Thirty One

I thought we'd try 31 pitches in a day at Seneca for my 31st birthday, then get home in time to enjoy steak and wine for dinner.

What is it about this stage of life that makes me want to inaugurate my years with cute feats of athleticism?  Must I prove something?  Am I satirizing the impulse that I should prove something?  Either way, it's good fun.

Plus, a day of moderate routes has been on my mind for a long time.  We spend so much time pushing the frontiers of our ability that we seldom revel in the hills we've captured.  This would be a chance to enjoy the freedoms of vertical movement we've worked so hard to earn.

"To be home for dinner at 7pm, we need to hit the road by 4pm.  Assume 2 pitches per hour, up and down--that's 15+ hours of climbing, and we'll need to start by midnight."  The calculus was steeped in optimism, but it offered a glimpse of what we were dealing with.

I should note that Seneca is not your typical crag.  It's not a simple junction of vertical and horizontal with a park-like atmosphere, like something out of a Seurat painting.  It's not the Gunks or the New River Gorge.  Seneca is an MC Esher with ledges, ramps, and walls that connect in baffling ways.  These would be 31 rope lengths in a three dimensional labyrinth.  Who knew how this would go?

We armed ourselves with home-made black bean tacos and a trove of addictive cookies baked by Laura,  waded through the Friday rush hour, and exited the highway by the three giant white crosses, two oversized american flags, and municipal water tank--all arranged upon the hill like a still-life representation of the lands were we about to enter.

The steering wheel of Alex's Subaru tugged to the right.  I knew the tires were near bald from seasons of pushing them north, south, west...maybe this was just a warning.

"It's flat."

We pulled to the side of the road, swapped the tire by the light of a kind WV officer who'd come to investigate our hazards, and continued on our way listening to the whine of the front differential compensating for the doughnut.  Our adventure had officially begun.

We could see headlamp beams draped across the distant wall as we pulled into the lot around 11pm.  We met their owners as we silently marched up the darkened stair cases in the woods, and exchanged a few words.  They had their adventure--finally coming to a happy and welcome close, triumphant over stuck ropes and the uncertainty of darkness--and we had ours, just now emerging from belligerent daydream to the conflicting sensations of reality.

Theft at Seneca

We finished our day on the Seneca classic, Ecstasy, this past Sunday. Before starting the climb, a couple guys stopped to pick our brains on Candy Corner, asking whether it could be done with a rope that'd been chopped to 45 meters.

The guy doing all the talking was fat, sported tribal tats, a green plug earing, and a backwoods drawl.  I didn't see him climbing anything, let alone on lead. "Good for him," I thought.

He told us they had only a few black diamond camalots, a set of wired nuts and their chopped rope, all distributed between the several bags they were carrying.  I wasn't sure why he was telling us all of this. Meanwhile, the other guy smirked off to the side.

The thought popped in my head halfway up the climb, "Those guys are going to take our stuff."

We cruised the last pitches and rapped The Burn. I chanted in my head, "please be there, please be there," as I rounded the corner.

The scene was exactly as I'd feared. Camera, wallet, keys, ipod, climbing gear and shoes--gone.  My partner's pack remained, but they had taken his shoes.  They took our freaking shoes so we would be slow to follow.

I tore down the stairmaster, crossed the stream and sprinted, barefoot, into town.

The pain in my feet felt good and I couldn't wait to connect with the scum who took my pack.

Town was deserted. A girl walked out of Yokums and stared, no doubt wondering what this barefoot, sweat drenched, crazy-eyed climber was doing in the middle of the street.

Later I gave a police report and wrote notes for the guys at the Gendarme and the climbing school.

Much thanks to those at Yokums last night, and to the guys at the Gendarme who have been spreading the word.

Renters insurance covered everything. Then, the rotund thief and his banjo accompaniment were caught. Tim and I went to the station one Sunday evening on the way home from Seneca for the photo line up. To this day I get small restitution checks from the Pendleton County Police Station. Big thanks to trooper Ware who is the funniest/most intimidating officer I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Notes from the Old Rag Bear Attack

-Met up with Tim from the gym after work.
-Hiked out to Old Rag by headlamp friday night and camped at the base of Strawberry Fields.
-Come morning, Tim hang dogged Strawberry Fields. I followed.
-I led the first pitch of Return to Sickbay, the route over in the corner to the left of Strawberry Fields that starts with the chimney, then a finger and hand crack exit. Very cool. Tim followed.
-I climbed the first pitch again and continued up to the second for the layback section. The climbed wasn't too hard, but committing, as there were no rests from the layback. The crack was filled with wet slime and moss, so I wasn't able to get reliable gear. I bailed ten feet from the top, as I was sure everything would rip given a slip on the dirty smears.
-After hiking up to rap and clean the gear, we bushwacked down to find Bushwack Crack.
-We were having a hell of a time trying to find our way in the dense woods. Then we came upon a bear.
-Tim starts "soloing" up a low angle and dirty dirty corner to get away. I just laughed.
-After a while of watching and being fascinated by the bear, we started tossing small rocks and making noise to scare it away.
-We continued deeper into the woods and found Bushwack Crack. It was amazing.
-I tried to lead it, but ended up hang dogging. I need to get back and get it clean. I'm not going to describe it. You have to see it for yourself.
-Hiked back to camp and found the rain fly on Tim's tent shredded, his pack and my stuff-sack of food, gone.
-We look up to see the bear 30' away tearing into Tim's pack.
-Tim starts looking for things to "solo" to escape the bear. I laugh and watched.
-I break out a beer and toss one up to Tim, who had found another dirty ramp to climb, and we discussed the situation.
-Tim's headlamp, phone and car keys were in the pack. We had to get it back. It was soon going to be dark. It looked like it was about to storm.
-We created an "escape route" by rigging tandem single line rappels over that little 30' drop just past Report to Sickbay. Then we started yelling "ROAR!" and trundling rocks and throwing logs.
-The bear retreated about 20 feet, then more. Soon it was about a hundred feet off.
-One of us would keep making noise while the other rushed in and grabbed our stuff.
-We hiked out as it fell completely dark. We weren't going to stick around with that bear and the sky looking to storm.
-Famous words from Saturday morning, "That's not bear shit.  There aren't any bears in VA!"  Tim will never let me live that down.