Discussion Topic |
|
This thread has been locked |
| Messages 1 - 20 of total 20 in this topic |
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Original Post - Apr 12, 2009 - 12:47pm PT
|
This is just a takeoff/ addition to the "share your climbing writings here" thread. But I thought I might coax a few freshies out of you closet writers.
My Contribution, "Days Between" 2009
Thomas had immediately regretted not staying longer at the meager rest spot now far below him. He had fiddled for a couple minutes trying to work in a small nut, which only made the spot less restful, and then continued, sure that he could see better nut placements higher up.
But the wall had steepened almost imperceptively, and the hoped for placements had dissolved along with the subtle shadows that had made placements look bigger and less flared than they were.
"Why didn't I get a decent rest or at least let go and fall onto that good cam when I was so much closer to it?" The thoughts had raced through his mind in his last moments still clawing at the cliff.
He knew that Mathew didn't have the experience necessary to catch this fall, or to deal with the aftermath. But his ego and his confidence in his own ability to pick this plum of a crack that he had spotted high on the wall days before, had forced such thoughts out of his mind.
The sweat had stung his eyes and trickled down the middle of his back as he had struggled to keep his fingers in the shallow bottoming jams so far above his last acceptable piece of pro.
He knew the little RP sort of halfway grabbing the back of a flare twenty feet below him had no chance to hold....no chance at all.
The good cam that he had gotten in before the rest was at least twenty feet below that nut. It wasn't nearly close enough to keep him from hitting the flake. He knew it...
"Damn!" He had thought, "Why was I fooled by those shadows, why did I continue when the going got so bad, why didn't I rest when I could've, why didn't I let go when I had a chance, why didn't I wait for Steve to show up, at least he would've known what to do, why was Matt whimpering as badly as I was right before I came off, why was that good jam with the incut next to it just out of reach as my fingers had finally and screamingly come out for good?"
Thomas was amazed that he could feel the wind cooling his back and his forehead as he picked up speed. There was a small "tick" as the RP had popped without even slowing him down.
The world was strangely silent for a micro second as the flake roared toward him. He "heard" the flake crash into his side and back rather than feeling it. The sun grew smaller and more faded, almost eclipse like, as he heard Matt scream.
The world went black.
|
|
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2009 - 02:10pm PT
|
Whoa, I guess it takes too much thinking.......
|
|
Reilly
Mountain climber
Monrovia, CA
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 02:13pm PT
|
That's a cheery Easter morning tale!
Since it is Easter does he arise?
|
|
Studly
Trad climber
WA
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 02:21pm PT
|
What did Matt scream for? Did his finger get sucked into the ATC or was he using a grigri? Maybe he had a Whillans harness on and he knew the rope was pulling tight and soon he would be in its grips....now that would be scary.
|
|
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2009 - 02:43pm PT
|
Awesome Mike,
Did you do the painting also?
I'm thinking of another short story that I want to write....it's forming.
|
|
Reilly
Mountain climber
Monrovia, CA
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 03:17pm PT
|
That is a cool painting!
Clean The Anchors!
The rope came taut just as the sun's rays faded. Over the rising wind I yelled down, "Rope!" I hung from my jams and waited. A faint "OK!" drifted up. I knew Tom must have cleaned the belay. The hand crack miraculously blossomed into a classic pea pod into which I hauled myself.
A good sized ledge lay 6' above but I couldn't see any potential anchors. As I scanned the pea pod I reached the same conclusion. It didn't matter much anyway as the only gear I had left were some wired stoppers. Oddly, there was a thin flake on each side of the pea pod. I got a #3 behind one and a #2 behind the other. The trouble was I honestly think I could have pried the flakes off with my fingers. I was wedged in there nicely so I didn't even take the time to rig my Sticht; a hip belay would be plenty good for his 145 pounds. Later it turned out the crafty Scot had been climbing for a while.
When he arrived he didn't need to be told to just keep going; he already had all the gear. He also didn't need to be told that a night on top of a 9000' Cascade peak in early October dressed in painter's pants and T-shirts was not exactly why he had visited. True, it had been a lovely Indian Summer day for an alpine first ascent, but now it was becoming rapidly clear how little heat high dry air can retain. It was also looking like our little exercise in hubris and traveling light was going to give us lasting memories.
