Unusual Suspects- Brittany Griifith

Brittany Griffith wrote this story about our recent climb on Moonlight Buttress in Zion. The original is posted over at the Patagonia Website- The Cleanest Line

Unusual Suspects

My springtime objective (okay, to be perfectly honest, it has been a dream of mine for a long time) of free climbing Zion’s Moonlight Buttress was quickly unraveling. My partner, Nellie, had spent the previous night projectile vomiting in a rental van. Puke everywhere—in her shoes, on her pack and on the rope.

NellienMebus


[Bummed on the bus. After failing on their first attempt, Nellie and Brittany contemplate their next shot. Photo: Cedar Wright]

As Nellie shivered and sweated in her sleeping bag, cursing the runny eggs she had eaten the previous morning, her boyfriend, Cedar, suggested I try James as an alternative partner.

“James?” I grumbled. All these years I had envisioned doing the route with a girlfriend, or at the very least with my husband as he hauled ice water, nori rolls and summit beers behind me. I didn’t even really know James. All I really knew about him was that everyone called him “Big Fall James” because of his miraculous survival from a 200-foot free-soloing fall in Joshua Tree.
“Where is he now?” I hadn’t seen him since early Thursday morning.

“I think he went back to Vegas to get his car and do laundry.”

“What kind of car does he have?” I feel you can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive—if their ride is a junk show, you can assume they are, too. It’s basic police profiling.

“A Saturn station wagon.” Definitely not a good sign, but I was desperate.

I texted James at 1pm on Friday, “Do u wan clim MB tomrw?”

Seconds later my phone chirped, “ok. Packing be there at 5”. I guess laundry could wait.

James arrived at camp as promised at 5. He was wearing a tight neon pink threadbare T-shirt that had iron-on black block lettering that read, “University of Yosemite”. I took a look inside James’ Saturn (which he lived in, by the way) and it appeared he was on his way to the Salvation Army for a drop-off. Some of the items strewn about included an old Snoopy t-shirt (screen printed with “I’m kinda a big deal”) fashioned into a bag, which he had stuffed with clothes (or maybe his laundry?), a paper Trader Joe’s grocery bag that was torn and spilling its contents of cereal, potato chips and dried mangos, and a suspicious looking plastic bin that upon closer inspection I surmised was his bathroom kit on account of the multiple toothbrushes and Costco-sized Trojan box.

I also noticed that the interior dome light dangled from exposed wires. “How do you like my chandelier?” James humorously offered up.

SaturnChandelier



[Saturn chandelier. Photo: Brittany Griffith]

James’ Saturn, a dusty, hammered relic with 175,000-plus miles and a missing passenger side mirror, was definitely a far cry from my Gypsy Van.

I did a quick scan of his climbing gear. Junk show. “We’ll use all my gear,” I said immediately.

Injuries from his 200 footer has left James with a unique gait—slow but still kinda spasmodic, like a cross between Quasimodo and a super model strutting down the runway—and as we hiked to the base of the climb the next morning, my doubts on our success were high. So was the river crossing—which James didn’t really want to do, and he balked a couple of times on the bank. I led the way, stripped to my underwear, which I think ultimately got him across.

Moonlight Buttress starts with four pitches of moderate climbing, and then is stacked with six pitches of 5.12 lead to the summit. After we cruised up the easy climbing and the first 5.12 pitch, James set off on the notorious crux layback section.

MBcorner


[Brittany grimaces on a prior unsuccessful attempt at the crux pitch. Photo: Cedar Wright]

After placing two cams in the first 40 feet, he began sketching—heavily… the rope was behind his leg and he had a cam crammed in his mouth. I heard a muffled Man Scream, sounding somewhat like a donkey in heat, and then he pitched off. James landed upside down, a few feet from my head, with the cam still in his mouth, his lips now bloody. I lowered him the few remaining feet to the anchor.

I stayed silent for a while, letting us both recompose. James sagged in his harness, his gaze fixed above.

“It’s moved into the sun now.” He said flatly. We both knew what this meant: warm rock = less friction = more effort required to hold on.

