ivan

8/6 - day 31 - hiroshima day, and only half as hot - not been climbing much of late after inexplicably mangling my shoulder while horsing around w/ the kids - gave it a test run w/ the great and powerful kenny on the mere corner - left some fine literature up on the ledge for all you fucking heathens to study on

seems like many folks climb mt jefferson this time of year too and it's just as cool as hood and not much further off

sunshine has no rockfall worries, but the upper shrund could make getting on cathedral ridge no me gusta

if you want to soak up the goodness of mt hood you could still do the 44 mile timberline trail that circumnavigates the mtn - you might still be able to squeak up the sunshine route on the n side of the mtn

come on now, the environment ain't gonna destroy itself

hate snuff-porn

pretty shitty time of year to climb hood - take a helmet fo'shizzle! if you can get up the sunshine then take it back down - sunshine, if hte upper 'shrund isn't blocking access to cathedral ridge, is probably you're best bet - the southside likely can still be done, but it'll be a shooting gallery

Trip: Mayhem in the Mountains - Miscellaneous Manglings Date: 8/1/2014 Trip Report: summer crawls sadly towards conclusion, but not without my annual aestival injury - stupid shit as always, went for a fun swim in the oneonta gorge w/ the wulf-man n' wifey and wrenched my left wing flinging my fool self into the big pool below the water-fall - took it out for a test-spin the day after at beacon to see if i could still make my alpine play-date w/ geoff for a few days later and ended up drinking beer n' smoking shit w/ jim at the base for an hour as it quickly became obvious the fuckign thing needed healing 3 days was all it got, but serendipity slid in on the back end - ole'nastia, the k-19 killer, rang my bell just 2 days before we were to leave, inquiring in the most random of coincidences if i might want to climb the exact objective geoff and i already had our eyes on: razorback ridge on mt stuart wonderful, really - the two XY members of the team each have a chaperon to chill the wives out on the possibility of being cuckolded, and should my shoulder send me packing after all that walking, geoff doesn't get skunked on his ascent the tragic trio meet at mi case round noon on thursday and we cast off, me drinking wine n' beer n' cider most of the way and having a gay olde-time - nastia w/ stories of her recent goode-gallivant, geoff on the speaker-phone w/ some folks who have problems far more fucked then anythign i ever hope to get near cle elum in the early evening, we gathered supplies, then i took the tiller to take us to the teenaway trailhead - the waxing gibbous moon goads us all to get packed up and gambol along to ingalls lake in preparation for our glorious adventure nastia near ready to leave the twain of us too phat-phucks in the dust as we ascend the endless uphill in ozzy-osbourne style my advocate and i didn't exactly set the world on fire on our walk up, but we were high as georgia pine and generally happy, so the miles melted away and i got all giddy holding forth on civics and such - eventually we rendezvoused w/ the ruskaya up at the pass and picked out a place to sleep for a few hours before renewing the assualt past 11, i noshed n' reclined in my bivy sack sans sleeping bag and contemplated the main-stay of my rations for the next 2 days - "it ain't neither rich nor rare" i heard some no-account nobody notice at some point we settled in for sleep and 5 hours quickly passed, geoff sawing away at the logs as i lazed on my wounded side, worryign away the high-whines of legions of mozzies swirling around my half-clad head and trying not to feel chilly w/ just a jacket for a blanket 445 and we're on the move, molested by millions of swamp-vampires who vouch-safe to get us to the station on time - the light grows and soon we're just below ingalls lake and there tragedy makes mirth for us all - the ruskaya is rushing forth, turning now and again to rouse us to greater speed, when suddenly she stumbles a bit and falls - no big deal, i figure, given the number of goddamn times i've eaten shit while innocently walking along without worry, but not so now - in falling her hand rakes along the stick she was using in place of a pole, and a protuberance in the wood rips a raged, ugly hole in her ruker blood squirts and sizzles on stone in the early morning sun and she goes down like a school-bus full of li'l shits into a deep, deep lake - didn't know whether to laugh or get seriously worried as she got all gray and seemed on the verge of fading away into the Great Nothingness we threw all the first-aid articles we had at her: pad, pillow, toilet-paper, tobacco - i offered to pour my precious whiskey on the wound but the look on her face worried me that that might have slightly contrarian conclusions so it was time for a dramatic reappraisal of the whole what-have-you - nastia not long for this world it felt, she sure as hell was out - my shoulder still a big question mark, and the start of the route still a great big long way off - seemed the responsible thing was to get her stationed by the shores of the lake, just a few hundred yards away, see how she panned out, and if she seemed promising enough to part from a few hours, we'd go off and climb ingalls peak we paused for a bit in the dawn light by the lake - mosquitoes by the mega-fuck-load laid seige to our stymied crew as each retreated into the sad shelter of their bivy-sack ingalls seemed an okay enough consolation prize for not being the one to get the chop - problem was of course geoff and i had no beta nor first inkling of where the dog route was - in hindsight, we shoulda just approached it as any other clue-less critter would, but nastia said she thought you both climbed and rapped down the right side, above a big obvious snowpatch seemed sensibly enough, and surely not hard to get at, so after a bit of a break to see how she would hold-up, we sauntered off rush-hour traffic round the lake, commuters passing in silent contemplation of the ruinous demands of their sad little lives so...long story short, yeah, we'd picked the rap line off the peak apparently to make our climb - looked sorta un-settling from just below but whatever, who doesn't like steep snow and scrambling up rude, shady, flour-pasted rock? in our innocence both of us felt ill-used - how could this be a classic, or even an easy-moderate for that matter? we mucked about for a good long while, trying this and that, and ultimately i got bitchy - this shit ain't no fun, and an endless number of sketchily perched blocks portended great doom in arguing w/ this abomination - we made an informed, democratic decision to have a smoke and scoot-down back at the lake the lady had time to keen her wound, swelter in the sun, and take in the local wild-life noon now, we set about re-considering our position - supplied to spend the night out, the million mozzies made it seem stupid and pointless now - even in the mid-day sun the savage insects invaded our senses - we said nothing for a while and went our seperate ways - geoff to bath in the gentle waters, nastia to nod off, me to swill cheap-whiskey and whip off the remainders of my white-trash cigarettes mid-afternoon it was time to ambule off - storm clouds wracked the horizon, and as we saw stuart begin to glow a horrid-purple, wreathed in growing ruin, i couldn't help but feel as if sexy-fate hadn't done us a solid - stuart might not have got shit on squarely that day but sweet-jesus we woulda been having a heart attack if we'd gotten on route that morning the walk out was quick enough, the boom of thunder and the rush of wind driving us forward - the far side of the pass and numerous legions passed us heading up into the hate - eventually we roll into the parking lot and sit around, me finishing off my sammy and sucking down the dregs of the whiskey so what next? no beta for nothing, and can't do no goddamn cc.retard trip-report w/o a coon-skin to nail to the wall, wouldn'tcha say? so i figured, why not guye peak? done it 2 times before, once in summer, once in winter, but not been back in quite a long time - surely i can remember how to do it just fine? got a big old bunch of hard cider to suck on in the alpental parking lot and we passed the evening in low-life style - saturday morning we lazed as the masses assembled for their mega-assault of das toof and whatever - i breakfasted on alcoholic apple-juice, crime-book and camels as the rest of the crew slept in - eventually they roused and supped and we set off, nastia at the helm as she hadn't driven a stick-shift since her savage days gone by in sweet mother russia, and we needed her to spare us a mile of road-walking geoff and i rambled up the talus-field, which jesus-fuck i'd forgotten how forlorn that thing was - couldnt' hardly stand still most of the way without settling down 10 more feet nearing the top of the talus, the thunder began to arrive awkward moments - what to do? storms seem to be assemblign - who wants to get thunder-fucked on a playground-peak where rapping off ain't all that straight-forward? we took in the hills, ate a late breakfasts and sucked down some of the good stuff - all day the skies would look like this, the threat of rain with storm-bands sauntering by- lighting not far away, yet each round mostly missing us, leaving just the odd drops and scent of fear - that evening we'd get it good n' proper though, mercifully once off the route the route was as i remembered - easy but edgy - not a lot of pro - blocky and chossy - the improbable traverse the money part, though scary for the second, 'specially with an anchor made of little more than angst geoff after the traverse the rest went well enough - mostly walking it seems with the occasional willy-nilly bit - on top by late afternoon, big rain in the making, we fled on fleet feet near guye-lake the shit we'd sallied around all day set in and it stormed long and loud and proud for the better part of an hour quite the descent trail, which i'd forgot - how forlorn to hike up that hateful thing, but down, down, down in the pouring rain was good enough - we tumbled out of the soaked bush as the booming went away and wandered into the parking lot final joy of push-starting a powerless rig robbed of juice by the russian who was jamming out to the radio all day, we roar off into the distance one last look at the lazy guye peak - how pleasing to have that vista in your back yard? here's hoping the season has one last un-sordid surprise for us

