Discussion Topic |
|
This thread has been locked |
Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
|
|
|
Mar 30, 2016 - 09:16pm PT
|
The Mysterious Idiot and the Stages of Grief
There's my penchant for constant denial
And my love of increased isolation
They're my favorite rationalizations
Like the state of our polarized nation
There's the anger I need
And the bargaining deed
When depression won't do
There's acceptance there too
The mysterious idiot leapt from the sands
And played on all of our heartstrings again
Prodding and poking he asked of the man
Why are our books being banned?
When depression won't do
There's acceptance there too
When expression holds true
The exception is you
The mysterious idiot leapt from the band
After playing our heartstrings again
-bushman
03/30/2016
|
|
Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
|
|
|
Mar 30, 2016 - 09:31pm PT
|
A Warbird Call for the V-man
Always late and hungover
In Birkenstocks and gym shorts
A T-shirt and sh#t eating grin
And lewd remarks for his cohorts
He never slouched when countdown came
He was always on his game
Let's all call out to one who's gone
But never forgotten
The V-man was his name
With whoops and yells he goaded them
Erratically darting about
To come up on and rattle them
And take the lead with gleeful shout
A Warbird pilot through and through
Was V-man if you ever knew
No one more game for competition
You'd know you'd raced him that was true
He never slouched when countdown came
He was always on his game
Let's all call out to one who's gone
But never forgotten
The V-man was his name
-bushman
03/29/2016
|
|
Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
|
|
|
Mar 30, 2016 - 09:44pm PT
|
I've got a doozy for the audience or for whom the flames roll
If they roll for thee
So please excuse my indolence I need a fresh page please
Indulge of me...
|
|
Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
|
|
|
Mar 30, 2016 - 09:46pm PT
|
Trip Report;
Lower Earth City,
First Ascent of the South Arête on the Kraken Spire,
Solo (with six cats who did not make the complete ascent),
Grade V 5.12 XXX, 17 pitches (1500 ft) climbed in four days,
with three bivvy's, and a helicopter exit from the summit.
By Sticky Monk Keye
I had always wanted to climb the Kraken Spire but the regular route on the north face had already been soloed by a large gargoyle back in the 1940's who had bear hugged the entire span of the spire's 60' north face width. The little known ascent was marred by the tragic demise of the gargoyle when after reaching the summit; he had slipped and plummeted back to lower earth to his death on the descent. The next obvious line appeared to be one of the three arêtes. The northwest and northeast arêtes appeared too rounded to layback and too devoid of holds to face climb so the south Arête was the obvious choice with a perfect uninterrupted edge for 1500 vertical feet.
The cabdriver stopped at the sidewalk on the corner of 5th and main and I lugged my heavy haul bags out of the trunk and paid the fare while waiting for the two security ghouls to go by. I donned my sticky gloves and sticky Uggs and checked the loads. In the 4 haul bags were a rack, one rope, radio control gizmos, two gallons of superglue spray, two gallons of accelerant, an electric winch, 4 car batteries, six cats, 4 gallons of water, 4 quarts of almond chicken chow mien, four 14 ounce cans of pineapple, a jar of maraschino cherries, an espresso machine, a can of whipped cream, a portal-ledge, various and sundry bivvy gear, an invisibility tarp, and a pre-paid helicopter evacuation contract.
After ferrying my bags to the base of the route I started off on the first pitch at two am, on that cold wintery night in hell, January 1st 2015, and began climbing the south arête using my heated gloves and heated sticky Uggs. Lie-backing and crimping the arête with my sticky gloves and sticky boots was no easy task and I was completely unprotected all the way to the belay. At 150 ft off the deck I hung off the arête by one sticky glove and sprayed five spots of superglue from my pneumatic superglue gun with my right hand. After two minutes my left hand holding me onto the arête began to go numb. I quickly slapped five slings onto the super glue areas as they became tacky. Clicking my pneumatic gun to the accelerant setting I sprayed and hardened the slings into the glue attaching them to the wall.
With each glued sling anchor ready to hold up to 200 pounds, I equaled the weight between them and stepped into my slings and tied into the anchor. Whew, though I was scared out of my wits and nearly soiled my choni's, I kept telling myself I was having fun. Resting now I was able to attach about a dozen more slings to the rock and I proceeded to haul. Having not placed any gear on lead facilitated my not having to do any rapping or cleaning. Hauling took place by clicking my radio control transmitter and sending the entire 300 lb. load up the climbing/haul line via the electric winch which was left attached to the haul bag cluster.
