Chapter One in which Sid is charming and persuasive.
“I’ve got an idea that could be a lot of fun,” Sid said.
Because Leah knew him, she translated that simple statement as “I have an idea that will probably end EPIC and we could very possibly die” and gave him her full attention. She has grown, over the years, to love and expect Sid’s crazy ideas. With him, she found a new way of living so fraught with passion and intensity that she could not imagine a world without this brooding maniacal vagabond in it.
“You are a strong swimmer, so I propose we swim out to Sea Pillar pushing the gear on a raft. My idea is to lead up the gnarly side, then you lead down the other. By placing gear on the downclimb, you protect my descent from the lead-fall potential. The swim back will be hard enough without being hurt as well.”
Leah looked at Sid. She adored this madman. He continued.
“The BIG PICTURE is an enchainment of ALL the pillars down the Central Coast, “A Hundred Summits in a Hundred Miles” is a nice tagline. Call it Big Sur Traverse, something like that.”
Leah continued looking; she knew there was more.
“Archipelago. Now, that’s a worthy name for our new route. But, let’s make it “Ten Summits in Ten Miles” or we’ll never get her done before Shoulder Season ends.”
It’s true that Leah had to get back up to Rainier and drag clients to the summit. That’s how she pays for all this foolishness. And Sid, he’s a beachbum. Any expedition he guides is on your dime. HIS tagline is “If it costs money, I don’t need it” and for years he lived on the skinny; a super-productive life developing the supersketch all over The Peninsula. To conquer what was left, he needed a partner immune to poison oak and mosquitos with a taste for fear and no reluctance to trespass audaciously. She was that partner, and the season was months away yet.
“Maybe if we limit it to ten,” Leah said with that calculating look in her eye, wondering if she would survive her words. She knew how to suffer and this plan would provide that in spades. Countless times, Sid has gotten her into reckless and scary situations and got her back out, laughing and lurked. But, THOSE scrapes weren’t in the middle of the fucking ocean on a finger of surf-strained shit-stained choss.
“Hell, we could even bivy out there,” Sid concluded.
There is was, Leah thought, the crazy part.
Chapter Two in which Sid loves gear.
Turns out that Sid had anticipated her joining the expedition weeks ago and was already deep into the preparations. Sid is a GEARNUT and is always messing with something in a constant mod of his kit, which is already super-trick. Besides, Leah rarely says no. In fact, she never does. She drives the fury. She is THE MUSE. She is a partner that sticks, carries a big pack, and deals with the fear as it arises and not before. After, she shakes out her hair. She is a badass mountain woman. You don’t know anyone like her. She has come through every time with few failures during many such escapades. She would have to dig deep, on this one.
Leah dropped by the shop to see the raft Sid built. He made lots of gear. His “Dune Surfer” is a simple and obvious contraption; an $8 thriftstore snowboard covered with skateboard griptape and ridden barefoot down rock chutes. “Dune Spikes” get him up the scary exposed and remote crumbly things he surfs. Both are well-used. His stove has many parts. So does his bed and kitchen. ALL of it fits on his bike. This “shop” itself migrates and fits on his bike. His bike has many parts. All-In-All, Sid carries a lot of parts to a lot of useful things, but nothing extra. THAT stuff is hidden in The Forest and under bushes spread out all over The Dunes. Sid also has Buried Treasure and a Treasure Map. He lives across the beach from Spyglass Hill, when climbing at Sanctuary, which isn’t nearly enough.
The raft was built from Sid’s portaledge, which was built from a cot, which was built from a chair. It doesn’t fit on his bike. He hates wearing a pack. Leah gets to carry the raft. She’s a good girl, like that. She’ll have to carry the rack, too. Yeah, she’s a strong girl, like that. The portaledge floated on inflatable bladders, many small ones.
“That’s in case one pops,” he said, as if this was a reassuring thing to say. His manner, in general, is unnerving, but he’s working on that.
“It looks used,” Leah said. “Seriously. It looks BEAT.”
“Yeah… Remember that big western swell last week? It was three-times-overhead at Boneyards, so I swam her out with a load or rocks and got caught inside. Pounded ‘er good, but she held up,” Sid said. “What should we name her?”
“How about “The Raft?”,” Leah said, noticing he was bruised on his neck and shoulders from the test run.
Sid’s poetic nature was offended, but had to admit it was a good name.
“The Raft it is,” he said.
“You are going to get us killed,” she said, and shaked the windblown hair from her eyes distractedly.
Chapter Three in which Sid packs The Pack.
Leah couldn’t pin down what had her spooked. Something in Sid’s manner; something was worrying him that gear couldn’t protect. Sid doesn’t scare easy, but he was worried, and that worried her.
