Road Coast

Static over the palm sized walkie. A plume of dark smoke emits from Vals van on the road to Redding California. Looks like a pit stop.

Its pitch black through the open sliding door, the sky a predawn blue, the sound of a foreign soft electronic beeping sounds in my mind. No one stirs, not the dog, no one. The sound persists. I lay there nearly unconscious before the sounds starts up again. This continues.

It stops and starts again, am I hearing things, I sit up. Check the sky, it's lighter, the dogs still and Val hasn't moved. I put my shirt on, the sound is gone. Exhausted I lay back down, eyes heavy, I'm in a dream world once more and then the electronic beep begins its repetitious moan once more. Again I sit up and this time Val stirs lightly then groggily moans for the electronic interruption to quite, I'm not crazy someone else heard it. A giggle from the loft echo's apologies as I stumble to the bathroom disoriented as if I've been abducted by aliens and now at this moment just returned to my own reality. It's half five, apparently time to get up. I flop back onto the couch and its day time when my eyelids lift again.

It's too hot for sweat pants, but I'm wearing them. Mid day on the 395 far from Mammoth and Bishop. Mule days according to the amused and obviously bored California State line guard.

Two California rest areas later and I'm sitting, well laying with my feet out the window as val borrows flying internet from Barns and Noble ala Redding.

The sun fades away, the light turns on in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Tomorrow its find a mechanic in a town that's closed on Sundays or cross the fingers and make a mad dash for Portland. There will be no sitting on the beaches of Humboldt smoking tree this trip. The Vans engine sputters and rumbles, somethings terribly a miss.

Flying Dog

Eight am Monday morning, weathers calls 80 degrees. The sweat sticks, I zip back the mesh of my bivy, the air is already body temps.

I feel drowsy like bad allergy meds. Stumble to the dirt, slide into a pair of cords. they hardly resemble there original shade, dust beaten and unwashed. The rumble of a broken muffler trembles up behind my truck, e-brake thrown on. I quickly pull my pants up from half mass and zip up.

A familiar voice screams, "wad up buddy?" It's Ben, I stumble groggily past Vals van, bumping past with swollen eyes. I played with my tangled mat of hair while Ben explained his new project on the table lands.

Stumbling back through the cars, Ben bounces away down the gravel path in his 80's Toyota hatch back, over to my tripod set up for a snap shot of some spring flowers. Half assembled, I could no longer hold the movements in my bowels.

Hobbling down the path shovel and TP in hand up the rocks, nervously banging the shovel to deter potential snakes. Finding an appropriate bush, looks just like the rest, but this one is just right. Attempting to dig a hole only achieves two inches before hitting the impenetrable layer of rock that is the table lands. Unable to hold on any longer I noticed a small single engine flying directly towards my position. To late for that, my pants now at my ankles, my gut impatiently grumbling. I squat, leaning on my butt of my shovel and give out little flight enthusiast the show of a life time.

I hope he had a camera to capture my glaring paper white ass so he could show all his friends and family. I hope they all get a great laugh, because as drowsy as I've ever been, this was one hell of a highlight to my trip. So I hope they all believe his story.

Jack Pot - Sunday, Monday

We three stood huddled around the burners of my stove. Watching 20 boiling eggs and 10 frying. It was snowing lightly now, almost hail. The ground had a thing frosting, but the mountains surrounding were white as English nobles. Last night the grocery store put us out an Easter egg hunt, with many goodies to go along. We scavenged over 60 eggs, premixed salads, pre-sliced fruit, Naked juice and snack packs. Now after our 12 pound dollar/pound ham and our bread Jack pot last night, we are fit to eat like kings. Well, cheep kings, but kings none-the-less. Tuesday morning, now, is hot and clear, from my vantage the Buttermilks near 2 feet of snow is receding at a generous pace. After a forced rest day I feel good to go and with a Thursday forecaster 72 Fahrenheit, we'll be back, "home" as Val calls it, in the Buttermilks soon enough.

