Funny Stories

[EWolfe]

O.K. Let's hear 'em.

They have to be personal experiences,

and funny.

 

Here's Mine:

 

My friend Ted and I were about 19 and skiing a lot during the winters, working in the fishing industry in the summer. We were based out of Anacortes, and were driving this funky old 1/2 schoolbus conversion. Totally '70's tacky, but great for ski area livin'.

We were heading up to Baker for a few days, pulling int Bellingham late, and I called my aunt to see if we could park the bus at her place for the night. She said fine so we headed over.

We were getting low on propane, and didn't know where to fill up, so when we got there, I asked her where we might get some. Her response:

"I'm not going to go out and get YOU GUYS COCAINE this time of night!"

"Umm. Joan? We need propane? For the stove?"

Anyway, she recovered pretty well, gave us directions to a station.

But when Ted and I left, we wondered if it hadn't been "this time of night" ?? We never did ask.

[fenderfour]

Here's a little (ok, large) TR I wrote after my first experience climbing. Behold the Gaper that is I!!!!

 

 

When I was younger, I had some outdoor inclinations, but as I progressed through life, the lures of video games and beer took their toll on me. That is, until one day, when a coworker signed up for a basic mountaineering class through the Boeing Alpine Society, AKA Boealps. He began telling me stories of summits conquered and hazards dodged. I was in something of a troubled time in my life, and this seemed like a great way out. I too would become a mountain stud of the highest caliber.

 

This, of course, did not take into account the fact that I had never so much as seen a glacier from less than twenty miles away, or placed pro anywhere but the demo block at REI. None of that mattered. What did matter was my ambition. I was going to be the greatest. Of course, I first had to get through the basic mountaineering class.

 

One of the first outings was to Mt. Erie, a nug of rock that can be found in Anacortes, Washington. This was to be my first experience rock climbing. I had no idea what I was in for.

 

Even though I had no prior experience other than a few short hikes, I somehow had a psychic link to the imbedded traditions of the men and women who risked their lives to get to the tops of ice piles and cliff faces. On Saturday night I was out partaking of libation until about 11:00 pm. As soon as I had sobered up enough to discern the difference between my ass and a hole in the ground, I had to get my gear together. Somehow, through the grace of some higher power, I was able to get packed. I finally got to bed at about midnight.

 

On Sunday morning, I was up at the butt-crack of dawn to begin my two hour drive to Anacortes. The drive was uneventful for the most part. No too surprisingly, I ended up taking a wrong turn. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I have all of the direction sense of a brick. Really, I have trouble finding my way out of a paper bag. After consulting with a 100 year old man at a Texaco station in Anacortes, I was armed with a better map and the correct route to my destination. The expedition was back on track.

 

Upon reaching Mt Erie, I encountered many of my classmates, bleary eyed and all looking rather ridiculous in their conglomerations of mountaineering boots, poly-pro, and fleece. The seemingly random colors of clothing thrown together in a sick parody of Mr. Gucci's hard fought battle against asthetic apathy tore at my stylish judgement. This is not to say I didn't look like an idiot as well, But some people accessorize better.

 

Mental note: It's tough to look good while wearing a mountianeering helmet.

 

Looking around at my fellow students I began to have feelings of Pack Envy. This is a very complex psychological state that occurs when you realize that you have selected a device in which to stow your gear that is dimensionally inferior to the rest of your peers. The first symptom is a hot flash of panic, followed by irrepressible concern over missing equipment. Shortly after that, a rolling list speeds through your head as you recall all that was packed. A remedial sensation of relief slowly creeps over your body as you realize that everything that you will need is, in fact, contained in the 1600 cubic inch hydration pack, but a niggling fear sticks with you throughout the day.

 

After a while a few students started filing down the road to where the instructors were waiting. We all made small nods of recognition as we were all too tired to make any sort of discernable small talk. The only sounds were of the rain hitting our helmets and flatulous expulsions of gas coming from an unnamed student (not me, thanks).

 

We finally began moving down the trail. All of us stood below a 50 foot cliff looking up at it. Maybe you have had an opportunity to be faced with an obstacle so far from your comfort zone that it is entirely alien to you. Maybe you haven't. I must admit, this was a very scary looking cliff and I didn't think for an instant that the rain would make it any easier to deal with.

 

There were a number of ropes dangling from above. Rich, the lead instructor, began discussing the days events. We would be climbing this featureless stone while fellow students belayed us from above. We would only be doing hip-belays, as we had not yet had enough experience with mechanical belays to be considered safe. Rich also discussed rappelling down this mud slathered rock as another instructor gave a demo. I had never done anything at all even remotely like this, and I was getting VERY nervous.

 

We broke into groups. I had the rather inauspicious pleasure of being the first student to rappel. This was my first rappel ever. Let me say this: things like this look easy until you are the one doing them. I personally do not have an overwhelming fear of heights. I have a fear of entrusting my life to a rope. When rapelling, the rope is the only thing between you, a fall, and a rather abrupt stop at the bottom. Hey, things could be worse, right? Yeah, I could be stuck in a Siberian prison fighting over the last maggot-infested scrap of bread against a former wrestler named Ulli who had taken a shining to my pretty smile.