Tom scampered up onto the long sloping ledge and enleashed a small avalanche of gravel. At the back of the ledge was a short wall with a tricky looking roof about 8' above. Without bothering to put anything in Tom charged ahead like the good Scot. When he reached the roof he paused, appeared to try and extend his 5'-6" frame to 5'-8", and shot backwards with no warning. He started sliding down the ledge. It looked like he was headed for the big one so I looked down and tried to take in all I could which was about 2' wedged into the pea pod as I was. When I looked back up he wasn't going off to my right but was instead headed straight for me! He came over the edge in a tsunami of gravel. The only thing I could do was extend my arms to the return of the prodigal son. He dropped into them in a perfect seated position just like the blushing bride being carried across the threshold. I felt myself tipping out of the pod but threw us back in without testing my anchors.
Spitting out a mouthful of dirt I invoked Whillans and said, "Right, now get back up there and do it right!" Which, without a word, he did, again sans protection. Of course, all the hurry was for nought as by the time we got down to the glacier it had set up harder than chinese algebra. No way were we getting down it in the dark in Robbins boots armed with a Coonyard alpine hammer. It was a night to remember. While I shivered the night away Tom curled up in his cagoule and snored like a good Scot. Ach, ya bloody booger ya!
|
|
neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 04:40pm PT
|
hey there all, great contributions... :)
as for me to chip in, all i can say is:
i eyed the hard climb before me...
it loomed into the dark, in a way,
hard to fathom, you see...
i knew it would send out unstableness...
and in spots that i THOUGHT, i could
handle, at best...
but clever-scout that i knew i was...
i'd not take to pride, by
tackling the climb, as an easy-does...
oh no, i'd heard of such dangers...
and NOT from park rangers...
you see, my climb, is to my room above...
(and, you may as well know, its loaded with fuzz)...
and FIVE fast moving CATS...
trying to trip-me-up, no matter WHAT level, i'm at!...
yep, the steep stairs in these-here parts...
are NOT for those ol' faint-of-hearts...
so i take my time, and grab the rail...
as the cats run full-blast, up my steep-stair-trail...
beating me to the top, safe and sound...
and then, we do it all over again, but back
down, to the ground!...
cheers... moral to the climb...
critters CAN be distracting...
but good buddies, none-the-less, you'll find...
|
|
seth kovar
Trad climber
Montgomery, NY
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 04:46pm PT
|
Maybe a bit off topic but outdoors, in the Gunks...
Table Rock
We drive up the winding road, watching the trees wrap around us, the sunlight filters through their leaves and bleeds onto the dashboard. The thick summer foliage, lush and green, gives way to syrupy smell of nature. It’s a smell that would draw nostalgia, even from a city kid who had happened to once have a chance to spend a night in the woods. It’s an overwhelming muddle of dirt, decomposing wood, fresh running streams, all bound together by thick green leaves. The car slithers at a Sunday pace and we just take it all in. We feel blessed to have grown up so close to this magical playground, a glacial scar, cracked and crumbling.
The Shawangunks run from the northern most point of New Jersey right up to the Catskill Mountains. As most local residents, we prefer the Indian name “shongum” and pronounce it accordingly. We’ve tried to hike as much of it as possible. Every weekend this is our home. The Shongum’s surge from the ground, lined with a mixture of oak and pine, running straight from the talus hugging the base of the cliffs and sprawling out into the valley. The cliffs rise a mere three hundred feet at their highest point but to look into the cracks and crevices inspires delusions of adventure and mystery. Nestled on top is a healthy head of dwarf pine and thick shrubs. It is a fragile ecosystem with a thin layer of regolith supporting the flora and fauna. This is our temple, this is where we come to pray, to think, to find shelter.
Today, we’ve chosen Table Rock as our stomping ground. Parking by a nearby farmhouse we march up to the trailhead, working our packs into a comfortable position on our backs. We’ve been here before, many times. The walk into to Table Rock is for the most part level. Walking through the shroud of trees the sun shoots through in golden spears. Fifty-foot cliffs to our right, full of nooks and crannies, suck in the light like soft butter and entice us to explore.