The climbs required standard alpine gear for high ascents. Weather and warmth and keeping dry are constants throughout Sid’s Dirtbag Existence. Still, his experience doesn’t include climbing in the midst of the Pacific Ocean on the remote Central Coast. Can’t be much worse than Rainier, right? WRONG! So different, yet so similar. It’s just climbing. You get to it and get up it.
Yeah. No. The team was worried.
He got the raft down to the size of a sleeping bag. Indeed, it took the place of his. His lucky bivy sack will be along for moral support; it lost its waterproof warmth years ago. He lives in his jackets and pants and gloves and hats. How do you dry off from the swim approach and get warm again? What if you get out there and don’t warm up? Dive back in? That’s one hellofa retreat! Do we bring out the food and water in case something happens? The things that could happen! Food and water won’t save them, either. Hell, nothing will.
The food and water went in along with the DIAMOND C HEXES and ovals. His wires are Chouinard also. Sid is a crusty old trad hardman, branded from the same source as his mangled climbing hardware. Bivy Gear… Damn! Now it’s as heavy as the sled of rocks. She’s gonna be a bitch.
“Damn! I forgot Leah’s stuff,” he thought and began unpacking to repack. He tossed out his bivy gear to make room in The Raft. “That’s gonna hurt.”
All that was left to do is go climbing. Well, go swimming, then climbing. Piling into her Subaru with the jolly bravado born in many such starts,Leah giddily exclaimed “This is gonna be EPIC.” Sid could only agree, and marveled at how the chick has what it takes to laugh when he is so very lurked. He gets massive loads of will and determination in service to her. He took his place in the passenger seat, forgoing the seatbelt. Leah likes to drive Highway One fast, but that doesn’t phase him. It would be cool to fly off the cliff and survive. To die like that? Isn’t that how Wolfgang Guillich died? He was imagining HIS death being a little more like Mugs Stump, drowning instead, while guiding a client on a ridiculous route way too remote. Neither of them could begin to imagine the intensity and fury that would build THIS epic. If they each took their epic total and combined it with the other’s, then doubled it, THAT epicness would fall short of what they were driving south into.
Chapter Four in which Leah meets Sid.
Sid hates the story of his meeting Leah and never tells it. Leah LOVES the story of when she met Sid and tells it every time she gets the chance, as she is now to a random stranger, which is the worst, for Sid.
“Yep. He didn’t have on any pants, just his little skivvies. AND, he was wet in a cold wind, bent over in the river looking for the leak in his TermaRest with his ass pointed straight at me, totally oblivious to the fact that I was standing there.” Here comes the part he hates. Sid knows there is no stopping her, now. “So, he finds the leak and yells “THAR SHE BLOWS” and does a fancy pirate jig wiggling those skinny undies. Actually, I’ve always thought they were hipster panties. Either way, they were LOUD and he undulated around, saw me, and froze like a deer in the headlights with a shiteatin’ grin.”
Mercifully, she stopped there; that’s not where her torment ended. Torture, it was. Funny, but cruel. Leah was like that. HE remembers her continuing with “Should you put on pants or should I take off mine? Somebody has an unfair advantage, here.” For a man who lives alone in the woods, unspoken to by any woman, to turn and see a fit young babe with a yoga mat tucked under her arm checking out his junk had a shrinking effect, at first. But, being a man and she, Leah, this condition reversed embarrassingly under her teasing friendliness, then subsided forever. Her pants stayed on, his stayed off, and they have been friends ever since.
She came upon him at his favorite bouldering area EVER, a tiny cluster in a remote corner of an invisible beach he ignored for half a decade. How she found him THERE is a wonder he wonders, but there it was and (after putting on pants 🙂 he gave her a tour of his many projects, starting with a steep trail carved deep into a Poison Oak Grove and ending with an panoexpanse that never ceased to be gobsmackingly beautiful. Everything they saw on the entire crag-strewn oceanview was unclimbed with onsight potential at a high grade. Leah bubbled with enthusiasm, third-classing down in sandals. She didn’t need his cavalier spot and didn’t say so. She has never needed it since and never said so. She’s cool, like that. She wanted to climb the King Line, fat on the main formation, steep and hard, right then, lickitysplit, just-like-that. He hadn’t even breakfasted yet and had already fallen in love. A half-hour later, her Yakima Subaru drove off to Bishop, Tahoe, and further on to High Places Leah loves.