James, however, was game. He pulled the rope, tied back in, took a swig of water from the pack and headed back into the layback. That’s when I realized that James wanted it as bad as I did, and that’s all that mattered. We could do this.

He triumphantly reached the next anchor without falling, and I followed cleanly. Next, I grappled with a slot, twisting and contorting my small fingers to wedge into the deep crack, and at the top of the pitch I heaved my body up onto an ample ledge.

Jamesonpartyledge




[James patiently waits for the shade and contemplates how turkeys mate.]

We were half way there, three of the six 5.12s dispatched. We had four hours of decent light left, so we decided to take a good rest on the comfy ledge. I lasted about seven minutes before I started to get antsy and anxious. Idleness has never been my strong suit.

James, sensing my impatience, kept me distracted by asking me questions about growing up in Iowa, my numerous stepdads and about my garden. I asked him some questions, too, and here’s what I found out.

Last week he had been to a wedding in Vegas and wore his “black khakis.” I argued that khakis were khaki and therefore couldn’t be black. He said he’d look it up on the Internet.

He had seen the movie Hanna, most of Scream 4 and the last 15 minutes of Source Code the day before.

James has an identical twin!



James and Matt

[OMG there are two of you!]

After nearly an hour on the ledge, we continued climbing, freeing every pitch and swapping leads, which gave James the last pitch (which was actually a link-up of the last two pitches, making for one giant 180-foot pitch). As he left the belay, I could tell he was nervous. Free this last pitch and we’d be done, a free ascent of Moonlight.

“You got it, James.” I tried to sound cavalier, but I was nervous, too.

James finessed the tricky 5.12 crack/face and entered the final 5.10 bulge. He thrust in his last piece of gear and aggressively tackled the last steep bit of sandstone that guarded the summit. One of his legs dangled and the other was behind the rope—again. I could sense him panicking. Despite the fact that there was a real danger of him getting hurt if he fell this time, I believe he was more concerned about not doing the route. I was more concerned about his skull and that he had already used up his one “Get Out Of Death Free Card” on his Joshua Tree fall.

He stomped his dangling foot up on the rock and tried to stand up to a handhold but came up short.

“Faaawk…” he cussed. Oh shit, this was serious.

“James… we don’t fall here.” I sternly encouraged.

He quickly regrouped, refocused and punched through to the summit. Yes! I flew up the pitch after him. I couldn’t wait to see him and give him a great big hug. I was so happy for him. I guess I should have been feeling a sense of accomplishment for myself, but oddly I didn’t.

In the end, when I think back on free climbing Moonlight, I probably won’t remember the things I thought I would remember: the sequence of powerful crux locks, which cam went where, or when the route goes into the shade. I’ll remember how common culture, aspiration and stoke are what’s vital in successful partnerships—and the look of pure terror on James’ face as he went down in the raging Virgin River on our return crossing…

SaturnStoker



[James, northbound and super stoker on the I-15 after freeing Moonlight Buttress. Kids, don’t try this while driving your mom’s Prius.]

My Attorney's Advice

My attorney advised me to keep climbing. The woman above me cried in the chimeney, a fish flopping through the tight passage. My attorney doesn't register the epic yet but he'll know soon enough.

The hike started early in the day. A standard Yosemite rack- singles to a 2, a pack of GU, no topos, and no water. The cotton mouth would set in before noon. Schmid and I trudged into Black Velvet canyon with Sol Wertkin, a friend from Leavenworth Wa, nipping closely on our heels. I stared down the holds on a boulder problem sitting in the wash.

"The right exit is V7. The straight up is V11," Sol said. "But who cares about the boulders. Liberty Cap." The Washingtononians love to hike. That summer Sol had sent the Thin Red Line on the back country formation. He hiked for days to get out to it, and then climbed a few hard pitches. Sloggers all of them. My legs turn to jelly at the mention of cross country miles. I spent the winter bouldering. My back was a pizza slice and my body unused to the death marches. I wish I had a crash pad to sit underneath the boulder.

"Never sandbag your girlfriend," my attorney said. "That guy is not getting laid tonight." Epinephrine is a neurotransmitter, a hormone that increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and participates in the fight-or-flight response of the sympathetic nervous system. That's what Wikipedia says. The girl screaming in the chimeney would have said Epinephrine is the worst route in Las Vegas.

