From: splinter@panix.com (Tom Cikoski)
Newsgroups: rec.climbing
Subject: TR: Saturday at Shit Rock
Date: 17 Jan 2002 11:50:47 -0500


TR: Saturday at Shit Rock
-------------------------

submitted by Orly

Now me and Merle been climbin' together for
many years, and lurkin' in r.c for nearly as long,
so when the recent cry went up to see a TR on Shit
Rock I figgered I'd be happy to oblige, 'cause
Shit Rock is me an' Merle's home crag.

Oh, we've made the long trip to Crap Cliffs a
few times, and once we even did the Excretory
Functions route up Mt Fecalbolus. But for me
and Merle, Shit Rock is *the* place to climb.

So on this particular Saturday we had agreed to
an Alpine departure just to get to the base before
any of the other Shit Rock crowd appeared. I
therefore promptly rolled out of bed at 4:00AM.

Problem was I didn't wake up 'till near 6, when the
indoor dogs started sniffin' my private parts.
Since I ain't been married in a while, I knew it
was time to get on up (not time to "get up", if'n
you catch my meaning).

Anyway, there'd be no problem with Merle since
he'd passed out in the cab of my F-100 the night
before (having done the best part of a fifth of
J T S Brown) and was therefore right handy, so
to speak. And the outdoor dogs, the six Redbone
hounds, would have kept him nice and warm since
they prefer to sleep in there too. They also like
to pass gas pretty good, so it's a good thing
Merle don't smoke, if'n you catch my drift.

The gear was already in the truck since I keep
it all with my plumbing tools in the bed box. Fact
is I use a lot of my plumbing tools in my climbs
(and vice versa) so I write the whole thing off
on taxes. Pretty smart, huh? You ever notice how
much climbing iron looks a lot like what you find
hooked up under a sink? I have.

The drive to Shit Rock was uneventful since Merle
barely broke consciousness, even with the windows
open so that the dogs could lean out and catch the
breezes. I always take my dogs along to Shit Rock.
They not only guard the gear, they can sometimes
even scare up a vole or a marmot to share
with me and Merle when we git back down. They
attract the babes, too, although some of the babes
complain about the tooth damage to their socks,
ankles or wrists.

Well, even with the delay, we were first at the
trailhead, so we took the good parking space --
the one that don't flood at 3:00PM every day. Merle
was among the living by then, and after a quart
or two of Hamm's he was practically in full form.

I didn't trust Merle to carry the pig. After all,
my parents had given me that pig as a graduation
present and I was quite fond of it (and she of me).
So I strapped the pig on my back and let Merle
haul the gear. The pig was as pleased as, well,
as you know how happy pigs can get at Shit Rock...

Now you'd think that after so many years coming
here that we'd know the trail, but by golly what
with all the livestock that comes through here,
and the shifting sands and what not, I always
nearly get lost. As you know, Shit Rock is actually
in a deep canyon (Noisome Scats Valley), so you can't
just head towards it. And, yes, there are cairns
to mark the trail, but that don't help us much
because we don't know what cairns are. So we just
sort of meander around until we find the rim
of the canyon and then head down.

Some of you like to rap down to Shit Rock, and a
few of you hardy souls like to take the 3,221 steps
down, but Merle and I always take the elevator. But
today, neither Merle nor I had a quarter on us, and
the elevator doesn't make change (FUCKING NPS!) so
it was the 3,221 steps for us. We decided not to
rap because, well, my rope is getting a bit long in
the tooth, if'n you catch my drift, and it doesn't
so much coil up as it folds up in sections like a
ruler, and that makes it hard to fling out away
from the face, and all. So we walked.

We wanted to do at least four good routes today,
and as we were first in line we had our pick. We
set up at the base of Dung Beetle, which is
just west of Hairy Butt Crack, the route we'd try
next. Now you won't find ratings in my TR because
when you put ratings on climbs it just makes climbing
into a numbers game, and no one agrees on the ratings
anyway, and, finally, I just don't know what they are
here anyhow. The ratings here are pretty famous for
being sandbagged, so Me and Merle just know the routes
as "easy", "not so easy", "pretty hard" and "sumbitch!".
Today we wanted to do one of each.

We used our usual method to decide who'd get first
lead. Facing downwind, me and Merle unlimbered our
respective iguanas and proceeded to bleed 'em. Last
one with a squirt gets first lead. Well, I guess it
was the long night in the truck under them dogs, but
Merle kept on whooshing for a full minute after I'd
shaken down and reholstered. Damn Merle anyway.

