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Authors Note: This article is NC 17! We live in such a sex crazed society, and climbing has become high chic — gotta look like a model on the rocks. I thought a little play on words on this topic is in order. In the spirit of Monty Python, Mel Brooks, and Warren Harding, have fun. Read Warren’s Downward Bound book for some history and a laugh, I drank beer with him at the Fox and Goose Pub. He was funny, politically — regarding rock climbing — indecent and irreverent, and enjoyed the ladies. When I feel old (age 50), I think back to when I was young (say, 20).Bolt Run, my roadside attraction, is a 5.10d (some say 5.11) sport route at old Donner Summit, California, near paleolithic Lake Tahoe. Right on the old highway, hence the name, below the old bridge built in 1926, that 1950’s Olympic skier Mad Dog Dick used to fly his plane under then do barrel rolls over ancient Lake Donner, until he found out what the stall speed was for that particular aluminum throated gas hawk. An airplane makes a good coffin in a three hundred foot deep grave. He’s old, now, too.Roadside Attraction was first bolted in late 1970. She’s nice, sensuous, and seductive. She’s naked truth. Faire dinkum for sure (this Aussie phrase defined: “Pure gold” “No shit!” “Wow!” pornographic, true blue, Hawaiian=Da Kine). And I left her alone. I’d driven passed that dame a thousand times on my way to other climbs, or up to Soda Springs Deli for chili and beer, or down to the Squeeze In cafe in Truckee for omelette’s and coffee. Chris Vandiver introduced me to her. He did her one handed. I heard him tell Hidetaka Suzuki he did her no handed, but that’s a rumor. I watched little Joel dance up her like he was Baryshnikov. Terrence, being seven feet in elevation, looked more like the tall Russian, Barinov. I was never up to these rock gods level, but I knew I could set foot on their stage, when I got the courage up.Roadside Attraction was — is — beautiful (I saw her a year ago, she doesn’t age). I always took a look at her, like the open picture window at the Key West, Florida, strip joint where everybody, inside and out, can see her strut on stage and what she wears, her hairs, or lack thereof. No charge to see beauty. No curtains! Muy linda, muy hermosa, muy bonita — trout. I’ve caught many a sensuous salmon, even a stone-faced dame, but this seductive trout called my name, and I did not answer. I was so lame. She had no clothes on and was waiting for my fingers. I always climb with a stiff rope and a soft hand, but I couldn’t — wouldn’t — mount her. My rope was limp as cotton twine. I was to blame. She was too awesome for the likes of my name. I had performance anxiety (ever had performance anxiety?). I couldn’t shoot a spit wad. Yet she continued to wait for the feel of my ‘biners.
How does a young man handle such intimidation? By ignoring the raw truth. She reminded me of Lance’s sister. Mel was stout as a pint of Guinness and I was weak as a can of Coors (around her, anyway). As pretty as the St. Pauli girl. Breasts the size of cumulus clouds, nipples as big as pomegranates (you gals with nipples the size of grapes, no worries, it’s all in what you got, Margaux Cabernet Sauvignon comes from beautiful little red grapes). Her hips round as Lambert Dome in Tuolomne, butt firm — athletic, legs like quaking aspens, a face as inspiring as a shooting star flower. Her eyes sparkled like Ceres the star, and she was serious. I was scared. Mel had an aroma — her pheromones? — of Emmi Swiss Cheese. I love Swiss cheese on sour dough bread, a lot. Her water came out like Bridalveil Falls — I heard it sprinkle many times as she never shut the the bathroom door — part of her tease. Her belly, oh gawd! Mel’s personality, a smiling pool shark in Reno, Nevada, but her touch was a whisper of light air. She wanted to feel my perlon, see my equipment. She had an alpinglow that was hypnotic. Lance? He was a long hair freak of nature. Good climber but Mel got all the attraction genes, Lance just got the Levis (We did The Line at Lovers Leap, California, a superb 5.9 crack. On the crux pitch Lance used three pieces and ran up it in five minutes). Many a late night I played with my fly rod, thinking of Mel. Faire dinkum, pure grace, too much for me. I asked my mom about my psychological problem, and she said, “Your getty up will come in time.” I could not function around Mel (she was a 5.15 in 1978), like I couldn’t function around Roadside Attraction. Performance anxiety, again (are guys weird?). And then one day I grabbed hold of my aluminum nuts and embraced my fear. I was going to make love to my crystalline dear. How do you make love to a gal with no crack? Not even lichen on her skin! There was another slight problem: I didn’t have my own gear that day, no harness, draws, rope, shoes. No Vegemite to smear, on my toast. My partner had the necessary tackle including rubbers a size too big. Ever mounted a five star, stone-faced gal (or guy, sorry