"We'll climb slowly up to them and then pass quickly. They won't notice us if we can keep from laughing." I wonder if he was seeing the girl turn into a fish.

Epinephrine climbs for 1600 feet up a buttress in Black Velvet Canyon, just outside of Las Vegas. Four hundred feet of climbing up through ledge systems leads to a large chimeney system for three hundred feet, followed by another nine hundred feet of scrambling to a ridge to the summit. The crux is the chimeney section, which is sparsely protected by bolts. It's a better route than the Steck Salathe- less pin scars and some classic Indian Creek-esque splitters.

John Schmid, my attorney ran the Oakland Marathon earlier this week, sprinting the whole thing out in 3:30. For John, all the hiking felt easy. I constantly wanted to sit down in the shade. My mouth tasted like cotton. Schmid is a marathon man. He advised me to keep walking.

The ridge eventually headed back down to the wash. It was a death camp march. I hate slogging. At 5 we reached the base of Frogland, a dog sat at the base. After stealing some people's water, we climbed the route. John went first. I spotted him as he soloed across a traverse under a roof. He crossed to a two finger pocket and went to a jug. He sprayed me beta as I soloed the move as well. Higher was a cool chockstone. I wanted to lay inside next to it. My legs were jelly and my feet were swollen. My attorney advised me to keep climbing.

We made it back to the car, fueled up, and hit the road around 7. After beers with Sol at the campground, we had dinner at the Half Yard, where we saw Bill Ramsey and Chris Weidner- those guys are famous hardmen!

The climbing was a ton of fun, and reminded me how much fun rock climbing can be! Too bad my legs feel like jelly this morning.

The Ultimate Sandbagger- John Schmid

At 5’8” 145 pounds with brown hair and brown eyes, the 29 year old John Schmid appears like a mild mannered rock climber. After receiving a biology degree from Colorado College, where he began rock climbing ten years ago, Schmid moved to the bay area to take up a job that would support his climbing lifestyle. Schmid became a murse- a male nurse. During the graveyard shift, Schmid works in the neo-natal intensive care unit of Alta Bates in Berkeley where he saves the lives of sick little babies.


Schmid on the Tuolumne classic On the Lamb (5.9) photo by Mikey Schaefer

A hard working regular Joe during the evening, Schmid transforms during daylight hours. When the sun comes up John Schmid is a rock crushing super hero! A solid trad climber with ascents of Zion’s Moonlight Buttress (V 5.12d), Indian Creek’s Optimator (5.13-), and an onsight of Yosemite’s Tales of Power (5.12b), John’s ability to crack climb comes from his years destroying the back of his hands in Indian Creek and Joshua Tree.

After becoming a crack warrior, Schmid headed to Yosemite in an attempt to learn to wall climb. “A few years ago, Geoff Christensen and I climbed the Regular Route on Half Dome (VI 5.9 A2) in a longish day. We topped out in the light. Then James Lucas encouraged us to climb the Nose in a Day. We believed him that we could do it. We made good time climbing to the Great Roof but then it got dark and we got tired. We only had ATCs. We fell asleep with the ropes wrapped around our arms to arrest the other climber’s fall. We topped out in 27 hours 45 minutes. It was a long day. Thanks. James.”

“I’m a good weekend climber,” said the notoriously modest Schmid. On a recent trip to Bishop, Schmid climbed his second, third, fourth, and fifth outdoor V6s. He hiked the steep Every Color You Are and then nearly flashed Atari, falling on the last move and then sending the problem a few minutes later. After a morning at the Buttermilks, where he claims to have gotten worked, Schmid dispatched Mr. Witty (v6) 2nd try and flashed Rene (V5 highball). He also sent Strength in Numbers (a highball V5) and Molly (v5) and French Press (v6) on a subsequent trip to the Sads. “I don’t boulder. I can’t hold things very well.”