It was his first day at SANCTUARY of his first serious trip there after spotting the pinnacles from across Monastery Beach while exploring Point Lobos. His tour with Leah ruined it. As a Soloist and Philosopher, it was OK. There was productivity and spirituality. Sid lives in a dream, on dreams, and has to love his solitude. An hour with a cute young fireball and that’s shot to shit. He climbed back onto his bike, checked the lashings and load, and rode away.
Chapter Five in which it is all a matter of style.
Sid rode. That’s what he does. When he gets irked, lurked or all 2020 berserker, he GHOSTS out of town. The other day someone asked where he was headed under all that gear. Sid thought about it a good while, finally replying, “I don’t know.”
The man, a Tourist, maybe a Golfer, nice shoes, says “Imagine that! He doesn’t know where he is going!”
Sid shrugged. He plays this game all the time from every angle; sometimes, he is kind and helpful, others surly and bigoted. His moods swing wildly. Right now, he knows exactly where he is going and has tons to do that this TOURON would ask stupid shit about, revealing his own shallowness and reinforcing that he has nothing Sid wants. Yet, he has learned to be patient with fools and find knowledge in nonsense. Sometimes, he gets a hook. This guy, nothing. He rode on. Ghost Tree is fenced and posted and has a beautiful arete that can be traversed into with an abnormally low tide. Rising out of the grotto, it hooks way out to sea and gets tall. Waves crash into the slot powerfully. It is a meat grinder. Sid’s not doing it, today, ESPECIALLY with a fukin touron sucking everything good from the situation.
He doesn’t feel like doing SHIT today, so he pedaled maniacally straight through the entirety of 17 Mile to his Bird Rock Camp. After brewing up out of the wind beside the Pebble Beach Company restroom and refilling his water juglets, Sid pushed his bike past the No Bikes On Trail sign and turned down to his camp a little past the No Camping sign. A slip here would send 80 pounds of bike and 165 pounds of Sid crashing onto the rocks below. It’s a little gnarly at night, but he has it pretty wired, using his brakes habitually, the grips extensions of his arms; he lives by his gear, is one with it. He improved this trail, dug out some rocks and kicked it smooth. It’s high-angle and gravely slick. It’s a trail nobody would take, and don’t. After he does, the others walk past and can’t see him or his private cove. Sid lives in a solitary dream world smack-dab in the middle of tourist attractions and has learned, not only to be invisible, but to leave no trace. He carries out his poop double-bagged.
Bird Rock is the best camp yet. The cove faces due west, great with afternoon sun soaked into ancient granite behind him sheltering offshore winds. Here, the wind comes from the south, usually, especially at sundown, and a pillar of rock that shelters it, reflecting morning sun and glowing from within his sleeping bag. In this season, sand collects there flat. There is even a rounded boulder in the flat sand that can be laid against in any direction as a pillow and wind micro-shield. Sid’s a climber. He digs in his panniers, lays out his pad on soft warm sand, brews, again, makes food handy, lays back on the rock, and looks at all the bouldering, too lazy to do any of them. He’s too lazy to read, and that’s pretty-damn lazy. He took a nap, instead. He dreamed:
The tide was abnormally high, Supermoon-High, and receding from places rarely touched by The Sea. Sid knew these things because he has watched her for years and is maturing to see the cyclical pattern behind randomness. He knows this killer high will bring a distant low. Sea Pillar grew taller as the river of sea flowed past. Sid started sorting gear. His plan was to just fukin walk out, get ‘er done, and walk back on the crazy low tide. He saw it open up before under these conditions. It just might go. Follow the high water slowly out and hope it keeps moving all the way to the base. Sea Pillar is a good 90 meters from land now. That’s a good sign. Usually, it’s just a short swim. We’ll see. He hefted his pack and mentally scanned its contents ambling. He brought the Hexes and left the cams. The full set of Chouinard stoppers fit twisted and worn in the palm of his hand. He dismantled a set of draws and hung the wires from three BD bentgates by size. That way, the approximate can be made absolute quickly. He usually uses his old Chouinard Ovals for every possible use, but Leah laughs at his heavy rack with only her sad eyes and Sid knows she’s right. She is ALWAYS right, even when so very wrong. So, he is carrying four D’s so light they feel fragile. Sid likes heavy gear, but swimming open sea with climbing hardware is a tough slice of pie. She’ll say that the bentgates will interfere with the platement. Such things… What else are those things good for BUT hanging wires? One extra bentgate? Throw it into the sea! (Of course, he didn’t throw his biener; it went under a nearby bush behind an even closer rock.)
It’s all a matter of style.
Chapter Six in which Sid wakes up motivated.