 

I rigged my ATC and fought the urge to run screaming like a little girl into the bushes. I rigged my ATC and thought of all the things I would rather be doing than standing here, cold and wet, about to back off a cliff against my better judgement. I rigged my ATC and thought about all of the things I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to paint a self-portrait, I wanted to help the less fortunate, I wanted to make an ass of my self on national television.

 

As I approached the ledge backwards, every cell in my entire body was screaming "What the hell are you doing? That's a cliff genius!". I took my first step down, and realized that all those cells were right. This was indeed a cliff, and I did not, in fact, know what in the hell I was doing. I started to broker deals regarding my safe arrival at the bottom of the slope and the exchange of my non-corporeal consciousness.

 

I eased over the ledge, and the rain came down. I eased down further, rather gingerly, and the rain still fell. Further and further I went, then the instructor said "Ok, now do a leg wrap". This involves dangling from a rope on a 90 degree cliff, and somehow getting the rope wrapped around your upper thigh while keeping one hand clamped securely on the rope. After about ten minutes I had enough of the rope wrapped around my leg that I was able to hang free. My instructor called out "Ok, now move around get comfortable with it". Comfortable with it?! Comfortable with it?! I wasn't comfortable with the rappel. It went against every instinct of self-preservation that has been genetically implanted into my brain since the beginning of humanity, and suddenly I am supposed to be comfortable with it?! ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS?!?!?!. I finished my descent and I was on to rock climbing.

 

I approached the rock. It was raining heavily and my experience on the rappel told me that the rock was slick and muddy. I approached the rock and tied in. I had never so much as touched any climbing wall or cliff face with the intent to scale it. In fact, my sense of self-preservation usually kept me far away from any such obstacle.

 

I took a deep breath and went on up. The climbing was fairly easy and uneventful until the end. The last ten feet was devoid of anything that my inexperienced eyes would consider a foothold or handhold. My left foot was clinging to a nub only a little larger than an ingrown hair. My right foot was on a ledge the size of a pizza crust, and I was clinging to a little protuberance with both hands. Funny thing - that ledge was a "bomber" hold according to my instructors. A "bomber" hold for me would have been a La-Z-Boy in front of my TV, but what the hell do I know? I needed to shift my weight to my left foot. Slowly, I shifted. Slowly, ever so slowly I weighted my left foot... My body moved over.... I put the last 10 percent of my weight on my left... Shit! I fell.

 

Yes, your first fall is exactly as scary as you would think. After I got the hyperventilation under control and cleared the sum of my life experiences from my mind, I remembered that there was someone above being asphyxiated by my not inconsiderable bulk. I managed to get back to clinging precariously to the rock. Then I had to finish the move that had just dropped me off the face. After a short travail, I managed to wrestle up the rest of the cliff.

 

Let me digress for a moment. The belayer is a very special person when you are climbing. If you fall, this is the person who just saved your life. Some people that climb a lot have forgotten this in the routine process of belaying their partner. Being a first time climber, and having fallen, I was very appreciative of my belayer. You almost form some sort of bond with them. You just fought this mountain, and the belayer was with you throughout. You probably didn't see them, but they were with you one hundred percent. Damn it, I love you man!

 

I finally reach the top of the climb and I see my belayer. My belayer was Molly. A small girl that couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds. Sitting there, exhausted from having to hold me during my ascent, the rope cutting a deep bruise around her small body. "What did she do to deserve this?" I thought to myself. The smallest person in the class had to give the largest person in the class a hip belay for their first-ever climb?

 

I went back for my second rappel. This one went much better. After climbing, the tension on my harness through out the descent was comforting. This is not to say that I was now comfortable with the thought of backing over a cliff with nothing more than a rope the thickness of my finger preserving my grip on this small existence that we all like to call life, just that I had a slightly diminished urge to run crying into the underbrush.

 

I also went back for another whack at the rock. This route proved to be even more difficult than the first.

 

I fell, and my belayer caught me. I fell again and my belayer caught me. I fell again, and grabbed the rope. DO NOT GRAB THE ROPE. I mean this. The instructors told us time and time again to not grab the rope, but sometimes instinct overrides intellect, and you do something stupid. My right hand bashed against the rock leaving an impressive bloodied wound and a few nice bruises, but no real damage. The fall swung me around to a different route, one that was easier climbing, so up I went. I attempted to traverse back to my route, and fell again. This time I had some trouble finding my footing and I dangled for some time. Once again, I managed to wrestle to the top, and saw my belayer, Molly. This girl must have done something horrible in a previous life to deserve this. At the rate of one beer per fall, or per 5 seconds of hang, I will have to mortgage my first born son to compensate for my lack of climbing skill.