John onsigting Tales of Power (5.12B) photo by Max Hasson

Despite his "inability" to boulder, Schmid climbs with a significant amount of tenacity and dedication. One morning, Schmid downed a half dozen Monster energy drinks and left Berkeley before sunrise to climb Yosemite’s classic Beggar’s Buttress (IV 5.11c). On arriving in “the Ditch”, it started raining. Neither John nor his partner had checked the weather. Determined to climb, Schmid smoked a couple cigarettes than hoofed down to Kaukulator, a slightly overhanging 5.11c test piece on the Rostrum. After hiking the crux, Schmid fought his way throw the notoriously difficult and sandbagged 10c offwidth at the top. Schmid grunted, moaned, and squirmed as he climbed the wrong way into the crack. In an impressive onsight, Schmid clipped the anchors and started to lower. A quarter of the way back to the ground, Schmid yelled to his belayer to stop. For the second time that day it started raining- the second time it wasn't water but Schmid puking from the monstrous effort.

Untitled from James Lucas on Vimeo.

“I’m already a plastic prince,” said Schmid of his constant presence at the Touchstone gyms. A long time indoor climber, Schmid grew up in LaFayette and climbed at Conord’s Diablo Rock Gym before moving to Temescal. Schmid splits his time between Great Western Power Company and Berkeley Ironworks climbing with the tough guy sport crew. He climbs with Tony Calvert and Ethan Scwartz, whom he mostly climbs routes with. “I really want to climb 5.13 in the gym so that I can tell James (the Touchstone blogger). My climbing career peaked 5 years ago in Indian Creek. I want to get back to that high point and tell James.”

Schmid employs a well known climbing tactic- that of the sandbag. He enjoys downplaying his abilities and then serendipitously sending your project. I am thinking about punching in the head for all the times he's sandbagged me.


John on Equinox (5.12c) in Joshua Tree

Schmid will be spending the rest of the week in Bishop. James hopes to sandbag him before he heads back to the bay to send the 5.13 at Ironworks.

Saving Mule Days

It’s Wednesday, January 26, 2011. I am anchoring a couch in Bishop California, letting my skin heal from climbing on the granite boulders of the Buttermilks. I am here for the climbing. I am also here for the job.

I wake up on hump day with a list. Statistically speaking, suicides occur most often in the middle of the week. Shots in the head and a planted gun, a suicide note and a push off the building, and the old “accidental overdose” happen on Wednesdays because assassination attempts in the middle of the week often look like suicides. The list of lives to save, of “suicides” to stop, begins and ends with one person: Neal McCoy.

On Wednesdays, I work my part time job as a secret agent. Wednesdays are busy days.


This is what I look like in uniform.

I tussle my hair in the bathroom mirror. Secret agents have a casual clean look. Think James Bond. They also have good oral hygiene so I brush my teeth. My contact wants to meet at Schatz, a busy and buttery local bakery. I do a few pull ups on a bar hanging above the bathroom door to make room for an apple fritter and walk down to meet the CIA spook.


Practicing my shooting at a Bishop firing range.

I pretend to examine the rows of danishes. Really, I am watching the reflection of people walking into the bakery in the glass display. I am also counting the number of apples in the fritters two rows down. Secret agents are good at multi-tasking. My contact doesn’t recognize me. I am disguised as a derelict rock climber. I blend in to the environment of the East Side of the Sierras. That’s why the CIA hired me; I can blend in. I watch the contact pretend to read the news paper. I sit at the table next to him and eat an apple fritter. I should have flossed. The contact looks around the room suspiciously, glances at his watch, then leaves. He doesn’t bring his suitcase.


Secret agents love apple fritters. You should too.


On Memorial Day Weekend in Bishop, more than 700 mules compete in 181 events at the Tri-County fairgrounds for the Mule Days Celebrations. Thursday night, a couple days before the longest ever running non-motorized parade, more than 30,000 people pack into the stands of the fair to see the show’s headliner. This year Neal McCoy, a 52 year old Irish Filipino country musician from Texas, will be starring the show. McCoy’s Billboard hits include “No Doubt About It,” “Wink,” and “Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On.” He’s a perfect crowd pleaser for the desert town. He’s also a perfect candidate for a highly publicized suicide.


