Hang Doggin’

One day, I too will reach this level of badassitude

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Like a number of my photos of it, the weekend somewhat lacked focus, but was still functional and pleasing.

The operative word of Saturday was “eventually”. After satisfying the Surgeon General’s daily recommendation of sleeping in, Shelly busted out an INSANELY good fritatta of eggs, shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, tomato, spinach, and cheese. Words fail me, and memory only taunts me, so I’ll leave it at that. A few trips back and forth to retrieve gear that was inevitably forgotten, followed by picking up and Ben (who I would swear was still drunk despite his vehement denials), and we hit the road for Bend.

First stop was Red Point for a new pair of climbing shoes, since my original pair had become the equivilant of climbing in 10-year-old unwashed gym socks, complete with holes and smell. After cramming my feet into a variety of painfully uncomfortable bindings of leather and rubber then paying $115 to take a pair with me to do it some more, we headed to Bend to meet up with Timmy and Becky, owners of the Bend climber dirtbag/ski bum flophouse, and the best hosts known to man. The evening was a mess of dogs, stories, frosting, and rum, punctuated by a stop at Soba Noodle for dinner, Zoolander back at the flophouse, and Tim and I flashing the occasional Blue Steel for effect. We also met a new friend Kenny from Park City, also crashing for the week at Extremohaus. Hope to run into him again someday.

Since we avoided the cold of the Grasslands this time around, we got a slow start on Sunday, but finally crawled off the floor, waded through the dogs, and shored up with coffee and double fudge chocolate muffins (part of a complete breakfast), left for Smith. Nobody was really feeling the mojo, so we stuck to the main area to do some sport climbs. I set up 9 Gallon Buckets (5.9) for a warmup, while Ben, after declaring his choice of extra-spicy Pad Thai the night before a very poor one, decided that Light On The Path (5.10a) was a good start to take his mind off “the ring of fire”. This worked far better than he’d planned, as he took a 25ft. whipper that generated sound effects from both him and everyone else in the area.

Our next bid was my nemesis, Captain Xenolith, a 5.10a that is 20ft. of misery and nonexistant holds, followed by one long no-hands rest to the anchors. I have yet to climb it clean, and this attempt was no exception, but I came closer than ever. The final climb of the day was Double Trouble (5.10b), one of my new favorites. By this point, general malaise was setting in as dinner from the night before was making everyone very familar with Smith’s outstanding restrooms, and my toes were growing tired of being repeatedly crushed and maimed by my new, but otherwise outstanding shoes. A stop for gas at the Arco necessitated Quesadillas from the little-known home of the best mex food in town, and then we were gone, still dazed in the unyielding grip of climbing afterglow.

(additional, and much better quality pics courtesy of )