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.    

Retrospective: Stardancer

10/9/23

In 1998 Barry and I met a couple of Colorado climbers at Middle Marker in the Black Hills. We wanted to do a route called Stardancer—a 5.8 sport route—but we were chicken. It’s more than ninety feet long and looks significantly harder than any other 5.8 I’d ever seen. And I was at best a solid 5.8 climber at the time. I made it to the fifth bolt on my lead attempt and came down to rest my pumped calves. 

One of the Colorado guys offered to lead it—he was going to anyway—and leave our rope on the route so we could top rope it when they were done. We graciously accepted his offer and both of us climbed the route. It was a great route.

Fast forward twenty-five years...Dylan and Christian were the most stoked of anyone I’ve ever travelled to Wyoming with. I think they appreciated my love for it. And when they got to the Black Hills in South Dakota the stoke remained high. In a roundabout way I led them to Picture Window and the iconic route Gossamer. Barry and I had looked at it in ‘98 but it was scury. It was a forty foot 5.7 with three bolts and a long runout to the first one which was actually over a forty-ish foot fall. We didn’t get on it then. 

Dylan dropped his pack and started racking up. He put it up and Christian and I top roped it. It was a fun route for sure. I would have pissed my pants if I’d gotten on it in ‘98. The actual climbing is relatively short, but the narrow fin is airy and the summit exposed and provides great views across an incredible panorama.

After we cleaned up the route, we ambled over to Middle Marker and I pointed out Stardancer. It was much more intimidating than I remembered it. But first we got on a newer bolted route called Solo System. It felt easier than Gossamer, so I had hope for Stardancer. After I’d cleaned up the 5.6 sport route Dylan roped up at the base of Stardancer. 

I suddenly realized the significance of its name. I was standing slightly uphill and east of the route. The sun wasn’t too low, but definitely in the western sky. All of the tiny crystals in the matrix of the formation shone as piercing points of white light. The route was just to the right of the shade-sun line. A climber would appear to tiptoe up through the constellation of crystal flecks. Stardancer. 

As Dylan ascended the long slab that vision played out. He became the Stardancer. It was an amazing experience in an incredible landscape. There was definitely a spiritual component to it. I tried to capture the moment with my camera but ultimately failed. I may have one image where you can kind of see the “stars.” 

The theme of the trip seemed to be stars. I took a cool photo of the Big Dipper over the Teton Range. 

There was an incredibly bright star that preceded the sunrise on Saturday as the supermoon set over Garnet Canyon. 

Stars blanketed us at Vedauwoo after our moose encounter. So, dancing amongst the stars was a fitting end to our climbing trip.

[REDACTED] Rock

8/14/24

I am a consumable consumer. I’m a fourth-class citizen having soloed to the summit of [REDACTED] Rock. It took a few trips out here over the past few months to feel the feels I needed to feel. 

Scooting up Cloudsplitter yestereve was just the boost I needed. I felt solid. I felt in control. I ventured into blanker territory on the north slabs of the sky rock.

The climb: It’s a bump to a ledge from the saddle—but first the tiptoe crab crawl into the saddle—then toe scoot, toe scoot, waist-high sculpted crimps…sure I could snag one on the way down if I slipped—slip?! I ain’t gonna slip on my grippy sandstone in my sticky shoes—one committing stretch on smears and fears and I was into deeper digits. Then the reprieve before the ascension. 

Southwestern aspect of the skystack involves muy verticality and a paucity of paw holds. Combo moves of smear/mantle/high step put me square into no-man’s-land. No up or down without the cajones you bring with you. Nowhere to tie a rope. No solid holds on which to yard. Upward and onward into the wild blue. Then the summit bollard and glory!

Stupid grin, silly feeling, solid rock under my feet. Another me—Twentysomething me—would have inched back down the heady slab toward a terminal drop into the treetops with nary a blip on the EKG. Fifty-year-old me tossed a rope and slipped on a harness.

My dynamic neon parachute then returned me to second class terrain. But I had to a-send my way back out of the saddle. The downscrambling is as important as the upscrambling. Maybe I'll work up (or down) to reversing the climb up.

I lingered on a sunny slab nearby taking in the late afternoon vistas—shirt off because I’m too old to care anymore—hoping to bank some vitamin D for the coming winter. While I didn’t bring my own six pack, there was a carton of cars in the parking lot, but I saw not a living soul asides myself.

Living in the past does you no good. I had great experiences. I will have great experiences. I am having great experiences—that is what matters.

4th class scramble over my right shoulder

A Dream at Dusk

An audience waits for the sun to make a final appearance of the day, but it seems reluctant to take the stage. It peeks from behind the curtain in the wings.

The warm stone supports me where I lay in the sky. Magnesium pinpricks of white dance in front of my eyes. Wavy ribbons of cloud cover the bluebird dome in repeating patterns. There is a scent of pine sap and sand and sunlight. A breeze pushes over the rock urged by the oncoming night.

