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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 21, 2016 - 08:46pm PT
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Fun with flyswatters and bubble wrap and fishing line.
We were so poor, we could have used the bubble wrap, popping
bubbles, using what breeze it provided to cool ourselves in the scorching sands of the Central Valley.
I made that up. We used wet newspapers on our backs, though, lying out on the pool deck.
I'm off to see Decker and DaVinci. Later.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 01:58am PT
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Marinated Fruit
There’s no describing the taste
It would surely be a waste
It might just be debased
to even try.
Satsumis soaked in syrup
of berries not from Europe
Rambutan, go look it up.
You may see why.
Pineapple chunks stuffed in there
Into this fruit with the long hair
It’s taste is beyond compare
Eat. Don’t be shy.
Granny Smiths sliced up real thin
are soaking too and have been
since Tuesday last. So dig right in.
Not gonna die.
--MFM
Woke up our of a dream to pen this.
It wrote itself, Bushman.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 02:32am PT
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Taking it on the Chin.
From the pages of National Geogo-go this month, Jimmy Chin lets his hair down.
Not all of us are really as good as we think as photographers.
For instance, I could have wiped off the surface of the scanner before I scanned these pages.
This page is cleverly placed on the reverse side of the first.
I respect Jimmy's work and envy his lifestyle, but I've realized the benefits of blooming where I am planted.
Why argue with fate? You may live to regret not having done so. That's why.
Meru trailer. You've seen it. If not, watch it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvS6O9lVkkg
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 22, 2016 - 03:24am PT
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Pitiful Shellfish
To say I'm old and cannot change my
Bushman ways and attitudes
I'm flexible and open to
Suggestions in my thoughts
Then do things my way anyway
I'm likely to as not
And stubborn to a fault
There's one cure for what I've got
Failure in heavy doses
It only makes me angry
Bullheaded to a fault
But sanguine to disgrace
Pigheaded over losing
And falling on my face
That I can't change other people's minds
Makes me mad to have to face
Put me down
Misunderstand
Say you really
Understand
Take positions
Contrary
I can't abide
The arbitrary
Especially in me
So say what you will
Don't expect me to agree
I want to be democratic
Then I feel the urge to override
Opinions
Watch and see
Ha
Then that's just me
What do you expect
When I trample to be free
This self wrote it's poem
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 04:06am PT
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Well,I could not agree more.
Or less.
Maxwell, Is That Your Silver Hammer, Honey?
You've likely hit the nail on the head,
slotted the stopper in the crack just so,
but still came out with a sore thumb,
either because you hit your thumb cleaning the iron
or nobody stopped for you all night and the next day
because it freaked them out
to see some big dude grubbing around in a grass-filled crack in the sidewalk
playing with his nuts
where he plonked himself down to thumb a ride to some unknown place
known only to the ones who invited him to come see them and maybe climb
an unknown Nevada obscurity.
Down around Ballarat, say.
Who'd wanna ball a rat?
An ambitious mouse, that's who.
Woke up again, this time out of a dream of water.
Call lit a wet dream, but it ain't one.
I used to be a swimmer and I know water.
I am a dreamer, and I know dreams.
I once dreamed of an ocean of light 20,000 leagues under the sea
and caught in Nemo's headlamp were several strange creatures,
at least strange to me.Crab nebulae, pig-boy crabs, volugptuous octopi and small craig fry,
All were caught in the Captain's eye
Using his trusty headlamp bought at REI
(Submersible, reversible, the batteries will never die)
Cuz it takes a soaking and there's no revoking
A sale without a receipt anyway.
Showboating tunnies who end up in our tummies,
Star-kissed, my a$$ you may say,
But Charlie's okay,
He tastes good served this way,
On crackers with Taco sauce. Otay?
Care for another round, muchacho?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 06:30am PT
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Vince in his nineties.
Remember Vince, Throwpie?