Continually Happy - Sunday

The sun rose Sunday morning in a haze of cloud that swarmed the valley. I threw my bivy a top the truck and dropped the tail gate for some banana, cinnamon, brown sugar oatmeal. The sun emerged from the haze as we three lazed in our lawn chairs. The long weekend Cali coast kids piled into the parking lot. It was going to be a hot busy day. After a few hours of voyeurism in the blazing sun, we packed out things and drove top side to the sads. As we finished our warm up the winds started to really pick up. After a select of classics and a few sand blasts to the face we found ourselves confined to a large (but not large enough) cave. There with everyone else in the busy parking lot, willing to brave the winds, there may even have been a few loud annoying people.

Later in Starbucks we discovered that not only did sand find its way into our eyes, but through toques and hair into ears.

Wave Lengths

Cool temps Tuesday, not quite. Warm in fact (enough to walk around comfortably wearing nothing), they called for blizzard winds and snow at elevation. We bivied in the Happy's dirt pull out. Dreamed of slipping some climbing in before the calling storm, and slept to the sounds of wind gusts over the unprotected fields. I roused to calling cows - cow tipping anyone- and the sprinkling rain. After a morning tinkle the clouds bayed away through the day. Running a circuit of classics found me at The Hulk, which is an amazing climb, but some time during it I managed to strain my neck, adding to my stiff back. Sadly Bishop is dry on tree, making self medicating hard, perhaps some rest days on the coast are calling, but that won't happen till late April. After a crash pad nap, two advil, then a tailgate dinner, I collected my change and computer for an evening of comfort in Lounge O'Starbucks. After ditching my garbage in the dumpster and checking for "free groceries", an older dude with his life strapped burdensome to his back asked for change, hoping for a coffee. Slapped my pockets. Dug around my pants. Glanced at the dash. Looked for an answer. He said not to worry. Told him I was living cheep. He said he was with me, "dude". Surely I wasn't much less dirty than him. Asked if I was going to Mammoth. Told him I was climbing. Rock Climbing, I'm with you "dude" he said. We parted ways with words of good travel. When I drove off he was untying my garbage bags, hopefully he could get some change, from my seven six packs I had collected, for his coffee. Come to think of it he sounded drunk, maybe we both have an addiction.

Blown Over, Blown Away

So last night (Monday) John drove me out of town up to the Buttermilks. Had a lot to carry in the dark to camp, needed my sunglasses on to protect against the blowing sand. I opened the truck door threw my dear in and got blown over. It was time to go back to town, I decided. I began to pack everything I needed for the night and next days. Five minutes later and I saw John retreat down the road. Grabbed my Stove off my tupperware, into the truck, turned back and the lid was gone into the night. Couldn't find it, kept packing. Put everything I didn't need, including the lidless tupperware, in my tent. Coasted back down to town and into Starbucks. Slept in the Happies parking lot.

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Today (Thursday), a rest day, I went back up to the Buttermilks to check my things and watch Michelle send her project.
My tent has been distroyed. The Fly was raped from the tent and the tent was thrown 20 feet over bushes and rocks (yes with the things in it, tupperware (full and 15 gallons) and bags. the poles are bent some parts by ninety degrees. I searched sever acres of land, no lid, it's gone.

Thanks to my parent who came and visited I have my bivy.

Addicted With You

Conversations fly through an endless wind like a bird, roaming through topics as vast as time. One topic that got blown past, came up from the routes of ignorance based on a sheltered life. Dev told us about a coked up cook who hadn't left his part of town in nearly four years. To Adams story about a lazy turned fat collage student who never left his dorm room. To Walkers Friend who discovered rock climbing, quit his job, left his wife, sold his New York apartment, bought a van and moved west. "At least he's happy now". There are a lot of addicting substances about western culture, glad this one isn't harming me or anyone else less we die, but that's nature unlike the strip mall. To rest days in a row, I'm shaking and itching at myself, lets go climbing, uh my back is sore.

To Quote Butters - SP -S14 - E2 "Kill the phoneys"
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Bad weather is coming in this week 75mph winds tomorrow and snow at 3500 feet Wednesday, its going to be a happy/sads week.

Wish You Were...