With closed eyes I duskdream about possibilities. What was and what is overlap. The circle doesn’t close.  Yet.

My shoulders melt into the sandstone and my mind wanders, my spirit soars down the gorge and into the past. The gritty bed under my head roots me in the present.

Unseen, the sun slips closer to the horizon. I’ve no light for the coming darkness; I should work my way back down into the world I came from. Turn my truck toward home. Wind along the river and back to town.

Punk music chases me as I chase the fading daylight. The windows are down and hair whips in my eyes. I don’t need to see to drive these roads. They’re like the lines on the palm of my hand. I don’t need to see to know where I am.

Vis-à-Vis

August 5, 2023

It was damn hot. Hot and wet. And as Robin Williams playing Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning Vietnam says: that’s nice if you’re with a lady; that ain’t no good if you’re in the jungle.

My new La Sportiva Tarantulas were great. I would have remarked on that twenty feet below the anchors on Vision at Global Village if I had not been cursing and whimpering and begging for a better stance, a better gear placement, less lactic acid in my forearms and calves, and less runout over a bull$#!+ 0.75 Camalot above a Charlie Brown Christmas tree waiting to impale me straight up my rectum. I was not in a good place. I could not downclimb. My brain was telling me to push on like Arno Ilner would (WWAD?). The Warrior’s Way baby! And I started to, but then I realized I was already runout. I was already looking at a bad fall even if the whore of a Camalot held my fat ass in free fall. I made one move up to an awkward stance and realized the next move wasn’t secure and the gear above might be better but it sure wouldn’t be easy to place. I was pumped silly, hands uncurling on every hold and arches and calves so burned up I couldn’t stand long enough to place anything anyway. In desperation I looked west toward the top of Kentucky Pinstripe. The anchors on the sport route were waist level and about eight feet away.

I started gunning over.

My fingers were hard like wood. I clawed into the rock and stabbed westward with my great new climbing shoes, hoping against all futility they’d land on something solid. If a foothold blew...if my fingers failed...I was going to be violently impaled on the tree.  My lungs were pumping like the bilges on the Titanic. My heart was hammering like John Henry. My dad had a stent put in three days ago and I was pretty sure we’d have matching ones if I didn’t make the traverse clean over to the rings. Damn all those cheeseburgers. Damn all that pizza. Damn that impression of said ass in my couch. I had only gotten on this route to condition myself for leading up the Exum Ridge on the Grand Teton two months hence*. I didn’t want to wreck myself bouncing down VISION at Global Village and wrapping my torso around the pine tree.

Somehow, I made the moves without chuffing into certain spinal destruction. I clipped a draw to the rings with hands that no longer worked normally. Though gasps and wheezes I told Tony to take. Somehow, I got a second draw clipped and started chanting “get me down!” over and over.

I laid on the boulder at the base feeling it’s cool mass, chest heaving, absolutely spent. My body and brain were flooded with adrenaline. It took a while to come down. And I felt like I was crashing. I drank water and ate a little. I coached everyone through the lower half of the route (actually my preferred variation of the lower splitter of Vision, pull the roof left, and finish on Kentucky Pinstripe), and began wanting to go back up it on top rope. I wasn’t sure how my body would respond. But I knew I needed to try. It went surprisingly well. I didn’t feel as bad as I expected I would. I hiked it on top rope and enjoyed it. I needed that. But I almost took Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. That was scary. Vision shouldn’t be at my limit. It wouldn’t have been as bad if I’d had any kind of decent gear. 

I survived. That’s all that matters.

Lily resting on Kentucky Pinstripe
after I hung the rope.

* I did NOT make it to the Exum Ridge in October like I planned.

Outcome Uncertain

 Knees sing a symphony of sunset pinks and electric blues. Too many miles over too many years. Too much weight born. Too much trauma stored.

There’s a head full of life experience. Memories of lost glory. Memories of a body that would answer the call of adventure without hesitation. Memories of maybe too many heavy packs pounding down on back and knees and ankles and heels. Memories of not feeling the weight or the miles so acutely.

I sit on my pack in the middle of the trail, dripping sweat, swatting weakly at the deerflies. The truth is, I want to turn around and give up. I hang my head and laugh to myself, almost trying to force a sob. I shake my head and grit my teeth. Sweat splats in the dry dirt between my feet. I glance up at what was supposed to be a water source. It’s as dry as a cotton mouth. There is—hopefully—a more reliable water source further down the trail, farther from the trailhead.

If I go back now I have time before dark to get to my waiting pile of rust, my tetanus wagon, the ol’ truck that barely wheezed to the top of Letcher Gap two and a half hours earlier.

