on the matter n' just motor on through 2 more laps n' claim the record fair n' square ) - a kaleidoscope of climbers, some nimble, some not, some titillating, some hawt - 37 (!) cbi's, for a total of 44(!) runs on the day - coulda squeezed more in for certain but spent a few hours sucking down cervezas n' nattering n' guffawing with ole adam keller, a goddamn old man now n' camas grad from the year five, when the world was young n' my gut was tighter...thinking there's at least one more big day left in me before this season siddles over the hill n' my body fails me and out goes the will 9/21 - the Elizabeth Hurley sequence - 33rd outing since i sauntered back from carefree-cali a short-summer ago - laps 73-82 (hoooooleeeee shiiiite-muslims batman, the century-mark ain't inconceivable) - my most laps in a day (n' seasonal record for sure), but still 2 shy of pink's legendary send in the by-gone days of yore (plus we hear-tell from jimbo at a remove of some feller named george back in the eon of lbj n' nixon doing more than that firfuksake) - 11:00:26 car to final top-out, a fine clip i feel - did the Farmer's Daughter all alone, then steve lashed me along for the final 4 (through the el cap, sheelob's sugar-titties, nirvana of nazgul n' aforementioned ms. hurley laps respectively) - early to bed after still plenty of wine the night before, still a hunk of hang-over at 4:30 when the siren called - snooze-tag until 5 then up soon thereafter to make the bacon n' eggs n' tea n' coffee n' avocado toast n' berry bowl to see us through most of the what-have-you - a 99% ying n' just 1% yang day but that fatal percent of darkness came early on when at 7:25 a.m., a few feet shy of the railing of uprising, i felt an electric pain permeating my dawn-addled senses n' looked down n' saw the yellow jacket furiously pumping his poison packet into the tender meat of my poor perspiring calf - nonplussed, i accepted ma-nature's censure at having eschewed the original finish n' proceeded well-advised thereafter - at least 2 laps left in my tank afterwards n' the daylight too but i left-them unaccomplished, the alexandra daddario fo'shiz plus the as-yet unnamed #12 - adams n' some fire-side chats w/ dave but then slunk back west for chicken n' wine n' devil-sunday - the most-appropriate conclusion, morphine's "do not go quietly" to quell my swole-tide sense of manliness 9/24 - day 34, lap 83 - the century mark heaves increasingly into view even as fell fall hies upon the land with its long shadows and its hint of impending death - a frustrating season what with ever accumulating meetings for this that and the other thing, our tps reports all ahoo it would appear - rain for days after the elizabeth hurley what-have-you on saturday, the trail down a sodden mess, me skating on the smooth soles of my crocs, clutching at brush n' carving the mud to keep upright - the rock just dry enough to allay concerns as i cast off in the half-dark of dusk after whiling away the late afternoon in fruitless house-hunting w/ the fam - all alone, not a soul on either side of the stone, just a cursed will tempered by the wind and whimper of the ebb-tide out on the dank columbia 9/25 - day 35, lap 84 - back to school night beyotch - with little leeway for screwing around, sizzled out east at sub-sonic speeds just as soon as the life could be mercilessly squeezed out of the final meeting of the afternoon - jim's old beater in the parking lot and i was crazy-bummed to realize i had exactly zero time for small talk w/ that scion of scoundrels n' sleazebags - him n' steve halfway down the trail n' a micro-holy-hell-and-howz-it-hanging-gold-olde-bullshit and then it was go-go-go - the stone alone i soared along like i had a social disease and soon enough began my dizzying descent - back in time for pizza and the dog-n-pony show for my wonderous patrons - 16 laps to immortality, it may just materialize? 9/28 - day 36, a slippery, sodden saturday hat-trick takes us to 87 laps on the season - the most disturbing of pre-dawn derangements, me awakening to a dream within a dream, a serpent-tongued seraph square above my head, trident in hand, threatening death - in horror i screamed "i'm julius caesar, goddammit!" and, seizing his hay-fork from his childish hands, i stabbed him bodily through and through, again and again, but die he would not, despite his demented and cruel cries to the contrary - mostly assured it was a dream, i set his bloody corpse in a car-seat and retired into the overlook hotel to boulder around the lobby, dimly aware of his mother's sudden intrusion, oddly aware this delusion insisted it must persist and just-maybe holy-jeebus it was for real? opening my eyes i felt a shower was down-right in order and was strongly afeared it would bathe me in blood at the twist of the handle - that done with, i dispatched the school chores with coffee and kombucha by noon as the beacon-stone sizzled off the damp of days gone by - after 2 i sidled out east as a huge storm-cell to the south knocked the hell out of town in my absence - the street soaked with rain and a vast greyness to the north, beacon seemed a complete waste of time, a sense doubly-reinforced as i entered the parking lot to pregnant drops of sky -dew going pitter-patter upon the window - nearly ate shit on the trail to the base, passing steve-o running right-quick back up - alone, despite all signs to the contrary, the way seemed clear, so into the cloud-murk i ascended - 1 lap, then 2, then, with a storm assured in seconds, i raced up the third as wind and water began to wrack the wall with me still well below the railing - hell didn't want me and heaven was full, so with that firmly in mind i walked back down n' boogied n' boondoggled my way to adam's to jam with him n' dave n' steve n' suss over the awful options still ahead of us in the damp days to come 9/30 - day 37, laps 88-90 (the pvt ryan's ruination, fight the power, and winston churchill memorial laps respectively) - the last day of september much like the first day of december - 50 degrees in the sun and a searching, probing, penetrating breeze rendering needless small-talk improbable - steve n' dave dithering at the base, disinterested in embracing the full energy of a late-fall feeling ascent -the first lap of the year in pants and hoodie, but no socks nor hobo-gloves necessary yet, so it's still the kinda casual season - the second lap improved by the addition of the thickest hat the floorboards of the government mule could procure - dave managed to muster his mojo after stepping out to fetch beers at skamania mart n' launched up his own lap as i nattered w/ steve in the parking lot, eventually parting ways to wobble my way up