Trip Report
SuperTaco Climbing Hall of Fame
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Thursday October 5, 2006 4:29pm
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Mick K
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About the Author
Mick K is a climber from Northern Sierra. |
Comments
Ouch!
climber
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Old 46 belongs in The Hall of Fame
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Mick K
climber
Northern Sierra
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Author's Reply
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Oct 5, 2006 - 06:36pm PT
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Keep em coming. We could have all the TRs in one place.
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Mighty Hiker
climber
Outside the Asylum
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Peter Haan's reports.
The Stonemaster threads.
Tarbuster's numerous TR threads.
The Daryl Hatten thread.
I need to think - there are more.
Anders
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10b4me
Social climber
Lida Junction
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DMT's story about The Bird and the religious meeting along the Merced is hilarious.
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Hawkeye
climber
State of Mine
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dont forget the dirtineye pic.
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Melissa
Gym climber
berkeley, ca
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Tarbuster's photo threads...Tarbuster, you'd probably do a more thorough job of liking them up than I could.
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bvb
Social climber
flagstaff arizona
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anything by bvb.
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TKingsbury
Trad climber
MT
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I was blown away by this one, not that there aren't other great threads from this poster....
All this for 800 bucks!
I looked at this one for a long time.
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Mighty Hiker
climber
Outside the Asylum
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All the amazing stuff that Ken Yager posts.
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Chicken Skinner
Trad climber
Yosemite
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Oct 12, 2006 - 09:13pm PT
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I love Peter Haan's posts and Tarbuster's for pure good attitude. They show what climbing is all about. There are many others but, those two come to mind immediately. Thank you guys.
Ken
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10b4me
Social climber
Lida Junction
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Oct 12, 2006 - 11:55pm PT
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Re: bridwell stories Apr 8, 2005, 09:19am PST
Author:
Dingus Milktoast
climber
From: NorCal This one was told to me in first person by my friend about a man named Booger. Booger (not his real name, lol) spent a lot of time in the Valley back in the day. A lot of these guys on ST know him.
So one Sat night the gang tied one on, my friend (we'll call Perv) Booger and Bridwell included.
Sun morning rolled around way too early. But Bridwell was up and about and had made an interesting discovery... there was another bible thumper revival going on. Now everyone knows the scarf story and this isn't it.
But hey, this was Bridwell, and he thought it was a good gig. He came back to the camp and roused the groggy drunks, told them there was free vittles to be had for those who could stomach a little fire and brimstone with their eggs and bacon.
So down they troop toward the Merced. Cept for Booger, he rolled over and went back to sleep.
Turns out the revival was a real one, a primitive southern baptist type. The preacher was dunking saved souls in the river and there was not a piece of bacon in sight, save on the ass and thighs of the preacher man's wife.
So Bird and the boys show up, specting to scarf some vittles and they end up standing there in a small crowd right next to the river, watching dumbfounded as these goings on went on. So fascinated were they by this spectacle, they temporarily forgot they were all hungover, hungry and tired.
In the meantime, Booger woke up again and changed his mind. He staggered out of the tent, asked some passing climbers where Bird and the boys went and stumbled off in the direction of the river, stomach rumbling.
What the passerby didn't know was that the revival was on the *other side* of the river. Now back to the gang.
They're all still standing there, watching the preacher man dunk the souls in the river (apparently there were a lot of them, and as legend would have it, more than a few of them were comely women, who, upon being dunked, revealed a lot more about themselves than common sense and decorum would dictate).
Perv noticed first...
"Look!" He whispered giggling, finger pointed over the preacher man's head.
And lo, there was Booger, down at the edge of the river, on the other side. He'd gotten to the water only to see the assembly on the other side and now was working his drunken way along the edge, back toward the bridge.
They all started laughing and snickering and making rude comments.
Suddenly, my bro Perv, feeling his oats, calls out in a very loud voice,
"That climber is a sonofabitch!"
