"I didn't know rattlesnakes were so green." That was the main thought in my head after my encounter with an angry rattler. I was hiking up a creek with Kolter on my back. My husband had Killian on his back and we were trekking through icy water, up and over boulders, on trail, off trail drawing ever closer to a waterfall, or so the trail information stated.
After what seemed like hours of wet and rugged walking I finally decided to head higher, out of the water, and seek a drier trail. With my head down, watching a game trail grow a little fainter with each step, I heard a distinctive clackclackclack that I don't think I have ever heard before, and hope to never hear again. I looked up, already in a panic although still unsure why, and saw a large green triangular head perched atop a thick, coiled body just peaking out from underneath a rock. Sirens went off in my head and my only thought was, "RUN!"
I whirled around and then realized I had just exposed Kolter to the evil serpent. Of course rationally I knew he was too high off the ground for the snake to pose a threat to his body, but the screaming in my head just needed to get him out of there! I nearly threw myself at my husband and started pushing him down the incline we'd just climbed up. "Snake! Snake! Run!!!" I screamed and pushed and nearly shoved him down. He teetered off balance a bit, seemed unsure of what was happening but willing to run lest his panicked wife toss him and the three year old on his back into the creek. I didn't stop until we reached the creek, about 30 feet away. In my mind I rationalized that the snake wouldn't come near the creek and it's frigid waters. Although looking back I doubt he had followed us anyway, but at the time I was convinced he was in hot pursuit of my flip flop shod feet and nothing short of water would dissuade him from the death of me or my progeny.
Now I carry a snake bite kit.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Abbey
Or so it seems at the moment, as my fire dies to a twist of smoke and a heap of rubies, and for a moment I think I've almost caught a falling star: there is no mystery; there is only paradox, the incontrovertible union of contradictory truths. A falling star which melts into vapor as I grasp it, which flows through my fingers like water, like smoke.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Abbey Thoughts
“Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individuation of desert life-forms. Love flowers best in openness and freedom.”
Cruel Shoes
Long and rambling details are my specialty!
It was impressive. Many years ago, when I was newly pregnant with my Meanie, I decided I would trek out to The City for one last multi-pitch hoorah before impending parenthood could engulf my every waking moment. After hours of hiking and trying unsuccessfully to match a rock in the vicinity with the picture in the guidebook, it started to snow and the trip was forsaken, to much sobbing on my part. That was nearly four years ago.
I committed to go back to do that climb on Friday. BUT, I was sabotaged! Instead I went to the bar Thursday night for some much-needed girl time and cried again. The climb is called Cruel Shoes but I think Cruel Intentions would be more apt. Every time I intend to do it I get cruelly thwarted.
My mom was in town for the week of the wee one's birthday and I took full advantage of a free full-time nanny. I finally left Saturday night and camped under a spectacularly full moon. The orb shone down on a small crackling campfire, a bottle of Scottish blended whiskey and myself. With no offspring to tend to I relaxed and let the melodies coming from my headphones and a few sips of whiskey lull me into a state of near hypnosis. I slept well in a warm tent and woke to hot coffee and a brisk morning. The sun rose quickly and bathed the nearby mountains in fulvous hues; tawny, orange, golden laid over blue and green hills in the distance. I started packing immediately and did not enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. There was climbing to be done!
A bit of driving over rough roads and previously unseen (by me) signs welcomed me to my happy place. City of Rocks National Reserve. We have missed one another. Two years is a very long time.
With the sun still rising, a future love of mine called Steinfell's Dome was a magnificent orange while his little brother, my favorite rock of all time, hid in his shadow. But I had plans. I could not be swayed by the lullaby of my favorite climb, the comfortable and beautiful Thumb. Oh, at nearly 600 feet from trail head to rappel anchors my greatest granite love is an imposing monolith of exposure, sand paper and sore calves disguised as a slabby lover. Beckoning with promises of illusory futures and epiphanies worth seeking this rock is a sweet partner with an embrace as cool and inviting as a bottomless swimming hole on an August Day. But no. I was here for torture, Cruel Shoes and I would meet today. A gorgeous white dome nestled in an outcropping of fellow crags, circumscribed by pinyons, junipers, a flowing creek and of course, a small trail right to the base.
