i get high
Wow. What a beautiful mountain.
I went up and down Mr. Hood yesterday, a gorgeous peak in Oregon for those of you who didn't hear nonstop predatory coverage of "Climbers Dead on Mount Hood" all this winter.
I went with a group of incredibly cool people, the Chemeketans. If there's anyone reading this lives in Salem (there isn't), you should check them out. An all volunteer group of climbing, backpacking, cycling enthusiasts. Climbs are all free, except for helping out with gas. Incredible. All nice, awesome dudes. I went on their climb school a few weeks ago. Here's a sweet panorama from Horsethief Butte in the Gorge, after a fun climb up a chimney.
We arrived at the trailhead at midnight. As we got there, one of the members of the group lit up a clove cigarette, possibly the worst smelling grossest things ever. I was thinking, "Wow, this dude is so confident! I bet he's in great shape, probably a great climber." In Joe Simpson's book "Touching the Void," he mentions that he smoked cigarettes on pretty much every climb he went on except the fateful first ascent of Siula Grande. Jamling Tenzing Norgay refers to tobacco as "Sherpa Oxygen" in "Touching my Father's Soul." That title should have been the delicious pun of "Touching the Soul of my Father's Feat." All the Sherpa's smoke on Chomolungma/Everest. Jon Krakaur smoked on that mountain. He also burnt his tent down in a stoned stupor before a first ascent of a route on the Devil's Thumb. I was sure that smoking and climbing were not as seperate as one would think.
Homeboy was lagging a lot and turned around with another way underslept member of the group at about 8,500 feet. Oh well, but we'd have gotten up a lot quicker without the waiting. He was also smoking a cigarette on the glissade down. That is pretty badass though.
We got to the top of the Palmer glacier at about 3am or so, ate a quick bite, and strapped crampons on. There was endless tactical clank on this climb.
We got to the Hogsback -
- at about 6. There are a bunch of nasty fumaroles up there producing gross gut-wrenching sulfur smells. Volcanos. Put on harnesses and roped up, an unnecessary step but given that we're a club and all, liability is a factor. Its also excellent practice more technical climbs where it is very necessary. On the Hogsback, two dudes just descended, one of them in terrible shape. It was about 20 degrees at most, and a whiteout with 40 foot visability. One of the dudes, shaking uncontrollably, pale/blueish, with frost covering his eyelashes, nearly sealing them shut. Sunglasses are vital. He got down I guess, but just seemed so sad up there.
From the Hogsback, elevation about 10,500 ft, we cut left towards the Old Chute. This was about a 750 vertical foot pitch at about 65 degrees. The dude in front of me got creamed with a baby's head-sized chunk of ice, shattering the styrofoam on his helmet and knocking him over for a bit.
He powered through, and was really no worse for wear other than a sore neck. He got to the summit ridge -
-where he placed a few pickets. Again, not necessary, but good protection against the very real 50-60 mph winds. Here's a picture of me on the summit that I plan to use as a birthday card for my mom in a few weeks. Shhhhhh, it's a surprise.
The whiteout broke just when we were descending. Naturally.
Excellent time.
I went up and down Mr. Hood yesterday, a gorgeous peak in Oregon for those of you who didn't hear nonstop predatory coverage of "Climbers Dead on Mount Hood" all this winter.
I went with a group of incredibly cool people, the Chemeketans. If there's anyone reading this lives in Salem (there isn't), you should check them out. An all volunteer group of climbing, backpacking, cycling enthusiasts. Climbs are all free, except for helping out with gas. Incredible. All nice, awesome dudes. I went on their climb school a few weeks ago. Here's a sweet panorama from Horsethief Butte in the Gorge, after a fun climb up a chimney.
We arrived at the trailhead at midnight. As we got there, one of the members of the group lit up a clove cigarette, possibly the worst smelling grossest things ever. I was thinking, "Wow, this dude is so confident! I bet he's in great shape, probably a great climber." In Joe Simpson's book "Touching the Void," he mentions that he smoked cigarettes on pretty much every climb he went on except the fateful first ascent of Siula Grande. Jamling Tenzing Norgay refers to tobacco as "Sherpa Oxygen" in "Touching my Father's Soul." That title should have been the delicious pun of "Touching the Soul of my Father's Feat." All the Sherpa's smoke on Chomolungma/Everest. Jon Krakaur smoked on that mountain. He also burnt his tent down in a stoned stupor before a first ascent of a route on the Devil's Thumb. I was sure that smoking and climbing were not as seperate as one would think.
