Largo Writing Contest

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looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Original Post - Apr 10, 2006 - 03:26pm PT

For many years, there has been a "Bad" Hemingway writing contest where people submit stories written in the style of that famous author. Papa Hemingway is not the only person who had(has) a well known and distinctive style to his prose.

In climbing, that distinction is held by John Long. His stories have memorialized and embelished the many events/characters in the climbing world and the California scene in particular.

As part of upcoming party festivities, it might be fun to have people take a shot of penning a short story (or even just a paragraph or two) that attempts "BAD" Largo style. Subject should be climbing related, with Joshua Tree being a preferred (but not necessary) backdrop.

Here are the rules:

1. Entry is open to anyone (except Largo).
2. Entries should be posted on this thread by Saturday, April 15, 2006, 4:00 pm. Hand submitted entries will be considered if in our hands by 6:00. (If you have to ask how to hand submit, don't bother.)
3. Your entries will be peer reviewed (exact method not yet devised - finalists may be read aloud to a large crowd of surly old farts)
4. Judges may not be fully sober.
5. No liability for lost entries or rude things said about your writing (or anything else for that matter).
6. No prizes (probably - but maybe a certificate, plaque, an OldE, a Malt Wiskey, or who knows what).
7. Multiple entries fine.
8. Rescinded the word limit. (But, our attention span is limited)
9. Winners will be announced (we will post them here, if anyone remembers).

This should be fun.

Karl Baba

Trad climber

Yosemite, Ca

Apr 10, 2006 - 05:37pm PT

My money is on Dingus if he'd be interested in such a thing. He could just post an old one without trying to sound like Largo and still win.

Peace

Karl

bvb

Social climber

flagstaff arizona

Apr 10, 2006 - 06:16pm PT

sketchy, as i recall it's the "BAD hemmingway" contest. so should we be shooting for BAD largo?

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 10, 2006 - 06:25pm PT

Bob, er...that is exactly what I meant.

Rules have been clarified above....

Crimpergirl

Sport climber

St. Louis

Apr 10, 2006 - 06:28pm PT

Hmmm.... Bad Largo. That is more intriquing.

Doing Largo well seems damn near impossible...

bvb

Social climber

flagstaff arizona

Apr 10, 2006 - 06:37pm PT

just to get y'all's creative juices flowing...last year's winner of the bad hemmingway contest was titled "the old man and the flea" and was hysterically funny.

so...who DARES to rewrite "the only blasphemy"?

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 10, 2006 - 06:41pm PT

Ho man, I pinched the wafer a towering 9ft off the deck and was so utterly gripped that if there was a lump of coal lodged in my anus it would have quickly been turned into a diamond.....

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 10, 2006 - 07:44pm PT

Russ, I'm FLMAO and other people and the office are giving me funny looks. But, I know you can do better.

ron gomez

Trad climber

fallbrook,ca

Apr 10, 2006 - 08:12pm PT

I vote for Russ to be the winner. Classic rendition of John.
Peace

bvb

Social climber

flagstaff arizona

Apr 10, 2006 - 08:26pm PT

now just wait one goddam minnit. i say let the best wo/man win, even though the fix is obviously in.

happiegrrrl

Trad climber

New York, NY

Apr 10, 2006 - 08:46pm PT

Okay....thi is merely for entertainment value, and to get the old creative juices going for all those into who might be considering entering this contest.... It is written by JL himself(and I hope he doesn't mind my putting it up here) and originally posted on a Rockclimbing.com thread begun by one ChildoftheCorn.

She made a thread bitching about guys always trying to pick her up at trhe crag and how disgusted she was by it(actually, I think CoftheCorn might have been an alterego for someone who posts here.....but I didn't realize that at the time). Anyway, I am always a defender of the underdog, and I thought she was being too hard on men in general. So, I pulled a texty Dick Cheneye and peppered her soundly. Innocent bystander(men) called ou t"hisss! Meow....CatFight!!!" in the hopes of seeing fur flying, but I held my cool, slicing and dicing with words while she was sinking to flinging sad, overdone insults.

Things quited down, and Largo tried to fan the flames with the following..... The intent was that he would start a story for me to finish. It was quite funny. But, alas, I have issues with authority, and I thought he was making fun of me(he was!)

Anyway - can Largo win the Largo Writing Contest?

"My boyfriend (Antoine -- Parisian, if you were wondering) and I had just pulled up in the Mohawk lot when a speeding, flame orange SUV whipped into the very space in which I was fixing to park my electric GEO. Out hops this vixin I recognized from the local gym, a Pilates instructor and aspiring soap star, Sapphire by name, and an accomplished man-eater by reputation. Happygirl found herself in a ticklish situation, desiring, as it were, to sand the luster off Sapphire without compromising my equanimity. I paused to gather my stradegy when Antoine askes, Are you gonna let ze b---- get away with that? Something strange and primitive took hold of me, for I found myself feeding the Frenchy a triple-decker knuckle sandwich, after which I ..... (you go girl)"

bvb

Social climber

flagstaff arizona

Apr 10, 2006 - 10:37pm PT

"the reefers i continuously scrolled with my mail-ordered, extra-large, organic and gluten-free esmerelada rolling papers were of such girth and length that if one could harness the torque it took to hem those babies one could easily turn coal into shining gems. true to form, bachar had forgotten the matches (as well as the cord) yet once again, so i quickly set to fashioning a fire from flint and iron pyrite knobs pryed from the rock with my sweating paws when i glanced over at bacher who was lacing up in his trick new spanish sticky cheat boots with a mischevious grin while bellowing in his best falsetto voice "HEY LARGO, WHO'S HOLDING THE ROPE!?!?"

Grug

Trad climber

Golden, Colorado

Apr 10, 2006 - 11:47pm PT

Damn. Russ and bvb are nailin' it! This is some formidable competition.

Levy

Big Wall climber

So Calif

Apr 11, 2006 - 02:24am PT

Many of us were fortunate to overcome the hubris of our callow youth. We drove beater cars lashed together with bailing wire and climber's athletic tape up to the crags every weekend at breakneck speed that would scare the bejusus out of any sane person. Scrolling reefers the size of .50 caliber bulllets, we arrived at the parking area so addled we hardly recognized any of the old guard whom we had we once looked up to. Knocking off their testpieces gave us confidence that there were no limits to what we could accomplish. One such lad who was stronger than Sampson & slower than a gastopod and fearless on the face of a declivity comes to mind...

Levy

Spinmaster K-Rove

Trad climber

Stuck Under the Kor Roof

Apr 11, 2006 - 02:55am PT

Levy, well done!!

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 11, 2006 - 04:52am PT

Ho man... From afar I could see her chiseled brisket through a missing button on her very unflattering tunic. The extra starch and oversized nametag tried unsuccessfully to conceal a pair of stupendous tethered zeppelins, which even at 20 paces looked like eight ferrets fighting in a pillow case. High rise stiletto heels and a vicious tear in her nylons told me that she was on the clock, a working girl. I called her over in a halting, almost stammering voice. She brought with her a wafting odoriferous wave of olfactory delight. I inhaled deeply. She gave me the once over and said, "what'll it be big fellah?" My reply was short and to the point: "a burger.... fire me a burger". The waitress scribbled this on her pad, and as she turned to go, I added, "with cheese and a cup of Joe."

Leroy

climber

Apr 11, 2006 - 07:10am PT

Russ ,Largos not at your house helping you out is he?

happiegrrrl

Trad climber

New York, NY

Apr 11, 2006 - 09:00am PT

That last one was hilarious. I got exactly the same sensation while reading it that I feel when on the real JL stuff!

can't say

Social climber

Pasadena CA

Apr 11, 2006 - 09:08am PT

That's because Russ is John's unclaimed love child. The DNA link is unmistakeable.

ron gomez

Trad climber

fallbrook,ca

Apr 11, 2006 - 09:47am PT

Uh Oh Pat, don't turn this into a Mussy Nebula type thing. But sounds like you're right....how could Russ be so "on" with the "Long Talk"? Again, I vote Russ be the winner, for christ sake, he hasn't even warmed up yet. Sorry BVB, but I can even hear Russ' inflection and he SOUNDS like John.
Peace

climberweenie

Trad climber

San Jose, CA

Apr 11, 2006 - 10:35am PT

Now the local bar room denizens have witnessed the rants and mimes of many a climber who rode the magic bus all the way out to the last stop but one. But I'll never forget the looks on their faces when climberweenie ambled through the gates all dusty parched and smelling of death, packing mangled cams on his hips like colt 45's, eyes firmly asserting "I've seen my maker" as he took his first shot of whiskey from the hand of a stunned tourist. The road rash oozing from his forehead to his waist seemed to back up his claim.

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 11, 2006 - 11:05am PT

Seems like the competition is warming up.

But, it ain't over til the big fellow sings...

Forgot to mention, deadline for entries is Saturday April 15, 2006, 4:00 pm (unless handed in personally).

Grug

Trad climber

Golden, Colorado

Apr 11, 2006 - 11:09am PT

Randy - brilliant idea for a thread...

steelmnkey

climber

Vision man...ya gotta have vision...

Apr 11, 2006 - 11:21am PT

Does it have to start with "ho-man" ?

climber

I'm so over it

Apr 11, 2006 - 11:25am PT

hahahaha

Was that Largo or Raymond Chandler? Was that Bogart ordering that burger?

TradIsGood

Trad climber

Gunks end of country

Apr 11, 2006 - 11:37am PT

Turnabout at the Hairpin
Not long ago I revisited New Paltz. As it happened, my partner was not due until the next day. The weather promised to be excellent – warmer than normal for a mid-spring day. Wasting such an opportunity seemed sacrilegious, so I wandered down the carriage road to the Uberfall trusting serendipity.