Every time we come we pick a new cave or crevice for our first blunt session. Still our main vice, as the first grey hairs thread their way through their colored neighbors and sprout at the temples. Thirty is an odd age. There’s still that excitement of what’s to come, but we also start to look back. We start to see things we could have changed. Moments that don’t seem that long ago but realize are gone forever. We think about that crossroad, where we decided not to go straight and hung a Louie instead. We spend time trying to rationalize and justify the past but have begun to understand that a lot of life is irrational and can’t be justified. We start to regret all the time we spent planning and worrying about the future, refusing to enjoy the moment. Still, the years ahead of us give hope in taking the moment for what it is and not getting caught up in life’s snares, snatching us by the leg and dangling us there to swing in the wind.
The crevice is cool, compared to the thick August air, and runs back into the darkness. We know the gashed rock will peter out at some point, so we climb back until our bodies are wedged tightly. Since I went in first, Keith’s body blocks the light, and this ignites a small bout of claustrophobia. His face seems to explode from the faceless silhouette, as I hear his lighter click. The cherry on the blunt glows red and we take in the cool quiet along with the smoke. The walls of the crevice are damp, sweating moisture and cooling are bodies down. Some of the crevices run deep. Deep enough to require a sweatshirt on smoldering summer day, they are very useful pit stops during long day hikes. It’s sort of like spending an entire day at the mall because your parents are too cheap to spring for an air conditioner. We finish half the blunt and stub the rest for later. Keith backs out into the noonday light and I follow, savoring the cool moisture.
We slowly walk farther down the path talking about miscellaneous debris of the mind. We tell stories from high school of midnight climbs, up the moonlit cliffs. Heads full of hallucinogen and bags full of beer, we scaled bare rock. We didn’t use rope but the cliffs we climbed were slightly shelved all the way to the top. We were provided with a plethora of handholds and deep mantelpieces on which to drink and smoke and talk. Still, a two hundred foot drop is a two hundred foot drop. We were young and definitely reckless, but we made it. We look back on unnecessary dangers and shrug them off as feats that only made us stronger. Secretly though, we think back in terror of roads that could’ve been taken. The path veers to the right and we climb the small boulders following the trail, which now leads up and over the ridge.
Table Rock starts at the top of the ridge and runs two hundred feet out ending with a hundred foot drop into the ether. Once a flat sheet of rock jutting from the side of the green hills, years of cold winters and hot summers have cracked crevices down through the bedrock. In some cases, deeper than the drop to the talus slopes below the cliffs apex. A walk out to the ledge involves hopping the chasms split into the rock. I’m fine looking over the edge of a long drop but when I jump a crevice I look straight ahead. Every time, I imagine tripping on my take off or slipping backwards on my landing. These horrible images make me sharp, even through my foggy head. The fear is what makes the jump possible. It helps me to gain focus. Most importantly, I never look down. Looking down means doubting that you’re going to make it and if you’re worrying about making it then you’re not thinking about your landing.
Today, I simply sit at the top of the shelf, in the shade of the pines and oaks. I take out my journal and write what I see and how it makes me feel. I write a little note to myself in the future, explaining the importance of coming here with children I’ve yet to have. I make little notes for stories like these to remind myself how things look fuzzy on these muggy summer days. How it feels see the world through haze of black flies, all the while plugging your nose to deny them entry. It’s a fine day and I let my mind wander, imagining the humans throughout the ages sitting upon this rock and staring at the Catskill Mountains. I wonder about the geology of the area and make a note to look into that class next semester at school. I see Keith making his way, slowly, to the end of the rock. I see him judge his jumps. He’s very deliberate in his actions. It still scares me to see people on the edge. I usually spend my time worrying about the things I’ll never be able to tell them when they fall. He stands there, taking pictures and soaking in rich forest colors and admiring the Catskills through the vapor. I try to stop worrying.
