’Tis the season, and it seems we escaped without a stampeding herd of mouthbreathers trampling each other to death at Wal-Mart.

The truth of the world, of course, is that gifts come in all forms and the greatest ones have nothing to do with purchasing power.

For those who don’t know, the disgusting Wal-Mart episode really happened last year, on the aptly named “Black Friday.” Such an utterly grotesque display, on so many levels, of what the holiday spirit has too often come to mean. If someone had come up with that in a movie, we’d all be like, “No way, that’ll never happen – sure we’re materialistic but it’s not that bad.”

Perhaps the recession has given us something beyond the lowest-price-guarantee frenzy, and maybe – I know, call me an optimist – we’re finally coming to appreciate things that matter more than the size of your house, how your car looks, and the façade that really showing those you love that you love them has anything to do with what you buy.

I’m grateful for my new niece. I’m grateful that our country, the wealthiest in the history of the world, and empowered with such great minds that we surely can – if we want to – find reasonable compromises, is finally moving away from our barbaric prioritization of profits over people’s health. As I sit here and look out the window of my little cabin and see the fresh snow sparkling in the sunlight, and think about where I’m going to ski tour this afternoon, I’m most grateful for the simple gifts. The clear sky, the mountains, good health, and the quest for true happiness.

Late summer, our first time climbing together again, Jenna and I climbed the Sky Route on Twin Owls.

Looking back on the year, the late spring and summer dominate my feelings and thoughts. I just skimmed some of my journal entries from this summer, and saw one that hit me. It came from a time of recovery, but a time where I still fell to pieces regularly. My fiancé was out of the hospital and seemed likely to recover (which she has) from a horrific brain disease that nearly took her. When we lived in the hospital for nearly a month, friends and relatives visited in droves, their kindness bringing me to tears. On one of those visits, as I walked a close friend to his car, he told me that Jonny and Micah and Wade were missing. Jonny was one of my best friends. He described the scenario and I knew they were gone. I wandered the hospital campus, trembling and gutted and returned to our room to continue to focus on everything that was happening with Jenna’s treatment.

Sometimes, too, we need to care for ourselves. The cliché is, in fact, true that you need to care for yourself so you can be strong for others. It’s just damn hard to do sometimes, even brutal. In that time of recovery – early recovery, because recovery is an eternal process, as far as I can tell – by the time I’d gotten home to my cabin in Estes and canceled my China trip, the mountains pulled at my heart in a way that, hard though it is to describe, felt like love, like an offer to help fill some of what had been stripped away and lost. On a late afternoon in July, my first day alone in a long time and the first day in more than a month that I hadn’t yet broken down, I grabbed my rock shoes and hydration pack and started running. I started at the Glacier Gorge trailhead, heading for Spearhead. Wind bristled leaves along the trail, the stream bubbled, Mills Lake glistened, and gorgeous alpine flowers sprouted from rocks as my heart pounded blood through my veins and I breathed another form of life again, legs and lungs searing and finally feeling like something more than an empty shell. Johnny Cash played through my headphones as the rock disappeared below me and I climbed farther into the sky. On the summit, as the sun dipped low and alpenglow washed the undersides of racing clouds, for fifteen minutes I danced.

The simplest gifts are always the best.

Scott DeCapio racking up below the route Anasazi on a gorgeous December afternoon. We had the awesome Supercrack Buttress all to ourselves, possibly a modern first.

The irony of the Anasazi art that adds to the allure of the  high desert we all love is that the drawings might’ve said the equivalent of “Natuk Wuz Hear.” I can’t carve “Kelly Roooles!” into the rock nowadays, and with good reason. We now have, to understate things, plenty enough signs of our existence. Times change.

What is art, what is vandalism, what’s an accepted eyesore and what’s too much?

We drive to the crag and we pick up our garbage. The chain anchors are OK. Tick marks are ugly and I hate ‘em. What distinguishes ticks from normal chalk?

Heck, rain washes away most – or is it only some? – of the chalk on climbs. It doesn’t rain much in the desert, and the chalk comes right back anyway, so what’s it matter?

But it’s just chalk, I use it and I love to climb and that does more good than harm because climbing and nature add so much to my life and the lives of others similarly impassioned, and it rains, and rain cleanses, and climbing is our form of art.

Tick marks and chalk alongside ancient Anasazi art on Pink Flamingo, 5.13-.

Accomplishments feed our passion, drive drives us forward, our egos get involved but ego isn’t always bad. The more beautiful the place, the more we strive to go there, and the harder the climb the more we tend to justify our means.

At its core, aesthetics pull deeply at our love for nature. The balance of aesthetics, healthy egos, and love for a place?

Most everything exists along a spectrum, one rife with irony, personal shifts, and preferences. In my world, along my spectrum, the irony of huge tick marks alongside ancient Anasazi art is just a bit too much. Even if it’s a hard route.

“Ohhh, I’m in it for the experience,” says the brah, intoning that soft voice that makes him more righteous than you.

