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Jul 12, 2010, 4:43 PM

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Registered: Jun 7, 2005

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Re: [johnwesely] The Long Awaited, Much Anticipated, Notorius, Hopefully not Overly Laborious, Lonestar Gunks TR [ In reply to ]

Report this Post (0 ratings) Average:(0 ratings) Can't Post johnwesely wrote: Part One: The Early Years



So I find myself at the New Paltz bus station, but find isn't exactly the right word. Lost is perhaps even less accurate, but had a sort of truth to it. I knew with cartographic precision were I was geographically. I certainly knew were I was going, that thought having pervaded my thoughts for the last four months, but nothing else was clear.



Twenty four hours earlier I was getting on to a Greyhound Bus, A few before that I was sitting in the station. Chaotic, to say the least, the Atlanta Greyhound station was not the most welcoming start to my journey. Smack dab in the bad part of town and housing at least a few convicts who were transferring prisons, the station did little to assuage my fears that my backpack would be stolen, and that I would arrive sans gear to my destination. Being the neurotic worrier that I am, I replayed every worse case scenario in my head. Arriving in a rainstorm and dying from hypothermia due to a lack of tent was the worse I could think of. Arriving without climbing shoes seemed almost as bad.



Those fears were irrational. If they actually came to pass, they would have been nowhere near as bad as envisioned. However, one fear was real. It filled me with a gnawing doubt that made me reconsider the whole trip. If I arrived without gear, I would find a way to climb. This fear would leave me stranded for six weeks with nothing to do no matter how much gear I had.



My friend Josh Robertson's death less than a month previous had left me mentally shaken. It was as if all the climbing experience I had ever accumulated had simply vanished, and in it's place, was nothing but fear and doubt. I was no longer the climber I had grown to be, cautious but calculating and able to silence fear. I was the thirteen year old me, consumed by irrational worry. My only climbing outing since the accident ended in major disappointment. My climbing ability was replaced by pure terror. On a no hands rest, I felt certain I would fall at any moment. At every opportunity, I placed half a gear shop's worth of gear.



Could I be healed? That question played over and over in my head on the bus. My only entertainment for the ride was a collection of Kafka stories. Perhaps, I would have been better served by a Bible. I could only read half a story at a time. The ride was not particularly smooth, and I am prone to car, now bus, sickness. Night fell, but sleep would not come. The bus might as well have been forty degrees on the inside. The seats were hardly comfortable. However, had Greyhound provided me a king size bed, I doubt I would have slept. The constant transfer stops and long layovers in the fluorescent lit stations ensured that my next day would be a tired one.



Thus, I arrived in New Paltz, tired, mentally weary, unsure. With almost ninety pounds on my back and a steady rain coming down on my head, I ambled towards Rock And Snow, the local and somewhat legendary climbing store. I had been planning on getting a ride with someone going up to the cliffs, but the rain, in addition to making me wet, canceled that plan for me. I would have to hitchhike the old fashioned way, which meant I wouldn't be able to fill up my collapsible water jug. I would have to somehow wrangle myself water once I arrived.



The worse thing about hitchhiking isn't trusting your life to complete strangers. The worse thing is that when a car passes you on the side of road, it appears to accelerate significantly as it passes you. Not only does this sensation mean that another car has not picked you up, but the cars all seem to be intentionally burning you off. I must have walked close to a mile in the mud before a car picked me up. I am glad they did, as I doubt I could have walked much farther. There were three people in the car that acted as my savior. They were college students and musicians and they were going up to the cliffs to smoke some pot. I was glad for that.



My first close view of the cliffs took my breath away. They seemed to go on forever and were imposing, despite looking like 300 foot tall road cut. When my new friends dropped me off I was again alone. Weary, I set up my tent in the first site I saw and made a meager dinner of undercooked rice, a staple for the next week. Now, I had two separate but both equally pressing concerns. I needed more water, but I also needed to see the cliffs. For water I needed to go down to the convenience store. For cliffs, I had to go to the cliffs.



Luckily for me, the map given to me by one of the rangers displayed a path that could accomplish both of these goals. This was how I set off for my first journey down the carriage road, one I would be wholly sick of by the end of the trip. I would not have to wait long for my rock seeing desire to be quenched. Almost immediately across the bridge from Camp Slime, I encountered my first boulders and my first friend. The boulders were soaked, but Douglass Weiss would prove to be both a stable and trustworthy companion in the coming weeks. At this meeting however, we exchanged some brief words, and I went on my way.



When I came to the uberfall, I was both impressed and intimidated. Horseman (5.5) with its steep hanging dihedral not only looked hard, but I had heard it was easy for the grade and more like a 5.4. Before the trip I was overjoyed with the prospect of endless steep moderates, but now they did not look so moderate. I went up to feel the starting holds. They were slick from the rain, but didn't feel like they would be good even if they weren't. The gnawing doubt grew stronger.



I made my way along the carriage road and down the East Trapps Connector Trail, AKA the stair master. When I came out on the road, I was greeted with plentiful honks from motorists who were upset with me for sharing their road. I made it to the store without getting mowed down by an SUV and paid my 3 dollars for a gallon of water and 8 dollars for a sandwich. I knew I was getting screwed, but I needed the water and my rice dinner didn't exactly fill me up. The sandwich was sub par, but I was so hungry that it didn't matter.