After securing the bags I clicked the anchor release button and disconnected the bottom of my lead/haul rope from the anchors below, attached my auto-Grigri to the rope, pulled up the tail and tied in, and proceeded to lead the next pitch, bitches. I lead 4 more pitches before dawn and set up a bivvy. Each pitch was completely run out and unprotected from belay to belay risking up to a 300' fall before the next belay. My entire haul load was left hanging on the single auto clip attached to a bundle of around 15 to 20 glued sling anchors at each belay.
At the bivvy hang, I set up my portaledge, heated my dinner, and spread my invisibility tarp over the entire bivvy scene. Before I ate I was sure to leave a fresh cat hanging outside as a decoy for roving pterodactyls while I slept through the day. It was best not to climb during the daylight hours and expose myself to the creatures that are indigenous to such nether regions as surround the Kraken spire. Every night of climbing was pretty much the same on the uninterrupted edge of the spire, every single pitch was 5.12 lay-backing led out for 150'. Each evening I woke and fired up my espresso machine, and smoked my hookah while sitting in the lotus position on my beautiful Persian embroidered cushion on the portaledge, taking my evening ablutions, practicing with my imaginary scimitar, and readying myself for the first lead of each night.
By the end of the third bivvy, having had to hang out three cats during that day for pterodactyl bait, I had run out of fresh cats. Bleeding from tears in my fingers was beginning to wear at my nerves, and the swooping and feeding pterodactyls were giving me little sleep during the day. All of the fingers of my sticky gloves had holes in them and the goo was beginning to wear off the soles of my sticky Uggs. I longed to reach the top by my prearranged helicopter rendezvous hour lest Beelzebub make his annual visit to the summit of the Kraken spire early that year.
The fourth day was truly the crux of the route, if not by technical difficulty, but by the stress of a near disaster. Half way up the 16th pitch I was slapping my hands to the arête and swimming my feet with exhaustion and was out about 80 feet above the anchor when I came off. The 170 foot fall was bad enough. When I regained consciousness's and caught my breath, I began ascending the rope with my auto-Grigri and was slowed by a newly cracked rib. But as I reached the anchor it totally rattled me to see that half the glued slings of the belay had ripped away from the impact of the fall. Only seven glued slings remained holding me and the whole shooting match to the spire. In my mind I could see the long fall, over 1000 feet to the fire and brimstone scalded street below. I knew then in my heart of hearts that I did not want it all to end there in that place, so I busied myself once more with the climb.
It took me an hour to re-secure the anchor and two more hours past dawn and into daylight before I reached the top. I had no more cats for decoys and was likely not to survive another day's bivvy as dinosaur kibble. I had dropped my watch and cell phone in the fall and was afraid I had missed my rendezvous. After anchoring again, I stood on the flat 25' triangular summit of the spire and watched my haul load catch near the top at the edge and heard the whir-whir-whir of the batteries giving out on the winch. I looked over the edge to see my bags were stuck only two feet from the top. Not having the strength to free them I lay there in exhaustion.
Suddenly I heard a flapping noise in the distance below. Looking off the edge I could see a pair of them flying upwards in wide lazy circles. My mind raced as they were up about 300 feet below me now and then I thought about my little Swiss Army knife. I had to time it perfectly. When it was about 40 feet below me the top one of the two great beasts swooped in near the cliff face, and the other one swooped in about 30 feet beneath. I came down hard on the rope at the edge with the knife and watched the 300 pound haul load drop. One-two-three and WHAPP!! The haul bags nailed the great prehistoric bird squarely in the head and as he fell, the tangled ropes and haul bags caught the second pterodactyl also. With nervous relief I watch them fall for several seconds, tumbling off the wall once or twice before slamming into the busy street below.
But then, there were more of them slowly rising. I closed my eyes with grim acceptance of the awful fate that awaited me. Just then, the wop-wop-wop-wop of a helicopter rotor interrupted me in all my pity and I knew it, I was saved. As the chopper climbed the vertical miles up, up, up and out, delivering me out of that chasm-well of doom, and out of that abyss where the residents of Lower Earth City fought daily to survive their machine gun dinosaur battles and murderous street fights, even staving off the devil himself, I knew I would be sleeping in an air-conditioned Best Western off route 60, with satellite TV, a jug of iced coffee, and Chinese takeout that night.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 12:12am PT
|
Bushman is a barnstorming bush pilot-poet.
And I don't mean to cause any recitus interruptus to your train of thought, but then I don't mix my metaphors as strong as my cocktails.