No way, Scotty D and I were in it to win. Win what? The illustrious Triple Schmack Challenge, of course.

“It’s easy to ‘win’ an event where you define the rules, the time, the participants, the place and the objective,” wrote Will Gadd in a blog post about something or other awhile back. I think he was talking about alpinism, no way not true at all fair enough.

Absolutely. Which is why I love it and can occasionally rise above my otherwise boundless standard of mediocrity. I like doing things by my rules.

Anyway, Will’s words reminded me of a time about seven years ago here in Estes, when I lived in the Chicken Coop, had more free time and fewer brain cells, and Scotty D and I started doing free-solo time-trail races at Lumpy Ridge.

We had this link-up of three multi-pitch routes that were on our usual solo circuit anyway – Pear Buttress (on The Book), Melvin’s Wheel (Bookmark), and White Whale (Left Book). Doing them for time made logistical sense. Logistical in terms of how one sets you up for the other, mind you, as compared to logistical meaning logical or wise. The time was round-trip from the trailhead (the old Twin Owls trailhead). We called it the Triple Schmack Challenge because, of course, whomever “won” got to talk all kinds of schmack. We honestly thought that some of our friends would get into it and it’d become popular, like community building of sorts. Alas, no takers: we would talk schmack only to each other, back and forth, Scotty and me.

We did have two rules, though:

1. No dying.

2. No dying.

After the illustrious title changed hands a couple of times – comparison of our splits indicated that I’d usually be a little faster on the trail run to the base, but he climbed faster (in the interest of safety, we never raced at the same time) – I remember pulling my toe up high to a flared tips jam several hundred feet up Melvin’s, heart rate racing in my throat, thinking Must…Beat…Scotty! and suddenly the long overdue alarm bells chimed – you ain’t too smart, are ya, boy? But where do quitters finish? That’s right, coach, last. And so I simply turned off my brain and, most importantly, that time I beat Scotty. Schmack, schmack, talk that schmack.

It was short-lived. On his next go, Scotty crushed my time: round-trip from the trailhead, one hour, 28 minutes.

“Whattday think about that, Cracka, you gonna man-up and try again?” he taunted.

“Man, I’m just in it for the experience,” I said, sipping my margarita. Margaritas make me smart, and suddenly my brain tripled in size and I bowed-out and declared him the champion, falling back on my life’s primary M.O.: When faced with big challenges, it’s best to not even try because you’ll probably fail.

Soon after conceding the Triple Schmack crown to Scotty, I added a fourth route (Magical Chrome Plated Semi-Automatic Enima Syringe, on the Pear formation). I was “on” that day and did it fast enough that Scotty figured he’d have to pick a good day to try to beat my time. But, so sadly, a storm then rolled in and work called him out of town. It thusly seemed appropriate to give the new linkup a name: The Quadruple JV. I am still the champion.

The boys at Sitting Stone recently started doing Margarita Mondays, which apparently deteriorated into Evan Williams bourbon Monday, and somehow I got blamed. I’ve never even met these guys, but I’m honored and I suspect I’ll soon be hearing from their parents. So I might as well get my money’s worth – this week’s marg recipe comes on Monday, and goes out to the Sitting Stone crew. As far as I can tell, they go to Reed College in Portland – hmmm, of the famed Portland Rock, where the Mayflower landed on Thanksgiving, from my last recipe? And Reed is my middle name…see, it really ties the room together, does it not?

Background: Recently some friends and I enjoyed some of my famous basic margs until Jake Martin, who, as far as I can tell, generally has very low standards in alcohol, asked if I’ve ever mixed beer into my margarita – does the Pope wear a funny hat? Two of the greatest inventions of the 20^th century? Why yes, as a matter of fact I have. So in the name of diversity and all things that are good, we switched to the Beergarita. We went with a more authentic Mexican style, one that I’ll save for another post. Besides, Jake just wouldn’t stop talking about how horrible Jose Cuervo is – OK, so he has some standards – but it’s not that bad if you don’t drink a gallon of it at a time mixed with random, undisclosed quantities of swill beer (Sitting Stone crew, take note…). As with so many things, the Beergarita can range from rank to pretty good. I’m not sure that it ever gets truly good, like good marg good, but it has its place. For now, and with all respect to the Sitting Stone guys, we’ll go lowbrow. Lowbrow has its benefits, like that you can only go up from here (once your hangover leaves).

So here we go, the Beergarita, college-days version:

1. Tequila: Jose Cuervo Gold (acceptable only if you’re in college or a trailer park; otherwise, please be civil and use Hornitos), two parts.

(Note: No triple sec or OJ needed – we’ve got beer!)

2. Mix: one part Minute Maid frozen concentrate Limeade mix, two parts…

The Danimal, back in the Almighty Shack, ca 2001.

2a. Beer. PBR (remember, this is the shackboy version). You actually don’t want a dark beer for this, anyway. Pour in a bunch, but not too much. Most online recipes have it nearly all beer with just a little tequila. Lame. Here, we’re basically substituting beer for water, making equal parts beer and tequila. So, two parts beer. Or three, more or less.