I eat my apple in a counterclockwise direction and shoo flies. They don’t pay any attention to me. The juice runs down my face mixing with the sweat. My hands are sticky and when I wipe them on my jeans I only manage to contaminate them. I yell down to Keith, because the high is wearing off and it’s time for the afternoon smoke. He looks up, flips me off and continues to eat his sandwich.
I think about how nice it is to have friends that you can flip off, it helps to stifle the times you really want to do it. Keith and I hadn’t seen each other for six years previous to this summer. We’d lost touch. I had left and moved to the Midwest while he stayed here in the Hudson Valley. We both changed, but when we saw each other for the first time it seemed if we had been there to witness all those changes take place. I remember the day I called him and told him I was back in town. He laughed and told me he was on his way over. We went to the mountains. Everything slipped back into place and we had found ourselves here, in the hills, ever since. I missed him. I’m happy to have him back and I know he feels the same. I think how I’m not going to let him slip through the cracks again.
I watch as he slips through a crack. It’s like I’m watching instant replay on Sunday football, everything is slow, even sound. He starts get a running start but as he goes to jump I see his foot slip. I can see his face enough to see the fear. He lunges his body forward, trying to reach the other side of the crevice. I lose sight of his bottom half as his top half doubles over onto the ledge. I see his hands scrapping on the rock as gravity beckons him into the hollowed rock. I can feel his fingernails being ripped and pulled. I’m leaping over a crevice of my own towards him before I realize it. He is still sliding and when I reach him all I can see are eight fingers clawing the ledge. I can here his feet scrambling for footholds and the debris he’s kicked loose finding their new resting place in the darkness below. I throw myself flat and grab his wrists. It’s as if I can feel his relief as his fingers relax ever so slightly. He manages to find a foothold and I reel him up like drowning child. He gasps for air and stares at his bleeding fingertips. I gasp for air and stare at his bleeding fingertips.
We sit for a long while in silence. Our breathing slows and I roll a joint. Keith smokes it all without noticing, but I don’t say anything. He looks at me with a bewildered smile, it gleams through his exhales. We are getting older and I decide that roads not taken are really only important in the here and now. Thinking about our mistakes and downfalls doesn’t usually stop us from doing the same in the future. Every day is a series of turns. I don’t think any of them are right are wrong, they just are. They appear and we just turn accordingly. Sometimes we see them coming and sometimes we don’t. That’s life. What is important is to have people there with you when you make those turns. Maybe they will steer you right, maybe wrong, maybe they’ll just keep their mouths shut and let you drive. I guess what I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter what roads we take. It only really matters who we have riding shotgun. And when you find a really good co-pilot, it’s important not to let them slip through the cracks.
|
|
matisse
climber
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 04:52pm PT
|
I wrote this about my first lead fall. I can't remember if I posted it before or not.
Falling
"Take this and put it on" the pilot said
handing me the 'chute.
"Everyone has to wear one,
even if you just watch".
I clung to it, a small pile of laundry in my lap
Tried not to drown in lurching fear
Of all the air below me.
Maggie grinned at me,
Then she jumped.
The thin October sky,
became water
She swam away from me, black hair lifting
Into an ocean of calm.
She rode the cresting waves
home.
I never flew with her again.
Years later, a climber now.
I still dream of falling.
In my dreams, elevators collapse,
Bridges snap.
Airplanes spiral out of the sky
Ledges, crumble.
The air insubstantial as light
I wake cold and breathless
In the airless night.
Its November on the rock.
A slip, my first
Sudden as a heartbeat.
I fall into dilated time, into the blue air.
Fall wonderingly, for hours,
The nut I placed arching slowly away from me
The green rope stretching, weights.
I rise to the surface, the elation of the ocean singing in my ears.
|
|
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2009 - 05:41pm PT
|
Nice work you Supertopo bards!!
I like every one of them.
Table Rock has a little bit of each of us in it, but needs a few paragraph breaks. Thanks New York!
Neebee, your climb is different as usual, but fun anyway.
Matisse, great imagery, just great.
Reilly, It sounds like you could've been on the west side of Mt. Washington there. I thought it was Wolf Rock at first....
|
|
hossjulia
Trad climber
Eastside
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 07:08pm PT
|
It's a beautiful fall, and as I walk toward the Ahwahnee past Church Bowl, I remember a friend telling me of the lion that raises her young somewhere between here and there. So I keep a casual watch as I walk, wondering if I'll be lucky enough to see her. Not that day. But she sees me.