number three and the promise of cerveza in the cruel wind on ivan's ledge - the long shadows of fall laid all the way to bonneville, the beacon-wand gone ripe with age and the lazy sun - home in the dark, monday mostly debunked and september too... 10/1 - day 38, lap 91- infernal busy day, dilemmas w/o end - i'm afraid i may have spit the professional bit already and awful early in the season - it's also always just possible its fucking tuesday; when i'm dictator, it will be one of several things taken out and shot w/o discussion on day one - another breezy and shady afternoon, but nicer than yday -- steve n' dave becoming a rather regular crew - some older fellow in the parking lot talking about soloing the corner after not climbing anything in 8 years, and in his street shoes no less - didn't amount to nothing though 10/2 - on day 39 the phil collins' triptych takes us to 94 laps on the season - a gunmetal sky settles cold upon the stone, but somehow it was still a good deal warmer than that brisk monday when a jacket and a hat were true necessities - 8 climbers batted in - the barges now freed from behind their concrete pens, down the columbia they go barrelling with the produce of our bursting hinterlands - a deep funk and gloom pervaded the zeitgeist, but then dave put in an appearance in the parking lot to wax philosophic and demonstrate his award-winning dance movies, with soon to be in zoot-suits too was the rumor, all good indeed when gestated over a can of gratis beer - 10 laps in 5 days, the augurs are grand for blazing past the century mark this coming weekend when the wedder forecast portends we'll be able to give the pillars of heaven a hella-good shake 10/4 - day 40 - the bill gates n' scott fischer memorial laps push us to 96 on the season - startled on a stormy friday, i set one foot out my trailer n' suddenly realized there was only one place for a sleazeball like meself, n' that was eerily out east - the great nick boam by the door of the dirty-dirty n' me too shit-gripped to make decent conversation - sorry i was oughta sorts old-boy, steve says the sweet-home boulders just a few miles east are better for you? the first lap was silly enough, but then it was dave n' conversational delights n' steve n' i were back for lap 2, expecting him to come along - lap 2 and it grew dark and rainy and suddenly it was uprising or death, the rain pounding and its intentions clear - dave by the trail, under the overhangs we handled the storm, steve sidling off in the end - then it was daves n' me nearly getting fucking shot at doug's, me dangerously deranged and disoriented in the fog and storm - disco at the no-bo, morphine mo'like, but there's no putting a name to delights like that - bounding back in the dark all cock-eyed to fetch the boy in camas, then the friday-friday fantasy 10/5 - day 41 - a reverse titanium sombrero encompassing laps 97-101 (the scott bedford, thomas jefferson and unpronounceable symbol's memorial laps respectively, plus the BEN FRANKLIN and SCREAMING EAGLE laps to carry us into 3-digit country, ladies and very bored gentlemen) - last night was a mind-bender deluxe and so i awoke at dawn with the stink of derangement heavy on my heathen senses - bacon n' hateful coffee - the streets still soaked by the dregs of last night great deluge, but promising enough given the gracious forecast for the next few days - beacon-ways we crawl, my mind chewing on the words of "rope on fire" over and endlessly over to the point i thought i might have to pull over and do SOMETHING to make it All Go Away - adam's and its still plenty wet out with plenty of clouds - steve then his buddy stan - coffee and collusion - the trail to the base the most consistently sketchy part of the whole - lap upon lap and the day just grew and grew more fulsome, the crowds endlessly flittering by (33 cbi's, 38 runs) - flat light goes to long shadows and meaning creeps into the season as the sinews tire and flesh slowly tears upon the textured stone - dave joins up on the last one and the circle is closed then broken to the tune of "cuntry boner" thanks to the long-ago received wisdom of lost-cam-kenny 10/6 - the douglas adams' day and a reverse golden-sombrero sunday-sunday-sunday takes it to 105 (24 cbi's or something in that neighborhood if my nattered senses were shot) - thai the night before n' walmart after 9 to get well and truly centered w/ the meth-heads all around-us - aslumber at midnight atop the couch and after 6 slinked upstairs for the top-shelf sleep, man it was sweet on both ends - a day of laps n' laffs n' being nutty all alone - dave drove it along on the back end n' we traded wine bottles n' rainier beers to seal the deal - ben n' asher n' geoff on the warrior in the blistering wind - the world can't end soon enough 10/7 -day 43, laps 106-7 - 4 cbi's - an eerie evening, limp air, windless and quiet, the park almost entirely empty after the weekend crowds - clouds creep along the gorge walls - the trains slowly chug by the columbia's shores, the river this side of pierce island so low its reduced to a stagnant swamp - rain upon the way, thank dog, i'm sore n' whooped and could use a good lie down for a couple days... 10/9 - day 44, lap 108-9 - fall moves further and subdues the fervor of the season that preceded it - wicked work until the sun was perilously low in the western sky but undeterred shot east-wards w/o question once the querulousness of tomorrow was at least clearly defined - dave post dump n' prior to my own, once in sequence we shuffled down the still sodden trail and achieved the base in the brisk yet damp air - a first lap by the long way we felt another in order, and soon enough it was 2, a couple copper-ales to cement it all - groceries on the gambol home n' soon enough it'll be tomorrow and the three day what-have-you 10/10 - day 45, lap 110 - the poo-dragon strikes back - i dearly detest a fecaphile, so say wave off if you're of the same sentiment and read no further - no time to spare, scooped up the boy-child at school and shot out west to lake vancouver n' then turned my head t'other direction, pounding down amber ale n' changing into my war-gear as the wind beat ever greater upon the windshield - not a second to spare w/o leaving my progeny in limbo, i hit the lot with clear purpose upon my mind, dressed and ready to set out - still, something weren't right on my southern-end, and with the bitter-memory of getting way-laid by the poop-demon on the trail down in the past, i sprinted privy-wise to dispense meself of that ignominious necessity - i'll spare ye the details, but 10 minutes later i was mostly naked and afraid and goddamned if i weren't gonna make the lap happen despite