The entirely baptism came to a surprised halt. The preacher man stopped mid dunk, froze in shock. The poor soul he had in his hands was actually underwater when this happened, so a short struggled ensued, till finally sputtering, the newly saved sinner came up choking for air. The preacher man just ignored this as he glared up at Bridwell and company. Angrily he retorted,
"Jesus does not tolerate disrespect! I will ask you sinners to leave us at once!" They didn't move. Booger contined to stumble along the edge of the river, occasionally stepping IN the river and the gang continued to snicker. Suppressed smiles were everywhere, cept for Bird who just glared right back at the preacher.
My man Perv was standing in the shadow of the Big Man (Bridwell, not Jesus) so the preacher man couldn't really see him from his position in the water. Thinking the whole thing was a grand joke, he let loose once again,
"THAT CLIMBER IS A SONOFABITCH!" Even Booger heard it this time and looked up in confusion at the goings on across the water. The preacher was furious and directed his considerable ire in the direction from which the sound came... straight at Bridwell.
Now me? I would have stepped out of the way and revealed the true sinner behind, but not Bird. He just stood there in the headlights of God, inscrutible as ever. The preacher man pointed straight at Bridwell and shouted,
"JESUS DOES NOT ABIDE SIN! REPENT AND SAVE YOURSELF! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!!!"
Without batting an eye, (he was wearing sunglasses anyway) Bird replied,
"As a matter of fact I do have a question!" He said it loudly, but politely too, if that is possible. The preacher man arched his eye in surprise and bade Bird to continue, which he did.
"I don't want to know who called that climber a sonofabitch, no."
And Bridwell paused and everyone there continued to stare at the man. Even Booger was just standing there now, the subject of all this grand debate.
"What I wanna know is... who called that sonofabitch a CLIMBER???!!!"
Or so the story goes...
DMT
the funniest thing I have ever read on ST
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WBraun
climber
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Oct 13, 2006 - 12:02am PT
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Yeah, yeah
That one is an all time classic, ...... hahahaha
Gota be a hall of fame story .....
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Maysho
climber
Soda Springs, CA
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Oct 20, 2006 - 02:18pm PT
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I can't believe no one has nominated the Wings of Steel threads!
just kidding...
Peter
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WBraun
climber
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Jul 11, 2007 - 10:53pm PT
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I just re read Dingus's Bridwell booger story again one page back and can't stop laughing.
It's too damn funny.
Maybe because I know too much from all the crazy times back then.
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Toker Villain
Big Wall climber
Toquerville, Utah
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Jul 11, 2007 - 10:56pm PT
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The George Lowe thread with the Yo "clarification."
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crusher
climber
Santa Monica, CA
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Jul 12, 2007 - 01:39am PT
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Definitely the "Who the hell are you people?" thread - although it's so big now it just crashed my computer.
There are so many great ones...
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Karl Baba
Trad climber
Yosemite, Ca
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Jul 12, 2007 - 03:52am PT
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More of a Rec.climbing Hall of Fame but a must read for low-life. Author unknown
From: H. Yohen
Subject: TR - Leaning Tower
Date: 09 Jul 1999 00:00:00 GMT
West Face -- Leaning Tower
8-10 pitches
Grade V, 5.7, A2
This whole year has been a climbing write-off for me. Except for one week-long vacation I haven't climbed sh#t. During the Winter and Spring, my regular partners scattered all across the country so I filled my sparetime watching TV and eating pizza (interspersed with the occasional beer). Wayne, who had also suffered a rash of partner defections, tried to coax me from my sloth with an audacious mid-week excursion to the promised land.
"Hey, let's fly into SF on Monday and drive out to Yos. We climb Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we fly back late Thursday night and get to work on Friday," Wayne outlined the plan.
"I don't know, man. Why don't we take the whole week?"
"I can't be gone that long ... family obligations, you know?"
"It's kind of expensive for just a few days," I hemmed and hawed.
"I can get us a deal on the tickets. We have to get our fat asses out sometime."