I poke a finger in the gaping sidewall of my approach shoes. I had not intended to wear the worn out La Sportivas, but I was twenty minutes from home when I realized I had left proper footwear by my kitchen door. What a poor, dumb dingus I am!

Blown out shoes. Blown out old truck. Blown out body. Blown out mind. The shoes are a year old. The truck is twenty five. The rest is twice that. The trail is supposedly fit for “experienced adventurers.” I have gear older than many who would consider themselves worthy of that title.

It’s dangerously warm on Pine Mountain. There are many “experienced adventurers” who would question my judgement at setting out for an overnight backpacking trip in the middle of July in Kentucky along a high country ridge with sparse water. I’m not crazy. I know what I’m getting myself into. At least I remember the knowledge of what I’m getting myself into if not the immediate suffering of this endeavor to reclaim my mojo. 

I’ve been here before. Not here, but in similar places in similar conditions when I was stronger, with more stamina and less experience. How do you think I became a fifty year old guy who sets out solo in bear country to tackle a rugged jaunt into the unknown? I’ve done it all before. Just not lately. Just not at this weight, this age, and this mental state. 

At least there’s no young folk to see me sitting in the trail sweating out all of my energy and contemplating trip suicide. Young folk who would stride past with their heads held high and bodies held firm by youth and muscle tone I haven’t had in a mighty long time.

Near Letcher Gap heading east

Near High Rock

High Rock 2,939'

I’ve made a mistake photocopying the map and a small section is missing. If I hadn’t I would see another water source about a mile east. It’s not the promise of water that gets me up. It’s this thought…if you can’t do this hike, on this day, you are never going to be able to reach your more ambitious goals: the summit of the Grand Teton and thru-hiking the Sheltowee Trace. 

Up I go, creaking like the Tin Man, and I shoulder the damp pack and grind on down the trail. I’ll find water. I’ll find my terminus before sunset even though it’s not the trail shelter I set out to reach. In the end it will be a good night out alone on top of Pine Mountain with the sounds of folk down in the valley rising up like a warm summer wind to lull me. Sleep would be elusive in the humidity and the cloud of anxiety I brought with me that grew with each pile of scat I stepped around in the trail. No bears would trouble me on this trip except in my imagination.

In fact, almost all of my troubles were those I carried within the container of my skull. Those worries and perceived threats that dried like peppers in the sun still holding their potency even as the last bits of moisture was expelled from my lungs into the high country air.

Swindall Campsite

Sinking sun from Swindall overlook

I wasn’t as sore as I expected to be when I crawled into the tent. I wasn’t as sore as I expected when I crawled out of the tent a few hours later to catch the sunrise over the lowlands to the north. I wasn’t as sore as I expected after the ordeal was all over once the hiking was put to bed and I nursed the rust bucket two (nay three) hours home.

I think I found what I needed to find up there on Pine Mountain. I may not have as many years left ahead of me to adventure as I have squandered in my past trying to live up to society’s expectations, but I’m rebuilding the mental framework that collapsed under years of trauma and depression and physical decline. All is not lost.

There is a trail through the woods that beckons. There is a ridge lying there under the stars, overlooking the world that oppresses our minds. There are feet that can still carry me. There is a back that can still bear a pack. There are eyes still to see the wonders the world has to offer. There are hands to touch the earth, and lungs to take in great gulps of free air. And there is a heart, and soul, and mind that cares enough to keep on finding adventures on this side of the chasm I thought would swallow me up long ago.

Part of me still lives up on that ridge. The memory of that trip is still bright and crisp in my mind. I’ll visit that part of me I left behind often. I will haunt that memory so I can stop haunting darker places full of pain.

That is why.

Dome of the Nada

 I know, I never followed up on the Whereabouts Unknown saga.  You must be looking for some kind of closure.  I understand.  I will continue this tale when there are updates.  Life got hot, and I'm still nursing a chronic case of decrepitude.

In the interim I want to share some tales of exploration from my earlier years.  Particularly, I want to share snippets of adventures from what I call Star Gap Ridge.  It's the big ridge on the west side of Tunnel Ridge with an old road through an old campground and passes by several (formerly) scenic overlooks and lots of exposed rock.  It's always been one of my favorite areas in the Gorge. 

In the '90s, my cousin Dustin and I checked out any bare chunk of rock we could find.  And I have a pinnacle fetish.  We scouted out the Three Pinnacles and climbed First Pinnacle which I remember as being a fun adventure.

After visiting the pinnacles, we explored further out the ridge.  We called this one formation "Nada Dome" partly for its shape and partly in honor of the perpetual basketball game that seemed to be going on at the time down in the community of Nada at a ball goal that overhung the main road. Nada Dome was the next most attractive thing out there, so we scrambled down the exposed slab to the saddle between the main ridge and the rock and found a 4th class scramble up on the dome proper.  We dropped a top rope on a few lines and moved on.  I also did a top rope solo line out on the end of the ridge on the formation we always called Titanic Rock.