god i fucking hate dealing w/ the photo gallery - i processed a dozen pixs for uploading, and all but 1 went through - i keep trying to upload that pic but i get an error message "can't upload zero byte files" but no matter how many times i reformat the original (or try the original) i get the same message - also many photos i've already loaded give me the same error message if i try again

joshk can testify to that after having inadvertently chucked his boots into the north fork of boulder creek

seems a shame to move so quickly through such a lovely setting congrats - can't imagine what shape my feet would be in after that

you can often use offsets where strictly speaking they're not needed, but that's not much of an argument for dropping all the cash on them when you've not yet any ambitions for climbing on pin-scarred granite - still, small cams don't weigh much, so if you got the scratch, ain't no harm in carrying a few

god hates editing - he's more of a "what other bullshit can i add to this to unfuck it a bit?" kinda feller - consider the platypus for example

the same frustration any feller in a porsche feels when there's ford prefects in the passing lane... fuck'em

does seem a trifle odd though that the falstaff version should still rain down the hate on the stoutness of amerikkkans though, for as the good man said: "If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked. If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, Banish not him from thy Harry’s company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world."

i usually go w/ the notion of "first draft, best draft" but this'un seems to be negating that there peach nice people are nice n' all, but wicked dull, no?

waaaaaaaaaar's oooooooout 4 thaaaaa summmmmmaaaaa

if i had a dollar for every time i got bounced from canuckistan i'd have... ...at least a dollar

nothing wrong w/ being a douche-bag, just gotta make the poetry work and the tr sing

ole'boy's close to the best form of beer-opener i've found - the humble seatbelt

i am a confirmed fan of all forms of tomfoolery

looks kewl to me - would be quewler still if ole'boy had a bowie knife

mazeltov motherfucker

seem to recall this being discussed last year - anchors put in by guides that were later taken out by the park or whoever?

only the chutzpah of calvin coolidge can save us!