The Labors of Workcules

I’m a moveable mover.  The sun shines a little less harshly these days.  Summer is waning.  I’m not complaining.

I go forth less clad, as Wim Hof would have you believe we should.  Maybe I’m not ready for Kilimanjaro in shorts, but for some light scrambling in the temperate rainforests of Eastern Kentucky I am down for anything.  Or nothing.  But I digress.

Sure, it was a major national holiday.  Sure, there would be scads of scabs running loose in the sylvan wastes I longed to possess for my own.  Could I make it to the trailhead prior to the migratory infusion of touro-hikerists?  Only if I hurried.

I woke in the pre-dawn darkness.  I bounced from the bed with a vigor I had not felt since before I was thirty.  Still, I stretched stiff, old muscles as the day wakened outside my domicilicus.  I threw down an online order at the pizza place for a breakfast burrito.  But not the kind the Red-ish River Gorge is known fer.  But it should be.

Nom-ditty, nom, nom as I steered the trusty rusty tetanus wagon toward yon ridge o’er the tunnel.  I bounced and jounced out the gravel trail munching on chorizo, potato, beans and peppers wrapped in deliciousness.  Belly full, I locked up the truck at the Auxier Ridge trailhead.  Again.  I stripped off my shirt for maximum sun exposé and took off ahead of a couple of groups of hikers preparing to clog into the breach.

I kept my pace high, to stay ahead of the clot coming behind me.  My legs moved, my feet found their steps, and my body passed quickly like the shadow of a hawk through the woods. 

Voices echoed back and forth across the valleys.  I overtook and kept on cooking one slower moving band after another.  Couples.  Triples.  Families with triples.  They parted like the Dead Sea.  Or was it Red?  I commanded with my fleet-footed presence, and they obeyed.  I came to the Excalibur overlook and didn’t slow.  

A giant petrified frog

Turning left, I found my way out the exposed slabs over the saddle between the main ridge and Haystack, dropped down with seemingly goat like precision, and with only a pause to for a sip of water, struck out on the Girdle Traverse into the sky.  Toes on stone, fingers on shadows, weight over feet, mind in the moment I eased out onto the ledge on the south side of Haystack.  My mind was pondering the wisdom of this choice.  There was no rope or harness in my kit that day.  The only protection I carried with me was the experience and skill of my youth, hopefully dialing up on command to carry me safely up and down my intended goal for the day. 

A split second of psych and I committed to the first “crux” of the scramble.  It’s got more positive holds than anything else on the climb, however, it has less horizontal stone beneath to prevent a bad tumble into the treetops.  While a mental challenge for sure, I was less worried about it than the next difficulty.  I didn’t pause before committing to the upper friction moves, knowing I would have to stick it or nick it coming back down, or call 911 for a rescue.

I almost ran the last few steps to the summit bollard to the sounds of cheers and clapping from the ridge.  I had received a standing ovation for not dying.  Maybe tourists aren’t all bad.  I laughed and gave them a wave. A glance at Courthouse Rock quelled any desire to linger and knowing it might be better to head down before I let my mind wander to the danger of said descent, I began my crab crawl toward gravitational death.

Facing the challenge dead in the eye until I had no choice but to turn my back on the gaping maw of death beyond the solid stone, I made my way down, and then laid bare belly to stone hoping fat has friction.  Thankfully…it does!

I had reversed the upper crux successfully, though with a slightly elevated heartrate over any such passage in my tweens.  I suddenly remembered that despite the number of times I had completed the self-same scrambling jaunt it always had my full attention. 

I downclimbed the lower crux and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  I still had to make the frictiony traverse, but that was simply a matter of making the moves.  Soon enough I was kicking dirt and churning greenbriars.  I regained the ridge via the exposed slab and was met by one of the hikerers I had bypassed on the way out from the trailhead.

“You got balls, man!” he said grinning.

I gave him a modest laugh, and explained I had done that many times when I was younger, and it was only muscle memory now.  We chatted as we climbed back to the level top of the ridge, and then I bid he and his family a good rest of their holiday and struck out north toward the next monolith on the list.

It was at that point that I noticed my body wanted to move faster.  My legs wanted to run.  For the first time in many years, I felt sure-footed enough to almost try it.  But so close to heading out for Wyoming I knew I couldn’t risk a rolled ankle or pinged knee.  I’m still too heavy for that kind of pounding.  Honestly, I will probably never trail run again.  I don’t want t risk further damage to my aged knees.

I slipped past a large group getting ready to descend the stairs and plong, plong, plongged down, down, down to the Auxier/Courthouse saddle. I cruised across, clambered up the ledgy approach to the northeast face and dropped my things at the base.  I had decided to climb it sans anything including phone or water. 

My first start was a false one, so I quickly decided to abort.  I was tired.  I had also done a core workout at home before setting out on this training quest.  Better to hold back a little and live to push on another day.  On the hiked, quickly descending the ledgy part, and then picking up (or down) the Auxier Branch Trail.  I was thinking I’d Gap some Stars on the way back if I had gas when I got to the cutoff.

Tailgating the big group for a few minutes let me pay more attention to my joints and muscles and feet placement.  I was still doing well as I weaved and bobbed through the line of touros.  And then I cut loose and let gravity have me all the way down to the Auxier trickle.  I paused to top off my BeFree and then began the steady thigh master blaster exit back up to Tunnel Ridge.

Hitting the old gravel road was a relief, and I settled into cruise control as I drank more water and began texting while hiking.  I quickly decided to hike out Star Gap Ridge when I got there, and I kept my pace steady at five over the legal limit.

The side ridge is a ride out the ridge, east going and flowing over stone and sand.  If not for fear of turkey mites I think I would have gone plumb to Titanic Rock at the end, but the last time I sailed that far I hit a nest of some of the tiny biteys and regretted it for a long time.  Instead I swerved out to the Nada Dome overlook.  Another scramble and some explorations around the base of the dome only rendered a nice spot for some sunbathing and in the end that was enough.  I was ripped and whipped, but the sun and the cooler air felt nice on old skin.  I did my best to relax and let go, but the tug of obligations back home limited my enjoyment a tiny bit.

Nude shot!
Like my new RRG-themed tattoos?

Then I was traversing, scrambling, and hiking on at a breakneck pace back toward the truck.  It was almost too cool to ride home with the windows down despite the sunshine.

Wyoming or not…here I come!