...here in the last bit of light melting from the finger tips of the sky. Everything seems like another life time ago. Bishop seems like forever, but never long enough. At this moment I sit in the talus of small boulders, listening to the creek imagining the blackened landscape around me is anything. Today Gord, Chris and Craig left for Squamish and my night routine slipped away with the rug. The last week has been an exciting meld of fun all washed up on the beach of my memory. Climbing, Camp fires, saying hello, saying goodbye, free samples at Starbucks and reading a non trilogy starting with the forth book.

I've had a lot of chats and even more thoughts about photography, about our relationship. I feel like I'm doing it for myself, it's personal and sharing for the person I'm photographing. I think there is something wrong with the climbing culture. It's becoming like all the rest. It's becoming soulless. I think in need to find a way out.

If you stare long enough, is there something wrong with everything?

Dude, Sweet Halk Bra... Nice

Today was unlike any other rest day, not only because we ended up climbing, but because it was full of good laughs that would have offended any taking life too serious. Well really that's most days with the crew, this day felt special for a couple reasons, but lets start from the beginning shall we. I'd planned on spending the day wondering the Butter Milks with Craig, just to warm up, get a good stretch and save my skin because Mondays plan for Get Carter Boulder and then Dales Camp (an area over the creek near my tent).

So anyways, I woke late sleeping till nearly nine (at the time having forgotten about day light savings and the fact my phone [my clock] adjust auto accordingly) and mossy'n out of bed for some oats, boiled up with some bannana and brown sugar, topped of with some almond milk. I lazed around reading Tom Sawyer, when I was interrupted several chapters into the day by Dave and his pedophile van. He rolled in to announce he was headed to the Happies Crag, out by town, to try Atari. I had the skin for one problem, especially that, so I made him shake Craig's tent.

We were off down the dirt road, which is Butter Milk Rd, to town soon enough to meet the crew at Star Bucks. On arrival we were informed of the plan for an afternoon session, to leave at three, as suggested by the Norwegians. So we flopped down our laptops for a days work and this is when things got interesting or entertaining none the least. We were having fun watching climbing video's and talking in appropriately for some time, when a guy walked in with big holes in his ears and short blonde hair. who knew this dude was about to make our day. After ordering his drink he found it necessary to interrupt Dave from his internet browsing to tell him he had a great mohawk. Now here's the thing Dave's hawk was nothing to wow about, the hair on the sides of his head had had a month of growth and he had been wearing a toque (wool hat for those American readers) the day before and we had joked it looked more like a topay and that we probably wouldn't trust him around children.

Anyways, back to Star Bucks were things remained the same and unchanged by our visitor for some time until I couldn't contain myself and had to ask, "that guy, he liked your hawk, what exactly did he say?" and at that point I discovered everyone curiosity because suddenly everyone inquired. Soon everyone was in hysterics over what had gotten into this mystery guy and everyone began complimenting Dave for his hawk, "dude, sweet hawk bra" unable to keep a straight face and sending everyone else back into hysterics. The real customers, not just there to rob the internet and sit there smelling bad, probably assumed we were all high. Later upon discussion we agreed guy must have been high. As the clock struck a ninety degree angle, we took our filth to our cars (Craig and I finding three kiwis on the light post next to the car) and off to the Happies, on the upper plains north of town.

There we warmed up on two classic lines, Jaw dropped over Redrum and the Hulk which if not for conserving skin, was oh so tempting. We arrived at Atari with two beautiful hours of daylight to spare, to find a bag of sourdough buns. It was extremely hot and several bodies complained and Gordo who was blamed for the plan pointed the finger toward the Norwegian's suggestion. We spent the rest of the late day sun there, enjoying the perfect lighting conditions and laughing our ass's off over remixing the lyrics to classic songs in all sorts of unrepeatable inappropriate manors, that would have made our fathers proud, our mothers embarrassed and our grands rolling in the grave.

A tamer subject would be how mohawk admirer was probably watching gay porn all morning and had, craving a coffee, just ran to Star Bucks to grab a drink and had mistaken Dave for his favourite gay actor, wanted to tell him his penis was so large, had choked and merely complemented his hawk. "I hear the camera adds atleast three inches," and by almost dark Gordo topped out finally, for the send of the day and Craig still huddled shaking in a corner from having to witness a underwear-less Gordo's Dick deliberately hanging unimpressive small and Jewish (according to the witness) from between the zipper of his fly.