Armed with correct trail information, plenty of quick draws and all necessary safety gear I started out. A crisp and wet morning left me to navigate a sometimes muddy, though quite unremarkable walk through a few cattle gates, cacti and sand.
With the sun now fully baking the white and grey granite and the watch not yet reading 8am I breached the protective layers of creek and trees. Stripe Rock and the planned route were in reach! Some discussion and a bit of referencing to the guidebook proved that the cairn was in the wrong place. I made a new one at the base of what I assume is Cruel Shoes.
A popular route, I expected some company but none showed. Near solitude. Perfect. I payed out the rope, weighed my harness down with as many draws as I own, checked webbing, ATCs and biners. All was in order! After nearly four years of this being on my tick list I took my first step up Stripe Rock.
Oh, the granite of The City is sublime. Nearly featureless in places, full jugs in others. All manners of rock invite you to place hands and feet on every inch. Kindly stone will hold you in nearly any position, hand holds and stepping places aren't necessary if there is the slightest bit of inward angle. Quite the dome, Stripe Rock isn't much of a slab, just enough to make the nearly blank wall accessible through the stickiness of that magical stone.
A bit run out at the bottom, unusual for a Kevin Pogue route, I was more than 20 feet above my belayer before the first bolt was clipped. Good start. I kept up, clipping, clipped, reach, smear, step, smear, clipping, clipped. The climbing was effortless. No puzzles to sort, few hand holds to grasp. Smearing. Tough on the rubber, taxing on the hands and murder on squished, unaccustomed toes. Cruel Shoes, indeed. Blissful mindlessness and one can wander inward as one climbs upward. My silent soundtrack set Jeff Buckley's plaintive "Hallelujah" to the melody of my twinkling draws. Appropriate for a Sunday morning excursion.
The largest and most inquisitive butterfly ever known sought me out. I throttled my scream of terror, held fast to nothing and managed to not fling myself from the wall in horror from the innocuous insect while she flitted ever closer, daring herself to land on the intruder. She eventually took pity on me and my irrational fear and flew away, in that odd, lopsided pattern they have. She really was spectacular. As big as my palm with saffron wings, dotted black. No camera but that mental picture will last a lifetime. I thank the universe she wasn't brave enough to touch me or I may have never recovered emotionally.
I continued up dragging rope and leaving draws. A nearly blank canvas, Stripe Rock gives no comfort at the belay stations. Clipped into a single anchor and resting in my harness was near murder. Cruel Shoes provides enough angle to slide your heels back into your shoes and make them chafe sensitive achilles tendons, few enough toe holds to bend those poor piggies back while smearing them against granite and just enough pitch forward to bend the ankles awkwardly. I had always wondered at the name.
Three pitches make up this route. At the top there is a single anchor but the guidebook says there are open shunts from which to rappel. Well what else is there to do but unclip from the belay station and continue up the 8 feet or so to the very top? I see no other choice. Ignoring strongly worded admonitions I unclipped my 'biner and went exploring, sans rope. Just a few more feet and I reached the pinnacle of Stripe Rock (see enclosed photo). A refreshing current of air caressed my warm skin as I soaked in the quiet. Not quiet, but the accord of nature as observed from 300 feet above rock base. Breezy precipice, call of peregrine falcons, occasional jingle of some gear and your own breath. I could stay there for hours. Peace.
But I am the only one of my climbing duo that enjoys the top. So down we decided to go. Ready for the rappel?
Oh yeah, you need two ropes for the rap. But I had no desire to carry an extra rope with me solely for the rappel so I had failed to mention this insignificant detail. I figured a belay down to the second pitch would suffice, as the way down is the same as the way up for this route. My plan was nixed and instead it was decided to rappel the rope length, hang a 'biner on a bolt, rappel from that, ditch the carabiner and search the next belay station and rappel from there. Seems overly complicated to me but who am I to argue when panic is so near at hand? We managed to do it in 2 pitches with a rather sketchy down climb of about 20 feet at the bottom.
