Breakfast in Hell, just another scary obscure choss pile, why wouldn't you climb it?

    Years ago Greg Prescott and I were wandering around the limestone above Lake Mary, exploring the Booze Pig and Long Ryders walls for the first of many times.  Admittedly we were somewhat lost, Toula's guide will get you in the general area but the rest is up to chance.  We found Booze Pig and were pretty sure we found Long Ryders and were stumbling about in search of what ever else might be out there.  Then we found it.  A tall roof leaning out over the sloping away hillside with easy climbing up to the point where the roof started and then everything gets very real and consequences become serious.  The landing slopes away and is tiered in such a way that pad placement is challenging.  Well ole GTP and I tried it a handful of times but ultimately decided that we needed more crash pad and more bodies before we tried this line again.  We walked away from the cliff but something about it just stuck in my head, something that I just couldn't shake.   I'm pretty sure Greg forgot about the line but it floated in that dark recess of the brain where bad ideas ferment.
      Fast forward a few years and my friend Anna and were out for a quick session at the Pig and some sunshine.  We exhausted the lines we could climb at Booze Pig and the call of that tall roof began to sound in my head.  We packed up and wandered across the hillside, I knew it was out there but wasn't quite sure where it had been a few years after all.  Eventually we stumbled on it again and layed out the pads, we only had two and I would only have one spotter, Anna.  Not exactly the dude-bro posse and plethora of pads Greg and I had envisioned but we were there.  I don't remember the details exactly other than knowing that if I blew the moves in the roof or pressing out the top out I would likely take a truly ugly and R/X rated fall and both Anna (if she didn't have the good sense to not spot me) and I would be seriously hurt.  But, I gave it hell anyhow and after a handful of aborted attempts I was able to top out the line.  It was terrifying and I don't remember the sequence at all.  I named the line Breakfast in Hell after a Slaid Cleaves song I had been listening to quite a bit.
     Its been years since that day with Anna and no one has repeated the line.  Its probably only V3 but the consequences are so dire that I'm not sure that I can really just tell anyone to go get on it.  In all reality if you were to blow the crux or top out you would end up in the hospital if not the ICU, hell it might even be worth wearing a helmet.  That being said though I keep coming back to it.  Last year I was able to talk Joel, JJ, and Wade into walking up there, thinking that with the added pads and a spotter a repeat or second ascent was assured.  No so luck.  Now really its not a pretty line its not all that aesthetic and the consequences are so dire that I really don't know why I feel a compulsion to repeat the line.  I've done a bit of work shoring up the landing area a bit and putting up a handful of other lines on the scrappy cliff band I've taken to calling the Unsung Wall (all the problems are named of Cleaves songs.)  A week or two ago I was out by myself just blowing off steam and found myself starting to reach into the crux of Breakfast in Hell.  Common sense came crashing down on me and I shakily downclimbed.  Sat there a moment and tried it again, same result. But still I tried one more time, this time I actually had my fingers just brushing the hold but couldn't quite commit.   Once again I reversed my moves and called it a day.
     This last week I had the great fortune to go climbing with Tam and Matt.  We hit the Long Ryders wall and appreciated JJ and Wades hard work in  trail building and cleaning the almost forgotten but classic lines on the wall.  Then I suggest  to Matt and Tam that we walk down to the Unsung wall, just to look...   They both were game and we headed through the juniper to the wall.  I showed them the other few problems and Matt made short work of "Cold and Lonely" another roof problem, not as high but just as hard and with its own challenging landing.  (FYI watch out for the Cactus!)  Then we moseyed over to my nemesis.  Its decieving, from the ground it just doesn't look the tall or hard or scary.  But pull up through the initial moves and yer focus narrows and you find yerself in a very serious situation.  Matt put several good runs at the line, sticking the crux move but finding himself unable to commit to letting go with his lower hand and downclimbing.  I tried and kept botching my beta, frustrating.  Tam just watched with Prince the weiner dog in her jacket and laughed.  After being denied one time to many we took off the climbing shoes and put on the street shoes again.  Matt scrambled up the warm up and shuffled over to the top of Breakfast and his eyes widened as he saw the desperate nature of the top out.