Sid woke from his dream and smiled. He likes that dreams have begun again after so many decades without them. Neurontin, he had. Depakote and Seroquel in-combo. A bad experience on Haldon and Wellbutrin both and a good one with Lithium. “Non-Classical Responses” to Prozac, Zoloft, Celexa and most any drug used for his condition. A good experience with Seroquel made bad by doctors and corrected again by Sid. It was the last to go, then the dreams came. He learned why he didn’t dream anymore when he started dreaming again. Life’s funny, like that.
So when somebody like Sid, for whom a big event is turning his face from the sun during a nap, gets motivated, what does he do? He opens his eyes, stretches his sore hands and jaw, rubs his toothache for a while. Sits up. Brews up. Lays down. Lazy. Listens to surf and tide and wind and which birds. That’s about it. And, well, the climbs. He rolls onto his belly, coffee in hand. He does a full-roll further without spilling a drop. He’s done that before. He sets down the cup in the sand where he sits, right beneath a bulging mass of granite stained orange and veined with quartz knobs, chalked. It’s Sid’s project. He rolled over to approach it. Now, he reached up and low to the side, placed his feet on the stone, heels in the sand. As he gripped and lifted his butt, the heels followed. He was on. He stuck the sit-start and breathed. Good. Up and left is The Sloper. There are easier moves, but this start is new. From here, those “easy” moves are heinous and thin. The sloper is bad, but the only choice for a lazy dirtbag. He is careful not to spill his coffee when he comes off. He is low on fuel for stove and fingers alike. He selects from his book stack.
“Fukthatclimb,” he said, laying back with “Spectator Bird” in one hand and his titanium coffee mug handle in the other.
Chapter Seven in which Sid has resentments.
Sid realized he was waitin’ on a lady, and that just won’t do. Three marriages in, he’s done plenty of waiting. The first, the wife of his youth, the wife he loves, got strung out on crystalmeth and boys and ended up locked in the bathroom for hours cutting her face; he’d find bloody metal tools. Lots of waiting there. Second wife was a bit of a non-event. The third he waited for years, but she couldn’t EVER get going. So, he doesn’t wait anymore and is learning to love his solitude and accept that he lives in a world of dreams.
Leah said she’d be back and Sid hung on that, for a few days. He could use a belay-slave, but after those few days of reflection he realized that the rope-gun would be HER and copped a resentment. First wife went up all the big stuff with Sid, but the following two were much the hindrance to fun, at least with them. Second wife went climbing once, but got a migraine and stayed in the hotel while my kids and hers got acquainted on a mosquito-bitten epic centering around my son flipping his kayak and sending the car keys into the deep. We all climbed our fill that day in Grand Ledge, Michigan, but it was the only time. Third wife never bothered going outdoors, but her kids went, once. What kind of kids don’t use a backyard climbing wall? The grips Sid had!
He was once a rich man; worked in Tech doing some huge Financial Services thing. Lived surrounded by Urban Art he collected. His house hung like a gallery festooned with collages of paintings, six to a wall. Sculptures and Vinyl Toys everywhere, hanging from the ceiling and sitting on the floor; in cabinets and toybox. Even the toys were expensive Art Gallery Junk. Comics and LP’s and Rare Books and lots of alcohol to wash it down. Sad Aging Hipster, Gen-X Activist without a protest. Fat, and Lazy, he took the kids climbing on weekends. As they got older, he gave them the whole house and made the garage into a cobwebbed mancave of note. The climbing wall began in a sitstart cave by the big front doors; he’d throw them open and sleep in the sun below the wall. It had a jutting arete and a steep slab. It crawled across the roof beams, tiny footholds above the Washer/Dryer, beta-dependent swing from a cross, to snag that one. The blue pinch. The white mono-doight. The Grapes of Wrath and T-Rex. Voodoo Cobbles. The orange Limestone Set. So many grips, and nothing but time.
Sid has always been a bum, thus three ex-wives. After First-Wife went to prison, he applied himself to the task of raising his children and acquiring wealth. There was plenty of time for drinking beer with his route-setting drill screwing crimps. His cubicle provided, then it didn’t. His pension and unemployment clecks provided, then they didn’t. Foreclosure took a long time. Second-wife rescued him from all that; he lost himself and his kids both. Built another wall in her garage, another in his divorce apartment. He loaded the panels with holds still attached in a moving truck and set it up in Third-Wife’s backyard to work his same ol’ projects, then added a shed with many angled additions and a clear plastic roof to shelter his art and books. That didn’t last long at all because Sid simply cannot sit still and would disappear for days. He got himself locked out for cheating and became homeless. His mistress was the lonely places and he grew to love her very much. She had much to offer, and, that was a good thing, after the while it took to learn how to live and not die. Here was a scary and disheartening six months living in the ruin of a Fort Ord Bunker, but he furnished it with a bed, chairs and tables dragged from other units at night. He peeled of the graffiti and floored his room in neon paneling. The walls has bric-brac installed; a decorative urinal, lamps that didn’t turn on, globes used and cups. He collected from the trash and learned to love life on a basic level. He worked The Twelve Steps in Four Ways.