As fall progress into winter, I walk this way almost daily, always keeping an eye out for the feline, but never seeing her.
She sees me every time.
Snow comes and blankets the Valley and out comes the toothpicks to slide around on, walking the same paths was getting old anyway.
I'm scooting across the meadow, delighted to be moving this way, I see a flash of gold over toward the Church Bowl parking area and stop. There she is! Watching me, uh oh I think, I might look like prey striding across this meadow, so I stay very still and keep my eyes on her, as she is me. So beautiful, I'm mesmerized. She doesn't move for some time, then her body relaxes, and she looks just like a house cat! Tail goes up, shivers, and I can see her feet kneading the ground, still looking at me, but with slanted eyes and half mast ears. She sidles up to a tree and rubs her face, then her side on it, still looking at me, kneading the ground, I can imagine I hear her purring. Crazy! I think, and shake my head to clear this nonsense from it. When I look again she's walking back toward the rocks. Moment over. I ski on, immensely happy with the contact.
The winter goes by and I see her a few more times, always watching me, making me a bit nervous, but I am thrilled this wild creature has noticed my coming and going, perhaps gotten used to me.
Spring comes, the Valley warms, and I find myself drawn to the warm sunshine and new grass just coming up. It had been a long shift indoors and a nap in the sun would do me some good.
As I start out to a good spot I see missy lion has seen me and is coming out of the rocks, casually, not really like she is coming toward me. Then she is gone so I figure she has other business and continue.
Ahhhh, this is nice I think as I sink to the ground and curl up, wonderful earthy smells filling my nostrils and my senses, lulling me to sleep.
After a nice rest, my eyes slowly open of their own accord, and a shadow passes over them. A golden shadow, with a long tail. OK, I'm awake now, but don't move, just listen, pad, pad, pad I hear, and it stops behind me. The fear starts to well in my mind tense and stinging, I don't want this, I was so comfy and warm please fear, go away. I calm my breathing and look up and behind me into the most beautiful eyes I think I have ever seen, looking back at me hard. I close my eyes and think of a saying I learned a long time ago, to put your heart in your gaze, in your thoughts and dreams, in your touch, just put your heart there instead of fear, ego, ambition, and all will be well. I feel the warmth of my heart spread through me and open my eyes again, turning slowly. She is lying down, spread out with me, eyes closed, basking in the sun. The warmth of my love for her fill me and she purrs. My mind wants to rebel, to run, to scream, but I shush it like a naughty child and just am.
The moment lasts forever, but after an eternity, my shoulder aches from propping me up, so I slowly sit. She comes onto her chest, then sits up, stretching her head back in a big yawn, showing me clearly all of those lovely deadly teeth, very sharp and white. Then as cats do the stretch takes her up and down, lying dog, feet stretching out toward me, claws extended then retracted. I'm still in a trance, feeling pure love for this creature, pushing the fear back,(she is too close)but realistically wondering what to do. She sits and looks me over, then reaches out and bats my hand with her paw. No claws. The fear may not stay away much longer I think, as I start to feel like a mouse.
While I'm checking this girl out, it dawns on me she is young, faint spots still on her upper legs, and a bit cheeky, getting used to a person like this. I suddenly realize that this is wrong and it is going to be up to me to teach her a lesson I really don't want to teach, to fear humans. This makes me sad, and she feels it, reaching out to bite my wrist where my hand is on the ground, I stay frozen, her mouth goes around my wrist, but like a house cat playing well, she just licks my arm and purrs. I'm thinking I gotta get out of this without provoking her to attack me, so I pick up a clod of dirt with my other hand and wait. Now she is up and thinking I'm a toy, or prey, I can see she wants to wrap herself around me, so I let out a loud PSSSST!! and chuck the clod of dirt, hitting her right on the nose and in the same motion I am up, towering over her. She bolts across the field, disappearing so fast into the rocks of Church Bowl it's stunning. The look in her eyes right before she fled burns into my soul, a look of betrayal, and anger. I let out a huge breath and realize I am shaking. In anger. In anger that we two creatures can not live in harmony in this place, that humans have become so far removed from their 4 legged brothers and sisters that I had to do this thing. For her sake.