The target: Country crooner Neal McCoy

My contact’s briefcase include McCoy’s itinerary for a day reconnaissance to Bishop for a Mule Day's publicity shoot. It also includes information about the assassination attempt. A crazed member of the Bishop Chamber of Commerce decided that the death of McCoy would bring more tourism to the town than an actual show. Bishop will be the next Graceland, a place thriving on the memorabilia of a dead star. A suicide would look best- at the very least people would go to the Thunderbird Inn to see where McCoy died.

Orange juice is good. Lots of Vitamin C. Lots of antioxidants. Lots of good good stuff. For McCoy the morning orange juice would contain heavy amounts of hydrocodone bitartrate and acetaminophen, or Vicodin, an opiod that in heavy amounts is lethal. Cue pun about pulp in the orange juice.


Drink Milk cause OJ will kill you. That's right. Secret Agents make bad jokes. The difference is if you don't laugh, I'll kill you.

McCoy required that there be good old fashion oj at his hotel room for his 9 am continental breakfast. The Thunderbird Inn imports their Minute Maid from the nearby Vons. From there it hits the kitchen, and then McCoy’s room. Room service would be dropping dissolvable pills in and then housekeeping would be staging the “suicide”. My Wednesday mission was to stop that orange juice.

After finishing my apple fritter, I tussled my hair again. Look good Be good- that’s the motto they taught me at my old alma mater HBSAS (Handsome Boy Secret Agent School). I headed down the street as the innkeeper stepped out of his Dodge Dakota with a gallon of Minute Maid. At the back door, I karate chopped the room service man in the neck as he was taking a cigarette break. After changing into his uniform, I ran inside and grabbed the already poured oj. The innkeeper yelled behind his back, “Smitty, go to room 211 before you hit McCoy at 200. There’s something the Mule Days chairman needs you to deliver down the hall.”

“Room service,” I knocked shave and a haircut-two bits on the door. The chairman brought me in, double checking the hallway. He pulled out a wad of bills. It was a hundred wrapped around a dozen ones. He pulled from the middle of the pile, and stuffed the bills into my pocket. It amounted to $6. Cheap bastard.

“McCoy needs his sleeping pills in his breakfast,” he cracked a dozen Viocidins onto a piece of paper on the nightstand and brought the powder over to my tray.


The Thunderbird: free continental breakfast, lots of bed bugs, and home of an assassination attempt.

“Not on your life Chairman!” I did a flying crane kick, knocking the powder out of his hands and drop kicking him on the head. “I bet you didn’t know that there were bad-ass handsome secret agents around Bishop did you!? Well, the CIA will be having words with you!” I cuffed him to the bed and texted the Spook that the mission was accomplished.

I delivered the oj to McCoy’s room. I didn’t ask for an autograph, though I should have. I saved his life.

I headed home. The dog needed to be walked. It was 10:00. I had a busy day. The couch still needed to be anchored.

Thank God I saved McCoy. He'll be playing Bishop's favorite song at Mule Days

Gang Related

Lucho loved two types of music. “This shit is gangster,” Lucho claimed. We listened to Tupac Shakur. “This shit is also gangster,” he fiddled the knobs on the iPod. Phil Collins came on. Lucho was a true gangster. We were driving to down canyon Yosemite to climb on the sunny winter cliffs. Black ice coated the road. Phil Collins was signing about the air tonight. Lucho’s Toyota Tacoma hit the ice, skidded across the road to one side. Lucho over corrected and his pick-up hit the snow embank. Phil Collins sang about holding on. The truck flipped and we ended up sideways. Lucho’s shoulder pressed into the yellow line of the road. Glass covered the road from the broken driver’s side window. I hung sideways, supported by the passenger seat belt. Lucho told me to get out quick in case the truck exploded. An hour later, a California Highway Patrol officer flipped the rig onto its wheels with the winch from his suv. The truck ran fine. It didn’t explode- just a lot of dents and broken glass. Too bad about the explosion- that shit would have been gangster.


Lucho painting his house on York St.