Perched on a rock was a bird with plumage remarkably similar to a scarlet tanager. She hopped off as I approached and asked if I had a partner. Noticing a healthy top round, rib eye and some ripe melons all packaged tightly into the black shorts and red top, I honestly allowed that I did not yet have one for the day.

Naturally there seemed suddenly to be a bit of spray. Not a downpour, but slightly persistent – kind of like that of a scrub jay. Apparently the young filly was determined to lead.

So I told her my name was John. I was not really from around here, but I had climbed here a little bit a long time ago and had done a bit more climbing in California. She looked around, shrugged and said she was sure she could find something that would be fun and off we went.

As we approached the hairpin turn, she looked up. “Ribs is free. Let’s hop on that.” With that she headed up the trail to the base. As I arrived, she asked if I had ever lead belayed before. I said yes, and she seemed satisfied with that answer. At this point I probably should mention that she might stretch to a full five feet, at least with her climbing shoes. I asked if I could look at the guidebook for a second. She tossed it to me and put on her harness and shoes and started clipping gear to the loops as I paged through, pretending to check out the climb.

Now just to the right of Ribs is a 5.7 called Calisthenic. Like any number of Gunks routes, the crux is all in the first fifteen feet. There is a roof about three feet deep at about chest level, for me, and the first holds are just a couple inches above eight feet off the deck. I allow as how a 5.4 seems like it might be too easy even for a warm-up and wonder if she would not rather try “this 5.7 over here”.

She agrees. I start flaking out the rope, and she drops her harness to the ground. Figuring she is headed around the corner to take care of business, I can hardly wait for the thrashing to begin, since there is nothing but a couple of fingernail horizontals between the ground and the buckets well above her reach.

I pick up a quick movement in my peripheral vision and look up to see her making a short run, quick turn and plant her left foot high on the wall under the roof. Her right thigh hits the roof stopping the backward rotation and she just snags the buckets by a couple of fingertips. Reaching up with the other hand she works both hands onto the hold. Almost as quickly she cranks off a couple lock-offs, a nice tension move and she is standing below the tree above. She holds a foot down as far as she can reach and I toss a loop of the rope over it. After I sent up her harness, she said, “Largo, did you really think I was going to ask you to give me a gymnast start to reach those jugs?”

Some days you eat the bear…

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 11, 2006 - 12:20pm PT

Ho man... Phineas was thin. As thin as a pool cue and wiry in an odd sort of way. He was so thin in fact he could shower in the barrel of a .22 and towel off without ever touching the rifling. His forte was dimes, and I mean thin ones. Seems the winter training sessions coupled with his diet of honey and M&M's had treated him well. I sauntered over to where he was just finishing the prep work on an atom sized hold he was about to mantle.... He had the requisite tooth brush, a dental pick, pencil eraser, two jewelers loupes, a chicken bone replete with scrimshaw and jar of fruit flys. After a arduous ritual involving all the superfluous accoutrements he was finally ready to slap some dermis to granite. I stood back and watched.... With a groan, a wheeze and a whinny, he had somehow managed to press out a full butterfly mantle on an imperceptible hold on an overhanging wall. He labored to get his towel rack femur high enough to plant a toe on a quark out left. From here it was child's play to the summit, a mere twenty-three feet of edges so thin Superman and all his powers would still need a scanning electron just to put together a sequence. Between summit wheezes he asks if I'm going to give it a go.... "no thanks Babe... I did this pile back when people thought Intersection Boulder was hard".

Grug

Trad climber

Golden, Colorado

Apr 11, 2006 - 12:51pm PT

Ya get the feeling that Russ could do this all day!

maculated

Trad climber

San Luis Obispo, CA

Apr 11, 2006 - 01:00pm PT

Damn, Russ *is* good.

Ksolem

Trad climber

LA, Ca

Apr 11, 2006 - 01:05pm PT

Keep it coming, y'all.

This is some of the funniest stuff I have ever read!

can't say

Social climber

Pasadena CA

Apr 11, 2006 - 01:13pm PT

Grug, that's because he did and probably still does do it all day long. Bullwinkle's shot of Mo and Libido Roy doing Largo pouts is hilarious.

James

Social climber

My Subconcious

Apr 11, 2006 - 02:03pm PT

Who wants to write like someone else? It's more fun writing for yourself.

steelmnkey

climber

Vision man...ya gotta have vision...

Apr 11, 2006 - 03:30pm PT

Ho-man… Lloyd was fat. The kinda guy who ain’t seen his little buddy in ten years of urination. Like he had his own gravity field. Watching him waddle up to the rock brought to mind a line from the film Usual Suspects…the dude was clearly “Orca Fat”. Why I’d hooked up with such a rotund beast was currently evading reasonable logic in the scrambled recesses of my grey matter.

Maybe better I didn’t recall why I’d agreed to “tick off a few pitches” in the Monument with him. I’d seen him across Nomad, his pudgy digits wafting through the pages of the latest guidebook and thought, Ho-man, no climber there. I was as desperate, though, as I was partnerless and it was mid-week. On top of that, I was shoveling the dregs from my last three pound can of garbanzos, and I was running on borrowed time for this road trip. One, maybe two more days at the most and then it was back to the slingshot factory to save up for next time.

So when Lloyd looked up at me, heavy eyebrows pushing up a stack of furrows that looked like puppy wrinkles, and asked if I was looking for a partner, the word “sure!” came flying out of my mouth before I could clap one of my abused mandibles over the apparently uncontrolled hole in my face. Outside, Lloyd chucked his crag bag into the back of my Gremlin. Geeze, even his sack was fat, I thought, as I listened to the weight of the bag crunching what was left of my wasted shocks ever closer to the gravel lot. “What kinda gear ya got in the bag, Lloyd?” His reply came out in a sort of soft wheeze, “I got a rack, rope, personal stuff. Oh, and my lunch, of course.” Of course. Probably a turkey dinner, I thought.

At the crag, Lloyd quickly offered to lead the first go, and in spite of my better judgment...hell...any judgment, I gave in. I think it was just some odd desire to pull up my beach chair for a front row seat on the all-star wrestling match I was sure was about to go down. Lloyd was sweating already, drops falling on the desert floor like someone pouring bucket of ping pong balls off a porch. Pit stains the size of basketballs had shown up on his shirt, which seemed to be defying the stress limitations of cotton fabric and prominently featured a logo and single word “Atari” below. He racked up and waddled to the face, thrusting one beefy mitt into the fissure we’d agreed on. “Climbing!” he wheezed.

At the time, I had a moment of clarity... oh Jesus, what if he falls?

WBraun

climber

Apr 11, 2006 - 03:35pm PT

Fuccking awesome Russ!!!!!

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 11, 2006 - 03:57pm PT

"Atari" (bwhahaha!)

James

Social climber

My Subconcious

Apr 11, 2006 - 04:06pm PT

nice Russ

Karl Baba

Trad climber

Yosemite, Ca

Apr 11, 2006 - 04:09pm PT

That was a major classic Russ and preempted my plan for a drooling, womanizing post...

If I get time, I'll do it anyway but you win

Peace

karl

happiegrrrl

Trad climber

New York, NY

Apr 11, 2006 - 04:30pm PT

James....what MIGHT be funny would be to put a little Largo spin on the story you linked.......

Maybe you are too close to it to be the one, but you've got to admit a "Long Spin" of the bounce alone would be worth reading.....

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 11, 2006 - 04:42pm PT

Now things are getting good. Screw the word limit, now I want to hear how these stories end. Too funny.

Karl Baba

Trad climber

Yosemite, Ca

Apr 11, 2006 - 05:23pm PT

Ho Man, and Ho Woman too.

The impossible boulder problem was spitting off the usual culprits like chaw from the craw of a bush league pitcher in Arkansas. It was a hot day in Josh but nobody used that as an excuse because we all knew we’d come back and fail on it in the cold as well.

ButtFace had just been excreted from half way up the monstrosity and was dusting off his actual butt when a couple of fine young ladies happened up us, looking lost.

The whole crew straightened up like teenagers caught smoking by their preacher, then suddenly slouched in the realization that it was time to pretend to be cool, as if nothing were happening.

But something was happening. Women didn’t frequent climbing areas in the Pleistocene era. Even a semi-man from the East German Women’s Olympic team would have taken the breath away for this cactus league of desert rats suffering a prolonged drought of feminine nourishment.

But that’s not what kind of women found us. They were the class previously unseen outside the pages of magazines that we didn’t admit reading. Twins to boot. Buttface actually went slack-jawed as he gaped at them. He started to drool and, panicking, Posertronic tried to wipe the froth from his mouth with a chalked up hand painting his face white in the process.

“Do any of you gentlemen know where the ‘Outback’ is?” the equally lovely twin uttered as we sipped the nectar of her voice like a wine we couldn’t afford. “We have a photo shoot by a climb called ‘Rollerball’ and we just can’t find it.”

Everyone knew exactly where ‘Rollerball’ was, but could only manage to fall over their words as if our mouths were filled with marbles. Finally, Fellatio Alger asked what kind of shooting they were aiming at.

“It’s about Oral Pleasures” the other equally lovely twin tittered, clearing aiming at inflaming our vulnerable pathos. A couple of guys bent over slightly as if they had to control their bodily functions suddenly.

I got flustered and blurted out that “My name is John Long and even my name qualifies me to join in your production. Do you need talent?”

The twins looked at each other in a knowing fashion that could only be deciphered as amused weary contempt for the planet of gelatinous men that they must have constantly created with their presence.

“Let’s see your teeth, it a chewing gum commercial.”