The Rabbid Female Dog

A taste testing of sorts, the manor market, part of a gas station and hardware store has a ripe selection of quality beers. A Belgian Style IPA I've just acquired late after this noon, I have about now enjoyed. From flyingdogales.com, Raging Bitch with its striking label was an imprisoned nectar of untamed golden flavor, which impressed upon my taste buds and at eight and a half percent went straight to my head.

It reminds oneself of late the evening before around a fires discussion about mountain lions, new boulders, six degrees of separation, fraud, linguistics and discovering that English men enjoy the word cunt, almost as much as the Quebecois lady the week before. It all started with his lady friend, who's birthday it may or may not have been, when it was all but her around a fire of men. Her dealing quite well with the crudeness of the evenings discussions. Soon - "whats the word for four, but not a few?', "a parliament of cunts have arrived," with his English accent rang. Surely I ate to much cake, "where is Shirley with more firewood?"

Escaping Ignorance

Far from reality I pulled on a glassy crimp. The wind, our only source of worries blows violently sending the crash pads hurdling off as a parody of spotters run in every direction attempting to battle the wind. The climbing day is ended early as we bundle into a vehicle to take refuge at a town coffee shop. This life maybe simple in these moments, but selfish as it is climbing rocky remains of glacial ages. As we read, in comfort from the glossy glow of our laptop screens, of the crumbling unnatural of western ideals and failure of human culture. Is there something more beneficial one could be doing?

It seems futile to argue with prevailing heads when U.N. leaders choose to seemingly waist there time telling Canada there medical cannabis users are breaking international narcotics laws dating from the seventies. When human beings decide to let one another live there lives in the peace of there own mind, while not harming each other, then maybe they will be ready to listen to reason.

Or perhaps the solution lays in baby steps, small building blocks towards that goal. For now climbing ice age jewels in alpine like conditions seems the best choice of action, while coming to terms with the stubbornness of those to well off to plead ignorance.

One Greatest Day

Wednesdays forecast, through word of mouth called for precipitation, but as I roused at 7:30 am, promising Matt to meet him for a day of climbing, a cloud couldn't be seen. I made an amazing breakfast, melting cheese into egg and then onto a peanut buttered with beacon bagel, to create the ultimate breakfast sandwich. I drank tea by the creek, in a perfectly shaped rock chair, reading a book. As I finished a chapter, with great timing, I heard Matt stroll up. We headed for a good warm up of highballs and slab, then headed for his project (Soul Slinger). We spent some time there trying it, me stubbornly trying my own beta. With one burn to go Matt coaxed me to try the 'regular' beta, "It's good to stick to beta, but keep an open mind". I did it that go and for the rest of the day insisted to everyone it was easy, having Gordo giving me a hard time after he later attempted it, "have you done this slab Thomas?" "Oh, is it easy?"

Matt and I meandered back to my camp to enjoy a restful lunch, I made a grilled cheese with ham, onion and mushrooms. We had green tea with goji berries Matt happened to have. At this time, the wind that was keeping the sending temps around all morning picked up and a storm front began to build over western mountains. We warmed back up and tried a few climbs before clouds and snow engulfed the Butter Milks (though Gordo reasoned me into trying one more climb as tomorrow was a rest day, we were warm and he was psyched).

As the Snow fell harder I wondered alone south down the path to my creek side camp when startled in front of me, the largest group of deer I've seen, standing shoulder to shoulder. Thirty plus deer mostly mule with the odd buck, all stood staring right at me. I stopped and observed them for some time. They move north around me slowly, at one point spooked by some other course, half the group bounded quickly off. I gathered dinner and cooked from the door of my tent. Snow continues softly.