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 22, 2016 - 06:35am PT
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Dueling Dangos
Da da dang dang
Dang dang
Dang dang dang
Dang dang dang dang
dang
Blind man sitting by the side of the road
Stuck on his hat was a crossed eyed toad
Playing the banjo about men's greed
Payin' no attention to his own need
A troubadour to pain is what he'd be
But an ode to love is what he weaved
Sitting by the road that man could sing
Playing his banjo and smoking his weed
Da da dang dang dang dang
dang dang dang
Ding ding ding ding ding
-bushman
06/22/2016
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 22, 2016 - 06:36am PT
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Rage back page back
Do you watch the TV Show " Person Of Intrest" ?
Here we tried it as fan- tastic to take up the slack tic
left by the slumping, disappointing, changed writers, "DoctoWho".
The show POI is at its end says a episode to catch , the finale.
My children's world has very little permanence.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Jun 22, 2016 - 06:40am PT
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Who you talkin to, Willis Gnome?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 22, 2016 - 06:49am PT
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Just playing along da ding ding ding
Da da da da biding da bing da ratelettata zinging..
As well you know fine wordsmith it is to , whom it may concern.
I've tipped cows at night and ended up with throw-up pie all over me.
I've danced the light fandango with the rope tie dyed around my bare middle,
in re-creation of the naked climbing by then heros to me ,
Dick of the Vulgarians,
And this is the 40 th, anniversary of my doing stupid,
being glad that it was protected by these wide Chrome Molly custom Gunks pins.
The things were twice the thickness, and so, also weight of,
anything seen out west, they were specifically made in relative anonymity,
( I'm told that they were painted in both JTree Khaki & Gunks grey,)
so some made to the sandbox ? The Ski Tracks? Godzilla eats Bambi? (Or saves?), Course & Buggy? hart and souls pin?
There were a few sought out, by Gunks climbers, 'Josh' most do, climbs. . . .
but I've not opened the boxes to be slashed by what is not in them.
Pictures ? Where the hell are my tube sock eb' clad monument shots?
shot across the bow!!? , to bad!,
Won't be there 2 July not neither!,,
Sorry bushman, that is not for you
or anyone,. ., GOTIT?
/ho, Gratzie, Grazie grazie il mio così tanto , mia sorella maggiore , in italiano
grazie takk min så mye , min storesøster , på italiensk, in Norwegian
That was scary quick but typical, & totally predictable if I stopped the train to think. . . .
I've got to start doing that,
Stop the Train,
And
Think ???,!!?.??
To late again,
damn over at the old homestead, where they were Not All the time!
Pictures?
Reject! . . Okay
Mostly, by random disregard my sis took all manner of old related to the past western stuff to store,
my stuff, notes guides ~ the works,
& what remains always depresses me having memories of a vast tome of travels collected ,
'cause that was the only stuff I did write.
I'm sure it is of very little worth as to any quality writing,must the opposite, the
Un-consolidated stuff that has come up for air is sparse of words but chronicles, stuff.
To be resident protection fixed, checked by a few dedicated souls who were in the know.
They were regular on all the trade routes even the 5.11s.
Bushman, thus you & your melody inspired me , but to directly compliment?
Hey that song is great!
I was trying to complement in stranger speak ,
I'm not speaking Latin?
I hope it is not Greek to you.
Um, what can I say stay outta da Visine bottles that don't belong to you? That is to cryptic.[Click to View YouTube Video]
My sister is lurking and that is an unwise but well overdue rant in her general direction thanx for playin' along .....
From the Music Vault
07/26/87 - Anaheim Stadium ( 29 yrs ago, 3 days from now tomorrow)[Click to View YouTube Video]
Edit : now she says she is not ,,,,,???
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 22, 2016 - 07:46am PT
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High priced real estate.
The city’s [Imperial Beach] mayor, Serge Dedina, looked at El Niño this year as practice. High tides advanced on Imperial Beach homes and businesses, flooding coastal roads. The city lost 12 cubic feet of sand, valued at more than $3 million, Dedina said.
AS we like to say in SD County, "Sun, Fun and The Sport of Kings" (deporte de reyes for those in the know).
Too choppy and blown out to surf, but what can I say?
"you shoulda been here this morning"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 22, 2016 - 08:44am PT
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Shout out to the game and the bay area
Game Theory
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Sadly Scott Miller took his own life in 2003 at age 53.