the worst a shit-devil might distress me with - in turgid winds and already desperately late, i surged skywards alone and don't remember a damn bit other than off-colored blood splotches all over the place come the top of pitch 2 - mostly went well from there on out, w/ a solid birthday snitzel to settle my belly on the other side 10/14 - day 46, laps 111-112 - 3 days at smiff for a mega-dose of nostalgia with big-name old cc.raytards out in the frosty coyote den of skull-fuck-me hollow - abraxas with ben and unholy hordes of sport-climbers and their babies, dogs, drones, etc at the base of the monument, us poised up the wall dumb-founded by just what a decade of progress has done to a place that used to be worth the long drive - i got the tombstone crack lead as evening loomed large and the clouds came in portending a late night downpour - a crowd by the fire n' a fire-sale on cut-rate pork, layton n' britne n' chief apparently deprived of power back home so pushing their once-frozen meats on everybody in sight - talk of bygone days and nostalgia it's been said is the thief of joy so enjoy it judiciously when you dabble - the full shit-show sunday and in the end all i really wanted was to see the place in the rearview mirror n' binge on burgundy n' bullshit w/ ben - a deadline for grade conferences bright and early monday morning meant a good bit of misery upon returning home but it got managed - the day dispensed, a pair of corner laps in the shade was my salvation before coffeeing up to make the long crawl back to catch the tail end of crew practice... 10/15 - day 47, laps 113-114 - limpid air, dull breeze, the gorge heavy with a big long soak coming in by midnight - an indifferent hour, this place don't give a fuck and never will, but sweet jeebus, they could at least keep the bathroom from seeping into the crick, right? the first pitch a lady-bug obstacle course these past 2 days - crazy bad karma if you squish one of those beeches, but the stink bugs on pitch 2 are more of a mind-fuck - blending in well w/ the grey stone, they do nothing till they sense you're near, then play dead, falling ballistically downwards from wherever they're perched softly upon you, potentially making a lesser man squeal like a baby despite their innocuousness and just let go out of simple stupidness - dave in the lot after the first lap but his mojo done took a downturn after a few too many nights flying close to that blackhole sun and he eschewed the invite to accompany me on the 2nd - contemplated a third but the long shadows and the promise of free coffee at the skamania mart if i hurried n' brought my own cup called me home, so westwards i turned, tuning into the inanity of libturds tearing into each other on the debate stage to keep me awake along the way 10/24 - day 48, laps 115-16 - fall storms came in thick and it seemed that might be that for the season, the soul cut clean from the gibbering corpse n' life nothing more than work n' at best the weak-light of the leaning sun on the way to the gym through the cloud-scum n' drizzling rain - no time to dilly-dally w/ middle school sheenagins to witness in 2 hours, i pounded down the proud highway out east n' binged n' purged w/ dave who met me up high in the sky w/ a shame-beer before jogging down to do it all again - perfect conditions really, cool and dry enough, the trail covered in leaves so not so slippery - the goldfish bowl of the columbia gilt with the glory of the dying sun st. crispin's day! beacon day 49, lap 117 - old men may forget but all may be forgotten yet he will remember with advantages what feats he did this day! several days of pure late fall sun crisped away the dew and allowed 2 laps yesterday, yet this morning showed heavy overcast and a threat of rain - 5th period on the front porch and all seemed well, but by end of school the rain had come and all was wet and woebegone - heedless, i hurried east - the danes favored battle-luck above all, but a near second was weather-luck w/ woman-luck hard upon its heels, and today we had them all in spades - grey cloud all upon hamilton and the rock wet to the touch, with no reason not to i sauntered down the trail to see what's-what - slippery for sure i grew in confidence until hitting the base i saw 5 shiny CBI's ahead of me, filling my senses with courage - the dart through, the dancing among many cords promising safety for their owners but none for me, i heaved myself onto tree ledge finally alone and savored the fruits of fall - the jesus elk upon their watery walk - whitecaps upon the columbia channel but largely calm upon my face, i sat a spell n' supped it up before heading west to wring what's to have from the weekend ahead... 10/26 - day 50, laps 118-123 (the proverbial farmer's daughter i declare) - we're prime again, and something about 123 just rolls off the brain n' cries to run n' play away - abed by 10, but made it to an actual bed i did, and that's worth mentioning - strange dreams, sordid things, i do not like them sam-i-am - up at dawn for a bit of bill maher n' bacon n' toast n' coffee, then pounding down the proud highway - beacon by 9, the touron-tide already waxing large, i let loose alone for lap 1, the place to meself - 5 more over the hours to come and memory fails me now - jarred jackman tried to kill me with a biner but i collected it up n' passed it on w/ a smile cool as cucumbers - pouring rain suddenly on lap 2, the end of pitch 2 as gripping as anything i can remember in some time (can death come for you at 10:22 on a saturday morning? doesn't he get days off too?) - self-regulating at the car w/ berries n' tea n' what-not, the magic beans goddamn well know what to do and so my mind grows n' grows - what's the mother-fucking-frequency kenny put in an appearance, and with a mighty fine sheila too, and ain't that a fine how-ya-do? dave came along for the final lap and the sky grew purple n' thunderous as we perspirated our way upwards, pausing for brew at the usual places, descending finally in a downpour of hail and weather-hate - cut loose from the purely-personal, i beat my way west-wards for dinner w/ the folks under the golden rainbows that gilded the heavens all around, inspired by the tunes of long-dead nations to keep counting the miles even onto my surprising demise - "there is nothing more rotten, despicable and demented than a man deep in the throes of a Beacon-binge..." - fuck, mark it 123, Dude, next frame 10/29 - day 51, lap 124 - howling winds haunt my day, my heathen-soul shackled to the hate-waves of late - how do we stay atop them and why? 42 degrees and 40 mph in the deep shade of the parking lot, this i suppose is what all that training was for in the not so distant days of yore - first lap this season in socks and gloves, plus 3 layers of hat and hood, my eyes screwed down to a port-lid of 12 inches, my vision no longer needed, my starfish-like fingers and toes independent things, creeping and crawling over the cold-scorched stone to seek and secure their ancestral holds - 15 short wind-shrieked minutes of fall terror, the full sequence utterly alone, Death dancing over my shoulder and patient he'll eventually get to come along and do His show 10/31 - day 52, laps 125-6 - two sordid ascents on samhain before zombieland w/ the wife-bot, then fetch-n-carry for the boy-childe - 'twas a sin to do something so simple after the scorching cold of the clamber just two days earlier... 