Fast forward maybe five years and I’m hiking out that ridge with my dog Roger.  Roger was a seventy-five-pound lab/Newfoundland mix, and he was a big baby.  Wouldn’t let me out of his sight.

Anyway, I decided I was going to scope out Nada Dome again and scooted down the exposed slab and kept telling him to stay.  I hopped off the slab onto the narrow part of the saddle and as I started walking toward the dome hear my big dumb dog scooting down the slab too.  And before I could stop him, he hopped down onto the saddle.

I hadn’t had a cell phone very long, but I had one and was shocked to discover I had service.  I called my then wife and told her the dog and I might be late getting home.

There was no way to get Roger back up the slab.  It was too sketchy, and he was too big.

I went Touching the Void mode and started looking for a way down off the formation.  The best spot I found was a steep gully down to a six-foot cliff at the bottom and onto the forest floor.

I put a short lead on Roger and held onto the end as I scrambled down.  The big oaf stayed close to the edge because he didn’t want me to get away, but when I got to the ground, I started reeling him in and he started backpedaling and fighting me, but I had the advantage of gravity and pulled him off on top of me and somehow caught his fluffy ass.  It’s no wonder I have back problems now.

I assumed we’d end up having to hike down to Nada Tunnel Road and then have to hike up the far side of the tunnel to get back on the ridge, but fortunately there’s a walk up not far from the base of Nada Dome so what might have ended up being an hours long detour ended up being maybe only an hour.

Maybe this place has bad juju for me.  Another time I was by myself hiking and at the top of the slab down to the saddle and the loop of my bootlace snagged on the opposite quick lace hook and I almost launched headfirst off the Nada Dome overlook.  I truly don’t know how I didn’t die that day.

I could also tell of the time I got rained on while hiking in the area and had to strip naked to dry out all my clothes after the sun came out and after a few minutes realized I could see the road below from where I lay in the sun.  Another time I hiked out to Titanic Rock and picked up a bad case of turkey mites.  

Anyway, maybe it's time to head back out there. 

Whereabouts Unknown: A Brief Reprieve

Packing for an expedition to tackle a 100’ obscure aid and free line rope solo in the Eastern Kentucky backcountry is much different at fifty years old than at twenty-three years old.  All those years ago I would have just taken everything, up to and including the kitchen sink.  The weight wouldn’t have been a consideration.  I might have taken a single bottle of water.  Probably no food.  Wouldn’t have worried about rolled ankles or getting benighted or cold. 

In 1997, if I’d gotten too hurt to self-rescue my only hope for survival would have been Don Fig finding me before the turkey vultures.  I was fully aware no one would know where I dangled like Toni Kurz awaiting my doom.  The full chain of events that it would take for me to be discovered at this obscure place in the backcountry was painfully apparent to me.  And that was—and honestly still is—a huge part of the appeal.  But if I’d taken a bad fall on Mosaic in 1997 my skeleton would probably still be dangling from a rope way out there. 

I’m an introvert.  When my mom said “you shouldn’t hike alone” my response was then and has typically always been: “if I wait until I have someone to go with me I won’t get to go.”  That’s partially true.  The other facet of that truth is that I enjoy exploring alone.  Other people complicate and sometimes ruin experiences for me.  That’s not to say I don’t want to share outdoor experiences with other people.  I absolutely do, and I feel lonely at times when I’ve found some amazing place and have no one with me to appreciate it.

But I tend to want to find places on my own and enjoy them unspoiled, in quiet, and then decide if it’s the kind of place I want to return to with others.  I’ve made the mistake in the past of sharing places with people who didn’t appreciate them.  An early visit with one of my cousins to Copperas Creek Falls comes to mind.  I was taking photos of the waterfall and looked over to see him carving his name in the back of the rockhouse. 

This last year I have also developed an even deeper social aversion than I’ve always had which has evolved into full-blown social anxiety.  I spent about a week and a half hiding at work and dragging myself home to burrow into the couch under a blanket hoping even my own kids wouldn’t come into the room.  The worst of those feelings passed, but I’ve since recognized that they were always there at times in a milder form.  Not intense enough to call anxiety, but present enough to affect my preferences and decisions.

Anyway, I’ve matured.  I’ve also slowed down somewhat.  Not because I had to, but because I had to.  I was running my own self ragged.  I realized I was missing important things.  Not that I ever felt like I missed anything when I was younger.  I saw it all.  And I kept a running list of places and things I’d seen in my haste to return to.  At fifty I realize I may not find future opportunities to return.  It’s better to try to take it all in on the first glance than plan to look again.  When I was younger that wasn’t as true.

