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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 25, 2012 - 05:52pm PT
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The Cowboy.
His brand.
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Reilly
Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
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Oct 25, 2012 - 06:11pm PT
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Was Larry a Brit? I thought only Brits wore heavy woolly socks in their EB's.
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 25, 2012 - 07:24pm PT
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heythere say, gypsy... thanks for all the neat old pics....
extra note:
say, wow, i realyyy liked the one of scotland--hills in the background...
:)
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Gypsy
Social climber
NC
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Oct 26, 2012 - 09:25pm PT
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Oct 27, 2012 - 01:49am PT
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hey there say, gypsy...
veryyyy nice road runner... we saw them in south texas, though, not quite like that one (however, they were far-off down the roads, so never did see them clear, haha) :)
thanks for sharing...
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splitter
Trad climber
Cali Hodad, surfing the galactic plane
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Oct 27, 2012 - 02:01am PT
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Gypsy - Yes, I concur, "veryyyy nice" pics of the birds, etc., on yer website. here is the link again for people to check out...
http:////www.flickr.com/photos/gypsyflores/
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jstan
climber
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Oct 27, 2012 - 02:52am PT
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Reminds me of a Tyrannosaurus rex.
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Gypsy
Social climber
NC
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Oct 27, 2012 - 07:44am PT
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My son had a pop out children's book on dinosaurs and one of the illustrations said "Tyrannosaurus rex had arms so short he couldn't even scratch his chin".
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 29, 2012 - 04:19pm PT
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In the second post on this thread, (and your second post) that image apparently taken in front of the tiny route, Short but Thin, located near the Slack start and La Escuela, at the base of El Cap. The unidentified are Alan Bard (= AB) and Kurt, the Santa Cruz sidekick of Carter. Fun shot of Millis, isn't it. As often recalled by many, Dennis could eat french fries without opening his mouth. A plus often.--Peter Haan, earlier
Now, see here, Peter, that old tale is as true and proveable as the story about the Salathe Modet T axle. The plain truth about it is that Millis could pick his nose with his tongue.
Equally, I heard that you were talking to angels on the Salathe and that they looked like this.
Yet Mark Kelemens told me the angel was more like this.
And Bridwell swears you described to them this angel in detail down to the last hors d'ouvres.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 29, 2012 - 07:06pm PT
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This is myself and my older brother, Mike the Troll.This is what trolling gets you, a great big fish.
I prefered to fish alone. Mike would outfish me, just to piss me off. This is my booty from one afternoon off the dock at Tahoma.
Quite a contrast between the "old" me and the "old me."
But which is which?
Old Lake Tahoe, does it lie buried under a newer lake after each storm? It's patently not the same water as it was.
Deep lake, deep questions.
You need to troll in deep water, surface fishing's a waste of time.
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Gypsy
Social climber
NC
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Oct 29, 2012 - 09:02pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 31, 2012 - 02:20pm PT
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What I Told the Gypsy Photographer
Picture this,
And I will depict for you
What happpened one day
On the banks of Poughkeepsie, ne?
There's something fishy in that photo.
See the wing's eyes?
they are sneak eyes,
Vicious and fishious.
Quelle etrange!
That's weird, they feared.
A big old bird
Oh my word
It's in the jaws of a big old
Big old...
"He's eating Big Bird, Mamman!"
Can't think of a word.
Merde!
Seine's full of turds...
Lyin' fisherman's absurd.
That's not the same Seine
I seen when I made that scene.
Paris I know,
So you know...
You might think I'm insane,
But I'm only a little plastered,
While you,
You're a lyin' bastard.
You said Seine, see?
If Eifell ever fell for that one
Then he's pretty lame, hein?
I hate to seined
You back home with no fish.
But Jesus Christ it's no miracle
That we are starting
To re-light the Flames.
We'll have us a BBQ.
Till then, I bid you adieu.
5.9, let's go to the coffee shop.
Barb's on tonight.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Rev in his present iteration.
'Let my people work for a damn living. I don't care if Yvon is The Boss.'--The Rev
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Gypsy
Social climber
NC
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Marcie bowcups for the poem and the announcement.
Wow, the Rev--where has all that red hair gone?
