From: rocturtltradgirl@ix.netcom.com (David Minette) Subject: Climbing in Central Texas (The Early Years): A tale of japesome commentary Date: 1996/09/13 Why Johnny Can't Lead People often ask me "Dave, you've taught climbing in a dozen states, Switzerland and France. You've set up climbing programs for four summer camps and three climbing gyms. You've lived the life of a climb bum and do the Zen Rock Thing whenever you get the chance. So why don't you lead climb?" Of course, you didn't ask that question, but you're the one stuck reading my answer. I blame armadillos... Once upon a time, in the dark recesses of history, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth in search of affordable housing, I was a graduate candidate in Zoology. I almost got my degree, but the PhD board rejected my thesis paper. Not that I blame the small minded ideocrats for their self serving actions. True genius is always rejected by petty academics. Which is undoubtedly why my theory of the 'Squish Niche' met with total disapproval (and occasional upset stomachs). My theory was elegant in its simplicity: Without fail, each region on Earth has a single species predominantly filling the role of road pizza. In the Deep South, 'possum pancakes are the splat du jour. In the western desert, black eared jackrabbits grace many a chrome grill. Wombats, deer, hedgehogs, toads, pheasants, hartebeeste, sambar: all serve as supplemental roadside dining in their respective regions. I'm certain that deep in the Amazon rainforest lies the body of a three toed sloth, flattened when it failed to clear the Yanomamo footpath in time. How the animals decide who gets to fill this specialized niche (it can't be a plumb assignment, as niches go) remains a mystery. Perhaps my failure to define this mechanism is why my thesis paper was so roundly rejected. In Texas, the armor plated 9-Banded Armadillo fills the role of mobile speed bump. Click! "...Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus on the dashboard of my car, oh he comes in pink and white, and he glows on through the night..." Click! "...iends, I say unto you, you too can be a Born Again Virgin. We shall lay hands upon the offending member, and as the spirit rises, then you will feel the power of God swelling up within you. Yes, the power of God within YOU!!! Then you will explode with the ecstasy of the Lord, I say, the ECSTASY OF THE LORD!!!. AMEN!!! We here at the First Methodist Baptist Pentecostal Reformation Church of Jimmy Joe Brown will restore you virginity for a pledge-prayer of just $124.95 Included in that price is a beautiful certificate declaring your Born Again Virginity status. And if you act right now, we will toss in an autographed picture of Jesus H. Chri..." Click! "...Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porches, I must make amends..." Click! "Dave, can't you get anything on the radio besides that?" My climbing partner, Mike, shouts over my shoulder. "It's the region. What else do you expect to pick up out here?" I shout back. "By 'region', do you mean Central Texas or Low Earth Orbit?" he asks. I shrug my shoulders non-commitally. "Texas! The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the starship 'Boobyprize.' It's two man mission: to explore strange new crags, and seek out un-civilizations. To boldly climb where no-one has climbed before!!!" "Could you knock off the William Shatner imitation!?! I'm trying to steer here." I yell over my shoulder at Mike. Guiding a motorcycle during re-entry from space kinda does require my full attention, know what I mean? Apocalypse Now: WhumpWhumpWhumpWhumpWhump Is that the sound of helicopters? No, its the wind whipping though my motorcycle's spokes, the wheels spinning freely, unencumbered by rubber-to- asphalt friction. Texas! God! I'm still in Texas!!! What brought me to this? Perhaps I didn't attend church often enough. Perhaps I didn't give enough money to charity. "Perhaps you didn't read the fine print on the Air Force contract stating they could send you whereever they wanted to." Mike points out. Perhaps it's my inability to pick a climbing partner who isn't a smartass. No, it wasn't any of those things. It was a 9-banded armadillo, dead in the middle of the road, hidden by a slight depression in the macadam. Not a squashed flat armadillo: a convoy of overloaded 18-wheelers hauling pig iron couldn't manage that mean fete`. No, just a dead armadillo. A dead Throwback-to-the- Pleistocene launch pad from hell. Evil Knievel used the wrong materials for his jump over the Snake River. If he'd used a normal motorcycle and a dead 'dillo launch ramp, he'd have leaped the gorge with room left over to clear a water fountain or two. Using a conveniently located deceased armadillo landing ramp (fortunately, on the roads of Texas, you never have to look far to find one), I manage a passable deadstick landing. "Yeeeehaaaaaa!!!" "Please, dear