EDIt: Right mfm - typo 2013
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 22, 2016 - 08:56am PT
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Might be worth the price of admission to verify the Mick Jagger and the acid laced Baby Ruth story. Do you think he'd dare-say?
Mention Woodstock and everyone thinks of the 1969 festival that made legends of almost everyone who performed during those three days of peace, mud, and music. Barney Hoskyns examines the small upstate New York town that lent the festival its name and uncovers details long forgotten, and in some cases, previously unknown. From Woodstock's origins in the 1800s as a bohemian artists' colony to its invasion by the NYC folk scene in the Sixties, the UK music journalist and author of celebrated works on the Band, Doors, and more brings to life such colorful characters as Bob Dylan's power-hungry manager Albert Grossman, who drives the narrative even after his death in 1986. There's sex, plentiful drugs, and all sorts of rock & roll provided by Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Paul Butterfield, and a multitude of those passing through, like Louisiana's Bobby Charles, whose song gives the book its name. Leave it to former
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 09:21am PT
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^^^Correction, amigoz.^^^
It was in 2013 that Scott Miller left the stage. He won't be back at Christmastime.
http://www.loudfamily.com/
He could have been a Pretender, but Chrissie wrote her own stuff.
Partial "Pretender" lyrics
by Foo Fighters
What if I say I'm not like the others?
What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?
You're the pretender
What if I say that I'll never surrender?
What if I say I'm not like the others?
What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?
You're the pretender
What if I say that I'll never surrender?
I'm the voice inside your head
You refuse to hear
I'm the face that you have to face
Mirrored in your stare
I'm what's left, I'm what's right
I'm the enemy
I'm the hand that will take you down
Bring you to your knees
http://www.npr.org/2015/10/06/446083413/chrissie-hynde-im-just-telling-my-story
http://www.express.co.uk/celebrity-news/543054/Chrissie-Hynde-releases-new-version-of-The-Pretenders-Christmas-hit
Chrissie Hynde - 2,000 miles (2014)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoVtkNw05-A
I can hear Cavs fans singin', "It must be Christmastime."
Hey there, let's play "pretenders"!
Let's pretend that I am the minister to a small--make that a very, very small--congregation of mining mice in, let's say Cornwall.
Pretend that, as such, I am entitled to a prebend.*
In which case I would likely be as poor as a church mouse.
*look it up, you lazy twit
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 12:21pm PT
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Worsling and A$$hole *
Earsling† and Worsling
Went down the rabbit hole (got hold of some ergot, I guess)
Where they encountered
A howling mad Pole
They each know Middle English
And a smattering of German
Turns out the pole
Was simply named Herman
Guten Morgen, Herr,
Earsling did say
Herman just stood there
Looking mighty fey
He uttered this line,
Co pa na to?
Worsling thought a bit,
Said, “I don’t know?”
This guessing game of words
Lasted half an hour
Ten minutes later
There cam a spring shower.
It was April in Olde England,
It was plain to see,
When they finished this little talk,
It was February.
They’d still be there
Not knowing what was said,
I’m glad I wasn’t there that day
I was sawing lumber in my second best bed.
__Shakespeare Willie
* English for butthole.
† Saxon for the same.
Sprang forth from a hole in my head as I lay sleeping.
I found it iN "Documents" ready to publish.
Believe it or not, it's there for all to see and enjoy.
Props to Matka Nott, Polish patroness of dreams.
"Roll over, Geoff Chaucer,
We're doin' it again, today."
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 12:52pm PT
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^^Glad not to be "Bruce."^^
Peter Townsent, a native New Hebridean, writes"
"Who in the hell is Bruce in ELO's Don't Bring Me Down?
Is he a camper who wants to stay dry in the rain at night?
Is he a drunken Scot out chasing sheep in the Rain?
Will the weather gods be kind this week?"
Some clarification may help here.
On Deaf Ears
http://ondeafears.com/2008/08/18/dont-bring-me-downbrrrrrrruce/
For years and years I have pondered the lyrics of the song Don’t Bring Me Down by E.L.O. and have asked my self this question: Who in the hell is Bruce?