Having high blood pressure and other health issues, particularly a few badly sprained ankles, I’ve tried to make it my habit to let someone know where I’m going.  It’s easy enough these days to drop a pin, copy the coordinate from Google Maps and text it to someone.  I always try to explain where I’m going with the hopes that the modern SAR team would have the best chance of finding my old, fat carcass.  But I still maintain a strong sense of self-reliance in my adventures.  Things would have to be pretty bad before I’d call for help.  Two times I’ve limped out on the stump of a leg after rolling an ankle.  I know it can be done even though I hope it never happens again.

I let my loved ones know more for their sake than my own.  I don’t want to suffer in pain with no prospect of help coming, but I accept the consequences of recreating alone.  And after thirty years of doing it I can say I have the experience to back up my position.  I have the experience to keep me out of trouble, but I also better understand the risks involved.  If I’m being totally honest, that is a limiting factor to what I’m willing to do these days.  Setting out to reclimb Mosaic it in the original style is pushing past my comfort level.  It will involve better preparations.  I’ll need to be more efficient and smarter about the whole affair.

Again, that’s part of the appeal both then and now.  Back then my concerns were technical.  I used the experience to test a rope solo system which I abandoned the second time I tried to employ it, after taking a test fall and having the prussiks slip and I bashed my knee pretty bad.  I was in another place, but still two miles from the road, and I limped out.  After that I did my research and learned how to modify and use a Gri-gri to rope solo and that was my system for years until I was able to afford a Silent Partner. 

One of my planning questions is: which system will I use now?  The twin prussiks worked well in ’97 for the aid climbing.  No slippage, easy and light, and for the easy free climbing was no real problem either.  And prussiks may be the best option for the traverse on the second pitch.  The Gri-gri would work well in theory, but with the close to the ground fall potential it adds just enough extra length in the system to possibly fully put a foot/feet onto the ground in a fall.  While I’ve had the Silent Partner for years and used it well, I worry about using it as well.  With both mechanical systems the traverse becomes a little bit of a complication.  I feel like a combination of prussiks on the first pitch and the Gri-gri for the upper pitch might be the best strategy.

I Dustin and I used two 50m ropes in 1997.  One 70m should work well to get down from the top in one rappel.  Worst case I can pull off two rappels, but that would defeat the purpose of taking a longer rope. 

Of course, I’ll need water and snacks.  I’ll need an adequate rack but nothing crazy.  I’ve pondered taking my hand drill and a few bolts.  A set of rappel anchors on top might be prudent considering there was a fire or windstorm up there a few years ago.  But I don’t really want to spoil the experience with bolts.  And that will add considerable weight to the expedition.  I can go fairly light if I’m careful, but there will necessarily be a certain amount of weight no matter what. 

And can’t forget the wire brushes!

At twenty-three I was just looking for novel experiences.  That’s been my desire my whole life.  But at fifty there’s also a little bit of urge to finish unfinished things.  I feel the need to set some things aright that went wrong.  I’ve been on a quest to realign the path I ended up on with the one I meant to take. I’m slowly zippering the years back together.  This is an important event in my past.  This is how I heal the bigger wounds of regret: by taking small doses of medicine.  I’m also painfully aware that I won’t be able to fully cleanse some things from my life or my timeline.  But if I can realign my own self now, then I think I can better accept the things I can’t fix. 

I’m waiting for the right opportunity to make another go at Mosaic.  I want plenty of time, so I don’t have to rush.  I would put it off to strengthen my rotator cuff for a free attempt, but that just ends up bumping me from doing things I want.  I will go and clean the crack as soon as I get the chance.  I’ll work on the moves.  We’ll see where it goes from there.

Whereabouts Unknown: Another Part

Tony said he’d never been.  It’s an iconic promontory in the Red River Gorge.  Okay, if you’re a hyperfocused, fully obsessed rock climber then maybe you wouldn’t necessarily spend time hiking to overlooks and such.  With that knowledge our hiking destination that day was obvious.  I outran him up the trail, fighting the years my lungs and legs were feeling.  I caught my breath in the time it took him to catch up to me and then scrambled on up to the summit slabs.  As I waited for Cap’n Chaos to navigate the lower fourth-class terrain I looked off to the north at the hollers and cliffs further back.  Memories of Twisted Pine and Mosaic resurfaced while I chuckled at the heavy breathing and grunting going on down in the trees.

I’d forgotten what the big rock I was standing on had meant to me in the borderland time between my early explorations and when I became a rock climber.  It was no mystery why I explored that area for potential rock climbs before I ventured further into the unknown.  The rock evoked adventurous daydreams.  I wanted more experiences like that in my life.  I wanted warm stone under my hands and feet.  I wanted sweeping visas and elegant lines and curves for my eyes.  I adored the bonsai-like trees clinging to the edge of the sky.

A week after Tony and I huffed up there I returned alone one rainy afternoon after work to take some photos.  This recent return trip I took it more slowly and meditated on my life, and the winding, twisting path I’d followed through the cosmos of time and space to find myself standing once again at this point.  I folded time by stabbing a hole in the space and lived astride both eras of my existence for a moment.

