EWolfe

Don't forget the crackers and tea:

Do the mess around.

I found some right tri-cams, but no left ones...

Does J_B actually have a sense of humor that anyone has noticed?

Boy, I left myself open on that one...

blowjobs while driving are awesome.

Hey, he was "just throwing out some ideas" ...

Thanks for the good reception! It was an amazing day. Mike is a great partner, patient, entertaining and a solid climber. More TR's to come (after my hands heal )

Adventure Gaping

Mike Layton is back in town, so of course we simply had do something disturbing, vile and painful. It all started with disturbing. Mike suggested we do a climb, so I updated my living will and agreed. I explained to him that I have been immersed in work and hadn’t climbed in a 8 months, as well as working tirelessly on my beer gut. He immediately suggested we try the Northwest face of South Early Winter Spires. I was excited, having never climbed at any of the Early Winter Spires. Then he whipped out the topo, and I saw the crux pitch just says “5.11". “I was thinking you could lead that pitch.” he said casually. “Sweet Baby Jesus, Mike!” I responded, “did you hear me? I am THIS close to being a football fan!” “We really need to make sure we stay away from The Dolphin on this pitch after the crux, and just look at the double roofs above, blah, blah.....” There was no deterring this monster, I thought grimly to myself, turning over in my mind the lunacy I outwardly had just agreed to. He said he had a guide friend in Mazama that we could stay with, and “he knows how to party!” I reluctantly agreed to leave on Saturday night. Plus, conditions looked stellar: mid-to-upper 60's, clear skies, and God knows, probably not another party on the climb. Next came vile, as all good, cleansing adventures do. Mike called ahead, we grabbed a couple of tallboy sixers and headed East. When we got there, his friend was not around, and I was thankful to note that our 1/2 case was the only booze in the fridge. We knocked back a few around 8-ish, and I was thinking it was going to be a mellow night (thank God), when Mike whipped out a flask of good scotch. “I brought this to help us sleep!” He said, unaware of my weakness for a good highland. Uh-oh. Very soon we were on our fourth tallboy and several strong pulls from the flask. His friend showed up shortly, saying he skipped the Bluesfest and hotties for an evening with us. We felt obliged to provide drunken entertainment, and all soon turned to full-out debauchery. Sometime around 11:00, I realized that 6AM comes damn early, but I am not even tired, but Mike is nothing if not the consummate provider. He whips out three tablets of valerian root, hands them to me, and says: “This will help.” 45 minutes later I drift off to a blissful sleep, Mike and co. still raging in the cabin. Painful: Waking up at 6:05, I felt like my head had been put in the log-splitter that hovered above our pillows in the yard. I had no alarm, but Mike (who had the alarm) is still fast asleep. Bastard! I groane woefully in his direction and we were up. A quick bite to eat, some coffee, a fair bit of water, and we got ready to go. Mike walked over to a pile of what looked like some red offage. As it turned out, it’s his offage, colored by the cherries we ate the night before. He covered it with ash. “I forced myself to puke,” he said, “and I set the alarm for 6:30, thinking the extra half hour would do us good”. Another 8 hours would have done me, especially considering what we were about to undertake (then I could have skipped it altogether). I actually felt o.k. as we started hiking, but Mike’s world is still swimming. I got no small satisfaction from this. We passed parties, one hiker party who had a Malamute Husky pup ( this becomes important later). There is some twisted enjoyment to forcing the previous evening’s poison out of your system, I realized as we hiked, and I could smell the scotch from pores. At the base, we false started, then find the route. It follows the vertical crack 30' right of the gully, and tends rightward. The route takes the right of the detached block featuring double roofs: There was little to no chalk on this route, and I thought: not good. As we were getting ready, a goat wandered by and Mike shot a picture: The altitude was sapping, but we took a short break, then Mike started out on the initial “10.b” pitch. Within minutes he was cursing and whining, and eventually had a take on the gear. .10b? Mike? Hmmmmm... I start to worry immediately about my .11 pitch, which is next. As he was climbing the pitch I looked down and saw the Malamute pup running up by me, he spotted the goat and started chasing it. I must admit I was a negligent belayer as I watched the following scene unfold before my eyes: The pup chases the goat onto a rock where he starts to sniff it curiously. The goat stomps it’s feet repeatedly on the rock to warn off the dog, but puppy remains undeterred. Then the dog comes at the goat, who lowers it’s head, and somehow catches the dog sideways on its head between horns and the crown of it’s head. The puppy looked like a head drapery as the goat lifts its head, turns, and dumps the dog 15 feet over rock onto the scree below. There are some serious puppy cries as the dog tumbles, and takes off, running by me again. Totally aghast, I scan the dog for blood, but see none. Soon, I hear the call of the owner, and I yell down to her: “ I would check your dog out, he just got attacked by a goat!” She stares at me for a minute in disbelief, then says in a broken voice, “thanks!”