Homeboy was lagging a lot and turned around with another way underslept member of the group at about 8,500 feet. Oh well, but we'd have gotten up a lot quicker without the waiting. He was also smoking a cigarette on the glissade down. That is pretty badass though.
We got to the top of the Palmer glacier at about 3am or so, ate a quick bite, and strapped crampons on. There was endless tactical clank on this climb.
tac·ti·cal clank (tkt-kl klnk)
n.
Of, relating to, the sound of tactical aluminum, titanium, and steel items clanking together when suspended from a seat harness. ('biners, atc's pickets, blah blah)
Characterized by adroitness, ingenuity, or skill.
We got to the Hogsback -
- at about 6. There are a bunch of nasty fumaroles up there producing gross gut-wrenching sulfur smells. Volcanos. Put on harnesses and roped up, an unnecessary step but given that we're a club and all, liability is a factor. Its also excellent practice more technical climbs where it is very necessary. On the Hogsback, two dudes just descended, one of them in terrible shape. It was about 20 degrees at most, and a whiteout with 40 foot visability. One of the dudes, shaking uncontrollably, pale/blueish, with frost covering his eyelashes, nearly sealing them shut. Sunglasses are vital. He got down I guess, but just seemed so sad up there.
From the Hogsback, elevation about 10,500 ft, we cut left towards the Old Chute. This was about a 750 vertical foot pitch at about 65 degrees. The dude in front of me got creamed with a baby's head-sized chunk of ice, shattering the styrofoam on his helmet and knocking him over for a bit.
He powered through, and was really no worse for wear other than a sore neck. He got to the summit ridge -
-where he placed a few pickets. Again, not necessary, but good protection against the very real 50-60 mph winds. Here's a picture of me on the summit that I plan to use as a birthday card for my mom in a few weeks. Shhhhhh, it's a surprise.
The whiteout broke just when we were descending. Naturally.
Excellent time.
Life with no internet
except at work:
-makes for increased book reading
-makes for decreased blog blogging
-makes for so much less media frenzying
-has led to missing like a million psychedelic salon podcasts
I am getting internet at my new house soon though, which is pretty cool.
-makes for increased book reading
-makes for decreased blog blogging
-makes for so much less media frenzying
-has led to missing like a million psychedelic salon podcasts
I am getting internet at my new house soon though, which is pretty cool.
Belay's On
Spring is intense. Every Winter-Spring transition gets me closer and closer to accepting that I’ve finally actually gone crazy. Then the change resolves itself and things are really ok. Very pregnant time. I bet the transition effects everyone pretty profoundly, but I am sure that the amount that you vaccinate/medicate yourself against the change determines how much you feel it
I am all moved into my new place, settled and creating. The gentleman who read Chapter 3 of the awesome audiobook project is the owner of the house, Mr. Gregg Dart. He has a 25 year vision for the house. I think he wants to turn it into a collective housing arrangement of sorts after an extensive remodel.
Here’s the backyard. Very cluttered, but in order of sorts. Doesn’t bother me, as I have some slightly disputed gardening space next door, and the “back-back” abuts Pringle Creek. It’s a cute little stream that bears Salmon. It’s in good enough shape to keep Salmon alive and bear them year after year, but it’s still overrun by hima blackberries and ivy and other invasive nasties. Also, it empties into the Willamette, which means it has a certain baseline of being fucked as a waterway, with how brutalized that ane is.
I have lived in valleys always. Maybe not in Connecticut, but probably. Delaware Valley, Hudson Valley, “Happy Valley” in Utah, Independence Valley, Willamette Valley. Many. Great tactical position. You can “snikt” out enemy forces guerilla-style as they descend into the trees coming into the valley, then escape via the waterways to avoid dogs detecting you.
I have been trying to do lucid dreaming for the past few weeks, with great success. I get to see a very important person every night. The next step is to sync lucid dreaming from a distance so that we can just hang out on the astral plane in sleep’s sanctum sanctorum.
I built this cold frame and got shit started in there. Things are freaking out.
I think I will always have terrible luck growing and propagating Salvia Divinorum. They always stay in a runt size, super slow to grow. I just threw mine out in the cold frame to give it a changeup from being indoors all the time. I also introduced some worms and compost to the soil to give it a boost.
What a very odd thing to do to a tree. This person totally gets egged on mischief night. MISCHIEF NIGHT. Is there something genuinely funny about that concept? Just go out and be mischievous. That’s your only instruction.
I’ve been biking from work recently, a nice 25 mile ride through the country. Fitness tests! Spring cleaning of shit in my lungs and dust on my mitochondria.