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Climbers, Yeah We're Different |
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by Ray Purcell |
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| I was on my way home from a weekend of climbing at Courtwright reservoir.� The Southern Sierra Climbers Assn. had gotten together for it's annual fall gathering.� It's part autumnal celebration of things vertical, a giving of |
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| Thanks for having cheated death over another year of climbing, and a part casting off of the dreariness of civility; in other words, a physical debauch and renewal of friendships.� My hands had the dusty smell of climbing chalk and granite and I was feeling really good.� In fact I was feeling really large and pitying the poor sods that didn't climb. |
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| While reveling in my self-superiority I recalled and ad campaign run by Addidas with the catch phrase "Runners, yeah we"re different."� Well that's just so much bullshit.� I run, and runners are just human beings that are more fidgety than most and just as neurotic, if not obsessive, and within a variation on the same theme as everyone else.� But I digress, what really captured me were the photos in the ad, the image.� My favorite is a guy who appears to have just finished a run, and is standing at the back of this SUV naked and covered with mud.� His running cloths are on the ground and he?s toweling off the muck while an older couple walk by with their dog.� It's base, I love it, and I identify with it.� It's the wanton disregard of the social niceties, if not the law.� The ad portrays a rebellion against refinement and the bold disregard for contrived etiquette. |
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| While this may not consistently define runners (Hash House Harriers excepted) these are certainly attributes quintessential of climbers.� If you climb you know.� If you climb and you don't know I'll be soon seeing your gear on E-bay- good riddins.� To prove my point just read Warren Harding, Steve Roper, John Long, or Jim Bridewell.� Climbers wither in the routine and despair of the conventional.� Life in the flatlands can even drive us to substance abuse- any excuse really. |
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| � In the days of frontier America our kind pressed the frontier as trappers or cavalry.� Today we?re climbers, criminals or both- just ask any Yosemite ranger.� Of course with supreme willpower we can live among them, the drones of society.� But we can be identified, climbing pictures are on our computer screens at work, there are carabineers on our key fobs, and Access Fund stickers on our cars.� Our thoughts are never far from the next climb or released by the last. |
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| And so, summarily excused by my wife, a saint of a woman who truly understands my affliction, I fled to Courtwright.� As I arrived at the reservoir I was surprised at not seeing anyone climbing on Powerhouse Wall, not even on A Little Nukey.� It was Noon, I thought, well everyone could be done and off for a siesta and/or cerveza.� I arrived at the predetermined rendezvous to find a circle of cars and trucks arranged in the tradition of the Romney Gypsies.� Rene Ardesch, reprobate emeritus of this vagabond gathering, immediately greeted me.� Rene is one of the founding fathers of the SSCA. About 9 years ago he along with Patrick Paul, and a band of other Southern Sierra pioneers, had the vision to organize climbers behind the cause of conserving the climbing resource of the region and preserving access, which they've been doing since.� I might add that organizing climbers is like herding cats and courting land use managers is like bathing them, so I really admire these guys. |
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| The Oakleys were there, Keith and Justin, along with their indominatable crag mutt Doggie.� I got reacquainted with Slick Watts and Barry Chambers, both prodigious assencionists.� I meet two boulderers of the first water, Joe and Mick, from Bakersfield.� Of course new friends are always a pleasure including Christine Abraham, whom I would climb with, and others that I'm too name impaired to remember-or too impaired to name. |
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| After getting organized and putting away a quick sandwich I joined the group who had set top ropes on a wall above our camp.� My first project turned out to be a 5.2-hard for me as I could hardly get of the ground.� The wall was featured with horizontal bands of slopper seams.� Only one of the four roped lines went for me and I enjoyed it so much that I went back for seconds.� After getting a reasonable pump, Joe and Mick announced that they were off to pursue the purer form of climbing, which I can only assume is bouldering bare foot and buck naked- the prospect of which I really don't want to envision. |
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| We reorganized later and Rene, Barry, Christine, the Oakleys, and I headed off to Marmot Dome.� We each picked a line and paired up.� Justin and I lead off on a fun and easy two pitch route which turned out to be the first climb that my son Sean and I had done here six years before, and on the same trip when we first meet Keith and Justin.� Even though the climb was well below Justin's climbing potential I was astonished to find him belaying me from a Charlie Brown Christmas tree growing out of a crack on the Dome (you didn't think I'd let you forget, did you Justin). |
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| The Sun was just setting as we all topped out.� The domes across the lake were taking on sunset colors accented by fall foliage of bright orange and red that formed the apron of their bases.� We talked, marveled, and soaked in the peaceful power of the scene.� Reluctantly we headed down and back to the cars hungry for dinner. |
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| After a robust dinner several of the group headed out for nefarious nocturnal recreation the substance of which, and the substances they were on I won't even discuss least it lead to an investigation on a federal level.� Though I myself didn't participate and have witnesses, my counsel for those who did would be; "wasn't there", "no one saw me", and " I might know who it was."� I opted for the campfire, a few tall Guinness', and substantial conversation.� It was the first night of the Autumnal Equinox and the primal campfire was somehow appropriate.� The night was right for something spiritual, savage, even pagan, instead I just went to bed- I must be getting old. |
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| The next day we spent the morning hanging out and bullshiting, but after several mugs of strong coffee and the last of my Little Brown Donuts (LBDs) I just had to get off my ass.� After many years of deep meditation and discipline 10 am is the latest on any day that I can hangout.� The group was called to hike out to Slasher Dome.� I was called to climb and was whining pitifully for a partner.� Christine wanted to stay with the group but I sensed the weakness in her conviction, which means I whined more at her than anyone else.� Taking pity on me we went back to do a climb on Marmot Dome that Rene and Barry had done the previous day.� It was another classic face climb with an intriguing 5.9 bulge step over move.� Christine led the crux with stunning grace and agility.� I'm not kissing ass, I just really suck up to my partners since they're not always easy to come by, and I still want to go do Crest Jewel. |
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| We all seek something in the act of climbing.� I seek humility and the reminder that I need God to get me through the things that I can't do on my own. So, where I frequently get gripped senseless I'm never disappointed, and the friendships that result are rich and diverse.� This is one forge that has shaped and refined me and climbing is my metaphor for life. Regardless of what we seek, we climb because of what we are more than what we become because of climbing.� So perhaps that's why what ever we may go on to, or back to, we return to climbing.� In the word of the late great Cactus Ed Abbey "a venturesome minority will always be egger to set off on their own, and no obstacle should be placed in their path; for God sake let them get lost, sunburnt, stranded, drowned, eaten by bears, buried alive under avalanches- that is the right and privilege of any free American."� See you at the crag! |
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| September 2001 |
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