As we geared up we indulged in our favorite pre-
climb snacks. Merle had his can of Van Camp's Pork
and Beans and I had my Iranian Beluga caviar. As
this went on another pair of climbers appeared,
heading for Hairy Butt Crack. One had the look
of a real hard man, by the way his Petzl helmet
stood so high off'n his head. T'other was a knockout
babe. Pity the dogs had run off somewhere after
a shrew or a mole or something.

Anyway, they racked up in a hurry, and, after a
few glances our way and a few sniggers (my plumber's
tool belt as a harness seems to make some people
nervous) they were on their way up HBC, him in
front. While not losing focus on my brake hand,
I passed the time gazing on the girl's amazing
figure. She had on some Lycra tights that were
so snug that by the time she was three moves up
I could count each labia. She had the requisite
number, I was pleased to observe.

But shortly I noticed that Merle was not
making any progress. "What's up, Merle?" I shouted.

"I'm stumped by this next move," he shouted back.

"Lissen, Merle," I hollered. "Climbing is like life.
Some days you get the bear and some days the bear
gets you. When the going gets tough, the tough get
going. You can't aim for the stars with your head
bowed, Merle. Merle, just suck in, feel the burn,
pump the tanks, sketch out and GO!"

"Thanks, Orly," he screamed. "I needed that. Ok, here
I go. Climbing!"

"Climb away!" I said. And Merle took that first step
off the ground, which, for me and Merle, is always
the hardest at Shit Rock.

Now the thing about Shit Rock that most folks don't
recognize is that none of the placements are what
they first appear to be. The first three pieces that
you try in any spot are likely not to work. You need
to reach way around in your rack for that one thing
you bought way back when and have never used since.

So, on his way up that first pitch, Merle used a
3/4" galvanized nipple, a 1/2" 90 degree street
elbow backed up by a brass sill cock, and finally
the empty Van Camp's can wedged bomber into a fist
crack just below the belay. I was able to clean
everything by the street elbow, so, in desperation,
I fired up the Burnz-O-Matic (r) and melted the
son-of-a-bitch right out of there.

I took the pointy end for the second pitch, plus
Merle let me lead it as well. On that pitch I was
able to use a 3/4" brass gate valve in the first
placement, followed by two copper unions, a 1" tee
and a hose bibb at the top. I never got nervous
nor fell once, but that was probably due to the
occasional use of the nearby ladder which had been
left by a party of early settlers. It was a hell of
a nice pitch and I was both sketched and pumped,
as far as I can tell, not precisely knowing what
either one means. Merle was soon by my side, zip-a-do,
along with the pig and the Redbones which had each
soloed the stone stairs unroped (as always).

Thankfully, we made NO USE of the many bolts that
had been placed on this face by the Singer Midgets
(of Wizard of Oz fame) when they visited in 1940.
It cain't be no fun to climb on rock that has
a bolt every three feet or so, or at least that's
what me and Merle think. Damn midgets!

Well then here it was getting on 6:00 PM and the sun
was getting low behind the hills. We had not brought
nearly enough water for the pig and the dogs, let
alone me and Merle, so it did not look as if we'd
get a chance to finish three more routes that day.
So, with hearts heavy for not having bagged our
limit, but yet satisfied that we had done our best
in the circumstances, me and Merle headed in what
we thought was the direction of the F-100. But,
in the best tradition of an r.c TR, we had forgotten
to bring along any lights, warm clothes, or GPS
set to help our journey back to the trailhead.

Fortunately, Merle had brought his Bic lighter along,
so we could at least get an occasional burst of
light by me squeezing one of the Redbones while
Merle sparked his backside with the Bic. By dint
of this improvisation, and, I must admit, by the
wafting odor if the F-100 cab, we were able to
locate it no later than 10:00PM. In fact, we were
just in time to catch Mister Hard Man making his
best crack jam of the day on Miss Fine Body, and
by the light of yet one more Redbone fart candle,
I did again verify the correct anatomical count.
The coupling couple no more gave us any mind than
if we were a pair of Sasquatch, and, by the light
of a rising moon, I fired up the trusty Ford and
me and Merle said a fond fairwell to one more
Saturday at Shit Rock, pig, dogs, gear and all.

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