Oddly enough I had a moment of frozen fear while waiting patiently for the rope. I clipped into a bolt near the anchor for pitch 2 and waited for the rappel to be reset closer to me. My unexpected anxiety came while I was clipped into a single bolt and rested into my harness which was tethered to the carabiner by a single bit of webbing. I replayed the conversation that I'd had on top of the rock regarding fear, safety, gear failure and was marveling at how none of that ever enters my head before, during or after a climb. Very bad idea. I suddenly looked down at this tiny piece of metal that someone, 20 years ago, had anchored into the rock. Rock that sometimes crumbles in my hand, rock that left pebbles digging into my soles when I took off my excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes. And clipped into that bit of ancient tin was a carabiner. Had it been dropped down a slick of basalt before? There were significant color changes apparent just from rubbing that particular bolt. I was putting a lot of weight into that thin piece of unknown metal. But worse than that was my webbing. No thicker than a typical piece of cardboard, only as wide as my index finger and it was stitched! By a machine worked by whom? And what kind of thread? Hadn't I once heard a story about a man's webbing that was slowly being severed by a jagged edge while he dangled on it? Another millimeter through and he would have dropped. I inspected my webbing. It seemed OK. But what about my harness?! I have had one fail before and was part of a recall.
On and on this went while I searched for foot holds, hand holds, anything to which I could cling since some major piece of gear was apt to give out at any moment and I would tumble to my death or worse. My feet were aching from the climb and the shoes to which I am no longer accustomed. But I had to keep my shoes on in order to provide a bit of purchase on the rock. My hands were rubbed nearly raw in places but I couldn't take them off the wall lest my harness suddenly disintegrated. And I kept looking down. Imagining the awful fall that would end painfully on that thin, triangular rock down there. The same rock that I would use to shimmy my way down to the ground in just a few moments. Is this what it is like for people who fear heights? This panic stricken numbness where every thought of every imaginable failure permeates your being and renders you helpless? This is awful!
But no. I am Katy. I am not scared of heights. I don't ponder the unquantifiable dangers. I just climb, jump, glide, speak, swim, dive all without thinking through most consequences. I like to do stuff just to see what happens. Irrational fear will not enter my climbing experience.
I decided to follow my mantra, what will be, will be. If some piece of gear suddenly failed and I tumbled to my death at The City then such is life. Such is death, too, I suppose. It could be no worse than dying at a nursing home at 86. And so I turned the panic off. Hysteria started expeditiously and just as swiftly it was gone. In its place a sense of the same accord that is usually reserved for the top of a hill. Where there is sometimes an unanimity with nature, in its stead there is now a fraction of understanding of life's cycle, a sense of peace with my maker and an acceptance of the unmaker that I will one day meet. I have no wish to end here, I am nowhere near done savoring the physical world for there is still much to climb, I have yet to jump or glide or swim or dive my fill. And yet somehow, knowing that I am on a journey to know this life, well then, I am further ahead than I was yesterday.
And what will be, will be.
It was impressive. Many years ago, when I was newly pregnant with my Meanie, I decided I would trek out to The City for one last multi-pitch hoorah before impending parenthood could engulf my every waking moment. After hours of hiking and trying unsuccessfully to match a rock in the vicinity with the picture in the guidebook, it started to snow and the trip was forsaken, to much sobbing on my part. That was nearly four years ago.
I committed to go back to do that climb on Friday. BUT, I was sabotaged! Instead I went to the bar Thursday night for some much-needed girl time and cried again. The climb is called Cruel Shoes but I think Cruel Intentions would be more apt. Every time I intend to do it I get cruelly thwarted.
My mom was in town for the week of the wee one's birthday and I took full advantage of a free full-time nanny. I finally left Saturday night and camped under a spectacularly full moon. The orb shone down on a small crackling campfire, a bottle of Scottish blended whiskey and myself. With no offspring to tend to I relaxed and let the melodies coming from my headphones and a few sips of whiskey lull me into a state of near hypnosis. I slept well in a warm tent and woke to hot coffee and a brisk morning. The sun rose quickly and bathed the nearby mountains in fulvous hues; tawny, orange, golden laid over blue and green hills in the distance. I started packing immediately and did not enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. There was climbing to be done!