God, tell me you're not turning Redneck!" I plead. "Oops, sorry about that. It won't happen again." Mike apologizes. "Make sure that it doesn't. I can just see you as a Redneck." We both shudder at the thought. "Seen anything yet?" I yell over the whine of the motor. Mike's on lookout duty while I maneuver a Harley loaded down with two riders and their climbing gear down a road strewn with 'dillo landmines. "Looks like a good cliff up ahead on the right!!!!" he yells back. We skid to a stop on the dirt shoulder. Leaning against the barbed wire fence edging the road, we look down into the canyon we've been following for the past 30 miles. "Sandstone." "Yeah!" Mike kicks the ground in disgust. "Probably total grunge." "Private Property." "Every square inch of Texas is private property!!!" "Rednecks nearby!" I muttered. "Rednecks? How the Hell can you tell there're rednecks nearby?" "Sniff the air." He does. "Lonestar Beer Breath." we harmonize. "Heck, the rednecks could be miles away." Mike points out. "True." I reply. The distance stale Lonestar beer breath can be smelled by humans is legendary. I've always felt sorry for the dog in the back of the pick-up truck. Maybe that's why his tongue is always hanging out. Mike looks at me. "Wanna risk it?" "It's the best climbing cliff we've seen in months!!!" Looking at the scariest crag any desperate climber would ever consider risking life and limb on, I can't help but contemplate the slow, painful, and rather messy death of that unknown functionary who pencil whipped me into the climbers' purgatory popularly called Texas. When I signed up to serve my country, it was with the distinct understanding that they would station me in neat climbing regions, such as California or Central Europe, while I for my part of the arrangement would do as little work as possible. I held up my part of the deal, working as a signals intelligence analyst, a job that consisted of two duties: breaking Soviet codes (a task not unlike solving the Sunday London Times crossword, since both involve arcane terminology and both are in a foreign language) and sitting around while a dozen operators listened in on other peoples conversations. If something important came up, Aaahhh!!!, then I earned my pay! An operator would shout out 'I've got bombers over the Sea of Japan', then I would walk over to their workstation, look at the transcript, and say 'Yes, you do.' With a tip of my hat and an imperious "My job here is finished.", I would stride off into the sunset (well, actually, into the coffee lounge). "Bwaaa Haaaah!!!!!! "Haarrr Harrrr Harrrrrrrrrr!!!! "Whaaah Haaah, God, that's a good one!!! You're really sick, you know that?!?" the little troll said, wiping tears of mirth from his piggy troll eyes. "Thank you!" the slightly bigger troll bowed to acknowledge the compliment. Little did I know when I signed that Air Force contract that evil forces were aligning against me. But deep in the heart of Texas, the trolls would... Deep in the heart of Texas, at the end of a remote airstrip just outside San Antonio, Texas, stands a 3 story building. Protected by guard towers, surrounded by miles of chainlink fence festooned with razor wire on the outside and patrolled by fur covered razor blades on the inside, the headquarters of Air Force Personnel Command rises ominously from the scrublands. To gain entry, you need a special ID badge, need to know the daily challenge word and the cipher lock code, and must be personally recognized by someone already inside the building. Only recently did they do away with the secret handshake. "Boys, what are you laughing at?" "Sir!" "General" the two trolls snapped to attention, a twisted trollish attention. "We just, Hah Hee Hee Ho Ho, we just made this mook a Cryptologic Linguist Specialist." the big troll explained. "Look at this guy's high school grades. 'D' in Spanish, 'F' in typing." The littlest troll grovelled obsequiously. "So you gave him a job where he has to translate a foreign language and type up time critical reports. Hmmmm. I like it! Well done, boys." the general patted both trolls on their pointy heads. "You know, it could be even better." the little troll added, tugging at the general's pants leg. "How so, my little fiend?" "Well, this guy's really passionate about climbing, but all the language courses are taught at Monterey, California..." "...which is close to the Peshastin Pinnacles, and not too far from Lake Tahoe and Yosemite." the larger troll added. "Now if we were to move the Defense Language Institute to somewhere without any local climbing locations..." "...like central Texas..." The general rubbed his chin. "No, too expensive to move the entire school. Tell you what, you've been good little trolls. How about if we move just the Russian language program to, saaaay, San Antonio." "Oooooo! Russian! That's a hard language!" the big trolls oozed with glee. "So that's San Antonio for basic