ivan

makes sense if it's gonna be for hours - for a 30 minute hit-it-n-quit-it operation, overkill (those heater packs take forever to warm up anyway it seems...) - plus, the undignified maneuver of shoving my hands down my pants on occasion works just fine to keep shit at shoe level

beacon day 66 - 60 solo laps in a climbing season, a badge of a honor, a black mark of shame - that's 59 times I could have done something totally different I reckon- still, as Cock-a-Doodle Dave might say, Beacon is our cathedral so let's bow-bow our heads n' braaay - took some mental lashing to get started - 38 degrees and strong winds in the parking lot, just 5 minutes from sunset, the car rocking in the howling breeze as i struggled into long-johns n' down micro-puff n' 3/4 gloves n' hats - the stumble down the half-frozen trail to a godawful lonely base, the parked train like time itself, unmoving in the hateful half-light - lord, how I resisted - this excuse and that, and twice I started to walk away only for the shame to overwhelm me, the tyranny of seconds and self-loathing in the impending darkness - finally it was fuck-all and fuck-this and we're off, toes soon numb and fingers unfeeling on the dry, frost-burnt stone - near total mind fuck on the 2nd pitch, out of sequence and out of sorts as i approached the wind-tunnel around the corner above the 2nd crux - gloves off for the lie-back and it's a true-true wing n' a prayer- only the penitent man will pass and then all was done and i was alive and rocking back and forth below tree ledge, the railing just a home run trot away - fun and games from there, the trail down in the dark, then union meetings and the sordid details of this little life - my goal for the year was 40 laps, so i'm sated w/ what i've wrought, even if'n you are naught

beacon day 65 - solo corner lap 59 (and a reverse golden sombrero!) - a post-work, sullen, stormy, wind-wracked and dusky lap, the lines of "the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald" reverberating through my frost-blasted brain as I simultaneously freeze and sweat my way through each mortal move, swaying on my unsteady feet in the baffling breeze- the legend lives on, etc., etc. - the true black by the railing, the near full moon lording over everyone of us petty people no matter how we try, however audacious are our ambitions - in the final analysis we are all to be found wanting and suspect and with that we must make a frail peace

meth flavored popcorn = double-plus something good nobody owns road corn - thought of this exact tonight actually as i pondered on an unmoving coal train - seems like if the damn thing ain't moving, anybody who wants to get an ikea bag full oughta be able to

day 64 - lap 58 - heady november continues, a corner hat-trick in as many days, a rare, rare thing - d n' d w/ the fam n' friends in the morning after kahlua n' coffee w/ the parents - we kilt a dragon and it was cool - afterwards the couch called me dearly but the clear streaming sunlight through the southern windows was dissuasion enough against apathy n' day-drinking - the orbit out as dramatic a shift in scene as can be had this time of year as calm conditions deranged themselves relentlessly with every mile east, into the gullet of the columbia gorge, a full gale going by cape horn, which i couldn't see in any case as an r.v. appears to have barrelled into the forest near there and burnt to the waterline, closing the highway and clipping full-growth trees and i must imagine killing somebody or at least leaving them seriously mangled - beacon n' me intact alone at any rate soon thereafter and into the great gusts we leaned and stumbled down the trail, passing wind-battered climbers wending their way back home, full to the brim with cold and ready for casual beers in the calm not so very far away - yet another cluster-fuck on the slab pitch, but i crawled into my down jacket above the overhang and allowed it time to clear, sucking in the fall-flecked chilly scene and thinking deeply reverent thoughts - the 2nd 2nd crux always the same - the litany of fear - only the penitent man will pass, and so we do, only to sin again - had a huge head of steam to cruise down the trail and get a second slice to bring the record to 59, a solid prime # to hang a hat on, but got the text to tend to the daughter after closing up the macbeth production - already half way down the hiker's trail, i had half a thought to make her wait, but then pondered on the true-true lesson of that sad scotsman's lesson: beware ambition, and so i scuttled back...