A bit of driving over rough roads and previously unseen (by me) signs welcomed me to my happy place. City of Rocks National Reserve. We have missed one another. Two years is a very long time.
With the sun still rising, a future love of mine called Steinfell's Dome was a magnificent orange while his little brother, my favorite rock of all time, hid in his shadow. But I had plans. I could not be swayed by the lullaby of my favorite climb, the comfortable and beautiful Thumb. Oh, at nearly 600 feet from trail head to rappel anchors my greatest granite love is an imposing monolith of exposure, sand paper and sore calves disguised as a slabby lover. Beckoning with promises of illusory futures and epiphanies worth seeking this rock is a sweet partner with an embrace as cool and inviting as a bottomless swimming hole on an August Day. But no. I was here for torture, Cruel Shoes and I would meet today. A gorgeous white dome nestled in an outcropping of fellow crags, circumscribed by pinyons, junipers, a flowing creek and of course, a small trail right to the base.
Armed with correct trail information, plenty of quick draws and all necessary safety gear I started out. A crisp and wet morning left me to navigate a sometimes muddy, though quite unremarkable walk through a few cattle gates, cacti and sand.
With the sun now fully baking the white and grey granite and the watch not yet reading 8am I breached the protective layers of creek and trees. Stripe Rock and the planned route were in reach! Some discussion and a bit of referencing to the guidebook proved that the cairn was in the wrong place. I made a new one at the base of what I assume is Cruel Shoes.
A popular route, I expected some company but none showed. Near solitude. Perfect. I payed out the rope, weighed my harness down with as many draws as I own, checked webbing, ATCs and biners. All was in order! After nearly four years of this being on my tick list I took my first step up Stripe Rock.
Oh, the granite of The City is sublime. Nearly featureless in places, full jugs in others. All manners of rock invite you to place hands and feet on every inch. Kindly stone will hold you in nearly any position, hand holds and stepping places aren't necessary if there is the slightest bit of inward angle. Quite the dome, Stripe Rock isn't much of a slab, just enough to make the nearly blank wall accessible through the stickiness of that magical stone.
A bit run out at the bottom, unusual for a Kevin Pogue route, I was more than 20 feet above my belayer before the first bolt was clipped. Good start. I kept up, clipping, clipped, reach, smear, step, smear, clipping, clipped. The climbing was effortless. No puzzles to sort, few hand holds to grasp. Smearing. Tough on the rubber, taxing on the hands and murder on squished, unaccustomed toes. Cruel Shoes, indeed. Blissful mindlessness and one can wander inward as one climbs upward. My silent soundtrack set Jeff Buckley's plaintive "Hallelujah" to the melody of my twinkling draws. Appropriate for a Sunday morning excursion.
The largest and most inquisitive butterfly ever known sought me out. I throttled my scream of terror, held fast to nothing and managed to not fling myself from the wall in horror from the innocuous insect while she flitted ever closer, daring herself to land on the intruder. She eventually took pity on me and my irrational fear and flew away, in that odd, lopsided pattern they have. She really was spectacular. As big as my palm with saffron wings, dotted black. No camera but that mental picture will last a lifetime. I thank the universe she wasn't brave enough to touch me or I may have never recovered emotionally.
I continued up dragging rope and leaving draws. A nearly blank canvas, Stripe Rock gives no comfort at the belay stations. Clipped into a single anchor and resting in my harness was near murder. Cruel Shoes provides enough angle to slide your heels back into your shoes and make them chafe sensitive achilles tendons, few enough toe holds to bend those poor piggies back while smearing them against granite and just enough pitch forward to bend the ankles awkwardly. I had always wondered at the name.