11/1 - all saint's day was #53 n' yielded laps 127-8 - a resplendent school day spent trying to reign in the inner zeal - successful at school-break i sizzled out east to eat of the world eclectic - a lap alone, 2 terrified cbi's claimed as sinners in the eye of the wicked wind - dave came along for the second and lord did we wax large - the gnu-ledge in a stiff breeze but beers were suckled as the sky grew gaunt - the parking lot in the dark and god damn that was some good times, gesticulating over the godawful truths we've all been transfixed by - camas-wise i wicked up the boy-childe n' commercial-grade pizza n' so was friday way-laid 11/2 - dia de los muertos, no? day 54, a golden sombrero means laps 129-132, plus a nice n' even 20 cbi's - awoke on the couch after a delightful friday night, intent on wandering upstairs to sleep in the soft bed for a few more hours, but soon saw it was 630 a.m. so settled for early coffee n' a good-old-fashioned fry-up - a cold, frosty morn, but we've managed still not to turn on the heat so i cooked in my climbing clothes n' hat from the evening afore - beacon after 10 as i put some kahlua in the coffee n' couldn't get to caring until it had run it's course - brilliant sun n' still plenty of wind, so the first few laps were limpid, freezy kind of things, me feeling all fluish, sweating n' freezing simultaneously but mostly secure in the sense it was all just a waking dream - did i see a condor? sure as hell looked like one...- many faces, many races, the trail down in particular a kaleidoscope of the multitudinous peoples that rim round the curious pacific - music alphabetically by song title, we crushed t through u n' only a few were fear-inducing in their not-so-subtle import - crowds kept dave from joining me on number 4 but i noodled along alone past 8 others and then in short order was living the dream w/ adam n' claire around a big old cheerful bonfire - night claimed its hostage and soon i headed back for a gutful of ameri-aussie food and a grand sleep in anticipation of going back out again in the morning... 11/3 - day 55 of beacon wunderlust for fey 2019, laps 133-4 - devil-sunday dawned a tad delayed, dished as it were by equally diabolical-daylight-savings-time - churlish chores chock-o-block about us, i had just a sliver of time to pound out east while the chilluns did their demon d'n'd - balmy n' nary a breath of wind, i was stripped down to my base just 50 feet off the ground, sweating like the proverbial pregnant nun n' loving it, the golden stone all to my own - the next lap and suddenly the crowds had convened their cloister and calamity was all at hand, but dauntless i donned my shoes n' shot up w/ hardly a word - 6 cbi's this time, i collided at its head w/ olde-ujahn n' company and a merry discourse mottled the next few hundred feet, whereupon i wagered the chances of passing once more through the cluster-fuck and arriving at the parking lot in time to get on home by the deadline was fuck-all - ostracized by noon then i noodled on off west into the quickly setting sun n' dispensed with the displeantries that i imagine are killing us all quietly, whether we care to notice or not...now is not the time for melancholy though, moreover given it's a fine week of weather laid out before us and domestic n' professional duties are not too ponderously piled upon us - certainly 150 laps by december 31 is no fucking febrile delusion? 11/4 - day 56, laps 135-6 - the sun just a few fingers above the horizon in the windless parking lot and a balmy 50 degrees when i rolled in near the 420 hour - not a soul on the stone - slipped a bit at the penitent man's position and felt awful alive for half a second - the sun slipped under the horizon as i beat feet down the trail, but with an hour still to kill before fetching the boy i figured why not do the first head-lamp assisted lap of the year by the light of the waxing half-moon - with the bats for company and the centipedes too i felt my way up slowly into the sky, then satisfied beyond redemption shed my skin and was born again new guido fawkes got-got in the grisliest of fashions this day, poor lad - day 57, lap 137, our per-diem lap count in sharp decline but what can you do when it's solid cloud-murk n' the dregs of dusk at 430? an eerie-evening, worthy of rod serling - the air limp n' half-frozen, fogbanks lazily drifting eastwards, bringing the summit in and out of focus - parking lot to parking lot w/o encountering a soul, the pad down in near total darkness - dave n' a quick gavreent then coffee n' crawling back west to get the boys n' toast the unholy union of tacos n' trash night 11/6 - day 57, lap 138 - 7 days in a row and in this season a gift greater than most on offer i'd suppose - hump-day dispensed with and hell-humors at a full-roiling boil, i burst out through the bus-lot as the big cheeses churned their engines n' edged outwards toward the surging torrent of their highway exit - supplies acquired and the sun heeling hard upon the horizon, we bent space n' soon were upon a breezy parking lot bereft of tourists - dave said he'd be there soon-time so in that faint hope i threw in his beer and headed down alone - shade worthy of poor pluto i placed stinking shoes upon naked feet n' nuzzled up on to the teat of the mountain-mother, up into the perpetually receding and rather cruel cosmos that laid beyond - dark thick as sin i sat upon the gnu ledge n' howled at the half-moon until the man hisself was there and shenanigans ensued in the dead-light - not only am i annoyed at the shortcomings of my fellow man was the upshot of it all apparently, and with proverbial tears in my eyes we parted n' i tore west only to discover i'd been rather unreliable myself - to settle the whole thing once and not for all i salved my soul w/ scorching thai food n' sank into my soul-trench, afeared of the lessons i'd once again be taught in the morning 11/7 - beacon day 58, lap 139 - 8 days of serial ascents in a season