After more salesmanship, I relented and Wayne made the arrangements. Since I had done so little climbing, I insisted on doing aid, reasoning that even if I was out of shape for climbing, I was fully prepared for some suffering. Two weeks later I sat waiting at an arrival gate at SFO waiting for Wayne's flight -- which was advertised as four hours late. When he stepped off the plane, Wayne had the haggard look of a airline victim. With little conversation, we collected his luggage which consisted of a single haul bag and rented a car. We had planned on driving all the way to the Park that night but our late start forced us to find a motel in Manteca at 2:00 am.
Through monumental willpower, I slithered out of bed slightly after 5:00 am and roused Wayne. After showering and checking out, we found a grocery store. On the way, we discussed route options without coming up with any concrete plans. At the store, I got a cart and asked, "What do you want for wall food?"
"I don't know," was his helpful reply.
"We could start by getting victory beer."
"Yeah, okay. It has to be drinkable warm. And come in cans." We stood in the liquor section and debated the merits of various beers. The cases of MGD on sale for $9.99 piqued our interest and prompted Wayne to do some quick math.
"Okay, we're on some wall for two days. That means we can have four beers each the first night, four when we top out the second day, and four more when we get down. Sounds about right to me," he remarked with a grin spreading over his face. "Actually, if we got two cases and we only saved two each for when we got down, we could both have 11 beers a day and not even need to haul water."
"Yeah, and we could get a bunch of pretzels and cocktail weenies for food."
"I wonder," he began, his brow furrowing slightly, "what kind of pretzels would resist crushing the most."
At that moment I realized that in Wayne's mind, the idea had crossed the boundary between stupid joke to realizable option. "Forty-four beers," he continued, "what's that, like four gallons? That's about right for fluid. Those weenie cans are pretty small so we should get like four cans each a day. They're packed in water too ..."
We left the store with two cases of MGD, sixteen cans of Hormel weenies, three giant bags of pretzel sticks, a roll of duct tape, and some cheap Tupperware-like things to store the pretzels to prevent them from being crushed. We also left the store with a plan. We would haul ass to the Park, climb the first few pitches of the West Face of Leaning Tower, and bivy on Ahwahnee Ledge. Wayne would drive and I would pack the pig on the way. After getting a couple of boxes (to line the inside of the haul bag) from the trash behind the store, we were on our way.
By noon we had managed to get our gear to the fourth class ramp and decided we had better celebrate the feat with a beer. After quaffing the brews and crushing and stowing the cans, Wayne lead us across the scary-as-hell ramp while I follow along with the pig. I thought carrying two cases of beer up to the ramp was difficult but the sphincter clenching fear I experienced while teetering along trying to stay in balance with the haul bag pulling me toward the brink was mind bending.
Looking up at the steep line of bolts and overwhelmed by the exposure, we figured that a beer ought to calm our nerves. We plopped down by the bar (as we were now calling the haul bag), popped a couple of brews and pulled out some weenies and pretzels. The Tupperware things were holding up just fine and after our satisfying meal, we were ready to roll.
It appeared that there were two parties already on the route -- one was high up and looked like they would top out that day and the other was a couple of pitches above us. Since I hauled the bag across the ramp, I was entitled to the first pitch. Even though it was all bolts or fixed gear, the steep factor made it strenuous. A ways out, I had Wayne send me up a beer on the tag line and I reveled in the gratification of hanging on an immense piece of granite high off the ground and hearing the heavenly sound of a pop-top being opened. I polished off the brew, crushed the can against the wall, and tucked it into a handy stuff sack.
Wayne combined the next two pitches and cruised. Before I knew it, I was on Guano, getting ready to haul. The two guys ahead of us were working on pitch five, obviously intent on fixing the next two to make the next day shorter. When Wayne joined me, we pulled out a couple of beers and watched the second struggle to clean the traverse. He must have heard our pop-tops since he looked back over toward us and we raised our beers toward him in a toast.
It was getting late and those guys wouldn't get done with pitch six until after dark. Content to settle into the Ahwahnee bivy, we ate the balance of our daily weenie ration and had a beer. We spent the rest of the evening watching the other guys working on pitch six and enjoying the sun set -- while having a couple of beers and munching on pretzels. When the other guys rapped back to Ahwahnee, we were already tucked in and practically asleep.
