Squid

Scooter- it's all about uniting, not dividing. Need another hug?

I'd forgotten those two Koreans. That was actually pretty damn funny. There were two Koreans - out of like 2K Koreans who were there in large herds, all dressed in matching gear. I think they get a bulk discount on climbing fees. The two in front of us were an older guy- probably an instructor, and a student. Relative to the rest of the West Buttress, the summit ridge has some exposure. Most folks (including me) will spend 10-14 days plodding up endless snow slopes of moderate angle, and get rewarded with about 200 yards of mildlyv exposed ridge walk at the very end. It's a nice payoff, but the young Korean ahead of us was freaked out of his gourd by the exposure. I hadn't been paying much attention to them earlier, but I noticed we were gaining on them at a pretty fast clip- which was odd since we were slower than the dead. I managed to tear my gaze away from my boots to size up the situation. The younger Korean had totally surrendered to his fear, and was now sitting down. No, not simply sitting- he was straddling the ridge, with one leg over each side. Although this might seem like a stable arrangement- your ass is on the ground, you're riding the mountian like a jockey- but it's a sucky place to be. Instead of having nice & happy crampon points stuck into the snow and ice, the young Korean was now sliding back & forth on his GoreTex'd ass. The coefficient of friction of GoreTex on SnowNIce has been repeatedly proven insufficient for saving one's ass from a long cold ride. We passed them as quickly as we could. That poor fucker was convinced he was going to fall and die. Watching him glide around that ridge like Brian Boitano, I was convinced he was going to fall and die, too. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't near him when he went. God favors fools, and neither the Korean nor myself nor anyone else died on the mountain that day. edit: - Sorry about the thread drift. Maybe a mod could move this ?

Here's a non-judgmental hug for you, Scooter. Don't cry.

Damn! They bombed Little Egg. I hope Nick Carraway ducked.

Get a job before I drop coils on you.

How does a tanker spill 1K gallons without being aware of it? Not a rhetorical question.

RIP

Whew! When I saw the title I was afraid someone else cratered at Vantage. Imagine my relief.

Bouldering; where every fall is a ground fall. Be cautious in Mongolia, Distel. I wouldn't want to put their healthcare to the test.

Can you be a victim if yer dead? I thought necrophilia was a victimless crime, like smoking pot

Cool. Have you guys gotten to play with the new Metolius cam yet? If so, how does that compare?

What's the difference in weight and range of the Link cam vs. Metolius' new cam (the lop-sided job)?

Dan Rather gettin' goofy: "Don't talk to the alligator until after you cross the creek."

That's too damn cute. Can you set up a puppy-cam for the dogless?

You showed him, Scott. You go, boy.

I'll admit it - I'm too chicken to follow yer links. Everytime the cursor hovers above the link, ghosts and shadows of pustules and poxes flitter through my mind... scarier than halloween!

ooh, this thread is too good. better than steaksauce!

Nice, Sergio!

Who gives a fuck what he said? He's a dead man walking, no matter who wins.

Obviously, it's Satan's own pitchfork, which is shoved so far up our Supreme Commander's ass that he's able to substitute it for a spine. That's hard work.

ST. BERNARD PASS, Switzerland, Oct. 27 - The only dog right now at the 950-year-old hospice of St. Bernard is a very nice golden retriever named Justy. The issue of those other dogs - the famously huge and heroic ones, who toted brandy barrels in legend, who lived here for centuries and sniffed scores of stranded travelers out of the snow - is not one that the Rev. Frédéric Gaillard is keen to talk about. "Now there are helicopters," Father Gaillard, one of four remaining monks at the St. Bernard's hospice here, said with some irritation. "And we have a golden retriever, which is our dog for avalanches. This is not the 1800's. This is not the 1900's. Since then, helicopters and other fast ways to save people have been introduced." After a few moments more of explanation, it was as if the frigid cloud shrouding this ancient alpine pass, elevation 8,114 feet, slipped inside. Father Gaillard declared the subject of the St. Bernards of St. Bernard closed. "I am not talking anymore about the dogs," he said. In fairness, it is hard to blame him. Last month, it became public that the monks here were looking for a buyer for the 18 St. Bernards that still belong to the hospice, news that struck the European press as if Switzerland itself were disowning chocolate or, oh, secret bank accounts. Dog lovers worried that the descendants of the dogs who gave the breed its name - and this nation a symbol - might be put down or not find proper homes. Since then, Father Gaillard has been fielding up to 15 calls a day from reporters around the world and, judging by his mood this morning, getting crankier with every call. He barked on for a minute that the American election ought to worry people more than Swiss dogs, and, at any rate, he said, only the dogs' ownership will change. According to the plan, the monks and dogs will go on as they have for decades, with the dogs still spending summers up here - still on view for thousands of tourists. They will still spend winters, as they have for decades, away from the bitter cold and snow that was such a killer for pilgrims to Rome, and soldiers and merchants passing over the Alps. (Which explains why, with the treacherous road here already officially closed for the winter, it was only Justy basking in the warm kitchen smells in the hospice). "I don't think there will be any change for people to see," Father Gaillard said. The winter home for the St. Bernards of St. Bernard is the quaint village of Martigny, down the mountain from the pass. On a recent morning, the aptly named Bernard Léger was playing with some of the 16 newly born St. Bernard puppies, fluffy and achingly cute, at a kennel that belongs to the monks. For the last five years, Mr. Léger, 41, has been the chief breeder, producing about 30 puppies a year, which are sold to people around the world willing to pay a premium, about $1,700, for a real St. Bernard. He is clearly in love with the dogs, not least Tasso, remarkably mellow for his 150 pounds, who sat by his side. He is not so sure the monks share that love. "The people around the world think how nice a story - monks, dogs, avalanches," he said. "But if you think, 'Monks and dogs, how nice,' it's not true. The monks don't like the dogs. They don't caress them. No, no." Given Father Gaillard's mood, it did not seem wise to ask him directly about caresses. But he said the monks' decision to sell the dogs stemmed from the reality that it was increasingly difficult to take care of them, especially since the number of monks here is declining. The dogs each eat four to five pounds of food a day, and big, energetic dogs like that need to get out of their pens four times a day. Whatever their joint history - the earliest mention of St. Bernard dogs at this hospice stretches back to 1695 - Father Gaillard said the St. Augustine monks here are still a functioning religious order, and that the dogs are distracting them from their work of ministering to actual people. The hospice, founded by St. Bernard himself in 1050, predates the dogs.