Now serving free booze in the bar car until we are saved. Ernest Hemingway could not make this trip, he's still in Florida.
http://tahoetopia.com/news/blizzard-january-1952-100s-trapped-train
A violent storm sweeps through California, taking on a life of her own. Making her way from the Pacific Coast, she gains momentum as she approaches the Sierra and transforms into a blizzard of great strength, covering mountain ranges and roads with twenty feet of snow. Originally published in 1941, Storm is a rare combination of fiction and science by a master storyteller, drawing upon a deep knowledge of geography, meteorology, and human nature.
"In _Storm_ we are…far from freeways, from megapopulation, from sprawl, from beach TV, from stress, from road rage. And we are in touch with a much deeper reality. Of land and water and weather, of humans huddled together on the planet in a dark universe."—Ernest Callenbach, in the foreword
Quien es mas macho: Bushman o Hemingway?
That bell you may have heard tolling was only the engine driver playing around.
|
|
Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Mar 31, 2016 - 01:23am PT
|
Still reading,
in the middle, now, 4:17 am,
but distracted by the
'lovesgasoline' counterculture thread -
The american version of society in the 60s was so close to utopian that misfits , missed it.
some fools ate from the forbidden apple
the loss of the confines of reality through the use :
of chanting, and substances of delirium,
of energy,
of light - of darkness,
to bring an adventurer to the desperate brink of understanding. . .
some fools ate from the forbidden apple and ended up living on dog food as was foretold in the book
I, as one who was a product of early 60s cultism,
from the utopian , that would be *pre hedonist or pre pre psychedelic,
all three happening in succession after the second coming of Huxley,
or Huxleys new found fans in the US ivory towers. questioning the cosmos,
Then the - embrace - of Shamanism, mysticism Glorifying mental illness and addiction
To justify aberrant behavior, that was used, to often, to press others for a few others gain.
This would be what lay behind the curtain of most cults, new way of living experiments that were
the result of the near utopian existence that the youth of the late 40s felt after the depravations of the previous years.
This was at the point where many agree the fuse was lit.
The turning of the screw that was Rock n Roll, 1949- 59 the beats.
They, in a secret society way, that was an american take on deprivation leading to enlightenment,
if only, in the haze of the morning after. . .
test cases in diapers
There are Babies in the picture, where are those infants now?
Four, three,
two one
one two,
Bring on more
4)3)2)1)
some pictures, to follow ?
More great snapps
Yes
Yes please
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 02:14am PT
|
Snap-a-gram.
|
|
Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
|
Mar 31, 2016 - 06:17am PT
|
so the above version is what a normal person sees , she says, I see the world more darkly lit and oh so ever brighterthis post is going to be re-posted to birds in some form
that said is it an eye of the beholder thing ?or as I fear, she fears, it points out that there is something wrong with how I see things
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 08:14am PT
|
That's funny it's WARDS Ferry, DMT. Jessica's pre-marital name is Ward. She's a nurse in an Emergency Ward in Sonora.
It's easy to see where she gets that radiant smile.
I keep dis-remembering that the date of March 29 is not just my Mom's birthday, but the celebration of Nana's and Grandad's birthdays, AND their "animadversary." They wed, divorced, wed, divorced, and wed once more, you see. Rocky relations abounded between the two, but HERE I AM!
Meep-meep!
The Larsons moved back from Guam and had a Nash Ambassador. After I torched the front seat playing with matches they bought a Rambler station wagon with push-button tranny.
DJ Mickey and his sidekick Pluto present:
[Click to View YouTube Video]
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 09:10am PT
|
Instamatic-gram taken by me on my honeymoon, 1990.
Earlier that summer, I had been halfway up Lurking Fear (cue eerie music) with Kelly from the Upper Peninsula.
No one was more surprised at that amount of success than me, especially after so many years away from the pterodactyls and giant spiders.
We two also got to tackle Crescent Arch in TM (after many years of Jonesing for it), two things I needed to do before marrying.
|
|
zBrown
Ice climber
|
|
|
Mar 31, 2016 - 12:02pm PT
|
Crow_foot and Crow_hop
Black crow in the meadow (across the broad hiway) (and) Old_Crow - Hoop On Forehead (1908)
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 12:45pm PT
|
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 01:35pm PT
|
I'm all constitutionalized now after a few hours out on the street and over at the art gallery. Beautiful spring morning here.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Mar 31, 2016 - 02:04pm PT
|
From the display in the Arbor Gallery.