The next morning came way too early. I awoke to a need to relieve the massive pressure in my bladder. My head was pounding and I had an absolutely revolting taste in my mouth. I was appalled to realize that the only thing we had to drink was beer. Somehow the practical matter of having to start drinking beer first thing in the morning had never occurred to either of us. I rummaged for Advil in the bar and popped a beer to wash them down. My stirring had roused one of the other guys and he looked at me in horror.
Wayne's bladder forced him to get out of his bivy bag and we decided that we should get going since it was going to be a long day. We ate some weenies and pretzels and we did rock-paper-scissors for the fifth pitch. Wayne won. We hardly talked as we prepared and I believe we scared the other two guys since they didn't even say a word to us -- even avoiding all eye contact. Wayne headed out on lead and the other two guys hurriedly jugged their line.
After Wayne fixed the line, I couldn't resist the call of nature any more. I clipped our Colman screwtop water jug (masquerading as a sh#t bucket) and let loose into the comfortably wide orifice. Ah yes, good consistency, if a bit aromatic -- the beer hadn't gotten to my gut just yet. I spent the next hour in purgatory. Cleaning the traversing pitch while carpenters hammered in my head thinking of nothing but a cool glass of water drove me to the edge of madness. Upon reaching the belay, I was just about through. "Wayne, this is just f*#king dumb."
He looked at me then looked down, "Bailing off this f*#ker would be lunacy. It's too steep. No where to go but up." He surveyed my ashen complexion and suggested, "Have another beer."
I looked at the face to start the next pitch, fumbled with some hooks, then said "F*#k it," and lurched ahead in my boots. Lots of fixed stuff had me cruising to the next belay and Wayne followed up in a jif. Wayne eyed the sh#t bucket but decided he could hold out for a better stance. At the next belay he couldn't wait any longer. As I approached on jugs, I could see him hopping from foot to foot with a strained expression. I kind of hung off to the side to give Wayne as much of the small ledge as possible to do his thing. Even though I averted my eyes, I was forced to endure the horrid sound of his ass exploding. Then the stench wafted over, hanging in the air like a thick acrid fog. "Holy sh#t, did something crawl up your a*# and die?"
"And your sh#t doesn't smell?" he retorted.
"Not like that."
We were both parched and we took a moment to pop a couple of beers. While I was rummaging in the bag, I discovered that one of the big Tupperware things holding the pretzels had come open. Subsequently, the freed pretzels had been ground into a wide assortment of chunks and dust. We ate some weenies (especially enjoying the salty, fat laced water they were packed in) and some of the uncrushed pretzels and tried to get back some of our psych.
I began the eighth pitch and that is when things came unglued. I was having difficulty operating at any kind of level because I was trashed and the heat was rising fast. Our tempers flared and we shouted obscenities at each other. I had to piss mid-pitch and Wayne accused me of trying to hit him with it. The Evil Tree sank daggers into my back as I passed. In a fog I made it to the top of pitch nine, completely soaked in sweat and barely able to pull the rope through the drag. During our ordeal, the two guys ahead of us kept looking down -- I think grateful we would not catch up to them.
After cursing each other up and down between chugs of beer, Wayne lead the last real pitch of the climb. As I followed, I helped along the pig when I could but that didn't prevent Wayne from screaming at me and me hollering back. Before we headed up the last fourth class section, we sat drinking beer, calm for the first time all afternoon. I got the honor of muscling the haul bag up the final bit and I was glad the beer was almost gone.
Arriving on the summit, I found that the guys in front of us must have taken pity on us since they left a full two liter bottle of water. At least it was full before Wayne drank most of it while waiting for me and the pig. More profanity was exchanged at an extremely high volume. Still, those few sips of tepid, stale water were the best I could remember.
Both of us were spent, our shirts and pants were a lattice work of salt rings, and the back of my t-shirt had red dots on it where I was stuck by the punji sticks. We could do no more than lay immobile while the sun went down. Sometime after dark when we started getting really cold, we pulled out the bivy gear and bedded down for the night. Even though our bivy sacks and sleeping bags had been stuffed, somehow the pretzel detritus had found its way inside.