training, San Antonio for language school..." "...then a move of just 90 miles north to San Angelo for technical training..." "...then a permanent assignment to Headquarters Electronic Security Command in..." "SAN ANTONIO!!!" All three chorused with glee. "Thank you master." "Yes, thank you, master." the littlest troll oozed unctuously. "Anything for my best fiends." "We're on private property." Mike looks anxiously about. "Let's climb it." "That's the worst cliff I've ever seen!" Mike whines. "Let's climb it." "Look at this sandstone. It comes apart in your hand!" Mike pulls a flake out of a prominent fracture line, crumbling it in his hand for emphasis. "I'll take the lead." I offer. "Let's climb it!" Let's go back into the dark recesses of climbing history, back when most climbers considered species extinction a good thing since it meant fewer Allosauruses around to slurp you off the approach trail, back when neon spandex was the coming fad, back before Mileski and Jackson carved out (literally) a reputation for establishing new routes. Back in B.C. times. Back then, the beautiful contrived routes of Medina were just a glint in the rock pick's eye. Enchanted Rocks sang her siren's song, luring the foolhardy onto the numerous lines running up her sensuous granite domes, routes usually protected by a single rusty anchor 60-80 feet up and further protected by anti-bolting Nazis who would confiscate your rope if you tried to drill another: only the bravest, most skilled adventurer dared challenge her flanks. Hueco Tanks, still in her infancy yet even then world renowned, lay 500 miles to the west, just around the corner by Texas standards, but in most parts of the world a journey requiring a backpack full of visas and at least three underwear changes. To make matters worse, the land was cut by a thousand canyons, all teasing the desperate climber with tall cliff faces, all just beyond reach behind barbed wire and 'no trespassing' signs. "Climb Us!" these cliffs would whisper but you didn't dare, for this was the land of Homo SemiSapiens Redneckus Guncarii, the dreaded Redneck. Every square armadillo infested inch of Texas was owned and defended by gun-toting, God-fearing, Lonestar Beer-drinking, pickup-with- the-dog-in-the-back-driving Rednecks, a subspecies of the human race resulting from a geographically isolated breeding colony that interbred one generation too many. The prime distinguishing characteristic of R. Guncarii is its dull sense of humor. Take one step on their land and you're staring down the end of the gun with the REALLLLLY large hole in it. Armadillos and humans are the only animals on Earth that can contract leprosy. The only known case of armadillo-to-human transmission of this flesh-rotting disease happened to a 28 year old Texas man, who says he contracted the disease from 'wrasslin' the critters'. Since leprosy is a contact disease normally requiring several years of intimate association before it spreads, what I wanna know is, just how many leprous armadillos did this guy 'wrassle', anyway? "Slack!" Mike paid out another yard of rope. Despite earlier misgivings, the climbing proved to be excellent. Though weathered on the surface, the cracks ran deep and even, providing the occasional flare just when I needed another hold or pro placement. Most of the protection I'd used to zipper up the climb were largish stoppers, but as the route progressed, the cracked slowly flared wider. My last two placements were large hexes. With one fist and one foot jammed into the crack, the other foot pressing the rock face for balance, I slipped a number 7 hex endways into the crack. I rattled the pro, tugging on the perlon cord to check the placement. Loose, but with just 8 feet 'til topping out, good enough. Clip and go. I jammed my fist into the sandstone. The rock to the right of the crack gave way. Time for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, a.k.a.'The Whipper'. It's interesting how time acts during a fall. Sometimes, you can fall thirty feet and it happens so fast you remember nothing of the journey. Sometimes, time dilates, and a three foot slip gives you enough time to read the unabridged version of Les Miserables, including that 57 page chapter describing the Parisian sewer system. This fall was one of the latter, only it wasn't a three foot slip, that much was obvious from the start. "Well, I didn't expect that hex to hold anyway." I thought to myself as I calmly watched said pro hop out of the crack, knowing the next lower piece would hold. I mentally reviewed the route for any ledges or bulges I might hit. None. Straight and flat all the way down, not that I'm going to fall that far. The next hex popped out of the rock, taking part of the cliff with it. "I knew that one might give way. The pocket wasn't that solid." My blood pressure, I admit in all honesty, might have increased a little at this point. "Ahhh. Number Three