Don't Let That Rock Chew On You
"Duuuuuuuuuddddde!" the strung-out blond surfer boy says to me at Smith Rock Camp Ground in Oregon.
"Dude, what rock chewed on you?"
I smile but the pain is incredible. A friend of mine flips the knob for the water from the sink. The water sprays out all over my badly skinned- up knees. Blood, gravel, dirt and sweat swirl down the drain. My nails grind into the sink; I take a big deep breath.
I am furious, simply furious.
It's ok to get these injuries doing something cool. It's ok to hobble to work to go see my peer 30-something crow
d that did little besides make it to the grocery store and flip through a few football games over the weekend. And it's even ok when I have to rip panty hose out of these nasty wounds when I wear silly girl clothes in an office job. But it's not ok when it is caused by stupidity.
"Dude" is still standing there waiting for an answer. His California wild hair-do makes him look like he hasn't made it through the shower line at the campground in a while. He's maybe 17 or 18, doesn't quite need to shave yet. He's fresh from the rock ....small backpack, rock shoes, chalk bag, a few biners. His scrawny but over-toned body is just burned well beyond on a deep tan. He pulls out his cigarette, Marlboro, lights one up.
"Well," I start to explain, "I had this great day of climbing. Over by 5 gallon buckets. Some real awesome laybacks and chimneys and pure arm-pumping fun. But then as I was walking back, I tripped on my untied hiking boots and ripped open my knee. These rocks in the parking lot are real sharp."
He looks closer. "Dude, that's bitch'n bad luck. But you shouldn't tell people about trip'n babe. You should tell 'em like you were on this totally bitch'n hard 5.13a. A bolt popped. It jus
t whacked your belayer right out. You took one hell of a nasty dive. Babe, you grabbed that little crimper, just hangin on long enough to get a new belayer. You screamed for the guy the next climb over to grab your rope. Much better story babe."
Years ago the feminist in me would have been offended by his use of "babe" but now his use of it just makes me smile. I am glad I am not too old to be called "babe."
He continues, "Or babe. You were climbing on nuts. None of this bolt shit. Just those nuts on a super hard layback crack," he smiles, sucks long and hard on his cigarette like it's going to help his creativit
y. "Yeah nuts, because babes just don't lead on nuts. And part of this whole flake comes flying off. You just tapped the thing babe. It yanks you down. The nuts, the first one just POPs. The second one, babe, the second one leaves you swinging. One hell of a whipper. 30 feet at least. Gashes your knee wide open."
He smiles. I am trying to get the dirt out of my knee.
He says, "Yeah, babe, tell 'em the 2nd story. Nuts, no bolts. Ok?"
I can do nothing but agree. I watch him wander off to his beater car, a VW Gulf on its last few miles ... a car converted manually into a convertible. Probably Dude just decided one day that he needed some fresh air so he sawed off the top.
I don't see Dude any more that night. In the Smith Rock camp ground it's hard to find anyone unless you meet them in the bathrooms after dark. But I smile, thinking of Dude. He's just so ... "dude-like" is the only answer I can come up with.
The next day, my climbing is absolutely shot. I am bummed because it's j
ust a beautiful day and I am stuck hobbling around the camp ground with huge bandages on my knee. A few people, mainly tourists who have driven out to the rocks just to hike, ask me what happened but my vocabulary just can't produce the Dude story so instead I tell them the truth.
At lunch I decide I just can't stand sitting so I wander down past "Rope-de-Dope," to the river, and across the stream. It's a long painful walk because it yanks on all the tape on my knee. I study the impressive Smith Rock formations. I look along Asterick pass, over by Peanut, Tammy Baker's Face, and by 5 Gallon Bucket. I try to spot where my friends are climbing today.
Then I look over to the Dihedrals, a couple of pitches up, on a face, and I spot one single climber. I look for ropes, look for other climbers but he's climbing solo. He's on some real hard climbs that take maybe 2 full pitches of sheer vertical. I look through my binoculars, zoom in.
It's DUDE. It's that crazy guy from last night. He's just climbing away all by himself. I look closely. He's got a few slings, a biner or two, and a few nuts. Nothing else. No water, no food. I watch him for a good long time. He makes a few good moves, maybe 4 or 5, then he jams in a device and takes a break.
I imagine he stops to enjoy those Marlboros he's got with him.
"Dude", I whisper to myself, "Dude, don't let that rock chew on you now."
I wander around for the day and I don't see Dude any more. I find my friends. I am relieved that the later it gets the more confident I am that Dude is back safely at camp. I don't want to hear the ambulances. There would be no rescue, just a quiet long retrieval. Then people would whisper at camp tonight. Everyone will have a version of what they think they saw, what they think they know.
Later back at camp, we pack up, get ready to go. Dude's convertible is parked, waiting for him to come back. I don't see him anywhere but I know he's out there. I look up at the massive Smith Rock and I hear myself say again, "Dude, don't let that rock chew on you now babe. Just a few more years babe and you will figure out a rope is a good thing. Just a few more... "
I laugh at my own use of "babe." We pull out the parking lot and I squint into the darkness to find him. He is there. He is somewhere out there just sucking on a cigarette. I smile.