The following morning, I awoke to a powerful urge to defecate but was frightened to open the sh#t bucket after Wayne's contribution the previous day. I steeled myself and held it at arms length as I twisted off the top. It was horrid and I could hardly bring myself to use it. I filled it nearly to the top and hurriedly screwed on the cap. Wayne stirred and finally crawled out of his bag. The cumulative effect of the climb had taken such a toll on us that the pounding in our heads no longer was the worst of our pain. Thus it became almost inconsequential.
Lethargically, we pack up our stuff and prepared for the descent. After I closed up the pig, Wayne began squirming around and eyed the sh#t bucket. "No more room in there," I warned. He dug into the bag and pulled out one of the Tupperware things and went off a ways, returning with a repulsive package. He used liberal amounts of duct tape to seal up his waste.
We popped two of our few remaining beers, quaffed them, and began the treacherous descent. Managing not to kill ourselves, we staggered out to the car. "F*#k, we haven't got anything to drink but beer," I observed upon opening the car.
Wayne dropped his pack and leaned stiffly against the car. Bending over and placing his forehead on the roof, his whole body shook and he sent a jet of vomit across the car roof. Wiping puke from his mouth he turned to me and said "I just didn't have the energy to do it anywhere else."
++++++
I posted it on a thread here
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.html?topic_id=9229
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k-man
Gym climber
SCruz
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Jul 12, 2007 - 11:18am PT
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Karl, thanks for saving that WFLT story, one of the best reads from the ol' wreck.climbing daze.
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Oli
Trad climber
Fruita, Colorado
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Jul 24, 2007 - 11:26pm PT
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The finest words I've seen so far here on SuperTopo are by Tom Higgins, Rich Goldstone, and John Stannard. None mentioned yet, though neither have any of my stories proven memorable to anyone... (except I guess by Tarbuster)... so I guess it's ok.
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Crimpergirl
Sport climber
Boulder, Colorado!
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Oct 29, 2007 - 09:22pm PT
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Arg. I just looked at the eye-candy thread again. I'm ruined for the evening.
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Chicken Skinner
Trad climber
Yosemite
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Oct 29, 2007 - 10:11pm PT
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Poor, poor, Crimpie. I like Crimpie's, Nita's, and the historical Grossman threads. Werner, you are always a riot too.
Ken
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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Oct 29, 2007 - 11:13pm PT
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Tarbuster beat me to nominating the Big Rock History thread. Was just out there a couple of weeks ago and some oldtimers were hanging out. Interesting tales indeed.
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Nefarius
Big Wall climber
Fresno
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Oct 30, 2007 - 02:05pm PT
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I'm a huge fan of Dingus' writings. "The Pass" and the "fart" story come to mind as great, hilarious reads.
Tons of good stuff in this thread! Nice!
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Tarbuster
climber
right here, right now
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I'm just sayin'...
*bump*
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Tarbuster
climber
right here, right now
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...we've had some treats lately!
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SteveW
Trad climber
The state of confusion
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Melissa, I have to agree, Tar's reports and photos are incredible.
I also give big kudo's to Steve Grossman's historical posts.
Bravo to both!
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Mighty Hiker
climber
Outside the Asylum
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Sep 10, 2008 - 02:15am PT
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Yikes! Someone is passing himself off as me! And misspelling my family name. I'll have to check out his thread, see what his stories are about.
Deep cover has its issues.
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Tarbuster
climber
right here, right now
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Sep 10, 2008 - 01:52pm PT
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Fixed, I think...
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Double D
climber
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Sep 10, 2008 - 07:57pm PT
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All Yabo stories...I'm just too lazy to dig em up.
Bachar's story of Daryl Hatten riding the bike into the Foul Seasons...flashing...
Summer Wildflowers
Choss Diaries
Sorry for no links...
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Terry
climber
Spokane
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Oct 18, 2008 - 02:59pm PT
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Bump
This thread should have a permanent spot at #1. Fabulous stuff
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MisterE
Gym climber
Small Town with a Big Back Yard
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Feb 25, 2009 - 02:03pm PT
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Things that go bump in the forum
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