Reposted with permission from Owen, our displaced New England climber!

******************************************************************************************************

So the good part about being in New York in the summertime is that, unlike summer in SF, I can wear tank tops all fucking day long. I went straight to day drinking from leaving the ex’s new apt and picked one up on the way to change out of my sequin dress. But that’s basically where it ends.

The bad part is that I’m not in The New, where it’s surely way fucking hotter, in every conceivable sense of the word.

I first found gay climbing via Flame and Flash as a total fucking noob. It was a year ago. Mikey reached out, and was patient while I had my little gong fest on a 10a in the gym. Then he gave me hard-on while he redpointed 13b. But I digress.

Never had I met as diverse and fun group of people than when I met the FnF guys. That of couse until I went to Bishop for HC West.

We arrived, stocked up on beef jerky, and headed straight into MY gorge (Yes they named it after me, and yes Rio, please go after the oral sex reference)

I met Chavez, and St Louis Crew and then headed to The Great Wall of China. Tim Ketting was actually wearing a harness (seriously, and not even the kind used to get railed). Rio introduced himself right after lowering off of Aurora (he was scared as shit and laughing his ass off), and Connor kept pushing me up harder leads so I could properly get my then twinky bottom lead head on right. We kept crushing for the next 4 days and raged the next four nights. I hung out with Thomas and Matty, crushed it with the heelhookers , Marlyand and Texas, and got into rescue mode for a near epic.

Somewhere between the acknowledging one of the trip’s defining memes (“Bird poop, don’t fall, gay climbing…”) and gorilla gay-bar-ing Rusty’s saloon, I realized that this scene was larger than fucking life.

We headed back to SF with quick stopover at Matty Lamos’ Mom’s house so we could have coffee and look at the hilarious high school photos on the wall (add 30 pounds and 6 inches of hair. Despite how hot he is now, those were pure. fucking. gold). I ended up in SF with torn hands, a shit ton of fond memories, and no STI’s. It was epic.

I promised myself I’d make to the New, and for reasons that only leave myself to blame, I didn’t get on top of my shit and make it down.

So as I sit here, refreshing Grindr and Adam4Adam, getting ready for a days worth of meetings all over a humid, schweaty, sticky Manhattan and read the Facebook posts, I’m filled with a warm chest full of… *sigh* regret.

I really wish I could have been there.

I try to explain to family and non-climber friends what this oddly named queer climbing thing is all about, and it’s honestly hard to put into words. They typically ask why we need our own climbing club, and if we’re that oppressed, or something. No, granted, Uh-Merica isn’t uniformly that accepting, but the question misses the point. What shocked me about Homo Climbtastic was how such a diverse group of guys and (yeah, fucking represent!) girls the sport of climbing attracts. Better still, how 50+ of us can unite in these random po-dunk towns where Sarah Palin could likely do OK at a book signing, and not only rage, but earn the respect and praise off the locals. Heads up Rick Stantorum, the gays are taking a big, slippery whipper into a town near you.

So for those of you that went, I’m jealous. And for those of you that are reading this but never did go, trust me, next time there’s a meetup, be it Rumney, the Red or fucking Red Rocks, you get yourself there.

Climb safe, crush hard, bottom powerfully.

Miss you all.

Owie

Thursday afternoon I started my journey to New Hampshire with some very important business. I drove to Trader Joe’s in Bethesda where I live at the absolute last possible minute on a mission to get the unobtainable items for my good friend from Toronto. After a very successful run to the store I finally started my supposed 9-1/2 hour journey to D’Acres at about 2:30PM. Most of the trek was smooth sailing until about the last portion of Connecticut on I-91. The entire road was closed and the signs just said to find your own alternate route. I took the last exit before the closure and headed north, or at least I thought I was heading north. About an hour later I was back on I-91N near Six Flags at the beginning of Massachusetts. Another uneventful portion of the trip until route 4 in NH threw me for a loop because of lack of sleep and poor directions from google. Finally I arrived at D’Acres at about 2:30AM.

Friday AM: I woke up abruptly with the full sunlight at 7AM, downstairs I found an offer for breakfast and the 4 of the Toronto Mo’s who drove through the night to get here thanks to Anthony. I hitched a ride to the rocks and we ended up at Upper New Wave where we found Lambert and Twinky Spice who had also driven up from NY the night before. The option to climb 5.8 moderates was not appealing to me so Anthony and I set up on the 5.10c warm-up whose name I can’t remember. The 10 was more heady and difficult than the 11a that we did later, so perhaps not the wisest decision. The mindset for me was that there aren’t any climbs easier than 10’s at the New so it can’t be a problem, unfortunately the combination of lack of sleep and lack of outdoor climbing on my part leading up to this trip made for a pretty crappy first day of climbing

.