This morning I just couldn’t take it anymore and looked it up on Wikipedia. Here’s what they had to say.
“Don’t Bring Me Down” is a song by the Electric Light Orchestra, the last track from their 1979 album Discovery. This was the first song by ELO not to include a string section. It was also the band’s biggest hit in the United States, peaking at #4 on the Billboard Hot 100.
Song Meaning
The song is dedicated to the NASA Skylab space station, which reentered the Earth’s atmosphere over the Indian Ocean and Western Australia on July 11, 1979.
A common mondegreen in the song is the perception that, following the title line, Jeff Lynne shouts “Bruce!” . However, according to liner notes, he is actually saying a made-up word “Groos”. This is similar to a German word for “greeting”, Gruß possibly referring to the Bavarian greeting Grüß Gott the group would have heard while recording the album in Munich. However, after the song’s release, so many people had misinterpreted the word as Bruce that the band actually changed the lyrics and began to sing the word as Bruce.
Okay, that straightened things up a bit. Now what the hell is a mondegreen Wikipedia?
A mondegreen is the mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase, typically a standardized phrase such as a line in a poem or a lyric in a song, due to near homophony.
I can't speak for the weather, Peter, as I don't know the New Hebrides.
Do they have sheep or land crabs, or sheep with crabs, or just land and lots of crabby sheep?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheridan_College
http://cartooncave.blogspot.com/2010/05/sheridan-college-open-house-2010-part-3.html
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 01:46pm PT
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I'm the king of used climbing shoes & dude, I had no way
of knowing that you had a vertical belt sander. A pro! I know you told me
that you could do resoles, & had done lots.
I have tried to, without success.
3-4 pairs, more than 20 yrs ago, & I made a mess of things. . .
so that is why I doubted you.
That was a big mistake. Apologies and a beg your forgiveness please.
From a Gnome post on the last page.
I've gotten my vintage 80s Fires resoled by Cosmic, Gnome. He does excellent work.
I'm pretty sure he could fix your waders, your inner tube, your rubber ducky, or your rubber biscuits if he put his mind to it.
Why, with his mind to it and your round to it, you'd be a natural pair!
You may not fit like a hand in a glove,
You may not feel like a smoking dove.
You may not feel like saying quack quack,
But poor old Dwain has a messed-up back.
Just thought you'd like to know,
Rubber is found in Mexico,
As well as Borneo, Indy, and Crack A-go-go,
especially on the walls outside the crack itself.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 22, 2016 - 04:23pm PT
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CALTRANS WORKER, II. Highway 99 Southbound, Merced.
Loath as I am to blow my own horn, let me say this modest climb has never been to my knowledge done by an amateur climber.
Heretofore, only professionals with orange vests and hardhats and gloves and stout boots have been on this face.
It has no reputation, it looks dink easy, and it is, under the right circumstances.
I took myself out there not to do this climb, but to shoot the moon.
It was the seventy-year cycle of the moon's full and the summer solstice, minus one night. It occurred this year on the night/morning of the 19th/20th. I was out on the night of the 18th/19th.
It is called a Strawberry Moon.
http://www.cnbc.com/2016/06/20/once-in-a-generation-strawberry-moon-tonight.html
http://www.nbcnews.com/slideshow/strawberry-moon-shines-during-summer-solstice-n596276
Get all technical on me and tell me it wasn't a true full moon. These shots were taken on Sunday morning, on Father’s Day, granted, but when I went out there I had no idea of Strawberry Moons, never having heard of the phenomenon. I simply wanted to get a clear shot, that's all: a decent shot of the moon going down CLOSE TO FULL, if not totally full, was my aim. And not another shot taken from near the top of the hotel where I live, Middle Earth. I feel that McDonalds signs or Budget Storage signs or Standard Oil signs along the freeway are obstructive and not aestheric in the least. I sought to avoid such contamination.
One never knows what the weather will be like, really, and cloudy horizons are one of the things photographers run into when trying to shoot the setting or rising orbs. I have learned that I might not get the chance on the actual full moon event, so I'll often go for the date prior. Who's gonna really miss that sliver of moon anyway, other than the moon nazis?