notorious for nasty weather, my weather-luck waxes fat firfuksake - chris b n' company in the parking lot shy of 420, them fresh off blood, sweat n' smears on a tempestuous day - steve had attempted to scupper my quotidian compulsion with a sly bit of doomsday-saying as he scraped away on his pretty project but i shrugged his horned-words off (what else was i gonna do?) - winds to stamp us all to shreds he said, and at cape horn with 3 foot standing waves below and the car careening all about i was tempted to abandon meself to fickle-fate i must admit, but miles more and a calm came upon us and i shivered ever so slightly less at the portended storm afore me - mid-fifties and winds i could almost have outrun in the bye-gone days of yore greeted me in the lot, the sun six inches above the horizon, and that was good enough - nattering w/ steve in the gusty breeze at the base and then it was off and alone, the golden light of the setting sun gilding the upper branches of the bending trees - a flawless ascent in sock n' shoes n' gloves n' good-on-you that care to crawl along here after me... 11/8 - day 59, laps 140-1 - 16 ascents in 9 straight days of late fall, fortune shines brightly upon this unworthy boy for sure - the annual veteran's day show, such a delight to share my stage w/ someone who doesn't draw the same dull stares each diem - the ritual complete i crept out east under the dying light but with dainty winds n' set upon my business - a lap alone but encountered an olde broken boy at the top to accompany me down the trail - jon stewart i think he's called and out of the game for some time it's true, the demands of fatherhood and fixing grating bones mighty big ones - the 2nd lap under headlamp from the start, my breath foggy in the dead air, the placement of each foot n' finger a deliberate art - dave's afterwards we cooked up a rare auold great bonfire n' binged n' purged n' howled at the full moon w/ the coyotes to yip n' yowl n' keep us all amused - a 3 day weekend of fair weather open i weep to think just how much higher we can creep this rare record over... 11/9 - day 60, laps 142-143, 2 CBIs - not the saturday i'd settled on, but somehow it turned out alright - up at daybreak to finish the bill maher i'd passed out on halfway through the previous evening over bacon n' the all-mighty avocado toast - the plan to turn laps until near evening and then fetch my mentee - left the house under serious rain but it tempered by camas and faded away, the sky still deep gray and unpromising - the incorrigible bill coe n' company in the parking lot having completed lap 1, we headed down together to the base - kudos to those 2, as we started up simultaneously but they managed to top out before i could lap them, despite not dicking around more than a few minutes to top off on kombucha in the ride after lap 1 - sodden w/ sweat, i settled for sitting atop uprising alone n' sucking on that sweet, sweet temptation while looking around at the unholy sky - minutes later the heavens opened and the climbing was clearly over - worked out okay as i had chores homewards to tend to, and ended up watching classic movies w/ the boy-childe as the sky boomed down upon us - i guess there's always tomorrow... 11/10 - day 61, laps 144-5, 22 CBIs - sunday like saturday, thanks to the vets - yesterday curtailed after 2 when the rain crashed down long through the evening, but that'd been dispensed by mad max w/ the boy-childe until after the daylight died and i'd volunteered for bed - today a newe day and after 9 i set east, through cloud and fog and no feeling of favor - cape horne was hideous fogclime and with no reason for hope i kept hying away and soon thereafter was high-camped n cloistered along the steaming stone - the first lap ended in horror and how can i make you comprehend it? slipping and sliding, i regressed to knocking along with my knees, but soon thereafter i was on top and shivering - a few hours of reading on patton planed away the protrusions and so i plied up a lazy second lap - that done, i returned west for a viewing of "dr sleep" w/ the family and afterwards headed off to bed thinking there was something certain beyond tomorrow 11/11 - day 62, lap 146, 9 CBI - 12 straight days of beacon and i'm ready for a break, my knees bruised and achy, my spirit a bit done with stuffing fear down into the back part of the brain - one lap in the howling wind, hemmed in by crowds - the 2nd pitch in a wicked goofy state - sat up top and listened to the sky screeching by and felt fine with calling it good, reading a bit in the parking lot before fetching the boy and watching "midway," which i found a tad disappointing - guess there's no getting one over on the old charlton heston classic... 11/13 - day 63, lap 147 - after-work laps are on the knife's edge of no longer being a thing, the sun just a degree or two above the road once arrived - the drive a conundrum of trying not to get kilt whilst simultaneously going from work to climbing kit at sixty miles per hour, set to burst from the car within twenty seconds of arrival and claim the checkered flag - the roar of the sky edging in side-ways from the east as i gallump down the slippery trail - yesterday was a godsend - nothing but rain and languid meetings all day, excuse enough to settle down and suck at the marrow of life after a straight-fortnight of surrendering to the she-devil that's consumed my senses of late - a spot of sun and wicked winds made the rock frosty but cool - at the shaded base at the proverbial 420 hour, sober by beacon standards and adorned in a motley array of jackets, hats, hoods n' gloves - less than a half hour later at the railing, the billowing sky to the west wondrous to behold and the wind a talking thing, though i don't know for the life of me what it's saying... 