     Well we're back to square one, right where Greg and I were so many years ago, a posse, crashpads, serious psych.  Its possible, it does go, but its not really that aesthetic, its not really that hard, its not really that cool...  and if you blow it, the name says it all, you'll be eating Breakfast in Hell.    But for some reason I can't wait to get back on it posse or no and get my confirmation send.  Experience that fine line between in control and completely off the rails.  



---  so this didn't come out the way I really wanted, but hell its late and I'm tired.  But what is it that drives us to boulder alone and push the boundaries?  Thats the real thing I meant to write about but got sidetracked.  Anyhow if anyone reads this don't climb this boulder problem its Scary!  But if you do go let me know I'd love to see it happen and I'd appreciate a spot too!

video of Breakfast in Hell, Slaid Cleaves

The trick shoulder... or something like that

Soooo its been quite the while since I put any words down, just after Boys Christmas if I recall.  Now I find myself in that awkward spot of wanting to catch up on all the huge events but knowing that a.) no one really wants to read all that and b.) my attention span seems to waver from minute to minute and chances are I'll get side tracked.  So instead I figured I would do a brief recap and then get to the business of what I really have to say.  HA!
     The last two months have been a blur with some of the highlights being the Tough Mudder with the Weakest Links, the new job-flight medic with Guardian Air, and an amazing girl.  Now you might be asking "if she's that amazing doesn't she warrant her own post"?  Well she does, she is that amazing but... perhaps that would be too bold?  Wouldn't want to scare her away now would I?  Actually, I feel like I've been talking people blue about her she is just that fantastic, only hitch she lives in Cali, but time will tell, time will tell.  But in a nutshell, her name is Laura but I call her Sassafras, Sass for short and she calls me Arizona cause well I live in Arizona.  She teaches 2nd grade by day and slings booze by night.  She makes me smile and I hope that I return that favor.  Oh and did I mention she is beautiful?

But I digress...
     With all this upheaval in my world during these two months, working 96+hrs some weeks and studying my brain to mush I haven't been able to climb as much as I would like.  Which on some levels is okay, actually I had resolved to take the whole month of December off to let my "trick" shoulder aka "chick lifting" shoulder convalesce.  I was very disaplined and didn't climb once during December, however this didn't really produce the desired results.  As a matter of fact I had a massage during that month and the masseuse was very hesitant to do any work on my bum shoulder because she was fearful that she might loosen things up so much that it would just fall out of socket.    The story behind the cause of this bum wing is a bit hazy, years of abuse followed by a wedding last summer where I may have imbibed a bit to much bourbon and hoisted my date into a sitting position on my shoulder using only one arm.  (She claims that the injury obviously happened when I was doing Double cartwheels and Wagonwheels with Lil Nikki.  I'm pretty sure thats how I got a big goose egg on my noggin but I'm   sure my shoulder was fine...)  Its been a bit wonky over the past 8 or so months but finally failed on me while climbing the Prosecutor with Carrie in November.  Bummer, but we persevered and had a great trip to Castle Valley after which I decided to take time off.   Well that one month slipped into 2ish and 3ish of very little climbing.  I've been trying to squeeze in the odd day out here and there all of them have been fantastic, even bushwhacking all over West Fork with Joel and Darren!  Unfortunately the cripple wing is not improving, actually I think its getting worse.  It hasn't actually dislocated, but theres an odd catch that happens during passive movements and when it happens I can't lift my arm above my shoulder.  Give me  about 4 minutes of fussing with my arm and tada!  good as new back to climbing, hiking, day to day living.  Everyone seems to have an opinion and everyone seems to think seeing an orthopod is a grand idea.  I appreciate all the advice and have been focusing on trying to strengthen it as much as possible and zero in on how to reduce it or "fix" it when it slips.  However the idea of seeing an orthopod is somewhat repulsive to me, not because their not good folks, but rather that after having two ACL reconstructions I am not looking forward to being a cripple again.  And why bother going to see them when I know that the word will be that I need some sort of surgical intervention?  I can't take extended time off work as of yet and I'll be damned if I let this thing keep me from getting back on the rock!  Which leads me to my next topic.....  Read the next entry, duh.