hex is taking tension and holding." "SNAPP!" The crack of parting perlon. "Shit!" The sound of a parting nerve. "SNAPP!" The rifle shot of more parting perlon. "SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!" The sound of shot nerves. "OHMYGODI'MGOINGTOHIT!!!! WAIT! The pro's holding!!! Ha ha ha! I'm Stopping! I'm Stopping! I'm Stoppi...OOOOOOOOFFFFF!" I manage to ground out just at the end of rope stretch, leaving behind a 'sand angel' in the stream bed when the bungie effect pulls me back up. Odd, I know that tomorrow I'll be sore as hell, but right now I'M IN EXCRUCIATING AGONY!!!! I figure I'll just hang here at the end of the rope, some 4 feet off the ground, eyes closed. Play dead. That'll scare Mike! "Excellent whipper, Dave. That landing must have hurt, didn't it.?" Mike is still holding the rope, keeping me dangling while he torments me, literally adding insult to injury. I try to reply with brilliant repartee`, but my mouth is currently refusing all commands from my brain, apparently in rebellion because of recent mistreatment. "Nnhhganhng." "You really gotta be more careful placing your pro." "Nnhhganhng." My middle finger has joined my mouth in the body part rebellion. "Do you want to be lowered to the ground now?" "Nnhhganhng." "PUT YER HANDS IN THE AIR!!!" My eyes, in a show of solidarity with the brain, snap open. I quickly wish they'd joined the other body parts in open revolt, for not 10 feet away, I see a 'REALLLLY large hole' pointed directly at me. "I said PUT YER HANDS IN THE AIR!!!" Mike obeys. And lets go of the rope. "NOOO...OOOOFFFFF!" You know you're having a bad day when you crater twice on one fall. "How come yer friend there don't put his hands in the air?" "He just finished climbing and he's pretty wiped out." "Whatcha two doin' on my propertee?" The man who's 'propertee' we are on is named Enos. He has to be: he looks like an Enos! "We're here trying to steal your armadillos. You have so many, we figured you wouldn't miss any." Mike answered, a scatophageous smile on his lips. Why are all my climbing partners smartasses? Why do I never discover this character flaw until a moment like this? Speaking of armadillos, I notice one peering out of a hole dug into the sandstone cliff, not two feet from my face. Funny, I didn't notice the cave before: If I had, we never would have climbed here, it being common knowlege that armadillo burrows are entrances to Hell and considered by all to be a B A D !!! omen. It's a female. She's staring at me from the shaded cavelette. Is her nose rotting off, or is that just dirt? "Well, if'n yer stealing my armadillahs, whyfore are you two dressed so funny?" "You've got me there. I confess, we're Satan worshippers, and this neon spandex is our Satan worship costume." Mike, if the redneck doesn't kill you, I will. Just as soon as my body starts functioning again. "Well, then, whatfer ya got all them ropes and straps and metal doohickies fer?" "Oh, them? They're part of the Satan worshipping." Mike leans toward the guy holding the gun with the REALLLLLY large hole in it and whispers "Secret Ritual Tools." then winks. I stare into the cave. Four tiny versions of the larger armadillo stare back from behind their mother. Great! The last thing I'll see in this world is a mother armadillo and her offspring. Probably the entire species survived two major extinctions just so this family could be here to witness my demise by firing squad. "Here, let me get this bottle of JD out and I'll tell you all about it." Mike reaches into the backpack for our emergency store of Jack Daniels. "JD!!!!!! Well, don't mind if I do. The Good Lord does tell us to love our enemies." Enos flashes a gap-toothed smile as he sets the gun aside. As the two engage in some serious bottle discussions, I contemplate the 5 pairs of eyes staring at me. Four baby armadillos, all from a single split zygote. Only the armadillo reproduces in this way. Four genetically identical armor plated slow moving hair balls. Do they move far away from home when they grow up? What are the odds these tiny beasties will one day mate with a half-brother or -sister? The bottle peace summit seems to be going well. "I don't mind if'n you boys wants ta climb." Mike looks over at where my battered body lies. "I think we're done climbing for today. But I'd still like to steal some of your armadillos." "Shoot, I don't mind if'n y'all wants a few of my armadillahs. Take all ya want! Say, did'ja ever wrassle one before?" So, you see, the reason I don't lead climb anymore is because whenever I lead, I remember the fall in Texas, and whenever I remember the fall in Texas, I think about armadillos. I think about their incessant migration, how their range is slowly moving north and west, toward Utah and my desert home. And, when 'dillos cometh, can rednecks be far behind? It's too horrible to contemplate.

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