I had received text messages from Rio letting me know when he was arriving, and that he found some CRUX climbers at the crag when he arrived. Lambert, the T.O. ‘Mo’s, and I decided to take an early day since we were all worn out and didn’t want to ruin the rest of the trip from fatigue. We went back to D’Acres had pizza dinner and after asking where Rio was all night he finally arrived.

Saturday morning came only slightly later than Friday, but breakfast at D’Acres was awesome. I rode with Ken, Rio, and Andrew to the crag and soon after collecting my bag I basically stripped down to almost nothing. Donning only my gaysuit and hiking backpack, we followed Lambert up to Jimmy cliff. Justin AKA “Twinkie Spice” said he saw a bear cub which put most of us on edge. Strangely, Justin didn’t think anything was wrong with seeing a baby bear even though most of the rest of us could only think of an angry momma bear. We bushwhacked through to find the actual trail to Jimmy cliff and continued on with the other CRUX climbers. During the long hike, everyone had a chance to see the cute blue bathing suit walking in front of them, and I got lots of compliments. I decided today was going to be a good day.

We finally got to Jimmy cliff. Most people hung out to the right on the longer routes at Jimmy, while another contingent of the CRUX group headed back to Jimmy Left for some of the harder climbs. I lead Things I Never Learned 5.9, then saw some cool features to the right of the climb. After two different attempts I found the beta for the newly created Who Wears Short Shorts 5.10b for a First Alternate Gay Start, F.A.G.S. The rock looked bare at first but after two different times I sent the climb and aptly named it after my current apparel. Sadly there was something posted on Mountain Project early this year describing the same thing so it was not a true F.A.. The afternoon was almost awash from the rain storm that threatened the area, people on the crag saw pouring down rain just on the other side of the valley. We packed up all the gear in sight and headed down to Waimea.

After running a pointless rescue mission in nothing but my gaysuit I went back down to see what everyone was getting on.  The two main objectives were to climb either Flying Hawaiian(5.11b) with the nerve racking dihedral which I already heard that people too falls on youch! Or, the more moderate yet still classic Waimea 5.10d.   Naturally since I was already feeling a little tired I chose to hang out and watch people on Waimea before I got my turn on it.  I started to find my relaxed groove but still I got frustrated because I think I took just before the Jesus hold, AKA a super jug that you can rest on hanging by one arm if you wanted to.  There is a cruxy sequence just before Jesus that you have to just keep moving through and not think about the fact that you are pulling on crimpy small holds.  The climb is not over yet at this point but it gets significantly more manageable.  Once you pull yourself onto the slab it becomes a footwork game and thankfully the lower off is right nearby.

Sorry to cut this off randomly but this is a first for me and hopefully it has been a decent read.  Please post comments if you have any better perspectives like the view of my ass which is conveniently shown here for your viewing pleasure.

Chris

Part II to be posted at a later time

Coming off the high of the annual Homo Climbtastic trip to the NRG, Chris Black, Leader of LA’s Top Out Rock Bottom sent out an email to the other West Coast group leaders.  He suggested a late summer, early fall rock trip for us left coasters.  We discussed dates and destinations, and at least considered not wanting to steal any glory from the Labor Day Rumney trip.  But after realizing that all the likely Rumney trip candidates from the west were on the thread AND too broke to fly out (and furthermore that it was unlikely we’d steal any Rumney attendees) we decided on Labor Day weekend as well.  Now you would think it would be easy to find rock climbing in California that is not only hospitable during the month of September, but also approximately equidistant for both the Bottoms and the Flashers.  However, as it turns out, there is only one: Clarks Canyon.

Clarks is tucked away behind about 5-6 miles of single-vehicle-wide dirt road.  The approach is trecherous… for your car. The road has large rocks in the middle of the road, and bushes that threaten to key your car on either side.  It’s like playing “would you rather” with a masochist AND a rapist.  However, Gavin seemed to make quick work of the approach in his Celica (I’ll wait for the results from his mechanic before I make it official).

As a co-leader, I wanted to get an early start, so I headed out of San Francisco at 3:30pm on Thursday.  I took Friday off, and had the goal of getting 4 days of climbing in.  I rolled into Big Springs Campground late Thursday night, and surprisingly, there were still several camping sites open.  However, I recounted camping there before.  It’s primarily inhabited by enthusiasts of the all-terrain: getting woken up by the “rad-it-tat-tat” of a large 2-stroke engine is not exactly my favorite stroke to wake up to.  So I decided that I would continue in the dark down the not so well marked windy dirt roads to find the primitive “Clarks Camp”.  When I arrived I was initially thrilled that there were no other campers in the entire campground.  So I parked my car and set up camp.  The sky was clear and there was no moon.  I could see every star, but not much else.  There was no wind, and the only noise was the rustling my sleeping pad made when I would move slightly to turn the page in my book.  Then, abruptly, there were noises in my campsite.