Sid was a Boy Scout. Hell, he was a Cub and Webelo too, and a trained Climbing Guide with Wilderness First Aid Training from his days with Mountain Search and Rescue. He was the technical one who got to rap off with The Litter after setting up the Z-Rig in some wild place jumped into from a hovering helicopter with one skid touching in a stiff wind, whirling decapitation.
“Exit downhill,” was the advice.
Sid’s dad used to take him surfing in Baja back when it was eight Pesos to the dollar, dragging a trailer of dirtbikes to ride in the lawless streets. One time, Sid and his brother got those motorcycles confiscated by Federeles, but then stole them back. Later, a herd of Pigs walked through camp. Good times. Sid’s dad’s dad, Grandpa, raised his son outdoors when San Diego had cows in Mission Valley and a river in Mission Gorge. There is a picture of Sid’s dad shooting a rifle, Grandpa wearing a jaunty brim. That picture got lost, somehow, with second-wife.
Everything was lost with his wives, one after the next. So, no. He ain’t hanging around waiting on Some Betty. What’s to do is whatever he fukin wants. And what he wants to do is nothing. He turned his face from the sun.
Chapter Eight in which Sid does something.
Even the very-idle sometimes feel they are being very lazy. So, Sid dragged his sorry ass up out of the hot sand, head spinning with heat-sleep, to lean against the hot rock and consider his situation. He brewed the last of his Joe before napping and was craving another. Some cookies would be nice, cake even better. A burrito would be best. He had none of those things, and, that was a problem to be dealt with. So, up he went to the parking lot to work his hustle on the tourists and see what he gets. Fuel. Tobacco. Weed. A tire patch. Peanut Butter. There is lots of stuff to go fetch as if by magic. Sid’s masterful manner is truly a wonder to behold. He has lived on such gifts for years. Off to work!
Peeking first, he popped out onto the trail like he was always there from his hideout where he actually was without being seen. People hate on campers, envy maybe. Sid has learned not to say certain things about his life that make squares upset like “I haven’t paid rent since 2009” or “If it costs money, I don’t need it.” It pisses people off to realize that they are the dumbass that works way too hard for way too little and hate themselves and everybody else because of it.
A winning smile and brutal honesty combined with the wisdom of age are Sid’s tools of trade.
Chapter Nine in which Leah returns.
Right about when Sid had given it up as lost, Leah arrived geared up and bikinied looking fuckin’ ripped after a season of bouldering around Bishop and dogging The Gorge. Freckles still peeked out of her tan; red hair was faded rust (and you know rust never sleeps). Damn. What a babe, Sid daydreamed.
“My eyes are up here,” Leah said.
Sid snapped out of it lamely with “I was admiring your climber physique and six-pack,” while blushing guiltily.
“Seems you stopped about six inches higher than that, but thanks for noticing. Did a shit-ton of badass at high grades.” Leah looked angelic,but talked like a sailor. Sid stared. “Did you hear me?”
“You’re pecs show it. How’s your swimming skills these days?”
“Swam in from the rope swing out in East Owens about as thousand times, but I was usually pretty drunk by then. Does that count? Got in hours of soakin’ at Hot Creek, which also involves swimming upstream to hang off the bridge to cool off. Plus, there is the letting go and floating down aspect of that whole endeavor,” Leah purred.
“Well…” Sid considered. “Letting go and floating could come in handy.” He had no idea how prophetic and poignant his flippant toss-off really was; they both would chill with lurking fear if they did.
“Do you have something in mind, Sid?” knowing for sure that he did because Sid always has something in mind.
“Plaskett Archipelago,” he said.
Leah wasn’t surprised a bit, but acted it “You’re still on that crazy shit?”
“Yep. Gathered lots of gear, wetsuits and what-not. Beta too. It’s a thing now that I have spent a whole season studying her out while wondering if you would ever come gun my rope.”
“I’m your ropegun now, Sid?” Leah softly said with uncustomary humility and a true feeling of honor and privilege, to have earned the respect of her mentor, to take him up and and have him clean because she is the burly one now. She was Sid’s lead and it made her want to cry.
“You stop that, silly girl,” Sid said, turning away. He actually was crying, but she would never see that. Well, not then, at least.