Boys Christmas turns 18

(Just a brief thought on Boys Christmas, there is a database being compiled for those in the know, but for now here's what I've got)

     I awoke this morning to the brutal and beautiful cacophony of jet engines blended with chainsaw with a hint of Wookie howl mixed in … actually it was the chorus of a multitude of Boys deep in early morn slumber.  I groaned and pulled my sweatshirt over my head to no avail.  I heard stirrings about and cracked a crusty eyelid to peep Jesse Ernesto and Johnny Hein picking their way through a labyrinth of slumbering Boys.  The Christmas tree lights twinkled and the smell of perpetually warming meat wafted from the crockpot that had been left on too long.  The stench of Boy filled the air.  About the room bodies were strewn like casualties of some cliche Zombie pic and empty cups, beer bottles, whiskey glasses, and champagne bottles(congrats to all the fathers to be) peered from beneath the tables and chairs… thus began the morn after Boys Christmas 18.
     It has been many years since last I had the opportunity to attend the yearly gathering of Boys, but in my heart I have always felt present.  Without drifting too much into the history of this epic gathering I have to say that my heart was full indeed last night as I sat and ate and drank and laughed and flatulated with some of the best Boys I have had the good fortune to know.  Boys Christmas is a tradition unlike any other that I have heard of, a gathering steeped in the mythology of who we were as much as the truth of who we are.  Years ago when Boys Christmas began it was Boys fighting to be Boys, through the years it was Boys fighting against turning  into men and now at Boys Christmas 18, when  Boys has finally reached manhood we are Men embracing being Boys.  To all the Boys in attendance last eve Dan Liebs, Johnny Hein, Ben Allen, Ryan Berkley, Tommy Rounds, Jesse Ernest, Ken Janke, Steve Kemp, the good Rev. Mark Allen, and our gracious host Mike Carmen, as well as all those unable to attend, you lads are the greatest, you have helped shape me, for better or worse, into who I am today and I thank and love each and every one of you.  Know that even on the years when I have not been in attendance I have donned my BC11 shirt and brought out my BCX coloring book for all to see.  As Dan Liebs can attest if you are to come to Flagstaff don't be surprised if you are greeted with a "are you one of the Boys?"  Merry Christmas Boys and to all a good night

Recollections of a lone cowboy

So, its December and many months from my last posting, I am almost two weeks into a self imposed exile from climbing, and losing my proverbial marbles.  For days now I've been intending to write something, anything and then it hit me... tonight I was sitting in front of the woodstove enjoying some "Pure Kentucky" bourbon, reading "the Last American Man" about Eustance Conway, and listening to Brown Bird when a memory came flooding back and  I knew I had to get it written down before I lost it for good.
     I was sitting in my chair by the fire reading the story of Conway and had just gotten to the part about his experiences with horses when the memory of two distinct events hit me...  The first was being home several years ago and talking with my dad when he relayed an odd story to me.  As I remember it my dad was driving down Clark Road, a road which he has traveled more times than one could ever possibly quantify, when he passed an odd sight.  A man on horse back was riding down Clark Road.  Now Paradise, Ca has its contingency of horse back enthusiasts, in fact several of our family friends owned horses and rode them regualarly, but what made this story interesting was not the fact that a horse was being ridden down Clark road.  It was who was riding this horse.  As I remember it my dad described a man, not a "cowboy" exactly, but a man in rough clothes... jeans, a button down shirt, boots, spurs, and a scabbard with a rifle across the saddle riding down Clark Road.  There are no working cattle operations in Paradise and I'm not sure if there were ever any yet here was a man on horseback riding down the road as calm as can be.  Where was he going, where had he come from?  My dad drove by and now claims that it never happened!  Yet I remember him telling me this story as plain as can be!
   Now for memory number two!  About a year ago I had loaded up the hound and gathered my fishing gear and was headed down to Oak Creek.  Now, for better or worse, I tend to call my friend Anna when I leave the house on these trips down to the creek and talk to her for the drive to the switchbacks where I lose service.  On this day though as I was approaching the switchbacks talking to Anna I passed a man on horseback with his cattle dog trotting alongside him.  Well, this is Arizona and I initially didn't think too much about it.  Anna and I were deep in conversation so I pulled off the road across from the Oak Creek Overlook so we could finish our conversation.  As I sat talking with Anna the man on horse back passed me and I noticed that this was no casual "Western" rider or typical Az redneck.  He had a sleeping roll across the back of his saddle with a yellow slicker tucked into it and a rucksack hanging from one side.  He wasn't "duded" up but was definitely a cowboy.  I'm not sure but I imagine he had a rifle across the pommel and his dog trotting dutifully at the side of the horse.  As I looked up, deep in conversation, I saw him assess the switchbacks and cross over to the Overlook.  I figured this must be the turnaround point of his outing.  After about twenty minutes Anna and I said our goodbyes and I headed down to my favorite fishing spot.  I had just started down the switchbacks at my usual breakneck speed when, by God, there he was!  There was the cowboy atop his horse trotting as calmly as can be down the switchbacks.  And where you ask was his dog?  Why of course his faithful companion was laying sidesaddle in his lap.  I shook my head as I gave him a wide berth and continued on.
     I threaded the eyelets of my fly-rod and embarked on a marginally successful day of fishing without another thought to the cowboy.  After and hour or so I had covered most of the water that I usually set out to fish and was lounging by a big pool above which a lay a series of smaller deeper pools.  Being that this section of water is one of the few areas of Oak Creek that aren't directly visible from the road and not many tourists find their way down I stripped down and was enjoying a casual soak when from above a voice sounded.  "Hey, there any fish in there?"  startled I looked around only to realize that the voice was coming from above, near where the road ran.  I looked up and there he was, straight out of a Cormac McCarthy book, the cowboy.  I was stunned.  "You catch anything?" Yeah, I stammered a few rainbows and a brown.  His dog poked his head over the edge.  "How far is the next store?"  uhhh, a few miles....  "Less than 10?" definitely, probably 2 or 3  "Thanks, have a good one." and he was gone...  I sat there with the creek rushing about me, trying my damnedest to figure out who that damn cowboy was...  and here I am still trying to figure out who that damn cowboy was....