Scary Larry

Trad climber

Las Vegas

Apr 11, 2006 - 06:13pm PT

Normally X avoided actually doing any hard climbs, but some bizarre metaphysical confluence put him at the base of a horror-show offwidth on a Sunday afternoon. The crack towered above him as flared as Jimi Hendrix bell-bottoms and more hung over than a Santa Monica wino. It was slick and smooth and there was no rest until he reached The Crystal, hopelessly far above his head. He cringed and whimpered and fished about for some kind of excuse. He probably would have passed, but the approach of the two cute German girls gave him an extra shot of courage.

He shouted down to me, "Watch me! I'm going to cast off!"

"Okay, I got you."

"I'm going to launch," he said. "I'm going to weigh anchor, put to sea."

"Right. Go for it."

He hesitated for another moment. "I'm going to set sail, unfurl the jib, break ground, unmoor and hoist the mainsail."

"Just climb the god damned crack!"

He thrashed and thrutched and his feet bicycled uselessly against the undercut granite. Finally, with a pathetic wail of anguish, he got a fingertip onto The Crystal. Sensing somehow that the German girls were stopping to look, he shouted dramatically, "Watch me! I'm going to have to yard on this Crystal!"

He unleashed a mighty heave and realized, too late, that his guns were empty. His troops were AWOL. His cupboards were bare. His forearms were missing in action. Elvis had left the building. He came off and described a graceful parabola that brought him crashing to the ground just a step in front of the horrified German girls. With a practiced moan and his sorrowful eyes beseeching sympathy, he looked up at the pulchritudinous pair. They were unimpressed, as the route was only 5.3 and his fall a mere two feet.

Roger Breedlove

Trad climber

Cleveland Heights, Ohio

Apr 12, 2006 - 12:12am PT

Since Largo is so, well, large, in all respects, Ryan (Yo) and I teamed up, borrowed some of his words (and some other word masters) and updated the circumstances to pay him our respects. So to speak.

Scams, Blasphemies, and Yes

Or, The Stonemasters' fate

Only with reservations do I record the following story. First, it begins and ends with the classic folly of old men. Second, it’s self flagellating, exposing me to the ridicule of those who have reached great heights only to come crashing down.

“You are not as young as you once were!” Doc intones his cliché. He pointedly suggests that I get them checked.

I finally agree. As I am wheeled in with my open backed gown, I spy the pretty attending nurse whose looks grab me like an ugly girl in a tunnel of love with a carton of Velcro and four and a half rolls of duct tape. “Great Odin’s raven,” I cry. I let loose with ripened words to match her metaphors.

“Something could happen here,” I toss off with a leering look. She only smiles sweetly, and lets me know that in the position that I am about to assume, she won’t be in the mood.

I drift in and out, vaguely aware that I am being inflated, but not by the pretty nurse whose vision flits like a hummingbird in and out of my ego-libido. I had been prepared the day before as if I had eaten dozens of hot dogs that had scoured my insides on their way out. The plug keeps the pumped air in, straightening me out to a height of 12 feet, upper body sliding along the stainless steel table. As I gain height, my waist takes on the dimensions of a Baffin wall poop tube built for a team of eighteen.

Doc glassed the open passage from its far end. “It’s offset. Clean it up…a bit of snipping and we are home free.” He was on a roll, bagging gemstones at his leisure.

“Have a look,” he offers to the nurse.

Ho man, not the something-could-happen-here nurse looking where the sun don’t shine, where the gems are formed.

The final blasphemy.

She coos as she inspects the inner man on display. In the flush of her insight, she bumps the plug and a great whoosh begins.

“Dumb shit” Doc screams, “Grab the line!” He springs forward, catching the harness securing the plug with one hand and grabbing the air line with the other. The end of the pressured air line swings wildly like a physical incarnation of Largo’s best prose while the harness issues all manner of snapping sounds like a vine stretched into borrowed time. He tries to shove the accelerating plug back into place but nothing is keeping the whoosh from becoming a roar. “Watch me!” he cries, as the now freed air forces him back. But, by then he is alone in his task…like no metaphor can depict.

“I can’t hold on!” he screams. The nurse is heading for the door. I am shrinking to normal size, head accelerating towards my ass, hoping that some force will keep me from turning inside out, head forever between my legs, staring into the abyss. I clasped the table, pulled hard, and after a body length of futile effort, lunged for the nurse, who felt surprisingly solid.

Like all good women attracted to words, she kept me from consuming myself from the inside out. She held on tight, smothering me in her metaphors, remembering ‘I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.’

Later Doc told me that the procedure went just fine and I’d be back to writing in no time. I reckon it’ll be well into the next century before I repeat that.

And, something did happen. Nurse, who had instinctively understood that once you get past the crap, there is nothing left of old men but words, took a shine to me.

Having pulled royal scams and outlived the furies released by blasphemies, we spend long afternoons listlessly wandering through dark desert corridors, scouting for turtles, making garlands from wild flowers, relishing the skyscape.

TL,C

Ryan and Roger

Lambone

Ice climber

Ashland, Or

Apr 12, 2006 - 02:57am PT

damn that sounds nasty...

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2006 - 01:57pm PT

Time is getting short folks. Lets see some more.

Inner City

Trad climber

East Bay

Apr 12, 2006 - 02:34pm PT

This thread is great. Russ is a clear winner currently!

pyro

Trad climber

stoney point,ca

Apr 12, 2006 - 11:07pm PT

hello!

"That ain't no friend at all"

cool! me thinks about okay! later..

Jaybro

Social climber

The West

Apr 12, 2006 - 11:10pm PT

Does this sh#t make Largo blush?

Ammon

Big Wall climber

El Cap

Apr 12, 2006 - 11:37pm PT

Yep, I’ve always liked JL’s writing. Here’s my submission which was actually inspired by his stories.

I’ve actually posted it here before. It doesn’t meet the rules. But, rules were meant to be broken (haa haa). He’s a hard act to follow so lower your expectations.

Cheers!!!

Itching for the Jungle-

It was our day off work.

I had been staying on the tenth floor of a hotel facing the tropical Atlantic Ocean in Isle Verde, Puerto Rico.

After six days of working on the new arena in San Juan we decided it was high time to have a day of adventure. My boss, Keith, had seen a huge cave hanging high on a jungle wall and was itching to explore it. Our intentions were to hack our way through the steep cliff side with a machete and fix a climbing rope when it became to shear to climb. Other than Keith and I, the five man party consisted of Brian McCray, Seth Dillass and Josh Wood.

Along the way we stopped at the Super K-Mart for a machete, everyone confident and in high spirits. As I watched Brian sharpen our tool to blaze a trail, I relayed a few stories that my friend Jose Pereyra had told me. Equalizing roots by grabbing many roots in one hand..... jamming your whole arm in mud to hold on to the base of small plants. We had to be prepared for the worst.

After many toll booths, we arrived in the small valley we were aiming for. We exited the vehicle and anxiously started surveying the path of least resistance. We all agreed that we would have to go through a band of steep rock and that I was elected for the job.

The jungle was thick. We thrashed our way through vines, branches and leaves of all sort. Brian led the first part, hacking at the greenery until he came to the band of rock. I inched my way ahead, squirming my way in front of the team of five. I lashed the rope around my waist and started off climbing up the wall. I held onto vines and roots until they would snap and then quickly go for another handful before my body would plummet.

This worked most of the way if I had a good foot hold. If not my feet would spit out from underneath me and I would do a wild looking dog-scratch until I was solid again. Then I would continue, slowly and methodically. It was pretty smooth until I cam to a lip on a sandy ledge. I found pockets in the limestone that made good hand holds.

The rock started to overhang, and I had to use the pockets, toeing in and pivoting my body into the face. I finally got my hand around a pretty good size tree, mantled and then tied the rope off. “Line’s fixed”, I yelled.

I sat down, pretty worked from the lead. I was actually free soloing because I knew after the first ten feet the rope wouldn’t do any good. That’s when I started to notice that my body was itching, pretty bad. I scratched like crazy at my arms, chest and stomach which seemed to get the worst of it. The rest of the party ascended the rope, hand over hand.

The itching continued and became worse. At one point I had to stop, sit down and try and zone out the terrible irritation that my body was experiencing. In fact, I had never even imagined this kind of pain was possible. Not your normal kind of pain. This was intolerable. It made you feel like you were losing your marbles.

When we arrived at the mouth of the cave, we ran around in circles, yelling and scratching like hell.

“When will it stop”, we kept yelling.

After a half an hour or so, Keith started exploring the mouth of the cave. He had a long sleeve t-shirt and avoided most of the dose of fibers. We wondered if it was stinging nettle but all agreed there was no such stinging nettle in the States that produced such a lashing. Keith came over a while later with a several chunks of pottery that was obviously old and could have dated back to an ancient tribe. Even though the mysterious itching didn’t fade too much, we all started exploring.

The floor was soft and thick with guano. Disease was the first conversation as we crept closer inside the cave. I was still semi-pacing and gripping my hair, ready to pull it out if the itching got any worse. I excused my behavior by the knowledge that I got the worst dose, being in the lead most of the way.

Stalactites and stalagmites popped out everywhere. I saw one that was neither a tight or a mite and they were both, as well. They grew together, forming a monomite.

We saw a petroglyph, confirming the ancient habitat that once dwelled here. A proud lizard, etched with coals over many years. Water drained down the side of the cave wall, forming a small pond with unknown creepy-crawlies. We saw lots of legs and a small head and then lots of squirming to get back under the mud of the pond

Next to that, crawling on the wall, was a crab. A crab unlike I had ever seen before. It seemed mutated to be able to exist in such a hostile environment. Bats became startled and a few started to fly around in circles in spastic movements.