My anger is her anger, my anguish burns me and I cry, sinking to the ground beating it with my fists. The lion in me growls and I know when I see her next, I have to spook her again, for her sake.
My heart aches with love for her, and all things.
This was a waking dream I had yesterday, thank you for the invite to put it down, I hope it is relevant enough and not too bad. It was fun putting what my mind saw into words, something I have not done for a long time.
|
|
Lynne Leichtfuss
Social climber
valley center, ca
|
|
|
Apr 12, 2009 - 08:49pm PT
|
Nice Julia and All,
Don't know about you but when I share my writing it's like exposing the most inner, private part of me....way hard. So thanks for your vulnerability. Peace, Lynne
|
|
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2009 - 09:57pm PT
|
hossjulia,
That was excellent, nice work.
I had a dream last night that was funny as heck. Not poetic and beautiful like yours.
|
|
drljefe
climber
Old Pueblo, AZ
|
|
|
Apr 13, 2009 - 03:14pm PT
|
At this moment my years of experience cannot help me. I scan the area looking for something sharp. I pick up a rock and stab it into the corn snow. I look down at my harness at my nut tool. Unfortunately there are no sticks or branches, as I am above the treeline, perched on a small rock at the top of a thousand foot couloir having my first mountain meltdown.
to be continued?
|
|
Mighty Hiker
Social climber
Vancouver, B.C.
|
|
|
Apr 13, 2009 - 03:54pm PT
|
I posted a thread about mountain/climbing poetry yesterday, including a scan of the cover and part of one of the poems. It may be the first ever book of such poems published in Canada or the U.S. I couldn't post much more - copyright.
I liked hossjulia's waking dream story.
|
|
survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 14, 2009 - 02:26pm PT
|
Skipt and DMT,
Thanks guys. Very different and very good!
|
|
pip the dog
Mountain climber
planet dogboy
|
|
|
Apr 14, 2009 - 10:46pm PT
|
Matisse,
outstanding. you're proving quite the polymath.
i especially liked:
"I still dream of falling.
In my dreams, elevators collapse,
Bridges snap.
Airplanes spiral out of the sky
Ledges crumble."
...
"I fall into dilated time"
^,,^
|
|
Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
|
|
|
Apr 15, 2009 - 05:22pm PT
|
han shan wrote...
"cold mountain is a house, without beams or walls,
the six doors left and right are open,
the hall is the blue sky,
the rooms are vacant and empty,
the east wall strikes the west wall,
at the center... not one thing.
borrowers dont trouble me,
in the cold i build a little fire,
when im hungry i boil up some greens,
ive got no use for the kulak with his
big barn and pasture... he just sets up a prison for himself,
once in.... he cant get out,
think it over, it might happen to you"
|
|
MisterE
Trad climber
One Step Beyond!
|
|
|
Apr 17, 2009 - 01:02am PT
|
Birds sing loudly in Spring snow storm
proclaiming the imminence of change
reminds me the cold is just temporary
|
|
Karen
Trad climber
So Cal urban sprawl Hell
|
|
|
Apr 17, 2009 - 02:50am PT
|
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
Out Of The Night That Covers Me (Invictus)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote a climbing poem to fit the above, trying to find it, meanwhile.....
EDIT:::: I found it..... READY------>>>>>>
Invitcus of Climbing
Off of the rock which batters me,
Hard as stone,
I thank whatever pain reliever
To bolster my soul.
In the fell clutch of falling
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of leading
My head is whirling, but unbowed.
Beyond J-tree, a place of fear
Looms more leads of horror near,
And yet the menace of 5.10's remain
Finds, and shall find me afraid.
It matters not how steep the climb,
Nor how the ratings be revealed,
I am the master of bruises;
And may never heal.
Apologies to William Ernest Henley.
|
|
| Messages 1 - 20 of total 20 in this topic |
|
SuperTopo on the Web
|
Let us know!