I went back the next morning to do the same and hike further.  Mosaic had taken up residence in the better lit parts of my brain and vacated the shadows it had resided in for many moons.

I intended to visit a nearby arch, the Twisted Pine slab, and hopefully the base of Mosaic to ascertain the condition of the crack at the bottom.  I expected to get wet wading through the undergrowth and had come prepared.  I started out back on the rock, and lingered there a little longer taking photos, and letting myself dwell in the soothing mists of enigma.

Eventually, I moved on and easily picked up the old user defined trail that traced the obscure ridge.  It didn’t occur to me at first, but the reason it was still well trodden was because of the arch I was going to.  I easily found it, and then retraced my steps back to where its trail spurred off from the main ridge.  At that point the trail faded into nothingness and the ridge was like I’d remembered it from a random hike a decade before.  Before I gained the key saddle, I was swimming through man-height yellow pines that had sprung up after the aforementioned windstorm. 

My clothes were soaked when I reached the saddle just below the Twisted Pine slab.  I dropped into the drainage to the west and easily descended to the small, unnamed tributary below Mosaic.  I found a weakness in the slope above and climbed up the steep, open forest to the lower edge of another pine thicket.  I tried contouring around the lower edge toward where I knew the route was, but it’s tangled snarl never thinned.  I crossed a dry gully above a boulder and tried to push higher into the rhodo buffer below the pine thicket.  Above that I could see a lower cliff band and then more pioneer species above.  I kept moving west until I reached the corner of the ridge above which I knew was too far.  I shoved my way into the dense, wet greenery to the main corner hoping to find a weakness somewhere, but I was greeted by twenty-foot sandstone cliffs.

The day had grown late.  I had hiked myself into mid-afternoon the weekend before Daylight Savings, and I felt the urgency of getting to an easy exit before the sun fell too much further.  I had a headlamp, but I didn’t revel in the idea of bushwhacking in the cold, watery darkness.

My options were to backtrack to the saddle and then drop down to the Sheltowee Trace and track out.  I knew I had at least a half hour of solid bushwhacking and then it was roughly forty minutes back to the car, OR I could follow the water into the main drainage and hike the creek out to the road and follow it back to my truck.  The creek was an unknown.  It had been twenty years since I’d once hiked up the same creek looking for an obscure trad route.  I bushwhacked the upper slopes below the eastern cliff lines and then dropped back to the creek to exit.  That had been a righteously difficult day of hiking.  I was wet enough the prospect of wading the creek didn’t bother me.  I worried about flow since we’d had a bit of rain overnight.  It was March 2^nd so neither the air nor water would be warm.  I also knew I am skilled at generating my own heat.  In the end I believed the adventure of hiking down the creek would be worth the effort. 

Down I went to touch the void.  That hike ended fine and was a great day in the woods, if slightly disappointing for not reaching my intended destination.  I got some great photos.  Everything was brilliant green, and I began to suspect that the photoreceptors in my eyes must have been unusually sensitive to greens that day.  The hike out was enjoyable and mostly uneventful save the respite I took on a gravel bar to make some tea.

Another week passed.  Mosaic was living full in the sun in my mind.  Its branches were beginning to show hints of buds.  By the next Sunday, I had no other option but to try to reach the base of the lost route again.  Twenty-six years and eight months had passed since last I stood at the base of it. 

I set out with little gear: a small daypack, a bottle of water, my digital camera, a small beat-up machete, and a recently purchased copy of The Tao of Pooh and the Te of Piglet.  My goal wasn’t to climb or scramble or to take photos.  It was simply to reach the base of the climb and figure out the best way in and out. 

My intended route was the most expedient way in that I knew.  I’d take what seemed the best way out once I’d reached the end.  I jumped on the Sheltowee Trace and plodded along trying to stay ahead of a couple of hikers that I was certain were going to the big rock.  I passed another couple of hikers walking the opposite direction on the Sheltowee but then no one else for the rest of my hike.

I reached the spot where I needed to leave the Sheltowee.  It’s easily recognizable to me, though I don’t think I could explain where it is to anyone else.  A short, steep hike up and I gained the saddle below the Twisted Pine slab and continued over into the western facing drainage.  I went down, crossed the lively stream, and plodded back up the slope into the barrier thicket.  I pushed on, carefully lopping the thickest, snarliest branches until I could look up and see a break in the lower cliff band.  I continued up the steepness finding my weakness until I found myself standing on a level wooded ledge under a sun-baked cliff.  I stepped to my right to an open area of the ledge, with a nice rock protrusion extending above the trees below.  The view was amazing, and I decided I’d come back and visit this spot before I left the area. 