. I could hear the desperation in her voice as she resumed calling for her dog, who now wanted mommy and was well on it’s way. I don’t know why I said the goat attacked the dog, maybe out of kindness. I relayed all of this to Mike, who was amazed, even though he was probably cursing me inwardly for not paying attention to the belay. I was too shocked to even think about a camera, and really didn’t have time. Damn! Plus, I WAS belaying... Mike got to the anchors and brought me up through difficult placements, and tenuous laybacking and jams. I felt bad about the belay. I got it clean, but was thinking .10c. Then I thought I am an out of shape fat bastard, and I am way above my comfort elevation. The last thought held little comfort for my approaching pitch. The topo states the next pitch as “jam a steep arching crack”, and it is pretty obvious we were in the right place, so I grab the rack and set off. Mike had pre-placed a couple of pieces claiming “it doesn’t look that hard”. I begged to differ, and about halfway got into some solid .10 climbing. Struggling through that, I was feeling pleased with myself, when I got shut down. The upper part of the short pitch had almost no purchase in the crack, my left foot was asleep from painful 3/4" toejams, and my right foot skittered uselessly on a black waterstreak. I tried repeatedly without success, so three points of aid later I reached the belay and brought Mike up. He fared much better than me, but also got shut down at the top, declaring it hard 5.11. I agreed, glad that I wasn’t the weak-ass that I had feared as I aided through that part. Pitch three saw Mike leading out of a small alcove, where the mosquitos and I had some lunch together. Mike got up a ways, declared he was off route, and downclimbed for 40 feet or so. I hear a “this is great!” from above, as I payed out another 50 feet. Then: “Damn it! I am downclimbing.” The rope pooled yet again at my feet, but I didn’t care. I was still pretty wiped from the .11 pitch. Then: “This is so fucked!” and finally: “Off belay!” Following, I understood the confusion. There is a sweet crack to the left as I topped out of the “coffee bean”, yet the roped snaked up a dirty crack directly in front of me. Climbing through moss and dirt with occasional clean places for gear, I wondered. I got to the belay, and Mike said the “nice crack” had petered out at the top. He had only placed two pieces of gear in the 50 feet, and declared the 5.8 downclimb “spicy”. It looked like I was getting the draw of the 5.10 double roofs, so I set off. Undercling roof cracks scare me, I have never gotten used to large pieces of rock hanging over my head as I pull on their weakness. That was my excuse when after sizing up the initial crux, I offered Mike the lead. He lead in style, declaring the initial moves the crux. I followed, pulling on yet another piece to get through te section I intuitively felt I couldn’t do. The rest of the roof was fun, until I went to turn the last corner. Moving around, the flake buttcheeked and there is a hand crack at the back. Sadly, the rope was exactly where my hand needed to go, and I popped in what was one of the most painful jam rips I have ever experienced. Hanging there, blood blossomed from two points on my left palm, and two points on the back of my right hand. Dangling in space, it took me 10 minutes to hook my toe in a crack and find purchase to get back to the roof corner. Shoving my pained bloody hands back into the same moves was agonizing, but the only way out. I made sure the rope draped differently, and got through it, whining like the puppy I had witnessed earlier. I continued cursing through the short offwidth and the 5.9 handjam section. At the belay: Then, mercifully, the topo said the rest was 4th class. I said I would take it, and Mike asked if I wanted to simulclimb? Sure, I said, let me get a couple of pieces in, then you can start climbing. “Just go, and when there is only 20 feet of rope left, I’ll give you a shout. It’s not that far to the summit.” I took off, and as I got 20 feet away, the smell of Mike’s cigarette wafted towards me, making me nauseous. I fairly sprinted away. 50 meters later, the summit was still a ways away, and the rope drag was so horrendous I could hardly move. “This is why I always tie in short!” I cursed to myself. Another 10 feet, and I was locked down. I yelled to Mike that I couldn’t move and he would have to come up. A short simulclimb later we reached the summit. One footnote to the descent: We ran into a father with his daughter doing the South Face, and he had asked us earlier on the trail how we were doing. “Hungover”, Mike had responded. “How is that hangover doing?” he asked us as we descended past them. “Worse.” Mike responded, and pointed to the two old guys that had just free-soloed the South face. “But they’re hungover too!” The man was obviously unhappy with our feckless behavior, and Mike was obviously pleased. On the descent trail, Mike saw a boulder problem he couldn’t resist, being the crapulent hardman he is:

crap·u·lence PRONUNCIATION: krpy-lns NOUN: 1. Sickness caused by excessive eating or drinking. 2. Excessive indulgence; intemperance.

I saw the televised interview with Ralston in the canyon where he lost his arm. It was quite a riveting story and re-enactment.

crapulence

I forgot my Boltgun and Stallone mask last time

That's what skyhooks are for.

I tell them we reached the summit and kept climbing.

I got a bite!

This is a bracing thread, but things are getting hairy.

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You can always pump slower if it helps...

You're Gaydar is obviously malfunctioning....

Not to mention the white swallows