01-June-2001
Alexander Chiang 

"Revisited Assumptions"

It almost didn't happen. Not for me, at least. By the time Chuck came
ambling up to me at the gym, it was near the end of the night. I was
tired from cranking on plastic all night long, and the concrete silos
trapped the sultry Dallas heat in a manner befitting of a Swedish
sauna. 

The conversation was short, I think. Chuck mentioned that a bunch of
people were going to Sitting Bull Falls, New Mexico to climb on
Memorial Day weekend, and that there was extra room in one of the
cars, if I cared to go. After learning that it was approximately a 10
hour drive, and that the entire area consisted of about 15 sport
routes, I politely declined.

The excuses piled up in my mind: too much driving; I'm not a sport
climber; and even if I were, I couldn't climb hard enough to make
the trip worthwhile, as there were 4 routes in the 5.10 range, 4
routes rated 5.11, and the rest were 5.12 and harder. Seeing as how I
can consistently lead about 5.8 or 5.9, those big numbers seemed
pretty scary. 

    Insight: The time between the instant I crawl into bed and the
    moment I fall asleep is one of the most fertile for my brain. I
    let the wetware do some lateral drifting and see if it goes
    anywhere interesting. If anything pops up, I latch onto the idea
    and start fleshing out the details. Kinda like trolling for fish,
    but without being bored to tears. After I've thunk whatever I
    needed to think about the thought, it's back to drifting again,
    where the process repeats. Some nights are especially bountiful,
    and others are a complete bust.

That night, the only thought I had was the realization of how stupid I
was. The pain of the long haul would be severely minimized with the
driving split between three people, and no one ever said that I had to
lead those climbs; I've never been one to turn down a free top-rope.
Besides -- I'd never been to New Mexico before, and I didn't have any
other plans for the weekend, so the only thing left was to figure out
how to get reinvited.

After a few strategic emails, I secured a spot in one of the cars,
although it would turn out that my manuvering was unnecessary. Idle
chatter at the gym about weekend plans fell upon the ears of Bearded 
Steve and after deciding that he wanted to go as well, asked me to
ride along in his truck. This arrangement involved a lot less
squeezing and promised a lot more space, so I readily agreed.

    Aside: for some reason, lots of people named Steve climb at
    the Stoneworks Gym in Dallas. Thus, nicknames are rather necessary
    to differentiate them all. During a nasty weekend at Cave Creek,
    Arkansas, Bearded Steve cratered 20 ft. into a talus pile and
    shattered his ankle, earning him the moniker Broken Steve for
    several months. Recently, we've taken to calling him Mending Steve
    or even Metamorphosing Steve when feeling especially witty.

    But anyhow, they're all the same person -- Bearded Steve.

Friday finally arrived and I was eager to get on the road. Due to the
evil necessity of work, our party couldn't leave until 5:30 pm. Of
course, 5:30 came and went and we still hadn't left. A doomed feeling
squirmed around in my gut and proceeded to thrash steadily for the
next hour while we waited for everyone to arrive. Ugh -- getting a
late start on a long road trip is probably the king peeve amongst my
menagerie of pets.

We finally started our three car caravan moving westward. Bearded
Steve and I cruised along in his truck. Just as we started, a thought
suddenly occurred to Steve.

    Exchange: 
    
        "You know how to drive a manual, right?"

        "Sure," I lied.

Let's see... five years ago, I tricked a buddy of mine into teaching
me how to drive stick on his Mustang. After a few laps around the
parking lot, the teenager in me (read: all of me, since I *was* a
teenager at the time) decided that I was competent enough to drive on
the roads. And so I did, and it was pretty fun, compared to my
parent's minivan which I was driving at the time.

So based on the fact that I tooled around for twenty minutes in my
friend's Mustang (before he wised up) five years prior, I didn't feel
*too* bad about telling Steve that I could drive stick. 

In any case, when it came my shift (ha ha) at the wheel, we were able
to proceed with nary a stall. Well, ok -- maybe one or five. Steve was
forgiving, and I was secretly relieved. No harm done.