Guido, old salt, check these out.
zBrown, unique in all the world, these are some unique cows, just for you. Call this the Cattle Report, with apologies to Tom Evans, of course.
I know Jay Sousa, the professional amateur who made these beautiful shots of athletes.
He's done a bit of mountaineering and completed a trans-Sierra ski trip when much younger.
From the display featuring paintings of Yosemite in the window out front of the Arbor Gallery.
I'm so glad I took the time to go out and smell the flowers.
We all should; I hope you find the time today, too.
A bientôt.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 1, 2016 - 07:57am PT
|
Seriously? Her dad is from Utah, small family of ten. SOB First Class.
He is in my distinct bad odour, my friend.
Words fail.
Pity, huh?
I suggest that while reading this next bit you listen to hooblie's great jazz selection above. Thanks, hooblie, thanks awfully.Taken by Kevin Hammon who snuck/sneaked up on me.
I was standin' at the corner,
Main St. and M
I was standin' at the corner,
Feelin' mighty fine,
When up behind me comes this old friend of mine.
Well, it was closing time at the BS Computer Store. I was standing around outside on the corner of M and Main.
I'd been at it a while and wasn't really all that alert, so I had it coming.
It's a busy street, you need to stay on top of your game or you'll find yourself backing into traffic on one of Merced's busiest roads, M Street, a major commute route.
Following this lull in traffic, lasting about ten minutes, things began again in earnest (six o'clock rush comin' up). There were several things to shoot all of a sudden and I was kinda wrapped up in that.
Kevin, that sly dog, took perfect aim and fired off that new camera and caught me totally off my guard.
I loved it! We sat there laughing and he went back in to the store after he invited me to attend an event that he and his lady Kimberly were causing to happen over on Canal Street, formerly "L" but it got changed, not because of some boondoggle over naming rights or some such stoopid thing, but just because it's old-timey, because before it became "L" it was Canal Street. Just sayin'...
Kevin and Kim are the two moving spirits behind the Merced Art Hop, a grass-roots movement which lets the merchants on Main mingle with artists and their patrons and their money. It works, but they've needed a single "location" in downtown, one that's affordable, #1, and easy parking, but that's abundant, and large enough to use as a good gallery with open space, #2.
They got help from the Stefani family, a grand-daughter of Joe Stefani, RIP. Joe was a merchant and owned a two-storey building on "L" next to McNamara's Hardware. Joe fitted me out with my first sport coat and slacks as a teenager. He was the son of an immigrant Italian farmer.
He and my dad, Boomer, were buddies and Rotarians, and Boomer loved to dress the part of a local businessman, Rotarian, etc., so he and Joe got along VERY well, because the name of Joe's store was STefani's Men and Boys Clothiers and my dad had three sons.
"OF COURSE YOU CAN HAVE A TIE, SON! I'LL CALL IT A CONFIRMATION GIFT."
"Gosh, thanks, Mr. STefani."
"CALL ME JOE!"
My mom, the lovely and talented Bobbye, later on took employment with her close friend/fellow Catholic Mother Pat McNamara, who ran the housewares section of the hardware store next door to STefani's. I myself began working in a stationery store over on the opposite angle of the block, at the intersection where I was shooting my pictures.
My whole life seems rather centered on this particular block in Merced.
So Kevin got a big break in the rent, I guess, thanks to the STefani grand-daughter and art patron. He and Kim are so high and look forward to running the Merced Art Hop Gallery. Did I say that Kim's last name is Zamora? I want her to get full credit for her part in developing MAH.
After talking about this and that for a few minutes inside the store at his work bench, Kevin and I strolled the block and a half to the gallery.
(I only guess that this is Kim's work, with a little help from Kevin's inventory of used gadgets...I forgot to ask.) As I said, Kevin recently bought himself a nice new camera and he pulled up his picture file and showed me a sample of what he's been doing. He really enjoyed the festival he and Kim attended recently.
As a courtesy to Kevin and Kim, cuz YOU NEVER KNOW, here's a photo of their lost dog, which didn't make it onto any milk cartons, but has been missing for over three years.Looks like the end of the First Reel. Excuse me while I kiss the sky.
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
|
Topic Author's Reply - Apr 1, 2016 - 10:58am PT
|
We sit here and tell each other stories of our past. It's mostly a song and dance, but it helps pass the time.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
There had been a fire in the block of stores across the street from the Stefani Bldg. Kevin mentioned that it might hold some good photo ops. He was right.
|
|
|
SuperTopo on the Web
|
Let us know!