A few of us scattered, not wanting them to come close enough to touch us. As I scrambled away I looked down to notice all of the “lacucuroches” scrambling as well. “Wow, this place has quite the array of excitement”, I thought.

I found a small vein and squirmed into the entrance. It went for thirty feet and then came to a squeeze smaller than I wanted. I backed out and told the others about it.

Keith was in there without hesitation. I looked over just in time to see his legs inching the rest of the way through, covered in mud.

It was only a few minutes later that he was calling for all kinds of things.

“I need my shirt”, I need the rope, hand me my headlamp”, he yelled. Fifteen minutes later he was squirming his way back, reporting that it was a dead end. Fine by me, I think I’m ready to get out of this place.

We got ready to descend. Everyone got worked up about going into the itching-fest again. Brian and I agreed that this place wasn’t exactly evil, but not a very nice place either. I tried using a plastic bag, to avoid the itching, but it only seemed to make it worse. We headed out.

I took the banzai approach and kicked it into full force and survival mode. It didn’t take long to get to the small road that we parked on. We drove to a small turnout.

We all ran to the river which didn’t give us much relief from the stinging, itching fibers that came from the jungle. A few locals were standing around, pointing fingers at us, while laughing.

We spent the rest of the day driving around the mountain roads, viewing the scenery from inside the vehicle, away from the local vegetation......

always remembering the “jungle itch”.

Ammon

Big Wall climber

El Cap

Apr 13, 2006 - 12:40am PT

Ho man, I should have read the entire thread before posting. Russ is killin' IT!!

the Fet

Trad climber

Loomis, CA

Apr 13, 2006 - 12:41pm PT

Ho man, the enormity of my task overwhelmed me before I even began. But I was as strong as a hormonally enhanced East German Athlete and experienced as a fishnet clad Santa Monica Blvd nightcrawler. Surely I could handle this. Still I secretly reeled with terror.

My only hope, I surmised, would be to get this over with quickly before my constitution gave out. I stepped up to the plate and prepared for the battle of my pitiful life.

At first it was reasonable. This wasn’t too bad, I began to think. Maybe I’ll actually get through this alive. I began to feel cocky. All those stories I had heard must have been exaggerated, or perhaps I could just deal with adversity better than those who padded the tales of their experience with an extra dose of pain and difficulty.

But then the next stage hit me like a ton of bricks soaked in the feces and vomit of a thousand drunks, polluted by years of cheap vodka and rotten food scrounged from trash cans. My body revolted. Stars filled my eyes.

Something is terribly wrong I thought. No one can possibly have done this before. It was all lies. A horrible joke played on me. Is this the way it was going to end? Did I finally get myself into something that I couldn’t escape from? I wanted to go home. Back to my warm bed. But I was in the middle of it now, no way to retreat, the only thing I could do was press on.

Suddenly the misery and enormity of my challenge doubled. This is a truly impossible task. Every inch, no every millimeter was an excruciating combat to fight tooth and nail for. I clawed like a wretched stray cat in an alley of rabid pit bulls fighting for every tiny sliver of advancement. Microscopic glimmers of hope at the end of a pitch-black tunnel, the only thing driving me on.

The excruciating pain of molten lava mixed with battery acid flowed through my body. My very soul being ripped from my once mighty chest.

I so wished this terrible ordeal would be over that I began to covet the peaceful, cool escape of death. Surely anything Beelezebub could torture me with had nothing on this. What would happen if I did simply give up? But the thought of being stuck in this position was too sickening to contemplate.

I mustered every last bit of strength I had and pushed on as hard as I could.

I longed for the carefree days of my youth. Eons before this sorry, poisoned sack of corpuscles was forced into this horrid spectacle.

It got worse and worse every eternal second. I cried and cursed and struggled to make any discernable progress.

Then all at once the heavens opened, shafts of golden light bathed me, and a glorious chorus of angels rang out. The weight of a billion worlds was lifted off my tawny shoulders. I did it. I passed the crux. A resounding tink of metal on stone assured me the worst was over. I looked down at that god-damn kidney stone in the metal pan and swore off dairy forever.

G_Gnome

Social climber

Tendonitis City

Apr 13, 2006 - 04:59pm PT

HO MAN! That was excellent Fet!

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 13, 2006 - 07:39pm PT

Ho Maaan!!! (last one)

Ho man....

The B loop is ground zero for Joshua Tree highjinks and tonight would be no exception. All manner of curs had assembled for the nightly warming of the bones and inflated tales of the days conquests. Around the fire men were fueled by intoxicants so wildly powerful that they actually thought that not only were they handsome, but that every woman found them irresistible. The standard issue of two women for every 300 hundred men at the crags had long ago decided that these men were neither handsome or irresistible. A nomadic leper had a better chance of a mohair sighting than any of them, even after a shower.

As the night dragged on and route grades were inflated to suit the gesticulations, Finn knew that a ranger patrol would be along shortly for the 10PM rounds. Finn always knew when the rangers were coming, especially since his new object of desire was Penelope Justice, the head ranger. Finn had brazenly asked Penelope out many times, and every advance was rebuffed vigorously.

Finn had been the loudest at the fire this night, and his talk was not of climbing, or imaginary mattress romps with the fairer sex... he was talking about weed. Not just a pinner between friends, not the scrapings from an upturned Frisbee, but lots of weed. Seems he had obtained a large stash, and was in no uncertain terms blabbing about it... maybe too much, and certainly too loud.

Like clockwork the ranger patrol arrived at 10PM, but with two cars on this night. Out jumps Penelope Justice and at her heels is the faithful hound Rudy, a dope sniffing dog. Anyone holding has at this point faded into the darkness as more officers spill out of the patrol cars. Finn stood his ground at the fire and tried not to move as Rudy made a beeline for his crotch.

Finn tried to act cool and blurted out, "He probably smells my dog".
Penelope watched as Rudy again and again nuzzled at Finns crotch, right up to the point of a few inspired love bites.

"Seems he smells more than just your dog" says Penelope. Rudy has now feveroushly flaked out his Revlon and is dry humping Finns' leg.

"Nope... just my dog" assures Finn between humps.

Penelope ain't buying it. She motions at his crotch with her nightstick, "you're going to need to show us what's in there".

Like a dream come true, Finn blushes and says, "I thought you'd never ask", and quickly starts to unbutton his britches. Rudy is forcibly restrained as the last button is about to pop.... Penelope leans in and shines all the beam a 16 D Cell MagLight can muster directly on the last button.... a bevy of Tools jostle for position....

Finn whips open the front of his pants and there it is for all to see.... 14oz of seasoned flank steak lashed to his member with 3mm perlon.
As they look on in horror, Finn asks of Penelope, "does this count as a first date??"

(Based on "Banzai Bob" (I think??))

ron gomez

Trad climber

fallbrook,ca

Apr 13, 2006 - 08:34pm PT

Russ does this sooo good maybe John got ALL HIS stories from Russ, no one does it better! Keep em comin' Russ yer hellarious!
Peace

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 13, 2006 - 08:53pm PT

Naw... Largo taught me everything I know.

Some of the best times were working with the king himself and dreaming up and writing down stuff just that nutty, for pay! Man we used to bust up all day long! Those were the days.

James

Social climber

My Subconcious

Apr 13, 2006 - 09:36pm PT

Hunger in Yosemite

Our state of sub-Saharan squalor had left us too poor to afford batteries for our sundial let alone sustenance for our skeletal bodies. Our meager food supplies consisted of thirteen seasoning packets of Ramen, a half crystallized jar of honey, and one loaf of rye bread. Max was thick as a candle wick and often disappeared when turned sideways. Will had an alphabet of malnutrition from lack of vitamin A to a severe case of scurvy. I was doing little better with a head swollen to Hidenberg proportions from an excessive stay in Yosemite.

With our wallets emptied we had a total of two feet of 5mm cord and half a pound of pocket lint. The savagery of the rock climbing in Yosemite demanded that we replenish our emaciated bodies. A trip to the outside was necessary to procure provisions to so we could stay in the valley and climb a little longer as the rangers in Yosemite were a green Gestapo who didn’t take kindly to our scavenging of table scraps and illegal camping.

We borrowed a doubloon gold Impala and set sail for the nearest bountiful source of free food, a dumpster at the Trader Joes’ grocery store in Fresno.

The journey out of Yosemite had the curves of a supermodel and the topography to boot. We thundered over the granite of the Rostrum, tiptoed past the golf course in Wawona, and zipped past the meth labs in Oakhurst. The torturous drive finally ended when we entered the metropolis of Fresno, a neon labyrinth in the desert that Rand McNally should have forgotten.

We stationed the Impala in a bank parking lot and began our dumpster stake-out. A pear shaped guard, with a hirsute piece of flab perched above his mouth that appeared to be a rat slathered in Rogaine, made rounds about the building. The store hadn’t made their nightly dump of the day’s produce yet so we twiddled our thumbs and dreamed about El Capitan. Minutes passed, and then hours, as the guard squinted his mole sized eyes at the car full of derelicts. He stared at us bewilderingly, as though he was trying to solve a one-piece puzzle.

As the belled tolled midnight, a skinny teenager with oversized hands tossed the garbage into the dumpster. The guard waddled his portly frame around the corner and we swooped.
Max pole-vaulted into the dumpster with a gold medal arc while Will and I scurried to place the food into bread bins. Linguini and cartons of organic orange juice came careening towards my head. Artichoke hearts melted down the windows as we heaved the supplies into the running Impala.

The click of the guard’s boots began to come around the corner. We rushed to secure our cargo. I drummed on the dumpster and Max threw himself into the back seat, a portabella mushroom hanging doggedly from the nape of his neck.