The Black Fort

I have never been one for long walks on the beach
but, a time long ago, I found myself,
with long walks along tall cliffs
above the crash of the Atlantic Ocean.
Alone, I would walk through fields swathed in green,
stacked limestone composing the frames of a kaleidescope landscape.
I would walk until I reached the end of the world.
To Na Poill Seideáin,
to Poll Na bPéist,
and to Dún Dúchathair,
Some days I would wander into Dun Aengus and lose myself amongst the masses, but Dun Duchathair was where I found myself while all alone.
Days were long and time was mine and on occasion I would wander to the far end of land and take my boots off and settle my toes in the sea and stare across the water and imagine I could see North America...
But mostly I would walk and stand and feel the sea air on my face on the cliffs at Dun Duchathair.
I wonder now, if I can still find the path to the cliffs of Dun Duchathair.

Adventures with "Off-the-couch" Carl

     Spent this last sunday down in Prescott with my good friends Jill and Carl and their beautiful daughter Olietha.  Since they moved to Prescott several years ago I don't see these two as often as I should/would like and every time we do get together I think of how much has changed and at the same time how we are still the same.  Carl is one of my first climbing partners and even though we don't get out more than once or twice a year now he is still one of my most trusted and reliable partners.  Carl grew up in Prescott and learned to climb while in his teens and in my mind must have been a young sport/bouldering prodigy.  I say this because of the intrinsic skill and technique that he still posesses, even while professing to be out of shape and off his game.  More on that later...
     After an aborted attempt to visit Jill and Carl about a week ago (work got in the way) I woke Sunday morning to a text from Carl saying that he had an easy night at work, so I packed up the bouldering pad and the dog and set off for Prescott.  I made good time and soon was pulling up to Casa de Goff.  I walked in and was greeted by Jill and Carl while little "O" stood in the middle of the floor looking up at me.  I knelt down to give her a hug.  Much to my surprise the little beauty reached up and wrapped her tiny arms over my shoulders and nestled her head into my neck.  I knelt there, surprised, and realized that she was softly, silently patting me on the back.  I melted and honestly she almost brought me to tears with this unexpected acceptance and compassion.  I think even Jill and Carl were surprised, if it had been one of us "grown" ups this hug would have exceeded the uncomfortably long period, but coming from little "O" I could have sat there all day.  Slowly she let go and time began to resume its normal speed and we packed and prepared for our day out bouldering.  In our search for tape we made our way downstairs and Carl delved into pandoras box of climbing gear out came rarely used cams, aid gear, bolts, hangers, slings, and memories of adventures past and dreams of adventures put on hold.  Alas, no tape was to be found so back upstairs and into the Land Cruiser we all piled.

