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!

The Sun Shines

I still remember the first time I hiked out to Courthouse Rock.  I was probably nineteen or twenty—a recent college dropout—and working full time in some dreary factory in Winchester.  I spent most of my free time hiking and exploring the Gorge.  I’d bought Robert H. Ruchhoft’s Land of the Arches hiking guide and set about systematically visiting all the places in it.

The trail was well travelled back then, but nothing like it is now.  I hike it often.  It’s my go to after work hike these days.  I appreciate the copious amounts of sunshine along the ridgetop hike.  I’ve also been working myself back up to scrambling on the exposed rock formations along the ridge.  Notably Haystack Rock and Courthouse Rock. 

On that first hike I was alone as I usually am.  It felt like a long distance to reach the end of the ridge, but if you’ve hiked Auxier Ridge you know that the scenery gets more interesting and dramatic as you go.  The main thing I remember about that hike thirty or so years ago was as I neared the end of the ridge I started running.  I don’t really know why.  I was wearing blue jeans and old beat-up hiking boots.  I had a backpack probably. 

Why would I get the urge to run?  I’m still not sure exactly.  But as I ran something surreal happened: I glanced out to my left toward the west and saw a large bird of prey of some sort gliding along at the same pace I was running.  We were both headed toward the end of the ridge.  I had never been there, so I didn’t know what would happen up ahead, but I kept running and keeping one eye on the bird.  I ran, and I had this image of myself just running straight off the end of the ridge into the sky.  As if I could fly along with the bird.  I had to pick up speed as the ridge narrowed.  The bird was moving faster, and I was going to lose it. 

My young legs worked hard, dropping down a rocky slab, pistoning against gravity to carry me over a shoulder high ledge, and finally I looked out and saw the bird soar off over the gap between the end of the ridge and Courthouse Rock.  I came up short in a cloud of dust at the final overlook before the stairs down the steep drop off and watched the bird continue out over the valley above the mouth of Indian Creek.

I can’t remember if I scrambled up on top of Courthouse Rock that day in the early Nineties.  I did get on top of it around that time.  And I returned to the summit of Courthouse and Haystack Rocks many times over the years.  For a long time, I did a trail run/scramble loop out Auxier Ridge, picking up both of those points and incorporating as much rocky scrambling as I could.  Then I’d cross over to Double Arch and traverse that ridge back to Tunnel Ridge.  Twice I made the sketchy 5^th class move which put me on top of the end of Tunnel Ridge instead of dropping back down to the trail necessitating ascending the brutal stairs out of Auxier Branch.

Those were many years ago.  I am many pounds heavier.  The brain cells and synapses that made those alpine training loops possible are long dead.  Or whatever happens to brain cells and synapses when they fail to engage in ways you remember them engaging.

This past year I’ve ventured out to Haystack a few times trying to knuckle up the gumption to get back on top of it.  Recently, I did so.  It’s all baby steps.  I’ve gone out to Courthouse a handful more times than Haystack to screw up the courage to make the moves to the top.  Courthouse has been a little harder for me for some reason.  The base has eroded drastically, making the first move considerably more committing.  The fall at the bottom is sketchy anyway, with a fatal drop leering mere feet to the right.  The rock feels more polished than it did fifteen or twenty years ago.  Duh!  And the times I’ve tested the moves it felt like my bum shoulder was going to be impinged if I committed my considerable mass to the moves.

After work this past Tuesday I ventured out Auxier Ridge again.  Typically, when I get out there and am not feeling it, I end up stripping down to the barest legally clothed state I can be in and lay in the sun on the bare rock between Haystack and Courthouse.  I’m trying to bank as much vitamin D as I can while the sun shines.  Gotta make hay and all that. 

Tuesday, I pushed on, dropped down the stairs, crossed the gap, made my way up the ledgy approach on the east face, and found myself standing under the 4^th class northeastern aspect of Courthouse yet again.  Without giving it too much thought I reached up, worked out the feet, and hauled myself up into the angling gash in the sandstone.  I knew what moves to do.  So, I made them.  I couldn’t help but be aware of the gaping sky to my right.  I couldn’t help but think what would happen if I slipped off a sandy hand or foothold and tumbled down the funneling chimney.  I got past the bulgy section and sighed in relief.  The upper slabby part is where I shine, so I plowed on up with complete disregard for the impending descent I’d have to pull off before darkness fell.

That’s not true.  I had full regard for said descent.  I tried not to let it ruin my summit high, but I kept thinking about the reality that no matter what I would have to climb myself back down to flat ground.  My solar collection was truncated by performance anxiety.  After a shorter period of time than I’d hoped, I found myself being pulled back toward the descent.  I stowed my phone and water bottle and made my way over to the crack and eased into the descent. 

Creaky knees and a stiff lower back didn’t come into play so much on my descent the other day, but they’ve flared up since then, and I now fully realize how much scrambling like that can take physically.  I never noticed that in my younger days, which is surely why I stayed in good shape until my forties.  I’m happy to have crossed back into the realm of scrambling adventures, and I feel like if I can keep this streak up and stay healthy my fitness will only continue to improve.

I did feel good in my body, making the moves, bending and twisting and working with and against gravity to travel through the world.  I miss those proprioceptive inputs.  

My goal is to work back up to doing the full five mile or more scrambly loop hitting all the available bare rock in the area.  Those were enjoyable days, and I look forward to recreating those memories.