I hiked back to the left into another pine thicket.  I pushed into it making slow progress and wondering how far it would be.  After two or three minutes I stopped as I had the distinct feeling I was in a place I knew.  I hadn’t felt that since I’d left the saddle.  And I can’t truly describe the feeling.  Of course, I had been in that spot in the past.  It was the only way to the base of Mosaic.  The difference was that since I’d left the “trail” I was in the first place that was unchanged since before the storm.  It was as much like it would have been nearly twenty-seven years ago as it could be.  I exited the pines and looked up and was there.

The crack had tufts of grass bulging from it.  And at the two saucer plates at the top of the crack a sizeable Charlie Brown Christmas Tree has grown.  Otherwise, the scene is just like I remembered it.  The slab split by the crack is lower angle than I had been envisioning.  That was heartening considering a possible free attempt in the near future.  I also noticed some possibly climbable features on an obtuse arete to the right about an arm’s span.  There’s no protection there, just something that might provide hand and footholds if it were somehow otherwise protected.

Mosaic 5.4R A2, FA: 1997

The stoke exploded in my brain.  I knew then that I had to return and recreate that initial experience I had, rope solo aiding the crack to clean it and reestablish the line.

I lingered at the base until it was awkward for both of us—me and the climb.  Was I going to make a move or just keep leering?  To avoid continued discomfort for both of us I moved on.  Or rather back to the sunny spot on the ledge where I let the maximum amount of skin soak in the sun for a while and read some from my book.

A fine spray of mist from the lip of the cliff drifted back and forth and wrapped around my warming body like a curtain in the wind.  The clouds lazed about in the sky.  It was a perfect moment in time, far from the stress and rush of my life.  I needed that more than I needed to climb some old project route I’d nearly forgotten about.

After some time I reluctantly packed up my things and began moving back toward the road.  The hike out was mostly uneventful, but I took it slow and enjoyed each step.  I’d already decided for sure I was coming back soon to execute another ascent of Mosaic.

Cont…

Whereabouts Unknown

The First Part

Was it naivete?  Or was it a blossoming sense of adventure, craving experience to validate its strength and vitality?  The early years of my third decade were filled with thigh burning explorations.  Between drudgerous factory shifts I would plunge into the backcountry, sometimes disappearing for half a day or more, and reemerge crisscrossed with angry red scratches, covered in sweat, flecks of bark, dirt and pine needles and wearing a big, stupid grin across my face.

Those were days before cellphones and home internet.  I fed my appetite for adventure by reading guidebooks, talking to more experienced locals, and from perusing topo maps looking for interesting combinations of isolines.  Even in my early twenties I had an eye for terrain.  I’d been consuming maps since my teen years, and I had a knack for it.  I could just see how the land would look. 

Most of the time, I was simply looking for arches, waterfalls, and other cool places to photograph.  And initially when I started rock climbing, I looked for new cliffs.  One of my early finds has recently taken up residence in my psyche again for reasons unknown.  Twenty-seven years gone and I’ve started down a path of rediscovery that so far has been rewarding.

To understand where I am now, you need to understand where I was then.  Before marriage and kids, I spent all my free time exploring the Red River Gorge.  I hiked many miles and spent countless hours solo hiking and scrambling around the hollers and ridges.  I answered to no one, and I decided the steps of my own path.  I scribbled in my journal and showed my family—and anyone else who would look—the photos I took with my ten dollar point and shoot camera.  Otherwise, there was little to mark my passage through the world.

I found a small cliff with some fun and beautiful face climbs.  I called it “Twisted Pine” for an old, gnarled pine tree that was dead apparently from a lightning strike.  Standing on top of that cliff I could look north, across the drainage behind it and see a nice, shield-shaped face.  One of my favorite climbs at that point was Big Country at Long Wall.  That face seemed to be similar, and eventually I decided to hike across and check it out.  Now, the base of Twisted Pine was a solid thirty-five-minute hike from the road on an obscure trail to nowhere.  This cliff was another twenty minutes back in the day.  It’s two miles on foot from the mere semblance of civilization. 

I found myself sweaty and beat standing at the base of a beautiful, blank slab curving into the sky.  The only weakness was a slightly widening finger-width crack that began six plus feet off the ground and ended about eighteen feet up at two small saucer-sized plates bracing the upper terminus of the crack.  It was filled with dirt and moss, there was no way to know how deep it was and if it would take gear or not.

I wanted to know what that upper face was like.  It looked like the climbing was easy, and it was exposed as the base of the crack began on an upper tier above fifteen-to-twenty-foot cliffs.  I knew it would be a hard sell to get any of my climbing friends to make the expedition out for a dirty crack.  I wanted it badly.

Around the same time, I had pondered how I could rope solo routes.  I had more free time than climbing partners.  When my mom had fussed about me hiking alone all the time my response had been: “If I waited until I had someone to go with me, I’d never get to go.”  My thinking about climbing was the same.  I worked odd shifts that provided ample free time during bankers’ hours but little on the weekends when the few climbers I knew were available. 