I present my full moon to you picky people.
Getting on...
I assemble the necessaries, including a water bottle and blue lens flashlight, comestibles of a vegetable nature, the trusty tripod, and a spare battery for the camera, packing it all in a cotton bookbag and putting it in the bike basket and off I go, into the wild dark yonder.
My approach route lies plain as day, though it is the middle of the night. I follow old Hwy 99 north out of Merced to just past the city limits, where the freeway ramp takes northbound traffic onto the freeway and on to Atwater and eventually to Seattle. The steel drum factory where I slaved for ten years is just on the other side of the freeway from my destination. I once breezed up 99 by hitching from that on-ramp and made Seattle in 40 hours. That was epic. That was 1968. Surprised the hell out of me, expecting much longer. Surprised the hell out of Larry Jones, too, when I showed up unannounced at his door, having been left off by the guy who picked me up in Olympia.
But I digress...
I cross over to the incoming lane which leaves freeway 99 and takes travelers under the freeway overpass via the underpass and into Merced. I bicycle under the under/overpass and stopp and park the bike.
I scan the horizon to the west and think that this spot might do, but I need to get to the top of the fill at the base of the concrete headwall of the freeway for a better view. The slope is only about forty degrees, but you can judge that for yourself.
It's not hard, climbing this sort of thing in the right boots. And in the daylight. And with a hard hat and gloves. And if there is no need to show style in ascending. I want to honor the ethics of purity that have become inculcated in my psyche since the days when I read of such in the writings of Robbins and Robinson, the one alone on the Leaning Towere, the other on a solo night ascent of Mt. Lyell, for instance. I think to myself, just move once in a while, and then VERY SLOWLY, like the typical transit worker, planting plants or fixing pipes, knowing that there is a foreman watching, but getting the work done eventually. Hence the name of this climb, Transit Worker.
I'm a blue collar from way back but aspire to intellectualism. Same as those guys. Same as many of you guys.
Knowing that in the event of a fall, things are going to be okay helps. There's no foreman handy tonight, so I made sure to pocket my cell phone that night, just in case. Dutch courage of a kind, but I knww that help may be there quickly, because the local Riggs Ambulance crew has coffee while sitting on the side of the road at the intersection of 59 and 99, just south from where I sit looking at this situation, assessing the outcome if I traverse upwards on the slope with the plantings or if I try the most direct line, via the sluice that directs freeway run-off to the ground.
I select the first and that’s because I have the tripod to lug and my shoes aren’t gonna handle the slope on pebble-faced concrete. And dirt is softer on old bones and skin than concrete.
There is little traffic that early in the morning on the old highway. It's two lanes, though one cannot get anywhere heading north but to the old Cookery restarurant, closed after having been a Coffee Shop, owned by friends of Larry Jones, fellow Narzarene church-folk, then a Japanese sushi restaurant, and God knows what, after. It's shut down, there's one or two businesses out there now.
And there are storage units out there next to the old cookery, where we used to go to have late coffee after cruising.
This brings back memories of the days before the Reverend Jeff Mathis and Jones and myself began calling ourselves the Flames. We were members of a clique called the National Submarine Racing Association in high school, in our cruising days. I believe that the place to where I climbed would be a legitimate place to take a young female sightseer to view the subs, racing or sitting still, bobbing in the water, missiles pointed at Cuba. We had various places to which we took such ladies, among them the 17 Acres and the Orchard, all officially designated make-out spots according to NSRA guidelines...but I digress.
I sling my bookbag on the end of the extended tripod like a tramp with a swagbag on a stick and the camera slung round my shoulder. I notice right off that my sneakers had not been a good choice to wear that night. These are thirty yr-old Reeboks handed to me by my dad when he got a new pair. I've worn them into oblivion, I guess; time for new ones. They are slick as seal snot on a door handle on the soles, but they fit and they aren't heavy. C’est la guerre.