11/16 - day 64, laps 148-150 (250% of last year's distinguished take by dog n' a nice round milestone too if the season is to once and finally go south on us with 6 weeks left yet to go in this foul year of our lord, two-thousand-nineteen) - 8 CBI's - woke up with no expectations, the chances of climbing anything seemed sad and so i was satisfied with that, ready for a swim if it came to it - but fog yielded to cloud and sun and with the wulf-man desiring drop-off in camas come noon i figured why not natter off in an eastern direction and suss out the situation - puddles along the proud highway to be sure, but that's not a threat to most and come beacon it was pretty promising - the trail down to the base nice n' slickery yes, and a couple folks on the route too but none of the alarm bells of yesterweek went off and so it was simple enough to don shoes n' get going up, the dread of days gone by gaunt and grey, their perilous powers over me weak n' frail today thank kee-rist - three in total, the sun scampering off the face after two, the third done in the same style as the first of the season, just a man n' a mustache n' all alone - bill coe n' ryan n' a dog n' the olde yuck-yuck before #150, which was a pride n' joy - time enough for a golden sombrero, i set it aside instead for a quick trip to adam n' claire's for a cool blue fire n' a collective calling out of the crimes of guilty man - native american memorabilia fingered n' figured on - indian heaven sheenagins for the heathen summer to come contemplated upon by candle-light - booze and wetsuits seem to be key, but its a comfort to leave a healthy measure of juicy mystery upon the table and so we'll return to this come july - dave arrived just short of departure, diminished by his duties and somewhat dim - the long orbit back, but a delightful gut-full of grilled cheese n' ham n' pickles n' burgundy afterwards to perk us brightly back up n' set our face towards that sullen n' fell-tomorrow which must come shortly... 11/20 - day 65, laps 151-152 - sunday solid rain n' monday too, but tuesday was chilly-cloud fog all day and nothing more, slightly stirred by a light n' limp breeze - it all amounted to that awesome annual wormageddon, a holocaust of writhing nematodes all played out upon the hardtop of the morning parking lot, where every foolish footstep portends an unending stay in buddha hell - word came from the beacon-wand though that wednesday might support an assault, and so after a sun as strong as this time of year can afford and a piercing chill breeze to boot, i got all hot n' giddy n' bolted from work early enough to get a 2-spot before the sun went down - laps alone in the cool n' damp n' a sighing, surging wind - strangers emerged from messing around with iron maiden after dark n' dave stopped by for a chat as well - the dream don't die if'n you won't let it? 11/21 - day 66, lap 153 - november near done, thanksgiving grows great in the windscreen, all thoughts turn to turkey and the scent of the sea - how a sunny forecast forecludes rationality in my tortured mind - the promise of dry stone and something like the half-light of late evening enough to keep my motor running throughout the curious grind of my quotidian querulous cycle - the ass-end of an indian summer for sure, a sighing, gusty wind pushing mid-40s air around, drying the rock as much as could be hoped for, but the deep wet still set in, fat drops of run-off going plop-plop as i gasp and perspire under the great overhang n' stow my 3/4 gloves and gauge the breeze for the best moment to burst around the corner, 200 feet up in the sky and all alone in the coming darkness - my first jaunt up the final ridge since scaring myself silly a week ago, my head so covered in hats and hoods i couldn't look up and settled for just going slow - the car at late dusk and no need to leave for near an hour to fetch a child, still i couldn't summon the chutzpah for a second lap by headlamp and settled for reading n' noodling n' staring into the dark doom of the near-distance... 11/22 - day 67, lap 154 - streaming sun and not a hint of breeze dogged me through the day, drooling out the classroom windows - didn't feel like friday but it sure as hell was and so hair-on-fire i flung myself eastwards with the sun a handsbreadth above the horizon at the welcome bell - in the lot with the sun near dead, dave's ride was there already and so with a double-barrel of beers i beat my way down the dark trail to make his acquaintance up high in the sky - perfect conditions unlike what i've seen in weeks, i bounded up under thick shade on dry, windless stone - together at last we beat a bit further up then supped on cervezas n' regarded the long-set sunless sky over long tales and feckless fulminations - the lot achieved in the true-dark, we saw with glee a newsome couple rapping down stone soup by headlamp after the first couple pitches and nattered enthusiastic at them for awhile before wandering away to dither over elegies n' wax large at the coming of the one-last-weekend - 35 degrees by home, i scratched my head how best to salvage a 630 drop of for the girl-child at wrestling practice just a few hours away... 11/23 - day 68 - an el cap day takes me through laps 155-161 (plus an incredible 55 CBIs to make 62 runs for the day, records all, plus the single-lap total of 19, including bashful dave who abhorred the unholy crowd that clearly lay ahead on that veritable vertical sidewalk) - alas we do not end on a prime (7 X 23 - primes are poison to one another, as are far too many friends ) - mates, this day makes me sad, for how can it possibly be improved upon? late fall yet no wind and no damp, a perfect day for binging and purging and salvaging from the turd-mine of the last month all that is great in life - this is why we nibble at the shit-sandwich, to find the cherry center tucked away inside, no? - awoke before dawn to convey the daughter-child to her weigh-in n' insanely early wrestling practice, so beacon by sunup, equipped w/ pillow and sleeping bag and stove n' breakfast things in case they proved necessary - #155 a frosty one in the frozen dawn, alone before the august conditions ahead - wraiths by the waters edge on the second, my fears a forgotten thing, heading west with everything else - #157 the proud n' mighty Columbia made mild as a mill-pond - a change of outfit as my first clothes were wringing with sweat despite the sweet coolness of the air - #159 coffee and crude discourse with common-born Beatards - the glorious reverse platinum sombrero achievement unlocked, the day comes into crystal focus - noon past, we tuck into the knotty blond ales n' try not to let our eyes settle too long on the lovely lady who adornes the cans - #160 a farmer's daughter on a glorious fall day - it ain't fair life can be this easy, is it? by the proud light all about me a pride of sealions splash below my sunkist toes - #161 kincaid murray crawls up into the sky as i sit in shade, astounded by the 19 mother-fuckers i'd just passed through to achieve my little perch - dave goes bounding by the wrong way, but we rally atop the norseman n' natter n' drink small beer as the breeze builds up and the chill makes its presence known - this might well be the last Big Day of the season and if so i'll come before my Creator cruel-certain i gave it what i had and squeezed that sweet sponge of life damn near desert-dry - "leaving las vegas" the theme of the drive home, the lyrics frame it right: "such a muddy line between the things you want and the things you have to do" - baby, i'm leaving beatardia, and