"Dude, what rock chewed on you?"
I smile but the pain is incredible. A friend of mine flips the knob for the water from the sink. The water sprays out all over my badly skinned- up knees. Blood, gravel, dirt and sweat swirl down the drain. My nails grind into the sink; I take a big deep breath.
I am furious, simply furious.
It's ok to get these injuries doing something cool. It's ok to hobble to work to go see my peer 30-something crow
d that did little besides make it to the grocery store and flip through a few football games over the weekend. And it's even ok when I have to rip panty hose out of these nasty wounds when I wear silly girl clothes in an office job. But it's not ok when it is caused by stupidity."Dude" is still standing there waiting for an answer. His California wild hair-do makes him look like he hasn't made it through the shower line at the campground in a while. He's maybe 17 or 18, doesn't quite need to shave yet. He's fresh from the rock ....small backpack, rock shoes, chalk bag, a few biners. His scrawny but over-toned body is just burned well beyond on a deep tan. He pulls out his cigarette, Marlboro, lights one up.
"Well," I start to explain, "I had this great day of climbing. Over by 5 gallon buckets. Some real awesome laybacks and chimneys and pure arm-pumping fun. But then as I was walking back, I tripped on my untied hiking boots and ripped open my knee. These rocks in the parking lot are real sharp."
He looks closer. "Dude, that's bitch'n bad luck. But you shouldn't tell people about trip'n babe. You should tell 'em like you were on this totally bitch'n hard 5.13a. A bolt popped. It jus
t whacked your belayer right out. You took one hell of a nasty dive. Babe, you grabbed that little crimper, just hangin on long enough to get a new belayer. You screamed for the guy the next climb over to grab your rope. Much better story babe."Years ago the feminist in me would have been offended by his use of "babe" but now his use of it just makes me smile. I am glad I am not too old to be called "babe."
He continues, "Or babe. You were climbing on nuts. None of this bolt shit. Just those nuts on a super hard layback crack," he smiles, sucks long and hard on his cigarette like it's going to help his creativit
y. "Yeah nuts, because babes just don't lead on nuts. And part of this whole flake comes flying off. You just tapped the thing babe. It yanks you down. The nuts, the first one just POPs. The second one, babe, the second one leaves you swinging. One hell of a whipper. 30 feet at least. Gashes your knee wide open."He smiles. I am trying to get the dirt out of my knee.
He says, "Yeah, babe, tell 'em the 2nd story. Nuts, no bolts. Ok?"
I can do nothing but agree. I watch him wander off to his beater car, a VW Gulf on its last few miles ... a car converted manually into a convertible. Probably Dude just decided one day that he needed some fresh air so he sawed off the top.
I don't see Dude any more that night. In the Smith Rock camp ground it's hard to find anyone unless you meet them in the bathrooms after dark. But I smile, thinking of Dude. He's just so ... "dude-like" is the only answer I can come up with.
The next day, my climbing is absolutely shot. I am bummed because it's j
ust a beautiful day and I am stuck hobbling around the camp ground with huge bandages on my knee. A few people, mainly tourists who have driven out to the rocks just to hike, ask me what happened but my vocabulary just can't produce the Dude story so instead I tell them the truth.At lunch I decide I just can't stand sitting so I wander down past "Rope-de-Dope," to the river, and across the stream. It's a long painful walk because it yanks on all the tape on my knee. I study the impressive Smith Rock formations. I look along Asterick pass, over by Peanut, Tammy Baker's Face, and by 5 Gallon Bucket. I try to spot where my friends are climbing today.
Then I look over to the Dihedrals, a couple of pitches up, on a face, and I spot one single climber. I look for ropes, look for other climbers but he's climbing solo. He's on some real hard climbs that take maybe 2 full pitches of sheer vertical. I look through my binoculars, zoom in.
It's DUDE. It's that crazy guy from last night. He's just climbing away all by himself. I look closely. He's got a few slings, a biner or two, and a few nuts. Nothing else. No water, no food. I watch him for a good long time. He makes a few good moves, maybe 4 or 5, then he jams in a device and takes a break.
I imagine he stops to enjoy those Marlboros he's got with him.
"Dude", I whisper to myself, "Dude, don't let that rock chew on you now."
I wander around for the day and I don't see Dude any more. I find my friends. I am relieved that the later it gets the more confident I am that Dude is back safely at camp. I don't want to hear the ambulances. There would be no rescue, just a quiet long retrieval. Then people would whisper at camp tonight. Everyone will have a version of what they think they saw, what they think they know.
Later back at camp, we pack up, get ready to go. Dude's convertible is parked, waiting for him to come back. I don't see him anywhere but I know he's out there. I look up at the massive Smith Rock and I hear myself say again, "Dude, don't let that rock chew on you now babe. Just a few more years babe and you will figure out a rope is a good thing. Just a few more... "
I laugh at my own use of "babe." We pull out the parking lot and I squint into the darkness to find him. He is there. He is somewhere out there just sucking on a cigarette. I smile.
