This whole year has been a climbing writeoff for me. Except for one
week-long vacation I haven't climbed shit. During the Winter and Spring,
my regular partners scattered all across the coutry so I filled my
spare  time watching tv and eating pizza (interspersed with the
occasional beer). Wayne, who had also suffered a rash of partner
defections, tried to coax me from my sloth with an audatious mid-week
excursion to the promised land.

"Hey, let's fly into SF on Monday and drive out to Yos. We climb
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we fly back late Thursday night
and get to work on Friday," Wayne outlined the plan.

"I don't know, man. Why don't we take the whole week?"

"I can't be gone that long ... family obligations, you know?"

"It's kind of expensive for just a few days," I hemmed and hawed.

"I can get us a deal on the tickets. We have to get our fat asses out
sometime."

After more salesmanship, I relented and Wayne made the arrangements.
Since I had done so little climbing, I insisted on doing aid, reasoning
that even if I was out of shape for climbing, I was fully prepared for
some suffering. Two weeks later I sat waiting at an arrival gate at SFO
waiting  for Wayne's flight -- which was advertised as four hours late.

When he stepped off the plane, Wayne had the haggard look of a airline
victim. With little conversation, we collected his luggage which
consisted of a single haul bag and rented a car. We had planned on
driving all the way to the Park that night but our late start forced us
to find a motel in Manteca at 2:00 am.

Through monumental willpower, I slithered out of bed slightly after 5:00
am and roused Wayne. After showering and checking out, we found a
grocery store. On the way, we discussed route options without coming up
with any concrete plans. At the store, I got a cart and asked, "What do
you want for wall food?"

"I don't know," was his helpful reply.

"We could start by getting victory beer."

"Yeah, okay. It has to be drinkable warm. And come in cans."

We stood in the liquor section and debated the merits of various beers.
The cases of MGD on sale for $9.99 piqued our interest and prompted
Wayne to do some quick math.

"Okay, we're on some wall for two days. That means we can have four
beers each the first night, four when we top out the second day, and
four more when we get down. Sounds about right to me," he remarked with
a grin spreading over his face. "Actually, if we got two cases and we
only saved two each for when we got down, we could both have 11 beers a
day and not even need to haul water."

"Yeah, and we could get a bunch of pretzles and cocktail weenies for
food."

"I wonder," he began, his brow furrowing slightly, "what kind of
pretzles would resist crushing the most."

At that moment I realized that in Wayne's mind, the idea had crossed the
boundary between stupid joke to realizable option. "Fourty-four beers,"
he continued, "what's that, like four gallons? That's about right for
fluid. Those weenie cans are pretty small so we should get like four
cans each a day. They're packed in water too ..."

We left the store with two cases of MGD, sixteen cans of Hormel weenies,
three giant bags of pretzle sticks, a roll of duct tape, and some cheap
tupperware-like things to store the pretzles to prevent them from being
crushed. We also left the store with a plan. We would haul ass to the
Park, climb the first few pitches of the West Face of Leaning Tower, and
bivy on Ahwahnee Ledge. Wayne would drive and I would pack the pig on
the way. After getting a couple of boxes (to line the inside of the haul
bag) from the trash behind the store, we were on our way.

By noon we had managed to get our gear to the fourth class ramp and
decided we had better celebrate the feat with a beer. After quaffing the
brews and crushing and stowing the cans, Wayne lead us across the
scary-as-hell ramp while I follow along with the pig. I thought carrying
two cases of beer up to the ramp was difficult but the sphincter
clenching fear I experienced while teetering along trying to stay in
balance with the haul bag pulling me toward the brink was mind bending.

Looking up at the steep line of bolts and overwhelmed by the exposure,
we figured that a beer ought to calm our nerves. We plopped down by the
bar (as we were now calling the haul bag), popped a couple of brews and
pulled out some weenies and pretzles. The tupperware things were holding
up just fine and after our satisfying meal, we were ready to roll.

It appeared that there were two parties already on the route -- one was
high up and looked like they would top out that day and the other was a
couple of pitches above us. Since I hauled the bar across the ramp, I
was entitled to the first pitch. Even though it was all bolts or fixed
gear, the steep factor made it strenuous. A ways out, I had Wayne send
me up a beer on the tag line and I reveled in the gratification of
hanging on an immense piece of granite high off the ground and hearing
the heavenly sound of a pop-top being opened. I polished off the brew,
crushed the can against the wall, and tucked it into a handy stuff sack.

Wayne combined the next two pitches and cruised. Before I knew it, I was
on Guano, getting ready to haul. The two guys ahead of us were working
on pitch five, obviously intenet on fixing the next two to make the next
day shorter. When Wayne joined me, we pulled out a couple of beers and
watched the second struggle to clean the traverse. He must have heard
our pop-tops since he looked back over toward us and we raised our beers
toward him in a toast.

It was getting late and those guys wouldn't get done with pitch six
until after dark. Content to settle into the Ahwahnee bivy, we ate the
balance of our daily weenie ration and had a beer. We spent the rest of
the evening watching the other guys working on pitch six and enjoying
the sun set -- while having a couple of beers and munching on pretzles.
When the other guys rapped back to Ahwahnee, we were already tucked in
and practically asleep.