We flew out of the grocery store lot to the Fresno streets. Will engaged the flux capacitor and we shot towards Yosemite at NASCAR speeds. Max pinballed between the bins of booty while Will and I dreamed of seven course meals that consisted of more than a six pack of Olde English and a potato.
“No more toast for breakfast in the café, no more Bali Shag for lunch, and no more passing out starving.” The pirates curled their lips upward shouting, “Fresno? Fres-yes!”

The car plummeted into the valley and then peeled into the orchard below Half Dome. We pulled the bins from the car and greedily sorted the food, kings about to banquet.

Will and I threw out anything that wouldn’t meet our discriminating tastes as Max husteled into the trees. We reached the end of the bins and found amongst the heaps of rotten vegetables and fuzz covered navel oranges our well earned prize, a package of spaghetti and a bile covered Max.

Disappointment coursed through our veins. The unforgiving granite would continue to gobi our hands and make our gaunt and scraggy bodies bow in submission.

Juicy nuggets of half chewed rye bread fell from Max’s mouth onto the ground. Finally Will looked down at the puddle of garbage and spoke up. “You gonna eat that?”

Al Downie

climber

Apr 14, 2006 - 04:05am PT

Russ, dude, you're bubonically malarious! Thanks for the flashback...

the Fet

Trad climber

Loomis, CA

Apr 14, 2006 - 02:25pm PT

Nice one James.

I think Russ might be too good, to win a "Bad" Largo contest. ;-)

"He had the requisite tooth brush, a dental pick, pencil eraser, two jewelers loupes, a chicken bone replete with scrimshaw and jar of fruit flys. After a arduous ritual involving all the superfluous accoutrements he was finally ready to slap some dermis to granite." Classic.

susan peplow

climber

Winner of Diet Challenge!!!

Apr 14, 2006 - 04:25pm PT

Protege, Master, and Photog.

Todd Gordon party in ???? '92???

NOT REALLY SUSAN POSTING BUT SHE KEEPS USING MY DAMN MACHINE!!!!!

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 18, 2006 - 02:52am PT

Ok mates... fossil party™™ is over, and the big rumble in Powell Town was that I was the winner.... Where is the podium, where is the winners circle, where is my faux Oscar???

Ho Maaaaaaaaaaaaan! Load me with some swag!!!!!!!

Grug

Trad climber

Golden, Colorado

Apr 18, 2006 - 08:39am PT

My vote's fer Russ. Just read James' entry--good stuff!

happiegrrrl

Trad climber

New York, NY

Apr 18, 2006 - 08:52am PT

What you have "won," like an author worth their salt, will be the yin/yang sensation of pleasure/distaste at seeing your words recounted and/or plagarized, without your knowledge or consent, and with no credit or other renumeration......

Seriously - the stories you put out, and those from the other contestants, were all good and fun to read. It was a great idea for a climbing, but not really, thread.

Maybe ST should have "Author of the Week"(or month, or unlimited timeframe) threads where we can take stabs at the keyboards pretending "if only we were." Maybe Mark Twight would make for a good counterbalance as a "next up."

Grug

Trad climber

Golden, Colorado

Apr 18, 2006 - 09:29am PT

That's genius! I'm already laughing to myself about what Mark Twight stories would sound like.

Russ Walling

Social climber

Same place as you, man...... (WB)

Apr 18, 2006 - 11:21am PT

Say Happi,

The words "contest" usually mean prize, and this part:

6. No prizes (probably - but maybe a certificate, plaque, an OldE, a Malt Wiskey, or who knows what).)

Is what kept me going through the 12 minutes I spent on the project. Load me baby, load me.....

WBraun

climber

Apr 18, 2006 - 11:35am PT

The "Prize" will always come.

How many years or lifetimes is can your patience hold?

happiegrrrl

Trad climber

New York, NY

Apr 18, 2006 - 02:10pm PT

Russ - If I see you next time I go to Jtree, I will personally buy you the libation of your choice, and I think so should everyone else who read your award-winning(or no award, as the case seems to be....) stories.

As for the "Author of the Week" club, if twight is the man, I am thinking a grueling, miserable, suffering account of.....almost opening a bag of chips might be a good start.....

looking sketchy there...

Social climber

Latitute 33

Topic Author's Reply - Apr 18, 2006 - 03:48pm PT

OK already......

Here are the results, totally unofficial (and like a 5 star route in Josh -- biased by my personal taste -- feel free to disagree):

1st Place: Russ Walling (several entries)
2nd Place: Steelmonkey
3rd Place: Karl Baba

1st Prize: Free Beer and pizza at KPs*

2nd Prize: All expense paid tour of the Outhouses of Joshua Tree**

3rd Prize: 100% guaranteed*** spot-on beta for pulling the crux of Double Cross.

* Must be redeemed by April 15, 2006 -- I guess Russ already collected his prize.
** Travel, meals and lodging not included.
*** Must be proficient at 5.10c cracks.

PS: Thanks for all the excellent entries.

James

Social climber

My Subconcious

Apr 18, 2006 - 05:40pm PT

I'm a loser...does anyone have a jelly donut I can drown in?

Jingy

Social climber

Flatland, Ca

Apr 18, 2006 - 11:39pm PT

Thanks Russ,

Your stories caused me to spit up all over my new iBook's screen!

Hey, any ideas on how to clean this mess up?

Jingy

Splater

climber

Grey Matter

Apr 18, 2006 - 11:56pm PT

The aftermath.

Legends were retold, and remolded. But now it was the day after the biggest Josh blowout in years, and time for today’s deeds. Starbell and her legend hustled out to Horningway Buttress, showing up about 2 pm in time for a coupling of classics. Though he’d never done it, Leg had deemed that the usual classic might be unworthy of his attention, so he wondered off, pondering a tick of the Scary route. But... not today.

In the meantime, several pairs of wankers arrived, some hoping to climb one of the same popular routes. Gorgeous Star couldn’t decide which route she wanted to toprope first, and really just wanted to reserve them all. Couldn’t those maddening morons just leave? She rambled on about her life story of the hour. A body that wouldn’t quit, with a mouth to match. But instead they just set their packs down and waited. It was clear to all that not even the best looking babe in all of Morongo could climb two routes at once.

Leg’s head ached like 750 ml of Monument Manor homebrew agave. Same old mundanity. Had to climb out of this pit. He racked up his well used gear and cruised up his choice. Floated it, owned it, flashed it, styled it. Starbell managed to follow and joined him on top, basking in the afternoon light. But in his head there was no peace. Something was lacking & hadn’t gone according to the vision. It just wasn’t the same as it never was.

Russ Walling

Social climber

Out on the sand.... man.....

Jul 15, 2007 - 02:46am PT

Writers block bump

John Moosie

climber

Jul 15, 2007 - 02:58pm PT

LOL This is definitely of the funniest threads I have read.

TwistedCrank

climber

Luxury rehabilitation treatment facility in Boise

Jul 22, 2007 - 05:18pm PT

I hate to add this but... well, I don't really hate to add this but...

How about a Pat Ament writing contest?

Mimi

climber

Aug 13, 2008 - 11:18pm PT

In appreciation of Largo and his literary exploits and it's been a whole year already, shouldn't this thread's content be rekindled for 2008? It's a summer Olympic's year afterall. Mussy's gotta defend his title!

Ed Hartouni

Trad climber

Livermore, CA

Apr 21, 2010 - 09:37pm PT

bump for a favorite old thread from long ago...

Spider Savage

Mountain climber

SoCal

Apr 21, 2010 - 10:17pm PT

Ya See, Russ, This is why you need to start doin slide shows. This sh#t is good. Just grab some any-old weird picts, slap together a show and a script, and do the show. Plus, you could sell more weird FISH gear with the exposure. Like the FISH Triple Melvin, etc.

Thanks for pullin this up Ed. It's a classic.

Peter Haan

Trad climber

San Francisco, CA

Sep 25, 2012 - 07:22pm PT

Love this thread from '06.

Michelle

Trad climber

the f*#king peninsula.

Sep 25, 2012 - 07:42pm PT

Couldn't agree more!

MH2

climber

Sep 25, 2012 - 11:21pm PT

How could this fall off the first page?

Why did Atlantis sink?

6 years a long time?

WBraun

climber

Sep 26, 2012 - 12:11am PT

All time classic.

Pure gold.

Should be a sticky .........

Charlie D.

Trad climber

Western Slope, Tahoe Sierra

Sep 26, 2012 - 12:50am PT

Too much fun, somehow my Tuesday night turned into a Friday night......LOL, you're all great.

Guangzhou

Trad climber

Asia, Indonesia, East Java

Sep 26, 2012 - 02:29am PT

Wow, thanks for the Thread CPR on this one.

Eman

couchmaster

climber

pdx

Sep 26, 2012 - 09:41am PT

ROTFLMOA!

"Finn asks of Penelope, "does this count as a first date??"

HAHA!

jstn

Trad climber

monrovia, ca

Sep 26, 2012 - 12:35pm PT

Thanks for the great read! Work has passed without notice.

Norwegian

Trad climber

Placerville, California

Sep 26, 2012 - 12:50pm PT

arrogant bastid, i.
once, actually the singularly greatest non-moment in
my life, largo threatened to plagarize me and be all famous himself...

"Norwegian wrote that and I am telling him and the world right now that I'm stealing that passage for my own use, changing just enough to where people will think I wrote it and becoming all famous and sh#t in the process."

http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1206190&tn=20

so i automatically exist!
yea. that's always been my goal.
to exhist.

john long you've always been so high on my list of heroes.
two me it means to somethings to be heralded by a hero.

upon learning that i am i,
once the acid tears dried
i changed my topo stamp from
jerry to figments of
intoxicated imaginations everywhere.