Lucho ‘s lived on San Francisco Mission District’s York Street for thirty years. In fifth grade, he joined the Nortenos. They claimed red. Outside of a place they called the Dungeon, the basement in a crack house, a half dozen kids jumped him into the gang. They kicked him, punched him, and beat him for twenty-three seconds. The gang claimed 23rd street. When a group of wetbacks, claiming brown, showed up on 23rd street, the Nortenos grabbed pipes, bats, and chains to reclaim their territory. The smallest kid wearing brown pulled a hand gun out when the Nortenos were across the street. He emptied his pistol on them. Lucho and his gang dashed. A Norteno was shot. Another Norteno pulled a pickup around, Lucho and the others threw the shot kid in the back of the truck, and they dashed to the hospital. They left the shot kid at the emergency room. Lucho was 16. That shit is kind of gangster.


York St in the Mission

Lucho met Cedar Wright in the boulders behind Camp 4. Lucho had some chronic weed. Cedar had a strong desire to smoke it all. They hung out often. Imagine that. They climbed together too. Cedar needed a belayer on his numerous projects. He wanted to freeclimb Wild Apes, an aid route established on Higher Cathedral rock by three local climbers. Cedar convinced Lucho to come with him. Cedar attempted to free the Banana Chute, a difficult thin crack next to a chimney system. The climbing proved too difficult and he tried the next major feature, a huge roof. With Lucho hanging at a bolt next to a crack, Cedar freed the Gravity Ceiling, a 5.13- 30’ crack route. Gangster. Lucho learned a lot. They hiked to Higher Cathedral 8 times. He definitely learned how to hike. The weed supply dimished. Imagine that. Later, the pair headed up to the Turkey Chute on Liberty Cap to attempt another new free route. They climbed high onto the formation, came to some difficult climbing, and retreated. They pulled their ropes and granite blocks came down on their heads. A large baseball fell onto Lucho’s shoulder and broke his clavicle. Cedar and Lucho hiked down the hill together. There was nothing gangster about being hurt.

Zach Romero sat in Coiler’s shop in Chinese Camp. I’m not sure what year it was- sometime before the stripper pole went up and after the three dozen license plates got hung on the wall. A couple cute girls from Tahoe, friends of Coiler tossed back beers for us. They talked about Lucho, who was famous for his suave. “Platinum and I went to the gym the other day,” I told Romero. “Lucho showed up half an hour late. When he walks in, he gets right on our gym project. He’s half way up the route, throwing his limbs all over, screaming like Bruce Lee, and totally going for it. He sets up to throw, and launches himself into the plastic world.” The girls start listening when they hear of Lucho’s heroics in the plastic palace. A thousand pieces of paper exploded out of his pockets as he dynos across the wall. As he’s picking up stuff up, I realize he’s picking up condoms.” Romero cackles, and notices the ladies perking up. “Magnums,” he interjects. “Really!?”, said one of the girls, “Little Lucho?” “Yeah, he’s got a six inch dick- when he folds it in half,” I added. It’s good to make your friends sound like gangsters, even if it’s not necessarily true.


Lucho on Wapama Rock in Hetch Hetchy.

Before the Tacoma exploded outside the park, Lucho and I were driving through Tuoulumne. It was late. The moon was high in the sky. It was cold. As we came into the meadow, Lucho’s headlights hit the body of a fawn laying on the shoulder of the road. He slowed, then stopped. He stepped out of the car, walked to the still warm body, and carried the dead fawn off into the woods. “It’s a better place for it to die,” he said. "I couldn't leave it there." He returned to the truck and we drove off. Lucho was a true gangster.

The Price Is Right

The 4th of 10 Kochajkis, Michael “DynoMike” Kochajki spent the first few of his 36 years in Los Angeles, where he somehow picked up a Boston accent. He's always been one to stand out in a crowd. Recently, out of an audience of five hundred, famous television personality Drew Carrey picked DynoMike to be the next contestant on the Price is Right. Though the show has changed a little since the days of Bob Barker, it is essentially the same. Big breasted gown wearing ladies still wave their hands in front of $19 automatic wine bottle openers and contestants still have to guess what the price is. It was very very exciting. Here was another opportunity for DynoMike to judge what was fair.

He appears at 18:58 in the show, which is conveniently online.