day 63 - lap 57 - these heady halcyon days continue, tempered now by the crushing hurricane winds of november - eyes watering without end, streams of snot coursing down my breeze-battered nose n' shooting out into the cosmos, my skullie perpetually in peril of being snatched away and flung into the vortex that's setting west without delay - strangers upon the route, threatening to muck up my perfectly laid plan, but soon enough we were through and through and the ten-minute terror was over and i tumbled back to town...

day 62 - lap 56 - so slap my ass n' call me sally, the autumnal season, so long a sad sigh-sigh n' slow shuffle on towards fuck-all 'till summer, has persisted in a vernal fashion, and proudly so - thick, slobbering mist n' 40 degrees this mid-november morning, yet by afternoon it was go-go-go n' so i went galloping on down the glowing highway in my gleaming piece of japanese steel, crawling out of my civies into me war-gear at 70 mph to capitalize on every sodding second of this sad wounded time of year - the sun perilously low in the parking lot n' me having to pee like the proverbial race horse, i heaved out in 2 minutes flat n' pounded on up the rock in the 10 minutes i had before the shadows moved in n' precluded all of my petty fantasies - afterwards it was deja vu all over again n' kicking up bob's-a-dying at dear old adams w/ dave n' mason n' the man hisself, then fetching the daughter even as the evening died n' macbeth descended into his nightly grave anon

day 61 - a day w/ the devushka in the big, big breeze - we stuck to the west side as the boisterous breath of the bilious earth came blowing over from the east - a riot out on the columbia, the waves confused as they rebound from the close shore n' blast back through their angling brothers, resulting in a churning chop and a scene of pure marine delight - labyrinth n' many others too many for my un-nimble mind to remember - a bit of a bonfire at adams after, then home n' british baking shows

day 60 - laps 54-55 - high times in november continues w/ no notion of what's proper - adam's at ten after a good belly-sleep - i do 2 laps while geoff n' adam wrangle their way up cruising n' the corner - we wrestle w/ the west side soon thereafter - ain't got no record of me doing more corner laps never, so i'm gonna say it's the world record - still, no need for hubris, i figure the fella who really, really wants it could grab 400

day 59 - lap 53 - just 1 what-have-you between me n' my personal record and several days of clear weather to go so it's mine for the having unless i suddenly decide i don't give a shit - i'd be beside meself were it not for the fact that i'm by nature bemused by indifference - summit!....or....sleazy cheese?

day 58 - lap 52 - winter blew its wet horn for a few weeks but then took a hike w/o warning - the sun suddenly returned, cheer flooded into my sick soul through the school-house windows, but daylight savings ending left me No Time for Fucking Around when that last bell sounded - to beacon i bounded, arriving in an already shade besotted parking lot - more clothes upon than the last 51 laps for certain, but soon it was frantically rushing down the leaf-littered trail in the breezy impending darkness - dampness on the stone for sure, oozing weeps upon the rock in the bad spots, but enough for a hero to take comfort (this is, indeed, the payoff for all those vernal ambulations) - up, up n' up, never a thought of death through sudden falls - the joy of the route reset by nature, an assurance of the curious fact that the things of man are in fact only quite temporary - the gravel surging down the 4th class spots, the recently snapped branches all ahoo, the sense of a scene of nature prepared to in short order grow totally alone - the quaint glow that does indeed soothe and salve the soul...

titties. lots n' lots of titties

was reminiscing just today on how, 15 years ago today, i was preparing for a north face of hood ascent w/ you n' a gang of fools despite the fact the wife was pregnant and it was 20 degrees out in portland

it probably helped that i could well and truly give a shit about bolting debates

The Dude sees no reason to get all aggro - the trick to poking the bear is to do it w/ style, and to occasionally allow the fucker to have a suck on the liquor to See Beyond the Bullshit