SteveW

Trad climber

The state of confusion

Sep 26, 2012 - 01:36pm PT

Largo.

There, I wrote it. Where's my prize?????

MH2

climber

Sep 26, 2012 - 05:29pm PT

Hey, you only typed that. No good without a picture.

mueffi 49

Trad climber

Sep 26, 2012 - 08:37pm PT

Just stumbled into this post line from times gone bye... the dumpster diving story opened up my memory lane of 1970 living off " bin-time" at the Montenvers Station above Chamonix... money was better spend on hauling cheap wine up from the valley..
Probably the best "Mountain Prosa" I read in a long time - thanks !!!

Hardly Visible

Social climber

Llatikcuf WA

Apr 7, 2015 - 12:03am PT

A definite must read, or should I say muss read.

Tom

Big Wall climber

San Luis Obispo CA

Apr 7, 2015 - 03:57am PT

The thin-finger overhang looked like a no-go.

So, I stepped up. I knew I would have to dyno to dyno to dyno from sloper to sloper to sloper, to get the fingernail crimp just beyond the roof. Below the roof, for pro, was one last fixed pin, a pin that only a pussy would clip.

Not me.

Fixed gear is a pussy game. In this game of Real Men, I knew where the chips stood on the steep table. Sure, I could clip. But, then? I would be a Pussy.

So, I heel-hooked past the fixed pin, into a bong-bong-sized divot carved by Royal Robbins' minions, and levered Levittator, with my six-pack abs groaning towards the summit, and stuck a thumb-press-to-tiny (tinier than Pencil Neck Geek) and stood proud.

But, I was only a thirteen feet off the belay. It was going to get worse, above.

Normally, a three-dyno move into an overhanging bombay chimney, polished by a thousand years of water would seem extreme. But, I had put beeswax on my hands, and feet, and face, to stick the moves.

I know that beeswax is cheating, but so is a rope.

I used my study of Asian religions, and with extraordinary breathing techniques, to allow my brain to know, to myself, if no one else, that, "I am The Man".

So, I launched out, dyno to dyno to dyno, and stuck and stuck and stuck the moves, made the ascent, and well, the rest is history.

I am THE MAN.

Norwegian

Trad climber

dancin on the tip of god's middle finger

Apr 7, 2015 - 08:48am PT

yesterday i stopped in to visit
my swedish carnival family in camino.
bryce is a mentor to me in many ways:
as a father, as a man and as a builder.

we sat around his fireplace
drinking coffee with his
beautiful wife and daughter.

leo koetke played on the record player.

i was telling them about largo.
how when john picks up the pen
inspiration flows thru
with graceful strokes like
hawk feathers still connected
to the wing.

how his audience is awed
and lifted.

and how i look to john
as my pen mentor
but when i express
inspiration falls out
of me like a wood block
and the resounding echo
as it hits the nearest hard
surface only makes
my audience worried and
uncomfortable.

like i'm just looking for
somewhere to park my angst
and i find empty hearts
in this great lot
of electrical and gas vessels.

then the fire went out,
the record ended,
i emptied my cup
and exited in silence.

love was nowhere.

Gnome Ofthe Diabase

climber

Out Of Bed

Apr 7, 2015 - 10:54am PT

"UNDER their cabin is a cellar. you descend soft plank stairs into the earth and enter thru a wood slab door with a little stain glass window.
once in, there is a single decrepid light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a noose. pull the chain and have a seat at the small and lonely table in the middle. all the wine racks are empty. the stone foundation walls bear moss and somewhere in the corner, a drip drops.
the beams overhead are hand hewn and thus tell a thousand stories of love's hardship.

my good friend sorenson pulls a tap that sticks from the face of an old frigidaire. into two copper goblets flows his home-brewed barley wine.

we sit across the table and subtly change the coarse of mankind thru small talk.

eeking out an existence, i.
-

Norwegian wrote that and I am telling him and the world right now that I'm stealing that passage for my own use, changing just enough to where people will think I wrote it and becoming all famous and sh#t in the process.

JL"

Oh. . . I lov' ya' man!!
I amStill chewing white bread, V>,< V>,<V, `Old School Dental Plan?!

. . . "inspiration falls out
of me like a wood block
and the resounding echo
as it hits the nearest hard
surface only makes
my audience worried and
uncomfortable."

Bushman

Social climber

Elk Grove, California

Apr 7, 2015 - 09:58pm PT

'Soloing at Harimau Rock'

Vague memories awoke me from a zen-like trance as the full moon illuminated the vitreous dew on odious appearing moss along the trail as I became conscious of a pounding hangover precipitated by boilermaker bouts with a garrulous Kiwi in the bilik bar the night before. As the trail led through the mangroves and into the highlands, sweat soaked my headband as guano dropped like heavy rain from giant bats. Soon it fell impotently onto the rubble below as I negotiated the 3rd class overhanging scree sections on the gently ascending approach to the infamous Harimau Rock, perched on the cleft of a plateau overlooking the vast Malaysian Jungle. At its base the ominous egg shaped chossy pegmatite obelisk soared at least eighty or ninety feet and had but one obvious line on its southeastern parapet. A jagged finger crack zagged the lower half up into a blank looking face with but a few bewildering depressions and some dubious crusty appurtenances on the upper half the cliff. Unshouldering my pack, I drank but a few ounces of water and sat in the lotus position with eyes narrowed to slits while contemplating the gooey seepage at the base of the starting moves, until my breathing assumed a calm rhythmic pattern and the first glimmer of dawn began creasing the eastern horizon.

To the mainstream climbing world up until this time, Harimau Rock was but a myth, and was unheard of to all except the local villagers in these parts. This was to be only a reconnaissance foray, and my goal was to boulder and work out the opening moves, and to rap and clean the best lines for a later ascent with a partner. The dangers in this area of the jungle were inherent, but I had inculcated myself to the landscape and culture, and made friends here. I knew of the deadly insects, the vipers, and the big cats, but I felt as comfy and able here as I would, with some reservation, among the Yosemite bears.

As I unfolded myself from my meditation to stretch in preparation, the morning sun warmed my back and my biceps which bulged and lengthened in rapt anticipation of making a start at the climbing. But while I was capaciously unaware of any danger, a shadow in the mangroves downslope briefly caught my eye. Dismissing it as a vulture who might be ruminating over a snack, I went about the business of hoisting my frame up the jagged crack for several moves while wiping the mungey spooge from my toe tips on the course and ample smears around the crack. At about twenty feet off the deck the crack pinched down to about 9/16" locks and my feet were solid but I decided to come down and scope the higher jams from below for perspective. I was still feeling pretty strong as I gingerly stepped on the ground when I heard it, a long low growl that stood my hair on end and before the growling had abated, I realized that I had powered back up the crack and hung about ten feet above my previous high point.

Thirty feet below me was an animal that bested my weight by at least forty pounds. My emotions ranged from dispassionate amusement to modest irritation in a heartbeat as a rather large tiger began dissecting my pack with disinterested glances up towards me. The bananas and energy bars were of no interest to the big beast and it began to walk about with an agitated demeanor as I resolutely pondered the grievous nature my situation. "Hoh Man!" I thought to myself for an instant while pondering the fact that the Malaysian Tiger weighs as much as 260 pounds and can run a man down at a hundred yards in less than eight seconds. My breathing was even but the finger crack was starting to feel greasy as the big cat lunged the base of the cliff while attempted to harry its prey.

I was moving up slowly now, regulating my breathing and trying to calm my mind, and wondered at the audacity of my hubris for assuming the there would be no big cats in the near vicinity of Harimau Rock, which of course translates in Malaysian to 'Tiger' Rock. What I was thinking must have been purely vain glory as presently a piquant delicacy was being prepared for the resident quadruped below in commemoration of my superfluous demise. A pleonastic orgy of thoughts were flooding my brain and quelling the concentration I needed to secure the single digit jams and shrinking smears as I progressed upwards. The last jams ended at a sloping mantle with at least another forty five feet of hard and sketchy face climbing. I was beginning to feel the tension in my toes like a flamenco dancer, and as I pressed the mantle my knees were knocking like castanets. I spied the first crusty knob at ten feet out from the mantle and then as I pushed higher into the death zone on smears and edges my vision swam treading in red hues, purple haze playing there on the periphery of my mind with mad blues riffs sparking in and out of my head.

A quick glance down at the tiger prowling below brought me to my senses and the crusty knob was within my reach, but like Aladdin's genie and the chimera set free, fatuous thoughts once again set upon the mind. As I began moving past the secure hold, taking my foot off it and casting off onto thin holds again was wholly unthinkable, but with several feet to the next knob, it might put me within 25 feet of survival. "Rosebud," I thought strangely, not of the dying vision of Citizen Kane, but of another Rosebud, it was her nickname. I had given it to her, my beautiful Latino flame, Rosalinda. "Rosebud," I thought of her with the soft brown eyes and my mind quieted. Rosebud, and my foot held in the depression as I reached the third crusty knob. Rosebud was the mantra she sang for me as I moved past it and into no mans land. The cacophony of the daytime jungle was lost to me as I squared my jaw and reckoned with the grim task of ropeless soloing at eighty five feet above death on the 5.11c vertical face moves. Rosebud, was the rounded edge of her lower lip at my fingertips, the soft curve in the palm of her hand under my toes, and the warm kiss of her lips on my fingertips as I caressed the final knob within eyesight of the top. As I moved onto it I noticed the tiger was nowhere to be seen. I was beyond caring at that point and the song of my lover brought me back into acute alignment with the only métier that mattered.