For the past thirteen years, Michael Kochajki’s head has protruded through the small window in between the grill and the store. Every summer, the Tuolumne Meadows Postmaster hands out packages to passing hikers, often staying open on weekends, holidays and after hours to deliver resupplies for Pacific Crest Trail hikers (The real deal hikers who “smell like shit and are gracious”)- and the shorter John Muir Trail hikers (The guys who “pack the kitchen sink”).


The Post Office Window

For half of Kochajki’s term as post-master, park visitation was down in the northern section of Yosemite National Park. The economic recession led many people towards stay-cations. Instead of traveling, people stayed at home. A 2010 Ken Burns documentaries on the national parks prompted thousands of people to head to Yosemite. Suddenly, Yosemite was a weekend choice for local Californians and a great place for people looking to save money. “The numbers are way up, there’s a huge impact on Tuolumne,” a long time supporter of the park environment, Kochajki voiced his concerns about a potential problem in the park. “Tuolumne isn’t set up for high level volume. There’s parking problems. They need to put a limit on visitation,” Kochajki said about the “Kens Burns Affect”. “It’s like inviting ants to a picnic.” Overrunning the park with visitors wasn’t fair to the park.


Dyno Mike helping a customer- probably his mom

One of Kochajki’s greatest fears is that the overall quality of park visitors diminishes with quantity. “We don’t want the Meadows turning into Santa Cruz,” Kochajki said about all the dirtbags who have shown up in the Meadows. “People think they’re Vietnam Vets.” Hundreds of climbers pass through the parking lot and the post office during the season. Many of them are the kinds of dirtbags that the postmaster detests. “They need to go to Bank of America and open a SAVE IT account,” said Kochajki.


Mike in the post office with his disco ball

Not all climbers hate Kochajki though. Many have a strong admiration for the guy. “We loved what you did with the shit box,” A pair of old climbers told Kochajki a few years ago.

Earlier that same summer, a ranger rode into the employee housing zone behind the Tuolumne Meadows store while a number of employees were eating breakfast. It was a cereal party. Everyone had different kinds of cereal- Lucky Charms, Granola, Raisin Bran. There was whole milk, almond milk and soy milk. It was a good time.

Then the ranger’s horse stopped right next to where everyone was eating. The horse took a massive shit next to the table. The locals were not happy.

“You’re gonna clean that up right?” Kochajki said to the ranger. The ranger muttered a response about a shovel and next time.


Tuolumne Meadows Store, Post Office and Grill

“Just like the shit, I was fuming,” said Kochajki. The rangers, known as the Green Gestapo for their green uniforms, had callous regard for all park users. They often acted without regard for their environment or the people around them. Kochajki and his fellow employees thought about what to do. They noted that government property should be returned and DynoMike was the guy who delivered packages. Kochajki took a box from the post office, scooped the poop into it and brought it to the ranger station. He knocked on the door, waited and then left when no one answered. As he pulled away, a ranger came out and stepped in the box. They were ankle deep in horse shit. The office ranger identified Kochajki’s car. An officer known locally as ODP “Officer Dumpy Pants” was waiting for him when he returned to the employee area. ODP wrote Kochajki a ticket for terrorist threats against the National Park Service. Kochajki was the Unabomber, a man who left dangerous unmarked packages on government property.


DynoMike the Terrorist

Kochajki brought the matter to the original ranger, the one with the pooping horse. Kochajki told the officer there was no malicious intent in returning the package. It was simply a matter of karma. Additionally, lawyers would be involved and the officer would be held accountable. There were a number of employee witnesses. “Listen,” Kochajki said, “your name will be dragged through the shit.” The incident was expunged from his record.

The old climbers thanked Kochajki profusely. The relationship between climbers and rangers has always been a tense one with climbers often getting the short end of the stick. Since that summer, Kochajki has become a bit of a hero. DynoMike was the guy who shanked the bully.