by-jove that's cool by me 12/30 - day 69 since summer broke (i was laaazy and untrustworthy before then but could safely say there were at least a dozen more days before july to contribute to the count) ended the year as i begun it, climbing the corner (with a rope no less!) with adam (though steve tucked along too at the last minute) - a wierd day that dawned just past midnight for a hood climb - drove alone to timberline to find fine conditions but a combination of lethargy, pouring sweat and painful new plastic boots did me in by the palmer's end and i noodled on back home for an hour nap before heading west to close out the annum on the object of my eternal affection - bald eagles and a grim sky, that kind of cold that, though above freezing, touches deeper than it should, the damp stone sending waves of woozy-doom through rubber soles and thick socks - land of the little people as the sun went away - a few beers with the boys after, then the orbit back through the true darkness of a winter evening - a shower revivified what was fast fading, and i managed a proletarian feed-bag at the olive garden w/ the fam n' a mandalorian episode before passing into blissful oblivion for nearly 10 hours under mounds of down, dreaming of prisons and failures at flying and arms manufacturing with the assistance of children - so long 2019 and the most amazing beacon season my bedraggled senses can recall

12/30 - day 69 since summer broke (i was laaazy and untrustworthy before then but could safely say there were at least a dozen more days before july to contribute to the count) ended the year as i begun it, climbing the corner (with a rope no less!) with adam (though steve tucked along too at the last minute) - a wierd day that dawned just past midnight for a hood climb - drove alone to timberline to find fine conditions but a combination of lethargy, pouring sweat and painful new plastic boots did me in by the palmer's end and i noodled on back home for an hour nap before heading west to close out the annum on the object of my eternal affection - bald eagles and a grim sky, that kind of cold that, though above freezing, touches deeper than it should, the damp stone sending waves of woozy-doom through rubber soles and thick socks - land of the little people as the sun went away - a few beers with the boys after, then the orbit back through the true darkness of a winter evening - a shower revivified what was fast fading, and i managed a proletarian feed-bag at the olive garden w/ the fam n' a mandalorian episode before passing into blissful oblivion for nearly 10 hours under mounds of down, dreaming of prisons and failures at flying and arms manufacturing with the assistance of children - so long 2019 and the most amazing beacon season my bedraggled senses can recall

i couldn't drink the amount of coffee necessary to do all this in a day...

high definition television

coy brits

asian toilets

one-size fits all santa hats

if only i were that kewl - sadly, this sodden time of year, like our cetacean cousins i must choose to wade deep into the water to waddle aimlessly about until spring is sprung

11/23 - day 68 - an el cap day takes me through laps 155-161 (plus an incredible 55 CBIs to make 62 runs for the day, records all, plus the single-lap total of 19, including bashful dave who abhorred the unholy crowd that clearly lay ahead on that veritable vertical sidewalk) - alas we do not end on a prime (7 X 23 - primes are poison to one another, as are far too many friends ) - mates, this day makes me sad, for how can it possibly be improved upon? late fall yet no wind and no damp, a perfect day for binging and purging and salvaging from the turd-mine of the last month all that is great in life - this is why we nibble at the shit-sandwich, to find the cherry center tucked away inside, no? - awoke before dawn to convey the daughter-child to her weigh-in n' insanely early wrestling practice, so beacon by sunup, equipped w/ pillow and sleeping bag and stove n' breakfast things in case they proved necessary - #155 a frosty one in the frozen dawn, alone before the august conditions ahead - wraiths by the waters edge on the second, my fears a forgotten thing, heading west with everything else - #157 the proud n' mighty Columbia made mild as a mill-pond - a change of outfit as my first clothes were wringing with sweat despite the sweet coolness of the air - #159 coffee and crude discourse with common-born Beatards - the glorious reverse platinum sombrero achievement unlocked, the day comes into crystal focus - noon past, we tuck into the knotty blond ales n' try not to let our eyes settle too long on the lovely lady who adornes the cans - #160 a farmer's daughter on a glorious fall day - it ain't fair life can be this easy, is it? by the proud light all about me a pride of sealions splash below my sunkist toes - #161 kincaid murray crawls up into the sky as i sit in shade, astounded by the 19 mother-fuckers i'd just passed through to achieve my little perch - dave goes bounding by the wrong way, but we rally atop the norseman n' natter n' drink small beer as the breeze builds up and the chill makes its presence known - this might well be the last Big Day of the season and if so i'll come before my Creator cruel-certain i gave it what i had and squeezed that sweet sponge of life damn near desert-dry - "leaving las vegas" the theme of the drive home, the lyrics frame it right: "such a muddy line between the things you want and the things you have to do" - baby, i'm leaving beatardia, and by-jove that's cool by me

11/22 - day 67, lap 154 - streaming sun and not a hint of breeze dogged me through the day, drooling out the classroom windows - didn't feel like friday but it sure as hell was and so hair-on-fire i flung myself eastwards with the sun a handsbreadth above the horizon at the welcome bell - in the lot with the sun near dead, dave's ride was there already and so with a double-barrel of beers i beat my way down the dark trail to make his acquaintance up high in the sky - perfect conditions unlike what i've seen in weeks, i bounded up under thick shade on dry, windless stone - together at last we beat a bit further up then supped on cervezas n' regarded the long-set sunless sky over long tales and feckless fulminations - the lot achieved in the true-dark, we saw with glee a newsome couple rapping down stone soup by headlamp after the first couple pitches and nattered enthusiastic at them for awhile before wandering away to dither over elegies n' wax large at the coming of the one-last-weekend - 35 degrees by home, i scratched my head how best to salvage a 630 drop of for the girl-child at wrestling practice just a few hours away...