Only Rosebud could save me as I focused on the last hard move, invariably a requisite dyno that I had to 'stick' in order to reach the top. For Rosebud I threw for it and as my right hand slapped the large knob my feet swam dangling. Then I lunged again to throw the other hand up and hung there with both hands on solid rock, Above me in the bright blue sky and warm sunlight was a butterfly, and a tiger's paw as it clawed the air. "Rosebud," I thought.

-bushman

Tom

Big Wall climber

San Luis Obispo CA

Apr 23, 2016 - 01:54pm PT

What is "Largo" - Mind

Time for another LWC.

overwatch

climber

Arizona

Apr 23, 2016 - 06:36pm PT

Myles Moser

climber

Lone Pine, Ca

Apr 23, 2016 - 11:14pm PT

Livin' in the Portal

« on: December 15, 2011, 02:51:46 am »

Here I am in North Dakota for two weeks. Enjoying the company of Amy's family. Taking a much necessary rest from the adventures that have been embarked upon and those that are waiting.
For the last week I have been endlessly searching the web and wholesalers for buckles, snaps, webbing, slides, material, buttons, and clips. I've always been interested in making haul bags and other big wall paraphernalia: from screamers to chest harnesses, to bombproof 4 season portaledge rain flys. I also just finished a prototype wall bivy/tent that will be put to the test as soon we get home. Well, after I adjust Max the VW Bug-he found a rock in Alabama Hills that did not agree with his rear end.

Man! We have had one hell of season. I have learned so much from the previous adventures and can't wait for what's coming. Most of all, I have discovered a partner who will not back down in the face of danger; a partner who looks at the open jaws and dripping teeth of the Sierra Bulgarian and says "let?s fight". Amy has gone from my princess, to my wing man. What we have done in recent months has left me with a feeling that I can not express. I have gone from a rat scurrying through holes and caves in the Alabamas trying to sniff out a willing belayer, to my dream of becoming a First Acsentionist.

First Ascent... What does it mean?

I don't know.

But what I can tell you is that I crave it! I dream of it. I think of it all the time. I want more virgin ground like a high schooler wishes to loose their virginity. I stare out my window imagining little red lines with little red dots, connecting those lines on all the Sierra buttresses. I have ambitions for routes that tear and turn my insides, only because the time is not right, the weather is not in, there is not enough snow. Secrets and mystery. The unknown. The what if. The we might.
The god awful bivy for one, let alone two. I need it!

I have had the privilege of climbing with and being mentored by one of the finest men I know, Phil Bircheff. A humble man who has chosen someone much younger to call friend.

"Can you give me a spot" I asked two years ago. He quietly puts his watered-down white wine on the gravel ground.

"Come on, check this one out!"

"Don't really spot me, you know... just be there" I proclaim.

And that was the start of a friendship that has changed my life. Phil the veteran of the iron age, has taught me to drive and listen to the ring of a piton. The ring which we have sent though the Whitney Portal for all to hear.
We sit at my table behind the Portal Store, Phil filing and sharpening RURPS and I on the bench grinder making a half inch Cassin Piton, into a quarter.

He spits on his stone.

I didn't even ask him to sharpen. He just knew.

I have stared at a hidden pillar well above the Portal for months. Every morning escaping the god-awful cold of early season in the Portal, I sneak into sun light... Binoculars in hand. Two parallel running splitters; how do I get there?

Phil walks up, "check it out" I say. He's probably thinking "here we go again!"

We're at the base, we dig in a bivy. Sh!t, we forgot the chicken, we'll just ration the trail mix for three days!
We swing leads for 6 two hundred foot pitches. Spire summit, awesome! One ring-angle piton dead vertical and we are off, slung block, fix 4 more pitons, ground... Trail mix gone.
Beers by the waterfall, topo drawn... We have created Pillar Altisimo.

Living in the Whitney Portal for the last eight months has been an experience. Grinding generators that sound as if they are about to explode. Constant "Doo yu know where the trail to Alf Dome is?" The smell of morning breakfast. The pancakes which are too big for any civilized person to eat, and the morning hug from non other than Earlene.

Sneak a sausage or two on the grill, Doug's back is turned... Bacon in the mouth.

Back to the upper lot we call home.
Squealing generator!

Doug Jr. on a smoke brake knows where we're at. He picks on me for awhile as I'm packing for the next climb... Sh!t my sausage!

Grab the sausage, which Dougie has removed from the grill. He knows me all too well now.
Tickets in the window, a ticket on the wheel, a line in front of Earlene... Where the hell are the Dougs? Dougie is on smoke break hopefully picking on Amy this time. Doug Senior is off some where saving the planet or mankind as we know it.

"All right here we go! Three eggs, over easy, side of hash, wheat toast, two pancakes for some reason, extra bacon, six sausage, three scrambled, one pancake, only toast... With sausage, ("that's not only toast"), four more pancakes, one hamburger ("it's not even lunch!"), two sides of bacon, "do you have any ketchup?", extra hash browns, one more pancake, two eggs sunny side up, "is my order ready?", lights fading... Generating crapping out, pancake batter every where, the sound of a screen door sliding open, "Doug!, Dougie!, I'm going climbing... Keep it real Dougs."

Squeeze in a few hours of climbing before work...
"Amy we are going to be late!" I yell down, as she flawlessly dances up the stone.
15 minutes late to work.

Amy and I just climbed a thousand feet. Throw the packs down, cover up my B.O. with old spice, slide the kitchen screen door ?You?re an IDIOT!" Senior yells. I laugh, wipe the sweat from my brow because I know this is his way of saying "Good Job!"

Amy, still with holes in her butt from climbing, is taking orders. I behind the window stuffing every morsel in sight in my mouth. She sneaks off to get into clothes that don't have holes.
The crowd is gone, lunch is over.
Time to hit the books. I stare at The High Sierra, Secor, Cameron Burns, California Fourteeners. These books all have awful pictures, but they will do.
"Day Needle!, Day Needle!, Day Needle!" I hunt frantically for a blue pen, so eager to draw the future route into the book.

Here I am, in the kitchen with my rack of equipment, trying to convince Doug Senior to give up some of his pitons from years past.
All he can do is stare at the equipment on the floor and say ?Myles! You might show up to work on time if you left some that equipment at home... Because back in my day..." I've heard it all before, so I don't judge. He is just getting old.

Squeaking generator, gotta get away!

I sneak off to my spot under the "Eiger of the Portal" also know as Candle Light Buttress. I sit there quietly with my jaw hanging to my toes, gawking at the king of the Portal, the Whitney Portal Buttress.

Amy and I worked on this wall for half a season before being beaten by a man-eating crack full of bushes and dirt. Some fine scrubbing, digging, and trimming got us through it. I was bed ridden for a few days. Doug tells me I probably got the Hanta Virus... while laughing.

Winter rolled in, and we were out.

The start of this season had us itching to get back on it. Snow on the road and a manmade burm, to keep the crusaders out, was no match for the Volkswagen Max.

Tire chains on, first gear in, here we go!

And, we're stuck.

"Amy get in, I'll push."

First gear in, engine hot and - we?re stuck once more.
Like knights storming a castle to slay the king we persevered.... After jacking and digging the car out.
We humped well over a hundred pounds of equipment to the wall, the next day it snowed for two weeks! We were out once more. Just as the weather cleared, my best friend Paul decided to show up. He had not wall climbed in a very long time, but the weather was saying now!

A party of two turned into a party of three.

100 pounds to haul turned into 175 pounds.

We were in for it! We lived on the wall for six days, making our way slowly up the steep face.
Paul in good style reading Mutiny Aboard the Bounty, heckling from his hanging palace while Amy and I worked ourselves.

Paul?s portaledge collapses... Now we are all uncomfortable.

Three people, a ledge built for two, three nights, wish Paul was thinner.

Exploded finger, blood everywhere, nine pitches up, a thousand feet of climbing, five hundred feet to go, one gallon of water left, Paul and his mutiny, "Where is the brandy?? Paul wants tacos, we?re out of gas, my finger hurts, time to bail, we wait till morning.

Doug Senior flies past us in His white truck. We turn in to our campground and there he is. Senior, arms crossed and a smile on his face, leaning against his truck awaits our tales of epic. He of course is proud, but with tape on my finger I start to explain, then out of nowhere "You?re an IDIOT!" breaches my tale. Amy, beautiful and tired had hung there for hours of boring belays and strenuous attempts to free climb, Paul- Paul just hung out, but hey that's what Paul does.

Doug then told us to go take showers!

So we failed.

A few weeks later we moved into the Portal. The wall held our bail-out gear hostage and I wanted it back. Starring daily at the route and the dangling equipment rotting in the sun was driving me mad. It was as if the wall was taunting me. At the right time of day I could see my carabiners flicking beams of sun at me while I would sit and ponder the wall. It was time to relive the adventure all over again.

Four days and three nights is what it took Amy and I to finish. Day two began with a morning greeting from Doug Jr. (a loud horn blast from his truck as it made the serpentine bend in the road, telling us he is watching). By no means were they easy. On the third day we went for the summit push. The winds were extremely violent, pushing anywhere from sixty to eighty mph. The Buttress was trying to tell us who was boss and it was doing a good job at that. Several times we had to hang on tight, in order not to get blown off the wall.

Meanwhile, we could see Paul and Phil on another wall fighting the same winds. Phil had told me later that the winds were so strong it had stolen his beanie while climbing, and that's when he began to fear for us.

We hit the summit in a torrent of wind. Rappelling the last seventy meters to our portaledge, I heard Amy screaming. As I got closer she was telling me the winds had picked her up in the two man ledge. "She must be exaggerating" I thought.

I tied the ropes off nice and tight so they wouldn't blow away." We can't rappel in these winds with all the equipment" I shouted.