gals), with waders on? I did not know if I’d slip out, uh, off. The harness my pal loaned me was decrepit, a first generation — should of been incineration, model. Tie in loop was nearly shredded. ‘Biners looked like they fell off of El Cap, nylon in taters. The rope was blown out in places, core exposed like intestines and a hernia. Shoes — EB’s (no Fires yet) were ugly, used up, extremely stinky. I could see the stench inside, bubbling like hydrochloric acid where I was to put my foot, a witches cauldron of bio hazard gumbo, and I gagged. One thing was clear: did I really want to climb her that year?! I despised the way I was to appear, to meet such a nice, clean, naked dear. My earthy roadside attraction didn’t mind, she was Guinness beer with a two hundred year old yeast infection. I was gonna drink her right here. On this pitch you can belay off the car bumper, so we did. On this late afternoon fall day, no matter my garb or pukish smell, I sloshed my boots to the base of the route. I ate my aphrodesiac Spanish Fly for good luck (nearly gagged again). It was time to rack ’em up, with two blue balls. How’d that happen? She actually had a little lichen, like hairy arm pits. I like girls with fir, au naturale. Her line was titillating. My fingers caressed her skin. We began our ballet listening to Steely Dan music. A little foreplay, rehearsal, beforehand. Her first clit, I mean clip, was ten feet off the deck. There were no crash pads back then or clip sticks, so it was X rated to the first pro. Her granite groin was smooth, just a few dimples in the right places. I was cool, calm, and vibrating. She felt my ‘biners. The rubbers held. I hate rubbers. Kama sutra.
Vernon Wiley on Short Subject (5.12) at Donner Summit, CA. Photo by Matt Theilen submitted to PhotoPost
My excitement wouldn’t quit until I came, to the climax bolts. Clip, clip, the orgasms . . . “Rocky mountain high in California . . . Sky rockets in flight . . .” We had intercourse the whole way up — me talking to her like she was Mel. We were one and the same. Sensate motion. I would never be tame. My compadre down below had no idea of my game. But he saw my shit eating grin. When I yelled, “OFF!” I really got off. I felt the earth tremble. I slipped out, off, once, got her pink point, G Spot, hairy arm pits, and all places in between. My afterglow met her alpinglow. Cumulus clouds danced overhead. The taste of pomegranate ran through my head. She had no crux, she was a hard on from the getty up. I renamed the route, Mel. (As a sidebar, from a physiologic point of view, when a guy has an eruption, that tablespoon full of ough syrup, fifty times more viscus than water, give or take, coming down (or up) the straw-size (at that time) urethra at a hundred miles an hour, plus or minus, is a sensation rarely equaled on the biosphere (I think a silver back gorilla could argue this). But guys, remember, our joy is no more exciting than a gal’s whizzbang, she should come first, and she can perform over and over. And to give birth, we boys are such wimps. Every delivery is a 5.15 first descent.)Back to my story. I had the courage that day. Thanks, mom. Climbing is such a passonate sport, we get the opportunity to be plugged into the cosmic vagina My best girl friend relationships (when I got older, more experienced, and confident), always began slow, with observations beforehand. Fly fishing is the same way — observe the beautiful female creek, let her know you’re there, introduce yourself quietly, open up your fly and cast it out decisively. Make a good presentation. Let the trout make her nude reply. Trout for dinner, heap on the sage and sour dough bread dressing, and give me a Guinness. Add some Swiss Cheese as whore’s ovaries (how my dad would say hors’d deurves) What attracts you to the crags? Go knock up a Rock, Climb a Rock. I feel younger, but I still have a bad elbow. Could I still mount her rump? I sent her nearly 30 years ago! I wonder what Lance’s sister is up to. I bet she hasn’t aged, either. Does she she like Irish beer? I think I could handle this dear, in this year, I no longer have any fear. I’d draw her near, show her my gear. Still faire dinkum I suppose. I wager Lance is a fat, testy, Area 51 — UFO — CIA conspiracy freak (he was always attracted to this stuff), looking into the dark sky believing he has an implant in his ear, listening to Art Bell AM talk radio in the middle of the night, skate boarding his half pipes, drinking Rainier Ale (like we did one night at the Rocky Horror Picture Show).P.S. For the gals who read this and are offended for such open minded sexual (stupid humor?) indiscretion, I apologize. On the other soft hand, like cragging, being in the alpine is all about free speech,having fun with words, and free ascents. Gaia is a women, and nature is naked rocks, fir trees, bushes, water falls, volcanic eruptions, explorations, and well, . . . au naturale.
Warren Harding would like this story. In fact he’d buy the St. Pauli Girl pint and say, “Drink!”