Dynomike trying to hear his friend's shouting the right price on the Price is Right

On the Price is Right, DynoMike guessed the price of a 3g smart phone with a one year contract as $2000 dollars. The next lady guessed $750. The next guy guessed $1250. A dick headed army private guessed $1251, eliminating the guy before him. The actual retail price was $1930. The rules state that the prize goes to the person who guesses the closest without going over. DynoMike overshot the price by $70 and lost to the army private who was $680 under. I am not sure if that rule is really fair but life isn’t really fair. People get screwed all the time. The Tuolumne employees got screwed by the ranger and his negligent horse care. The park environment is getting screwed by the excess number of visitors. Unfairness is a sad sad thing. Luckily, there is still justice in life. When people give you shit, you can put it in a box and drop it on their doorstep.


Great Success!

Tears in the Desert

My knee twisted, crackled, and I crumpled onto the iron rock. The pain shot into my joint.

“Are you going to be ok?” Thomosina asked. The half dozen people around me stared in sympathy. None of them had spotted. It was my second day of a planned four week climbing trip in Hueco Tanks, Texas. It would be my last day climbing. I should have asked for a spot on See Spot Run (V6).

I was unsure how I should respond to Thomasina’s question. What was my long time friend looking for? Did she want an actual answer or was she looking for reassurance? In the future sense- yes- I would be ok. It’s not like I fell a hundred feet climbing without a rope, and even if I had, I would be “ok.” But did my knee hurt? Did I just drive 1200 miles to tear a ligament? Did I need surgery, insurance, or the money to afford both? Did I think I was ok?

“I’ll be ok.” I tried to reassure her but I didn’t know myself. I stood up gingerly, testing the uncertain strength of my knee. I could walk but it hurt. I wished I had something to support me. I hobbled around grabbing my climbing shoes. I walked slowly and painfully to the parking lot and Max’s van. I laid on his foam and plywood bed, propped my leg on a duffle bag of his camera gear, and swallowed some Vicodin. I would be ok- in the future sense. At the moment, there was no future sense; there was just pain in my knee. Max and Thomasina, my climbing partners, would be out bouldering the rest of the day. I wanted to fester in the desert.

I’m not sure why he came up to me. Perhaps, he saw a man unable to move, someone who couldn’t leave when he talked. He stood next to the open door of the Toyota Previa while I shifted, trying to find a comfortable place to rest my rapidly swelling knee. Chris would be 18 and “a real man” the next day. He wore a ribbed white tank top, a wife-beater, and a pair of jean shorts that barely hung above his crotch. That’s what real men wear in El Paso. I told him I hurt my knee and wasn’t climbing. Then he talked to my blank face.

“I don’t feel like climbing either,” he chained smoked three cigarettes. Smoking is a socially acceptable form of suicide and Chris wanted to speed up the process. Wrought with the clichés of an angst ridden 17 year old, the sterotype of the bad kid in the after school special, Chris talked about the three different juvenile detention centers he’d been to, about the bruises he got from foster care homes, and about how horrible his life was.

“I met a man with cancer the other day.” His cheeks ballooned like he was going to exhale more Marlboro Light smoke. Nothing significant escaped his lips. It was like he was faking a burp. “I told him I would trade lives with him in a moment. I don’t care if I die in two months. The only thing I live for is mi hermana.” All he wanted was to buy her a guitar and a pony. Growing up, his family didn’t love him. They never said, “Mijo we love you,” or “Chris, you are special.” There wasn’t much love in the Texas desert. He couldn’t let his little princess live the same way.

That’s when he started crying. That’s when I started texting. I asked a friend in town if she would grab me a knee brace on her way back from El Paso. I punched the keys into my phone and stared over the Verizon wireless “sending” signal. A tear drop flowed from his right eye and down his chin. He didn’t wipe it. Another stream of water fell down the left side of his face. He didn’t wipe that off either. The reception was poor; I couldn’t receive any signals. The tears reminded me that I needed ice for my knee. I texted my friend again. Sitting around crying about my problems wouldn’t fix them. I needed to be active about my healing, get some help, and get things going. The messages were starting to go through.

At 4pm, an hour and a half after he began talking, he said, “Now, I am going to go climbing.” He faked burped again. He seemed to feel better. I was jealous- I wanted to go climbing. My knee hurt worse than when he had shown up. It would be awhile before I could climb. I did what I could to help the healing- I let go of the feelings I had, I relaxed my mind, and I waited. Healing is a slow process.