The rest of the drive was pretty nondescript. It could have been
better though. Since we weren't really familiar with the back roads,
we elected to stay on the interstate as long as possible. This cost us
some time. A *lot* of time. In fact, a drive that should have been
eight hours somehow got dilated into twelve.

    Theory: the time T needed to complete a road trip is equal to
    the distance D divided by velocity V, multiplied by 
    ( 1 + (0.25) * (number of cars in caravan) ), plus 
    ( number of dogs * pi). Be sure to account for other factors, such
    as squirrel bladder syndrome (SBS), which increases T
    quantitatively, and incompatible music tastes, which *severely*
    increases T qualitatively.

Anyhow, Steve drove the last leg of the trip, as I flitted in and out
of consciousness. We finally pulled into the campsite at 6:30 AM, as
dawn hinted and threatened to erupt. Exhausted, we didn't bother
pitching tents, and instead, just flopped into the bed of Steve's
truck.

A scant two hours later, the sun was unbearably hot, not to mention
shining directly into our eyes, as mother Nature showed us her version
of Lasik. Grudgingly, we awoke. As I rubbed at my bleary eyes and
swatted at the gnat army divebombing my legs, I slowly became
aware that we were, all of a sudden, a huge party.

Arrangements made prior had turned our little band of six into a gang
of well over twenty. Most of them were from Austin, although one
person, Kelley, was from Ft. Worth. A Texan assault of New Mexico
was on in full force.

It was a quick drive from the campsite to the cliffs and after a short
but slightly strenuous approach via a well-maintained trail, we were
there.

Wow. When the crags at the Reimer's ranch sleep at night, it is to be
like the cliffs of Sitting Bull Falls that they dream of. The
limestone stretches up sixty feet, every route is overhanging to some
degree, and all the holds are huge and bomber. Oh -- and all the
routes are in the shade. Nearby is a cool mountain spring that
collects into nice deep pool. The only thing missing from the fantasy
are nubile, scantily-clad park rangers handing out free beers after
each climb.

And like any good fantasy, most of the details can (and should) be
left to the reader's imagination. Really, there isn't that much more
to tell. We came, we saw, we climbed.



Ok -- a few highlights, I guess, to alleviate mental blue-balls. 

  o Turns out that the 5.10's were more or less within my capability.
    Long and pumpy, I was able to lead them, but couldn't redpoint any.
    Oh well. Hell, I even got bold and led an 11 (hangdogging from bolt 
    to bolt, but hey...).

  o Those Austin-ites can *really* crank. They play on 5.12 routes
    like it's nobody's business. And of course, they were all really
    nice. Nice enough, in fact, to be the rope-gun and let a bumblie
    like me try and top-rope through the draws on those burly routes,
    while taking multiple falls and wearing the hell out of the rope.

  o Scott Isgitt sent his project, a 5.12a, amidst much cheering and
    whooping. Of course, any stature he may have gained that day was
    lost the next, as he was caught using a stick clip while hanging
    some 30 ft. in the air. How quickly the jeers replace the cheers.

Conclusion: those with traditudes don't know what they're missing out
on. It's *fun* to climb pumpy overhanging routes and chase numbers.

fin.

Appendix: Incomplete Cast of Characters

  Hailing from Dallas:
    o Bearded Steve Wreidt
    o Fearless Frank Paullus
    o Stone Face Killer Laura Tripp
    o Chuck Quon
    o Rachel Johnston
    o Mike Ontiveros 
    o Sara Martin
    o Topaz and Hueco (dogs)
    o your humble narrator, Alex Chiang

  Proud to be from Ft. Worth:
    o Kelley

  Those from Austin:
    o Scott Isgitt
    o Chu Kim-Isgitt
    o Nick Brown
    o Rebecca (Jennifer)
    o Pavlina Barcal
    o Patrick
    o Lisa Spivack
    o Bibbeth
    o Jazz
    o Valery Milner and family
    o Mike and Karen and family
    o Eeyore (dog)