         Our first stop was a random boulder pile that Carl had stumbled upon, I am assuming during a trail run.  It is interesting the way our past shapes our present, to Carls granite trained eye there was a multitude of boulder problems to be done.  To my eye, recently trained to find multi pitch lines it appeared to be a jumble of rocks.  Carl pointed out some of the problems he had established and directed me to some of his projects.  Projects not because they were too difficult, but perhaps I think, because they were high and potentially dangerous.  Not something a father would attempt while out alone with his daughter or with his several month pregnant wife!  Soon the shoes were laced up and we were crimping and edging and falling and straining.  All the while O ran about in the woods and Jill looked on, as she usually does, with a slight smile at the corner of her mouth.  We made short work of Carls usual problems and quickly found ourselves drawn to the taller, more daunting lines.  One, a tall, rounded arete called us first.  The first moves were off of good crimps to a rail, from there the feet come up to the original crimps and things become much more real!  Above the rail the angle lessens somewhat, but the holds run out and suddenly you are 10, 15 feet off the ground!  Carl made an initial attempt that led him to escape into a nearby tree. I pulled on next and was able to squeak through the final holds to the top.  Granite climbing is quite foreign to me and I found myself sporting some new abrasions!  From this boulder we moved to the next, a huge chunk of stone that sported features similar to the bow of a ship and the crest of a wave.  The obvious line was a lip traverse that started at about head height and ran about 20-30 feet, gradually increasing in height to about 20ft, much like a wave.  Our initial forays across the lip were met with shrieks and frantic back paddling as the lip rounded and the moves became more desperate and we became more aware of the height.  After one or two goes each we analyzed the moves and scouted the blank face below the lip for any extrusion, knob, or edge that a foot could be pasted on.  Then with a new resolve Carl pulled onto the lip and began moving out across the wave, a surfer on the stone.  I've known Carl for many years and times like this are what I enjoy most.  There is a part of Carls brain that I think talks too much.  Full of doubt and misgivings if he thinks too much he often won't even attempt something, or stop mid-way.  But occasionally it is as if he simply closes the door on that voice and suddenly his body is given full reign to do what it wants, what it can.  He floated through the initial moves and barely paused at the blankest section of the lip and soon was swinging around the prow of the stone, moving comfortably.  I tried to take some pictures to capture the feeling but I am afraid they do not do the boulder problem justice.  With that problem in the bag we moved to the next line, which admittedly was likely not a realistic proposition, at least not with our two pads, a small child, and a pregnant Jill!  We made an initial attempt and I soon found myself at that point where decisions have to be made...  With my feet about 12 feet off the ground and another 12-15 feet of hard climbing to go I backed off and with that we packed  up and moved to the next area.
      On the drive to the next area "O" once again worked her way into my heart and I marveled at the contrast between her tiny hand in my scarred and wrinkled paw as we held hands while she dozed in her car seat.  At the next area Carl again sandbagged me with his "Off-the-couch" antics as he cruised several problems and "O" wowed us all with her rock climbing prowess.  I swear I saw her use a pinky lock gaston and utilize some moves that I am fairly certain originated in Stolby, as she swung her feet and legs level with her head as she navigated a slab!  It was fun to watch her and watch Jill and Carl move smoothly around her as only parents can, anticipating her next moves and understanding her emotions and tantrums.  She truly is their daughter and even at this young age she exhibits the traits, emotions, and expressions of both her parents.  I find it amusing that they both attribute certain aspects of her to the other while I see both of them in all of her.
   After most of the skin was worn from our finger tips and our muscles fried we returned to the house briefly and then attempted to find food.  A challenge due to downtown Prescott being shut down for a festival of some sort but we found a suitable establishment and had a fantastic meal, a great end to an amazing day.  Even though I don't get to see Jill and Carl and O as much as I would like every time I do I am more and more grateful for the amazing friends that I have and I am filled with pride at what amazing parents they have become.

a pile of ashes alongside the creek
half burned images of a life past
charred 50's square cut photographs
black and white memories
of a time past?
do they know how they got here
half burned
half forgotten
do they know how it happened