11/21 - day 66, lap 153 - november near done, thanksgiving grows great in the windscreen, all thoughts turn to turkey and the scent of the sea - how a sunny forecast forecludes rationality in my tortured mind - the promise of dry stone and something like the half-light of late evening enough to keep my motor running throughout the curious grind of my quotidian querulous cycle - the ass-end of an indian summer for sure, a sighing, gusty wind pushing mid-40s air around, drying the rock as much as could be hoped for, but the deep wet still set in, fat drops of run-off going plop-plop as i gasp and perspire under the great overhang n' stow my 3/4 gloves and gauge the breeze for the best moment to burst around the corner, 200 feet up in the sky and all alone in the coming darkness - my first jaunt up the final ridge since scaring myself silly a week ago, my head so covered in hats and hoods i couldn't look up and settled for just going slow - the car at late dusk and no need to leave for near an hour to fetch a child, still i couldn't summon the chutzpah for a second lap by headlamp and settled for reading n' noodling n' staring into the dark doom of the near-distance...

11/20 - day 65, laps 151-152 - sunday solid rain n' monday too, but tuesday was chilly-cloud fog all day and nothing more, slightly stirred by a light n' limp breeze - it all amounted to that awesome annual wormageddon, a holocaust of writhing nematodes all played out upon the hardtop of the morning parking lot, where every foolish footstep portends an unending stay in buddha hell - word came from the beacon-wand though that wednesday might support an assault, and so after a sun as strong as this time of year can afford and a piercing chill breeze to boot, i got all hot n' giddy n' bolted from work early enough to get a 2-spot before the sun went down - laps alone in the cool n' damp n' a sighing, surging wind - strangers emerged from messing around with iron maiden after dark n' dave stopped by for a chat as well - the dream don't die if'n you won't let it?

11/16 - day 64, laps 148-150 (250% of last year's distinguished take by dog n' a nice round milestone too if the season is to once and finally go south on us with 6 weeks left yet to go in this foul year of our lord, two-thousand-nineteen) - 8 CBI's - woke up with no expectations, the chances of climbing anything seemed sad and so i was satisfied with that, ready for a swim if it came to it - but fog yielded to cloud and sun and with the wulf-man desiring drop-off in camas come noon i figured why not natter off in an eastern direction and suss out the situation - puddles along the proud highway to be sure, but that's not a threat to most and come beacon it was pretty promising - the trail down to the base nice n' slickery yes, and a couple folks on the route too but none of the alarm bells of yesterweek went off and so it was simple enough to don shoes n' get going up, the dread of days gone by gaunt and grey, their perilous powers over me weak n' frail today thank kee-rist - three in total, the sun scampering off the face after two, the third done in the same style as the first of the season, just a man n' a mustache n' all alone - bill coe n' ryan n' a dog n' the olde yuck-yuck before #150, which was a pride n' joy - time enough for a golden sombrero, i set it aside instead for a quick trip to adam n' claire's for a cool blue fire n' a collective calling out of the crimes of guilty man - native american memorabilia fingered n' figured on - indian heaven sheenagins for the heathen summer to come contemplated upon by candle-light - booze and wetsuits seem to be key, but its a comfort to leave a healthy measure of juicy mystery upon the table and so we'll return to this come july - dave arrived just short of departure, diminished by his duties and somewhat dim - the long orbit back, but a delightful gut-full of grilled cheese n' ham n' pickles n' burgundy afterwards to perk us brightly back up n' set our face towards that sullen n' fell-tomorrow which must come shortly...

11/13 - day 63, lap 147 - after-work laps are on the knife's edge of no longer being a thing, the sun just a degree or two above the road once arrived - the drive a conundrum of trying not to get kilt whilst simultaneously going from work to climbing kit at sixty miles per hour, set to burst from the car within twenty seconds of arrival and claim the checkered flag - the roar of the sky edging in side-ways from the east as i gallump down the slippery trail - yesterday was a godsend - nothing but rain and languid meetings all day, excuse enough to settle down and suck at the marrow of life after a straight-fortnight of surrendering to the she-devil that's consumed my senses of late - a spot of sun and wicked winds made the rock frosty but cool - at the shaded base at the proverbial 420 hour, sober by beacon standards and adorned in a motley array of jackets, hats, hoods n' gloves - less than a half hour later at the railing, the billowing sky to the west wondrous to behold and the wind a talking thing, though i don't know for the life of me what it's saying...

you boys killed it - all of us got a thick slice before da wedder gawds forked us...