And then, we were air born. Amy and I are literally floating on air. Easily three hundred pounds just got picked up and WHAM!!! We slam down on the anchor. Not good. Wham! Oh Dear! The rest of the night was us with are legs spread wide and arms stretched out to keep the rain fly from collapsing.... It was great!

The next morning we rappel. And as soon as we hit the ground who should be there but Big Paulie. He had hiked up to carry loads.

Righteous!

"Come on Doug it has to be a grade V, twelve pitches....come on! We where up there for six days! Then four!" I yell.
Doug Jr. quietly flipping hamburgers as his father and I go at it. "Dougie come on, give me your opinion..." Silence still from Dougie. Doug Senior then tells me that a party of women was on the route and they said it wasn't bad.

He's pretty funny for an old guy, always smacking me down because he knows I?ll get back up.

And then it comes.... His son is about to through us out of the kitchen and lets me have it... Just what I?ve been waiting for, a response from Dougie.

Dougie is asking ?why aren't you climbing? Why should the grade matter? Why do you care what others think? You climbed it? It doesn't matter!"

Well, Dougie was right. I got what I wanted and most of all I got those damn annoying, sun flickering, ruin my pondering session carabiners back.

Amy, Paul, and I walked away calling the route The Never Ending Story. You could ask Dougie if he thinks it's grade V, but I would just recommend trying it, you'll find out!

Remember that blue pen I was searching for, I found it! That blue line eventually got drawn in. Day Needle was something I'll never forget. Serious, hard work.

Three days, four nights, bashed knuckles, broken drill bits, sketchy blocks, a baggy of nuts and a salami stick. Five gallons of water, one sleeping bag for two people, and a sh!t ton of gear. Those awful bivies I crave so badly, oh yeah- we got those. Run-out, sketchy climbing, got that too. Screaming barfies... check, being pummeled by chunks of hail...hell yeah we got it, fifteen pitches with on the edge climbing.... Oh baby! Sleeping on the side of a wall around 14,000 ft in one of the grandest areas around... Priceless!

We hit the summit, down the Mountaineers Route, crash one more night under the Massif, three mile hike out, and we're done. Swing into the Dougs? office, I mean kitchen, tell them how it went. Get heckled a little; pray that a Giant Sierra Pine Rat has not ripped our canvas pop-up to shreds.

Take a shower then flip some Burgers.

I stare at Amy through my serving window as she describes the route with radical gestures and movements to our bosses, and paying customers. I listen to Doug laugh as she talks of the heckling we received from Iceberg Lake.

I just wait in the kitchen for it.

I know it's coming

"Myles!"

"You?re an idiot!"

And...I got it!

Wen

Trad climber

Bend, OR

Apr 25, 2016 - 10:12pm PT

I’ve been a lurker on the taco stand for years. As an intermediate climber I don’t exactly feel like I belong, but I read the taco every night before bed, and this thread is just too good to pass up. I almost named my first born Tobin after John Long’s story the Green Arch. I’m a big fan, though up until now it’s been my quiet little secret.

----------------------------------------------------

This is a John Long story of a different type. It’s not written in the John Long style because, well, I’m not a great writer like our friend the legend. I don’t have the mind or sarcastic wit, but I do have the pictures in my mind of a John Long experience that happened when I was young. In that way, this is a “bad John Long story”, not of the writing type, but about the day I met the “bad” John Long.

John Long was bad in the Michael Jackson “I’m bad, I’m baaad, you know it” way. Bad in the “I can climb and smoke a cigar while flirting with a nubile college student” bad way. Bad in the “you dirty dirty boy you hunk of love” kind of way, though in reality he might not have been that, but now that I’m a middle aged mother of two who hardly gets any pretty girl attention, that’s what he has become in my mind. Let’s just say it was a long time ago.

I had only been climbing a few months, and because I was in college in San Diego, Joshua Tree had become an obsession. I stopped playing lacrosse so I could leave school on Friday afternoons and climb until Sunday evening, months on end returning to my apartment well after Sunday dark unprepared for my classes the next day. I would climb in the heat. I would climb in the cold. It really didn’t matter what I climbed, as long as I climbed every chance I had, so that was what I did. Remember those days? Oh they feel like so long ago when you’re a working mother whose free time is spent driving kids between afterschool activities, daydreaming about your glory days.

It was the mid-90’s, and my boyfriend at the time, a skinny white guy who went on to become my partner in crime with this whole kid/middle-aged mother thing, loved to lead me around the monument. It was a monument back then, and there was a certain sense of freedom there. I wasn’t great at climbing, but I did enjoy the challenge of scraping my fingertips off each weekend. These were the years when I could spend all day in the sun tanning to a golden glow and not worrying about the damage I was doing to my young skin. We didn’t even wear sunglasses, that’s how young and stupid we were. I could climb in shorts and enjoy the tough girl look of my scraped knees when I went back to work on Monday morning, proud of my gobies and not yet embarrassed that they represented my bad style on the JTree cracks. I was young and cute, and the world was my climbing oyster.

So there we were at Echo cove on a Saturday morning. Hotter than hell, and my ghost colored boyfriend was frying to a crisp as he lead Stitcher Quits. I smeared my feet, slipping and sliding in my lousy footwork, learning through the two-steps forward, one-step back method. Eventually I made it to the top, but it was slow and torturous. Down again, and on to Stick to What. A decent name, as I repeatedly muttered it every step of the way. I was 15 feet off the ground when the legend walked up.

John Long was a solid hunk of muscle back in the day. His calves were huge, and I could hardly look at his biceps for fear that they would fire bullets at me. He wore a swami belt around his ripped midsection, the first I ever saw of that ancient piece of climbing hardware. You could hear him coming from a mile away, his voice laughing even as he was talking, projecting an energetic confidence that made you wonder who the heck he was. And I had no idea who the heck he was, being a new young climber. Did I mention I was cute?

So up walks THE Mister Long. He had a cigar in his mouth, and his booming voice was telling someone that he had put up Stitcher Quits back in the day because Stitcher had literally quit, as he was a weakling. I stood there on the next climb over, 20 feet off the ground, feeling his personality as he approached. Ignoring the growing presence behind me, I stepped up, and my foot slipped down; learning to smear was uncomfortably hard. Up he walked, and upon seeing my tan leg shaking, he shouted “Don’t you worry young lady, I’m here to help.” I looked up at my boyfriend with question marks in my eyes, relaying a “who is this blowhard?” look, though he couldn’t see it since he was 60 feet away in the blazing sun, sans sunglasses.

And the next thing you know, the legend is standing next to me, soloing alongside, cigar on lip, smiling eyes taking in the full package of my white short shorts, strong tan legs, and purple tank top. This was before we were old and worried about head injuries, so my long brown hair flowed down my back, no helmet in sight. Underneath I was a geeky straight-A student, attracted to smart boys more than the lookers, but Mister Long didn’t seem to mind that as he looked me up and down. And then he held out his hand.

I looked at him quizzically. “Who in god’s green acres are you?” I thought, my Catholic school education starting to seep out. And then he said, “Put your foot right here, I’ll help you up.” Although new to climbing, I knew enough not to cheat, so I ignored him and took a step up, muttering to myself “Stick to what? Damn right stick to what, what the heck am I supposed to stick my foot on?”

“Why this hold, this one right here!” he bellowed, as he placed his hand next to the smear, palm up, tilting his head to indicate I should stand on his hand. I smiled, put my foot on the smear, gently kicking his hand away, weighting my foot, only to slip down and fall into his palm. He grinned, successful in his entrapment as I was now fully reliant on him to hold my weight if I wanted to use the hold. I eased my next foot up, weighting his hand in the process. This cat and mouse game went on for several more moves, until the climb eased off and I could take care of myself, thank you very much. Up I went to the top, the legend getting farther and farther away, and when I clipped the anchors I asked my now sunburned boyfriend, “Who was that loud guy anyway, and what the hell kind of harness was he wearing?”

His reply? “That, that right there, that was you climbing with a movie star. That was amazing, incredible, he’s so old school he even had a swami belt on. Did you see how ripped he was? That, that was one famous dude hitting on my girl. Ho man, this is the stuff of dreams.”

And so that was the day I met the infamous, hotter than a Chippendales dancer, larger than life Mister John Long. And he was one bad, bad, bad hunk of flirty muscle.

These days, when I complain that I can’t climb worth a damn since kids took away my physique, I think back on the day I was given the look over by John Long, and I know I had it going on once, even if it was all a long, long, very long, time ago.

nah000

climber

no/w/here

Apr 25, 2016 - 10:53pm PT

thank you for laying bare some wistful reminiscences Wen... very nice.

IntheFog

climber

Mostly the next place

Apr 26, 2016 - 03:59pm PT

well, I’m not a great writer...

Maybe not, but you do tell a pretty good story.
Surely you've got a few more you are dying to share.

Rick A

climber

Boulder, Colorado

Apr 26, 2016 - 06:36pm PT

Your story and its vivid description of John in the old days is excellent!

That was John in a nutshell, right there.

Wen

Trad climber

Bend, OR

Apr 26, 2016 - 10:00pm PT

Thanks all, fun to put my story into words! JL has no idea what kind of legend he is to people, I'm sure there are plenty of others out there just like me...

This really is the best Supertaco thread I've ever read, I was laughing the whole time. Ok this and maybe the Every Picture Tells a Story thread...

Gnome Ofthe Diabase

climber

Out Of Bed

Apr 27, 2016 - 08:20am PT

Large O Knows,

He still Thrives on accolades

My sister tells a story, much the same ,

Did He try try to meet up later?

She and JL were not an Item

but she was astonished at his

?? FLIRTATUSNESS ??

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