 

By the afternoon, the rain had gone, and everyone was in high spirits. We moved to another section of rock and set up belays. Marty, one of the better climbers in the club, asked if I wanted to climb a difficult route. I declined, stating that my climbing skills were only a little better than those of a walrus. Marty replied "Ok, well climb it anyway." This was not the sort of encouragement that I needed.

 

Marty perched on a rock near the run to coach and to call out ridiculous things like "Do you see that bomber foothold to your left?" You mean that lichen that, in spite of millions of years of evolution to be uniquely adapted to clinging to rock, is slowly falling off? Yeah I see it. "Put your foot there and weight it." Put my foot on a discoloration on the rock!!??? Yep. I tried... I fell. Yet another beer owed. Marty continued giving this same ridiculous advice that probably would have helped a climber with any sort of experience, but all I wanted to hear was, "reach slightly to your right, do you see that ladder?"

 

The final stretch of this run was particularly dastardly. There were no foot holds or handholds for the last 7 feet or so. There was one "bomber" handhold about 8 inches too high on my left, and a crack straight up that could handle a fist jam. I overreached and managed to get a hold of the handhold on the left. My feet were on nubs that even bacteria had fallen off of earlier. I slipped, and my belayer held me. Yet, another beer. I got the handhold again. This time I had better position on the foot nubs. I swung over and got my fist jammed in the crack (grow up). I lost the left handhold and hung from my right hand jammed in the crack. A bit of effort got my left hand back on the "bomber" handhold that Marty had pointed out. I then used all of my upper body strength to haul myself up and swing my left foot up on a ledge. I made it!

 

I can honestly say that no one bout of physical exertion has tired me out so much. I unjammed my fist (teehee) and collapsed on the rock. My hands were so blasted, I didn't have the strength to untie the figure eight knot in my harness. Thankfully, I was done for the day. I had survived!

 

I learned a lot that day. I learned that it is good to scare the bujeezus out of yourself every now and again. As my now scarred hand can attest, I learned not to grab the rope. I was amazed at what I could do in a pair of leather mountaineering boots while clinging to the smallest of handholds. I was also introduced to a wonderful sport which, in all likelihood, will become an irreplacable part of my life.

[ketch]

One of my earliest partners drove this ford PU that was great at the periodic backfires. One morning outside shelton we were trying to get an early start when he spots the man hiding for a speed trap. With a little bit of a grin he says watch this. He shuts off the ignition , pulls out the choke, and rides compression for a moment. Right in front of the cop we point out the window at him, while my buddy turns the key back on and floors it. There was this tremendous bang and I swear flames rolled out from under the truck. We tried to act cool despite the noise and pulled off quick for a looksie after we were out site. So we're layin under the truck goin, "man I don't see your muffler anywhere", "Dude, I think the whole exhaust pipe split" ... And then we hear this voice sayin " just in case you guys is curious, you two blowin up your truck is about the funniest thing I've seen in a long time. Your eyes were as big as plates. Have a great day"

 

It wasn't too funny right then but a bit later we were rollin on the ground. No Alpine start that day.

[EWolfe]

 

C'mon, folks. I know you got 'em...

[jordop]

.

Edited June 7, 2021 by jordop

[jordop]

Oh, it had to be funny, didn't it? Sorry, probably killed any humour

[Dru]

Jordan Peters, rentboy

 

"Hey kid, wanna make ten bucks?"

[jordop]

Quote

Jordan Peters, rentboy

 

"Hey kid, wanna make ten bucks?"

.

Edited June 7, 2021 by jordop

[Distel32]

This happened in Mongolia:

 

On my second day at the research site in Mongolia, Tuuggi (a mongolian college student, also 20) and I went out to do a long radio telemetry day. We covered 40km in just under 8hrs and were absolutely beat as we were getting closer back to camp.

 

About 2 km away from camp we heard a motorcycle somewhere and turned around to see two guys wizzing across the desert on this old russian motorcycle. It turned out to be one of our horsemen and his older brother, but I didn't know this at the time because it was only my second day there. We sat down in the dirt and sand, me still thinking that these were strangers, and one of them pulled out an unopened bottle of vodka. The other one went over to this old bike and started to unscrew the blinker light. I couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing at all.

 

He brought the blinker light shell over to us and used it as a glass for the vodka. They poured it out traditionally and the four of us finished the bottle in 8mins! I was timing because that was by far the fastest I'd ever seen a vodka dissapear. So by this time we're a little tipsy, sunburnt, and really dehydrated. They tell us to hop on the bike (of course Tuuggi knows who these guys really are but just doesn't tell me), so we climb on with our packs and everything. There are four of us on this little russian bike with our packs and radio antennas hanging off the side just crusiing across this desert steppe with no road.

 

We pulled into camp and everyone burst out laughing. Four pretty much grown men on this tiny bike, and we're all just red as hell in the face. Probably one of my best memories from my trip. Someone got a picture of us, but I haven't received it yet.