10 Years

Today, the last day of February, I spent exploring the town of Bishop. I found my friends from Hueco (down at the happies), edited some photos of Red Rocks (that I'm a little behind on), found the library closed and bought a mantel for my lantern and groceries. After Two months on the road all is well, the truck is still running (yet a hole in the tale exhaust is making it sound more "hard core" than usual), my elbow though bothersome for a few days last week feels good with warmth, trammel, tiger balm, a brace and care. For my first dinner with out James I had Pork steak (with Dijon), with beer caramelized onions and mushrooms, jalapeno cheese bread and a carrot. After Camping with friends the past couple weeks it feels strange to camp alone, its quiet (when I'm Not talking to myself) but nice. tomorrow I will be moving to the butter milks to join friends, though I don't mind the pit for $2 per night (once you see the Butter milks in the morning fuck anywhere else - paid or otherwise). Tomorrow Marks a decade of climbing for me and I'm more than ecstatic to spend it in the Bishop Butter Milks. Hopefully it is a good day, if not... no matter there is more. Now where is that Trammel for my elbow.
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It was a good day by the way... I ran a round doing moderates all day getting reacquainted with granite and big top outs... my fingers got trashed... blasted two weeks of sand stone made my tips a bitch.

"Is That All's Ya'lls"

Las Vegas boiled and froze, stormed and was perfect, but as we exited the Red Rocks Casino breakfast buffet it threatened to rain once more. After receiving a blue slip for overstaying our welcome of 14 days (the sheet read something like - to prevent homelessness please kindly fucking vacate). I dropped James off at the Sin City Hostel (for his flight to Chile March 5th) on Las Vegas Boulevard and headed North on the 95. The mountains faded into low lying cloud as I pass through multiply storm fronts. After passing the highest point in Nevada, Boundary Peak, which I couldn't see due to low cloud. I went through California State line, where upon I was interrogated by a pleasant old man who stated he felt good for his age. Bishop was wet but stars shown by bed time and the magnificent peaks to the west began to reveal themselves to me.

The Ghetto of a Thousand Rules.

North, twenty six miles out of El Paso down highway sixty two, there is a turn off at a space craft shaped real-estate building.This road winds and dips its way out into the flats of a desert landscape between rolling hills, as if from no were lie’s an out cropping of rock only several dozen acres in size, Hueco Tanks State Park. Just before the entrance gates were climber vehicles and sometimes tourists line up each morning to get in (on days you are void of reservations), turns left an ever deteriorating road. To the Hueco Rock Ranch it makes its way along the flats a five minute drive from the park. Here behind a house and barn were climber gather each evening, is a several acre “camp ground”, if you will (more just dirt flats with two roads and dispersed vegetation). If you sit on the ground all you see are the few bushes around you, the top parts of the barn and house and tops of the two “large” peaks that are North and West mountain of the park, if you stand up you see for miles in every direction, even with small glimpses of Mexico.

In the back east corner I find myself huddle under a blanket in my tent listening to the intermittent rain and howling northern winds cutting at my 14+ old Outbound tent. Today is a forced rest day (like all the others I’ve taken, forced by rain and a day of snow - good thing the desert is so dry), but much needed as I have climbed 13 of the last 16 or so days and my body screams with fatigue.

This morning I woke to the sound of a giant flag howling in the wind above my head and an unusual amount of light entering my tent. I rose to discover my fly half off flapping dangerously in the wind, as it threatened to blow away. I quickly dressed and ran out in the biting cold to peg the fly now with 5 extra guy lines. I sat huddled in my tent reading until my stomach could take no more. I went out to grab my coffee and oatmeal, set up my mini stove (in vestibule) to discover a missing crucial piece to my stove. Out in the wind I attempted to cook on the big stove, hunkered in the back of the truck to make a peanut butter burrito up against the duck tape back window, thanks to a mishap yesterday which ended with me putting a ski pole through the glass, to poor results I now consuming runny oats in my tent.

On any other day we climb in perfect temperatures which continue to get warmer, when void of this northern wind. In the evenings we eat then head to the barn to play table tennis and soccer, enjoy a card game, a beer and new friends. When we tire of these activities there is an endless supply of pallet fires to warm the soul, and stories of the days before, injuries, which there are a few of at this moment (including my pinkie finger which its pulley decided to explode a week of so ago - which only affects few moments). With all that there is still nothing to complain about, life is good. I’m enjoying the company of four books right now, and some new films I’ve picked up.