My other option would have been the best--approach boots, but of course I hadn't expected to have any trouble with whichever way I found to get higher than the surrounding terrain in order to take a good shot. This spot had been in my mind for a long time, two years, in fact. I've just been too lazy till now to check it out. Other excuses come to mind. But that night I'd made up my mind that there would be no excuses, and that I would try my damnedest to get the shot.
And here I am, flailing about on a marginally steep slope full of hidden gopher holes, treacherous at night when I have only my night vision to rely on. The blue lens isn't worth a damn, it is too dim, and it is in the bag, so I don't bother. I think, "I'll be fine. How bad could it get?"
It gets worse. I am relying on the tripod as if it was an old alpinist's ice axe. Trouble with this is that when I plant the tips of the legs, they give a little because the clamps aren't super tight, so it gets shorter as I go up. But not only that. I plant, use it for balance and step up, only to have the ground under the tripod legs give way because of another gopher hole! And in turn, my feet lose purchase as well.
"Danger, danger, danger, Will Robinson!!"
The wood chips spread on the slope are just like silver-colored scree, only with slivers. They are bleached out from exposure to the sun. I don’t extend my hand down to steady myself, as I may get one of those nasty slivers in my hand. I hate having slivers, especially when I'm on blood thinners. I avoid this, too, because there is a small but prideful voice inside telling me,
"I'm watching you, Mouse, so don't go all n00bish and stay upright, keep your balance, take things slowly, and fight through this. I know you can."
I find that I can do this, like the little engine that could. I am praying that a train won't come through, too. That would be distracting, and I cannot afford the slide down to the bottom. That would also be unthinkable and embarrassing, but this was really not to be thought of then. I concentrate and soon...
I reach a planted double-staked sapling, a familiar woody object shares this outpost with its water supply, a white plastic assembly at its base. It is a solid island in a moving landscape, literally. The view is amazing, and I am only two-thirds of the way to the base of the headwall. As good a spot as any to sit for a while, I think, as I take off my hat, my muffler (worn in homage to Bob Dylan) and my blue Coleman jacket, wind-proof and a veteran of Lurking Fear (another moonlight-with-Mouse climbing adventure).
I set up the tripod and raise the camera just so high, so I can sit on the bank, jacket serving to keep the slivers at bay), attach the camera and started shooting. No need to stand, except to stretch my legs every so often.
The night is quiet but for the trucks rolling overhead. There are no birds calling. There are row crops out in front of me on the other side of the rail tracks and they utter not a word. The wind blows gently from the NW. I drink some water, smoke some herb. Shoot and play around with settings. Idle hour.
I spend at least an hour there, until I get a little chilled. I then make my way cautiously upward to the base of the headwall. This takes some doing, but it is in my mind all the time that the last meter is the hardest.
I shorten up the tripod so that the legs are up and locked, then raise its neck fully and lock that in. This proves eminently satisfactory. It does not tend to collapse under weight. It is a boon, but I still do not use it to thrust deeply, nor do I put much of my weight on it when I plant it into that chossy mulch.
I arrive at the headwall soon, nursing a sense of accomplishment. I am surprised at the commodious ledge which I had not seen from the base. Shangri-la!
The moon has gotten much lower, of course. Time to start shooting again. There is ample space for any number of people up here. This location is not QUITE what I wanted, though there are other places along 99 which could afford an unobstructed view of the Coast Range hills and a setting moon.
There is an orchard in the distance here. Maybe ten feet higher would allow a view of the hills, but there would be hell to pay with the CHP. I’m content with what I have.
Let me say about the headwall, that it does not look easy. There is just one break, a crack in the joints of two massive pours of concrete. The cobbles which face the plantings are coated with concrete and the top of the pebbly slab is blank concrete, just like the pillars supporting the overpass.
"IMPOSSIBLE!," I think. But that doesn’t come from the heart. Anything is possible.
I may even live long enough to try something as hare-brained as this in another seventy years.
More pics.
Note: This was published as a Trip Report, initially. It received one comment only, but three hundred plus visits.
The one comment was from Wayno: "Well done, sir." Thank you, buddy--that was indeed a rare comment...
I deleted it and posted it here instead. Win some, lose some. Why waste people's time?
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