I’d been top rope soloing since the beginning of my climbing tenure, and I understood the basics of self-belaying on lead.  I didn’t have any fancy devices, but I knew that it was possible to self-belay using two prussik cords.

Soon after my initial visit to the cliff I was calling “Twisted Pine North” I returned with a pack laden with borrowed trad gear, aiders, and some prussik cord.  And a wire brush.

The only good potential anchor (for an upward pull) was a horizontal crack about six and a half feet off the ground.  I’m 5’9” so I had to reach over my head to place a small cam.  I clipped an etrier into it and stepped up, so I was eye level with the crack.  I was then able to build a proper anchor.  Once I had my bottom anchor, I was ready to begin excavation.

I reached up and scrubbed the dirt and moss out of the crack as far as I could reach.  All that crud rained down on me and soon was mingling with the sweat on my arms and torso and face.  I had it in my hair, eyes, mouth, and nose.  Once I had a section of crack cleaned out, I reached as high as I could and placed another piece.  Then I stepped up and repeated the process.  It was also apparent that the crack wasn’t deep enough to accept full fingers or hands as it widened near the top. 

My efforts were rewarded when I was able to wrap my grungy fingers around the nice plate edges at the end of the crack.  I pulled myself up and stepped out of the aiders onto the lower angle and well-featured face above.  From that point, I made my way up easier terrain, placing the occasional piece of gear and climbing the ladder-like holds until I reached a nice, grassy dish with a cluster of giant bonsai-like pines.  I collapsed there and enjoyed the pristine view in the meager shade provided. 

Once I had recovered somewhat, I built a small anchor and then surveyed the terrain above.  It looked like there were two potential paths to the summit.  The first was a nice and featured slab above the dish with no opportunities for protection or I could take a hard right and traverse across an unprotected hanging slab to a crack in a dihedral that led to a small pedestal just below the top of the cliff. 

For my first foray into roped soloing, I felt both options were the next level challenge.  After my initial assay on the wall, I needed a bit of a respite and maybe snacks.  I opted to bail off a minimalist gear anchor and return with reinforcements.

The cleaning ascent of the first pitch was undocumented in my climbing journal.  The actual full first ascent to the top of the wall took place in August of 1997.  I convinced my fifteen-year-old cousin and regular climbing partner Dustin to make the hike out with me.  I don’t remember what atrocious lies I told him, but I’m sure we had a discussion at the base of the climb in the vein of “we’re here, so we might as well do it,” and I was thankfully his physical superior at that point so he wouldn’t have introduced fisticuffs into the equation with us so far from the road. 

I repeated the process of gaining the top of the crack on aid minus the brushing, and with the benefit of a live belayer I romped expediently to the grassy dish which had become my new favorite spot on the planet.  I reeled in my little cousin fish.  If memory serves, I believe he attempted to climb the crack on top rope but struggled somewhat, and eventually just jugged the line until he could get his feet on the rock.  Once he was at the belay, we scoped out the two options.  After a short discussion we decided to err on the side of prophylaction.  I launched into the unprotected slab traverse aiming for the crack in the dihedral.  I was able to get in good gear all properly extended to reduce friction.  With my young heart racing in my chest from excitement, exposure, and Augustal humidity I found myself on the summit pedestal in short order.  A quick boulder problem mantel put me in the dirt where I lashed myself to some big tree and sucked in all the slack rope.  Up came Dustin and we high fived each other in celebration of our first honest-to-god Red River Gorge first ascent and a multi-pitch to boot!

We rappelled the route and hiked out noticeably less hydrated but obscenely more stoked than when we walked in.  Through my big stupid bug eating grin I proclaimed I’d come back soon and work on freeing that crack.  Dustin remained silent on that topic.

I called the route Mosaic for the interesting sandstone formation of the uppermost slab which is similar to the tile-like formations on the Shield at Long Wall and other slabs spread around the area.  A few years later when another route showed up in the guidebook with that name at the Gallery in Sore Heel Hollow, I was bummed, though our route was never published or much talked about, and I only had two over-exposed photos of Dustin tiptoeing across the slab traverse from the summit. 

Notice the CMI oval carabiners and hand-sewn 1" slings

I’m sure I tried to recruit my other climbing friends and partners through the early years of my climbing.  I’m not much a salesman obviously.  Maybe that’s a good thing, especially in this case.  I’ve thought abut the route from time to time over the years.  On a hike in the area about ten years ago I discovered a massive windstorm in the area had seriously affected the off-trail hiking making the approach more difficult and less appealing than it was to begin with.  Also, I had adult and parental responsibilities, and the usual myriad demands on my time and attention.  And so, interest in returning faded from my mind. 

Until February of this year.

 

To Be Continued…