Three pitches make up this route. At the top there is a single anchor but the guidebook says there are open shunts from which to rappel. Well what else is there to do but unclip from the belay station and continue up the 8 feet or so to the very top? I see no other choice. Ignoring strongly worded admonitions I unclipped my 'biner and went exploring, sans rope. Just a few more feet and I reached the pinnacle of Stripe Rock (see enclosed photo). A refreshing current of air caressed my warm skin as I soaked in the quiet. Not quiet, but the accord of nature as observed from 300 feet above rock base. Breezy precipice, call of peregrine falcons, occasional jingle of some gear and your own breath. I could stay there for hours. Peace.
But I am the only one of my climbing duo that enjoys the top. So down we decided to go. Ready for the rappel?
Oh yeah, you need two ropes for the rap. But I had no desire to carry an extra rope with me solely for the rappel so I had failed to mention this insignificant detail. I figured a belay down to the second pitch would suffice, as the way down is the same as the way up for this route. My plan was nixed and instead it was decided to rappel the rope length, hang a 'biner on a bolt, rappel from that, ditch the carabiner and search the next belay station and rappel from there. Seems overly complicated to me but who am I to argue when panic is so near at hand? We managed to do it in 2 pitches with a rather sketchy down climb of about 20 feet at the bottom.
Oddly enough I had a moment of frozen fear while waiting patiently for the rope. I clipped into a bolt near the anchor for pitch 2 and waited for the rappel to be reset closer to me. My unexpected anxiety came while I was clipped into a single bolt and rested into my harness which was tethered to the carabiner by a single bit of webbing. I replayed the conversation that I'd had on top of the rock regarding fear, safety, gear failure and was marveling at how none of that ever enters my head before, during or after a climb. Very bad idea. I suddenly looked down at this tiny piece of metal that someone, 20 years ago, had anchored into the rock. Rock that sometimes crumbles in my hand, rock that left pebbles digging into my soles when I took off my excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes. And clipped into that bit of ancient tin was a carabiner. Had it been dropped down a slick of basalt before? There were significant color changes apparent just from rubbing that particular bolt. I was putting a lot of weight into that thin piece of unknown metal. But worse than that was my webbing. No thicker than a typical piece of cardboard, only as wide as my index finger and it was stitched! By a machine worked by whom? And what kind of thread? Hadn't I once heard a story about a man's webbing that was slowly being severed by a jagged edge while he dangled on it? Another millimeter through and he would have dropped. I inspected my webbing. It seemed OK. But what about my harness?! I have had one fail before and was part of a recall.
On and on this went while I searched for foot holds, hand holds, anything to which I could cling since some major piece of gear was apt to give out at any moment and I would tumble to my death or worse. My feet were aching from the climb and the shoes to which I am no longer accustomed. But I had to keep my shoes on in order to provide a bit of purchase on the rock. My hands were rubbed nearly raw in places but I couldn't take them off the wall lest my harness suddenly disintegrated. And I kept looking down. Imagining the awful fall that would end painfully on that thin, triangular rock down there. The same rock that I would use to shimmy my way down to the ground in just a few moments. Is this what it is like for people who fear heights? This panic stricken numbness where every thought of every imaginable failure permeates your being and renders you helpless? This is awful!
But no. I am Katy. I am not scared of heights. I don't ponder the unquantifiable dangers. I just climb, jump, glide, speak, swim, dive all without thinking through most consequences. I like to do stuff just to see what happens. Irrational fear will not enter my climbing experience.
I decided to follow my mantra, what will be, will be. If some piece of gear suddenly failed and I tumbled to my death at The City then such is life. Such is death, too, I suppose. It could be no worse than dying at a nursing home at 86. And so I turned the panic off. Hysteria started expeditiously and just as swiftly it was gone. In its place a sense of the same accord that is usually reserved for the top of a hill. Where there is sometimes an unanimity with nature, in its stead there is now a fraction of understanding of life's cycle, a sense of peace with my maker and an acceptance of the unmaker that I will one day meet. I have no wish to end here, I am nowhere near done savoring the physical world for there is still much to climb, I have yet to jump or glide or swim or dive my fill. And yet somehow, knowing that I am on a journey to know this life, well then, I am further ahead than I was yesterday.
And what will be, will be.
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