I walked the 1.5 uphill miles back to camp and, exhausted, fell asleep. It was around four in the afternoon. I slept like a baby. Part One: The Early YearsSo I find myself at the New Paltz bus station, but find isn't exactly the right word. Lost is perhaps even less accurate, but had a sort of truth to it. I knew with cartographic precision were I was geographically. I certainly knew were I was going, that thought having pervaded my thoughts for the last four months, but nothing else was clear.Twenty four hours earlier I was getting on to a Greyhound Bus, A few before that I was sitting in the station. Chaotic, to say the least, the Atlanta Greyhound station was not the most welcoming start to my journey. Smack dab in the bad part of town and housing at least a few convicts who were transferring prisons, the station did little to assuage my fears that my backpack would be stolen, and that I would arrive sans gear to my destination. Being the neurotic worrier that I am, I replayed every worse case scenario in my head. Arriving in a rainstorm and dying from hypothermia due to a lack of tent was the worse I could think of. Arriving without climbing shoes seemed almost as bad.Those fears were irrational. If they actually came to pass, they would have been nowhere near as bad as envisioned. However, one fear was real. It filled me with a gnawing doubt that made me reconsider the whole trip. If I arrived without gear, I would find a way to climb. This fear would leave me stranded for six weeks with nothing to do no matter how much gear I had.My friend Josh Robertson's death less than a month previous had left me mentally shaken. It was as if all the climbing experience I had ever accumulated had simply vanished, and in it's place, was nothing but fear and doubt. I was no longer the climber I had grown to be, cautious but calculating and able to silence fear. I was the thirteen year old me, consumed by irrational worry. My only climbing outing since the accident ended in major disappointment. My climbing ability was replaced by pure terror. On a no hands rest, I felt certain I would fall at any moment. At every opportunity, I placed half a gear shop's worth of gear.Could I be healed? That question played over and over in my head on the bus. My only entertainment for the ride was a collection of Kafka stories. Perhaps, I would have been better served by a Bible. I could only read half a story at a time. The ride was not particularly smooth, and I am prone to car, now bus, sickness. Night fell, but sleep would not come. The bus might as well have been forty degrees on the inside. The seats were hardly comfortable. However, had Greyhound provided me a king size bed, I doubt I would have slept. The constant transfer stops and long layovers in the fluorescent lit stations ensured that my next day would be a tired one.Thus, I arrived in New Paltz, tired, mentally weary, unsure. With almost ninety pounds on my back and a steady rain coming down on my head, I ambled towards Rock And Snow, the local and somewhat legendary climbing store. I had been planning on getting a ride with someone going up to the cliffs, but the rain, in addition to making me wet, canceled that plan for me. I would have to hitchhike the old fashioned way, which meant I wouldn't be able to fill up my collapsible water jug. I would have to somehow wrangle myself water once I arrived.The worse thing about hitchhiking isn't trusting your life to complete strangers. The worse thing is that when a car passes you on the side of road, it appears to accelerate significantly as it passes you. Not only does this sensation mean that another car has not picked you up, but the cars all seem to be intentionally burning you off. I must have walked close to a mile in the mud before a car picked me up. I am glad they did, as I doubt I could have walked much farther. There were three people in the car that acted as my savior. They were college students and musicians and they were going up to the cliffs to smoke some pot. I was glad for that.My first close view of the cliffs took my breath away. They seemed to go on forever and were imposing, despite looking like 300 foot tall road cut. When my new friends dropped me off I was again alone. Weary, I set up my tent in the first site I saw and made a meager dinner of undercooked rice, a staple for the next week. Now, I had two separate but both equally pressing concerns. I needed more water, but I also needed to see the cliffs. For water I needed to go down to the convenience store. For cliffs, I had to go to the cliffs.Luckily for me, the map given to me by one of the rangers displayed a path that could accomplish both of these goals. This was how I set off for my first journey down the carriage road, one I would be wholly sick of by the end of the trip. I would not have to wait long for my rock seeing desire to be quenched. Almost immediately across the bridge from Camp Slime, I encountered my first boulders and my first friend. The boulders were soaked, but Douglass Weiss would prove to be both a stable and trustworthy companion in the coming weeks. At this meeting however, we exchanged some brief words, and I went on my way.When I came to the uberfall, I was both impressed and intimidated. Horseman (5.5) with its steep hanging dihedral not only looked hard, but I had heard it was easy for the grade and more like a 5.4. Before the trip I was overjoyed with the prospect of endless steep moderates, but now they did not look so moderate. I went up to feel the starting holds. They were slick from the rain, but didn't feel like they would be good even if they weren't. The gnawing doubt grew stronger.I made my way along the carriage road and down the East Trapps Connector Trail, AKA the stair master. When I came out on the road, I was greeted with plentiful honks from motorists who were upset with me for sharing their road. I made it to the store without getting mowed down by an SUV and paid my 3 dollars for a gallon of water and 8 dollars for a sandwich. I knew I was getting screwed, but I needed the water and my rice dinner didn't exactly fill me up. The sandwich was sub par, but I was so hungry that it didn't matter.I walked the 1.5 uphill miles back to camp and, exhausted, fell asleep. It was around four in the afternoon. I slept like a baby.

johnwesely wrote: Wow, that was long. Wow, that was long.