Peace and Love,
Teacozy

Living The Dream

It was early in the park, a still eeriness filled our surrounding as it braced for the onslaught of climbers. It was warm enough so that warming up in the shade was pleasant. Allowing a better monitor on the progress of muscles and blood flow warming and not just the pleasantry of the sun pouncing from your skin. We were well warmed and had accomplish much ground by the time the parking lot began to teem with smelly climbers. We wondered the high points of North Mountain by the guidance of Tim, pointing out the classics as we made our way to the south edge of the mountain to climb a new route. Blood Line is a gorgeous streaking tufa running to the base of a gully.

The next morning I roused from a deep sleep with the feeling of accomplishment rolling over my muscles and tingling at my finger tips. “Here” I said, out of my tent I passed James an item.

“Oh thanks, but how’d you know I needed that.” “You asked for it, No?” “No.”

Hmm, it really had only been a dream, I turned to see the sun rising over Hueco Tanks, I was really here.

Sharp In The Desert

The wind howled as we packed our tents and the last of our things in the truck. I left my mark on the outhouse and we were off. The previous week had been calm clouds traced the horizon and burned away, jets over head gouged the sky, sometimes leaving scars for hours. The wind had picked up the day before forcing us to climb in our jackets, but it was an acceptable change as our stays weather was more than accompanying. Unlike the weather the bouldering was harsh on the skin ripping and tearing away at the flesh. well traveled routes if polished became a struggle, the polished rock difficult to hold. A conundrum that left the mind beaten and your finger tips worn.

The expanse of the desert of Joshua Tree National Park is mind boggling, one would wonder out into the desert tripping through the Doctor Seuss like trees for days lost and allow. the rock follows the flat lands dispersed and concentrated around rolling hills. Climbing all day and never seeing another soul is expected, unless fortune grants you a glimpse of a coyote trotting passed, unaffected by your odd presence to his home.

Many come to the desert the view is beauty, but I suspect few have the chance to truly connect with it. The day passers and strangely enough a diamond company photo shut use it as a back drop to there existence and leave affected by its immortal powers.

If the route grades are stiff then the rules of the boulders were set down by the desert gods themselves, stiffer than mortality, harder than the stone itself. If you are expecting to join the ranks of the immortals, be prepared to leave beaten and defeated, but if you expect to learn nothing of your experiences your heart is full of foolishness.

The hidden valley camp ground is for sure the place to stay, the people there are friendly and always willing to share. As for the climbing a great place to loose your breath is The Real hidden Valley, and the bouldering of Turtle Rock is tall and proud as for a route to lay pads down for, the White Rastafarian is the name of the game.

Coyote Poop and Peyote Stools

The temps in Joshua Tree are perfect today. It’s a beautiful saturday in the sun. I’m sitting here eating lunch in the boulders with a cut on my thumb (cutting onions first night), a hole in my pinky and another on my pointer finger from two separate start crimps. Plus a sprained second toe on my left foot from an awkward fall friday (it’s already feels 50% better today, but still a little swollen). the most important thing is my elbow feel great.
We took two days to get here arriving just after midnight after a 16 hour drive and a 14 hours day before with four hours sleep. So the boarder didn’t give us too much trouble, we had to go inside while they attempted to look through our over packed truck. The fat and lazy boarder guard could not understand how we could leave our work and lives behinds to camp in the desert for 5 months, but he was nice about it and let us go without ripping the car a part.
The first day drive was interesting with lots of rain on and off. we headed to the coast from Eurika to check the sand dunes out. At night fall we booked it to california through Arcata finding a camp ground in red wood park (but not before I almost crashed into a big ass mofo 6 point buck just chilling on the side of the road. We woke up at 4:30, dodging the camping fee and headed for San Francisco by ten. We continued the coast drive from there to LA, probably the most beautiful stretch of road I’ve ever seen.
Now we share a camp site with a great guy name Dave from colorado (or Wyoming or Arizona). The camp grounds full, but running into someone in the desert during the day in uncommon.
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Now Sunday, it’s our rest day, before three more days of fun here. Then off to El Paso. I’ll find some time to post some photos and interesting stories soon.
Peace and Love
Teacozy