To Bedlam my dear
where all the bonnie boys go
So drink to Tom of Bedlam, he'll fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, all brewed with gall, with Mad Maudlin I will travel.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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It's a bad time to get in front of news like leukemia or pneumonia, and we won't mention el muerto, will we, Gypsy, especially if you're a hardman-in-you-own-mind and a Flame by the name of the mouse or the rev, both humbled by time's reaching out.
It's not bedlam, as I have said otherwhere.
sung in the key of tranquility
with the passion reserved for Ruler of My Heart
I have my poetry.
The key is tranquility.
Just ask miss neebee
sha she'll tell ya
I would write this bad god dang news
Some sad old natural blues
If I could play the ivories
Instead of these keys
When you are gone I'll not wish you would come back
I'll wait patiently
Maybe go to sleep at the wheel
Of this semi-load of blues
I'm so tired and I hate to be alone
I'd give you a call on the telephone
But you seemed like you want to be alone
Feel like death-dog chewing on my bone
Oh, I feel like howling at the moon
I feel dogged-down just like a coon
Told me you're going away real real soon
Too dang soon
three months left
the doctors say
nothing left
gone away
just like
"snap your finger"
Just how I don't feel--Snappy Sammy
I'm just kind of glad that I think this might be happening--it's what my Dad wants me to believe, anyway:
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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hey there say, mouse... to you, from my house:
just saw the other post...
made me sad, over here, aways from calif's coast...
i myself had a good daddy-cry today...
but mine is still here, and i'm praying for his longer-stay...
though i know the day will come, for those older folks that we love...
so we must continually seek strength from our creator above...
we are like seeds, you see...
we spout and grow, and give fruit, to others that be...
when folks die and pass on, there is a trigger from their 'ways...
and it sparks the fruit that been LEFT to continue their 'past day's stay'...
entrusted to you, then will come...
a new job, to be done...
keep your dad's works alive through you...
by love, in all you do...
it's the higher way of life, when death seems to steal...
and eternity, will boast, of fine dessert, after the earthy meal...
a hidden joy, shut away by this body's frame...
is the end-result, for when we park, after earth's life-game...
reunions will be far above here-and-now sweetness, as to what we've lost, 'tis true...
as long as we've tended to our souls, proper--and not been wicked to others, nor been hurting folks, by being 'askew'...
though--it may be long time in coming, to see, my friend...
but we will know more, come whenever 'this eartly time', does end...
TODAYS note--just now wrote:
(your buddies are all here, for this such time, you'll find...
reach out for them, here, so you'll not be trapped in your mind)
may this days sun rise, to find you with an anchor,
growing each day, as a soft surprise...
(stock photo)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Here. A chapter of a story. A story based untirely on another belated chapter in my lives. Dedicated to confident n00bs everywhere.
B Lay and the Cap-Rock Cowhands.
Chapter the First: The hardmen arrive, as yet un-chastened.
Our intrepid cap-rock campers arrive in the Valley. Their sights are set on the Tilted Kitten, Tilt, and Mum’s Word. They gaze in awe at the Incontrovertible Buttress, easily the South Side equivalent of the mighty Rhombus, which just barely defeated their combined assault just last month. With all their bad luck, weather in the nineties, and lack of energy as a result of having to carry their pigs to the base, then carry them back when the jugs broke their taped tops and soaked the food, the down and the topo-binder., it’s no wonder the Rhombus won that round.
And so they begin the arduous quarter-mile to the base of the imposingly prepossessing pillar, buttress, more of a pile of pillars, buttresses, and chimney-looking cracks, really. Faceplant leads the way, f Stop walks behind, and B Lay is in his accustomed place, the third man.
B Lay’s attention is riveted on the gray-greenish-ashes color of their unquestioned quest. She is a thing of beauty, grace, and speed, in slow motion; he’s ambling again, the one prone to day-dreaming. But he knows his way around a gri-gri. He should, he’s a gym member going on nine or ten tough months. But he better Pick up the Pace, yuck, yuck. New York City? Gawd, I’d die if I had to go there, or my name’s Joe Buck, ma’m. I’m new to the…What’s that smell? Slowly he turns around. Was that really sh#t and sh#t-paper he just stepped in? Oh, f*#k yeah, it was! I’m gonna check that Facelift out next fall, I think. This don’t even happen at My Tanks! People know better down home. Sh#t, hell, Sh#t-heel. You better watch yer step here on out.