The next morning came way too early. I awoke to a need to relieve the
massive pressure in my bladder. My head was pounding and I had an
absolutely revolting taste in my mouth. I was appalled to realize that
the only thing we had to drink was beer. Somehow the practical matter of
having to start drinking beer first thing in the morning had never
occurred to either of us. I rummaged for Advil in the bar and popped a
beer to wash them down. My stirring had roused one of the other guys and
he looked at me in horror.

Wayne's bladder forced him to get out of his bivy bag and we decided
that we should get going since it was going to be a long day. We ate
some weenies and pretzles and we did rock-paper-scissors for the fifth
pitch. Wayne won. We hardly talked as we prepared and I believe we
scared the other two guys since they didn't even say a word to us --
even avoiding all eye contact. Wayne headed out on lead and the other
two guys hurriedly jugged their line.

After Wayne fixed the line, I couldn't resist the call of nature any
more. I clipped our Colman screwtop water jug (masquerading as a shit
bucket) and let loose into the comfortably wide orifice. Ah yes, good
consistency, if a bit aromatic -- the beer hadn't gotten to my gut just
yet. I spent the next hour in purgatory. Cleaning the traversing pitch
while carpenters hammered in my head thinking of nothing but a cool
glass of water drove me to the edge of madness. Upon reaching the belay,
I was just about through.

"Wayne, this is just fucking dumb."

He looked at me then looked down, "Bailing off this fuker would be
lunacy. It's too steep. No where to go but up." He surveyed my ashen
complexion and suggested, "Have another beer."

I looked at the face to start the next pitch, fumbled with some hooks,
then said "Fuck it," and lurched ahead in my boots. Lots of fixed stuff
had me cruising to the next belay and Wayne followed up in a jif. Wayne
eyed the shit bucket but decided he could hold out for a better stance.
At the next belay he couldn't wait any longer. As I approached on jugs,
I could see him hopping from foot to foot with a strained expression. I
kind of hung off to the side to give Wayne as much of the small ledge as
possible to do his thing. Even though I averted my eyes, I was forced to
endure the horrid sound of his ass exploding. Then the stench wafted
over, hanging in the air like a thick acrid fog. "Holy shit, did
something crawl up your ass and die?"

"And your shit doesn't smell?" he retorted.

"Not like that."

We were both parched and we took a moment to pop a couple of beers.
While I was rumaging in the bag, I discovered that one of the big
tupperware things holding the pretzles had come open. Subsequently, the
freed pretzles had been ground into a wide assortment of chunks and
dust. We ate some weenies (especially enjoying the salty, fat laced
water they were packed in) and some of the uncrushed pretzles and tried
to get back some of our psych.

I began the eighth pitch and that is when things came unglued. I was
having difficulty operating at any kind of level because I was trashed
and the heat was rising fast. Our tempers flared and we shouted
obscenities at each other. I had to piss mid-pitch and Wayne accused me
of trying to hit him with it. The Evil Tree sank daggers into my back as
I passed. In a fog I made it to the top of pitch nine, completely soaked
in sweat and barely able to pull the rope through the drag. During our
ordeal, the two guys ahead of us kept looking down -- I think grateful
we would not catch up to them.

After cursing each other up and down between chugs of beer, Wayne lead
the last real pitch of the climb. As I followed, I helped along the pig
when I could but that didn't prevent Wayne from screaming at me and me
hollering back. Before we headed up the last fourth class section, we
sat drinking beer, calm for the first time all afternoon. I got the
honor of muscling the haul bag up the final bit and I was glad the beer
was almost gone.

Arriving on the summit, I found that the guys in front of us must have
taken pity on us since they left a full two liter bottle of water. At
least it was full before Wayne drank most of it while waiting for me and
the pig. More profanity was exchanged at an extremely high volume.
Still, those few sips of tepid, stale water were the best I could
remember.

Both of us were spent, our shirts and pants were a littice work of salt
rings, and the back of my t-shirt had red dots on it where I was stuck
by the punji sticks. We could do no more than lay immobile while the sun
went down. Sometime after dark when we started getting really cold, we
pulled out the bivy gear and bedded down for the night. Even though our
bivy sacks and sleeping bags had been stuffed, somehow the pretzle
detrious had found its way inside.

The following morning, I awoke to a powerful urge to defacate but was
frightened to open the shit bucket after Wayne's contribution the
previous day. I steeled myself and held it at arms length as I twised
off the top. It was horrid and I could hardly bring myself to use it. I
filled it nearly to the top and hurredly screwed on the cap. Wayne
stirred and finally crawled out of his bag. The cumulative effect of the
climb had taken such a toll on us that the pounding in our heads no
longer was the worst of our pain. Thus it became almost inconsequential.

Lethargically, we pack up our stuff and prepared for the descent. After
I closed up the pig, Wayne began squirming around and eyed the shit
bucket. "No more room in there," I warned. He dug into the bag and
pulled out one of the tupperware things and went off a ways, returning
with a repulsive package. He used liberal amounts of duct tape to seal
up his waste.

We popped two of our few remaining beers, quaffed them, and began the
treacherous descent. Managing not to kill ourselves, we staggered out to
the car. "Fuck, we haven't got anything to drink but beer," I observed
upon opening the car.

Wayne dropped his pack and leaned stiffly against the car. Bending over
and placing his forehead on the roof, his whole body shook and he sent a
jet of vomit across the car roof. Wiping puke from his mouth he turned
to me and said "I just didn't have the energy to do it anywhere else."
 

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