I shut off my headlamp and began thinking to myself “There is a bear outside my tent! Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck.”  I was all by myself; I, unlike the southerners from HC’10, did NOT have a gun; and I didn’t even think of bringing bear mace.  I was armed with a small red button on my car keys labeled “Panic.”  However, like most, I had never pressed it.  Nor had I read the manual, so I was afraid to press it: in fear that I could not turn it off, and that it might disable the ignition until the battery died sometime after the bear had already gotten used to the noise and chomped happily on my brains.  Once the steps seceded into the silence, and my heart rate had dropped below 200, I fell asleep clutching my car keys against my chest with both hands.

The next morning, I was reading: waiting for Chris and David to arrive.  I was startled by the same noise I had heard the last night.  I spun around quickly to see a bird rustling in the underbrush behind my tent.  I still maintain that it was a bear and not a bird.

Chris and David arrived shortly thereafter in a giant, red, gas-guzzling, stereotype-shattering truck: a 1979 Ford Bronco.  The both hopped out and claimed the large campsite a hundred feet away from mine, where most of the others would camp and we would have our fires in the evenings.  We all jumped in Chris’s truck, and rode the remaining 2 miles of washboard dirt road to the crag.  The Bronco, unlike any of the other cars on the trip, had no problem with this road… well… except for Chris’s occasional push of the dashboard back onto it’s fully upright and locked position after being rattled nearly onto his and David’s lap several times.  Never before had I felt the almost uncontainable impulse to yell, “YEEEE-HA” followed by a drawn out “Sonofabitch!”  But I contained myself.

YEEEEE-HAAAAA!

The 3 of us climbed at Area 13, a great volcanic rock with slabby to vertical climbs filled with pockets typical of volcanic climbs.  And although not all of the holds were good, seemingly every hold had a small thumb-catch that would transform a sloper pocket into a bomber pinch.  Most of the routes were below 5.10, and were all classics with only a few climbs at or below a 3 star rating; most were in the 4-5 star range.  This, we decided, would be a great place to bring everyone tomorrow for a nice long warm up the next morning.

Chris chaulkin' up at Area 13.

As Friday drew to a close, and since the three of us constituted “the group” thus far, we decided that visiting one of the hot spring tubs would be an excellent pre-dinner activity.  So we headed out and checked in, via text of course, on all of the converging Bottoms and Flashers.  Dinner was to be at 7:30 in Mammoth Lakes.  Now 6:30, we were racing to squeeze in our hot dip.  We arrived at one of the tubs in a grassy field a few miles from the Mammoth Airport.  There were 4 men in the tub, and 3 were getting out.  So we jumped in and started chatting with the one remaining man.  He had long hair, and wore a old cowboy hat.  He identified as a “local” although he also said that his camper was just over the hill.

The scene couldn’t have been more picturesque: there were a few large bull wondering around in the amber fields as the orange sunlight beaming down on the vast landscape was cut in half by the towering mountains to the west.

The local started to tell us about how he was camping on an indian burial ground.  He knew this because he had spent the day digging a hole for his second-hand recliner to nestle.  And he told us about his “friends” that put on a show for him after kicking back in said recliner.  One was black, one was white, and all the women were “hussies”.  The black one and the white one got in fights often, but the white one always seemed to win.  “The white won had all the power, naturally,” he said.  We all shot a look at each other as if to say, “We’re not in the city anymore.”  The local saw this non-verbal communication and qualified his statement, “I’m talking about cows, of course.”  We all laughed.

When asked what the local does for work, he rambled off about “unlimited funds” and “giving back to the world.”  Which I think meant not much more than, “I have a nice truck, possibly because I won the lottery” and “I sit in this hot tub and act like a crazy hippie.”  He then insisted us on “showing us” by taking us on a spiritual journey that was supposed to help us live in the moment.  It was so silent that for the first time that I began to hear the Enya-like music coming from his truck, as if on cue.  Chris and David looked scared, and I decided to provoke the hippie by reaching out and grabbing his extended hand.  He told us all to “reach in, close your eyes, and feel your ass.”  I think Chris was about to reach for his because, the hippie qualified, “feel your ass against the tub… your legs warmed by the water… etc etc.”  It was actually quite fun to think about all of the things he listed from the wind that seemed to gust almost at his will, and the sunlight on our faces.  But at the same time, we all knew this guy was crazy and we had to get to dinner.  So I told him we had to leave and asked him his name.  “I have many.”  So I asked for his favorite. “Spirit wind” he replied.  I almost cried trying not to laugh.

At dinner, the group expanded one carpool at a time: first Mark and Derek, then Gavin and Eric.  Justin and Dana met us at the campsite about the time we were throwing around Gavin’s magical illuminated disk. (This is not a euphemism.  Although I’m not sure it could be, it sounds like it is.)  We all set up camp and went to bed, eager for the climbing that tomorrow would bring.

Gavin's Magic Disk