He dashes after Faceplant and f Stop, catching up as they come to the base. They dump the hardware, ropes, canteen, the topo-binder, the photography crap, the Go Pro and the cooler. They each light up a cigarette, a cigar, and a joint in celebration of having done the approach without trauma. They share some of the ice in the cooler, all three managing to wet their smokes, but f Stop just calmly re-lights his cigar and comments how nice it is with no Gila Monsters, little clouds of flies, diamondbacks, and hemorrhoids. He’s a Dallas fan, you can tell. He’s a hemorrhoid sufferer. Add to that the sh#t he smells in spite of the cigar, and he looks around carefully, and discovers the source. They decide to send the offensive shity-shoe-sufferer back to the ragtop for his ancient Fires. They may smell like his mom’s old tampon, but not like sh#t.
Over half-an-hour later B Lay comes back into the clearing at the base of the “wall.“ Faceplant sees that he’s limping. His Fires are held in his hand. He is wearing woolen socks filled with pine straw. He’s playing it safe. Good team player, gotta say that. He has a gallon of water. What? The cooler’s full of Lone Star and Brew 102. With some Steam Bear Beer in for good measure. Some boys just gotta play the voice of reason card, but you can’t B Lame him. He’s only the third man, anyway. He does have a way around that belay plate, though.
They are tripping out on IB, their “pet name” for this ogre. The buttress is less wide than the Rombo, as they‘ve begun calling that North-Facing feature. No, wait, it‘s South-facing and on the North Side. Got it, says Faceplant to himself. Now just STFU and don’t let them know you forgot your rappel figure-8. The Rhombus seems now like an old friend who just likes his privacy, so he tries to shoot over your head to tell you he’s not up for visitors. And this buttress is without question far less square. The Rombohedron. The Rhom-meister. Tony Rhomo. Homoromo. Semirhombis. And mossy, and lichecy, and colder. Other than that, it’s on good quality rock, only decomp granite’s on the odd-numbered pitches and we’ll flip for the belays. Wish I hadn’t decided to agree to that, thinks Faceplant. “You want to belay the whole way, Face, it’s OK by me. I won’t mind. What do y…”
“Oh, hell, yeah! Leave it to me. I’m your number-one Number Two, old pard! Sho’ nuf.”
“Cool jeans, Jelly Beans. What we have here, we’ve the failure to authenticate, communicating our commitment to show our commitment. My case rests on the summit. We got here but three pitches, six at the most. Or maybe more, but if we get that high then we will have gone all the way to the approach to the gullies that lead only another thousand eight-hundred feet to the South Rim. Should be a piece of cake for West Texans who go for the dough on Broncho Billy Goat’s Bluff.”
All of twenty-five feet high and overhung the last three feet all the way across the caprock. Must be at least two more TR’s, not to mention the high traverse on the Blue Line. The Yellow Line’s only five feet off the deck. But there’s a rattlesnake den down the draw and it makes the approach iffy and too dangerous in climbing boots. Small hands only. Big hands, get the f*#k out of there, give it a wide birth. It’s not for you. You will only be tempted to face climb (p-tui, knock on wood).
After they climbed the Great White Thrown, the Bull’s Balls, and Boy Howdy’s Pilgrimage at Facerock, Faceplant’s find in Waste Land down to the Maybellines (south of Red River’s close enough for the un-initiated--it’s kinda under development still), they figure they got these virgin Yosemite cracks and chimneys already in the bag. How hard can they be? Bull’s Balls is so hard they had to almost fall leading it the first time and B Lay actually got sewing machine legs on the 5.8! Alice!
Faceplant’s got so much going for him, man. It’s his mom’s Le Baron convertible. It’s his rack. Or mostly. All the hexes and stoppers are his, the two Friends still work, and the webbing’s rated for twenty -five. That’s what they said. Twenty-five hasn’t even been done yet. Except the Austin climbers. I think they go to that high in their system Maybe he meant 5.25 and I got no clue? It’s enough to get a FA, even if it’s only 5.8. Or I’d settle for 5.7 d. That would be a first of a FA--first 5.7d inYosemite. We already got ’em at Facerock, but we’ll have to climb a 5.7b and a 5.7 c here in the Valley first--heck, gee, how hard could that be?
Well, here we are, the base of our future climbing futures, right here. Time to put up a FA or shut up. Never up, never in. If it looks hard, look harder. When the crack narrows, focus.
What would Pratt say? What would Royal write? Where would Roper take a piss?
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