I guess I’m not really sure how much beer to put in there. By the time the night has shifted to Beergaritas, I usually can’t remember. Proportions depend on factors too numerous to mention, but maybe the Sitting Stone guys can get back to us with their recommendations. And anyone else brave enough for the Beergarita, post up your results. Give it a go. As they say: Man up, it’s Monday.

Last night, in seven-degree temperature I groveled beneath the crawl space in my house trying to unthaw my frozen-assed pipes. An hour later they burst, drenching everything. Sounds a lot like winter climbing.

First, I know, winter climbing can suck – but mostly just because it’s cold. Sometimes I think the gangsta-wannabe types, using their big jackets just for chillin’ like Biggie Smalls, might be on to something. But the actual climbing is usually fun, even brilliant in good conditions, and there’s something especially cool about climbing a transient medium in a snow-blanketed, serene environment. Granted, it’s often Type II fun, with badly formed ice and snow-covered rock, the dreaded and beloved g-climbing (g is for grovel, and G-climbing is another topic all together).

Anyway, the main reason people get cold and uncomfortable relates to their clothing. While there’s lots to address there, we know most of it – don’t wear cotton, start with a wicking baselayer, add the right amount of insulation, put on a shell. Wear a hat. But people often wear too much insulation – too much? Yes, definitely. They dress for standing around, which makes sense except that then you overheat when you’re moving. That makes you sweat. Then your clothes get damp and lose some insulating value – even the fancy synthetics lose some when wet. And wearing too much is bulky and uncomfortable, restricting your movement so you can’t climb as well, thus having less fun. Solution? Fairly simple: belay parka.

It goes like this:

Nice DAS Parka, nice! Staying wam after leading a pitch tagged with skull & crossbones on a the original topo -- grrr -- on a 2003 attempt at Deprivation (Mt. Hunter, AK) with Jonny Copp. We bailed from the third ice band later in the day.

1. Dress for action. Since you’ll have a harness on, this means you can’t realistically swap-out under-layers. Dress to keep yourself warm when actually moving. Movement warms you up big-time. Overdress, especially in the upper body, and you soak your layers in sweat. But it’s a bit of an art, because you also want to stay warm – especially in the core, toasty warm in the core, go what I call “+ 1” in the core, meaning an extra layer there (a short-sleeved T or a vest) – which therefore allows shunting of warm blood to your extremities, keeping your hands warm enough that you can wear thinner, more dexterous gloves. Dressing like this means you’ll be chilly just standing around. BUT…you can simply add a layer over the top to warm you when you aren’t climbing. Thus:

2. Use the belay parka. Or puffy coat, whatever you want to call it. The standard layering approach that even your grandma has heard about just isn’t practical in the middle of a climb – what, like when you need to adjust your heat you’re gonna unbuckle your harness, remove your shell, change mid-layers, tuck them back in, they put your harness back on? No, you dress for action, then throw on an overlayer.

When?

Anytime you stop. If you stop for any longer than, say, taking a leak, throw on the belay parka to trap your heat before it leaves you. Even on multi-pitch climbs, do this immediately atop each pitch, even though you reach the belay and feel warm. Don’t do it and you’ll get cold fast. Trap your hard-earned heat. Since you’re no longer moving, you won’t overheat and sweat-out. Perfect. Before the next pitch, the very last thing you do – after eating, drinking, changing gloves, breaking down the belay to a single good piece – is take it off.

Some nice details to look for:

• A good hood. Should be helmet compatible (just as you aren’t gonna adjust underlayers with a harness on, you don’t want to be taking on/off your helmet, especially on ice climbs when stuff’s falling down everywhere), zip high onto the chin and lower face, and cinch down around your helmet and face – when it’s gnarly out, you want to be so snug you look like Kenny from South Park.
• Double zipper pulls are a nice bonus, so that you can open up the bottom of the coat while zipped and thus see your belay device (only needed in the super puffy winter parkas).
• Internal mesh pockets – handy for keeping gloves warm, but not crucial since putting them deeper in your layers – inside your main shell – keeps them even warmer. But sometimes you don’t want to open-up your main shell.
• Self-stuff (like into its own pocket with clip-in loop – rare for big jackets, common for 3-season style Puffball style) or an included stuff-sack with a clip-in loop. Super handy for multi-pitch routes. Of course you can use your own stuff sack and sew-in a clip-in loop, or tie the drawcord and clip it, but having one correctly sized with the jacket is nice. Granted, on some multi-pitch routes you’ll have the second climbing with a light pack, so he can carry the parkas. But that doesn’t help you while you’re belaying up the second, and so often you just want to clip your belay parka onto your harness and thus have it always ready. Sometimes, like in more moderate conditions, you can bring only one belay parka up a route and share it – the second always gets it. Idea being that by the time the leader cools down, the second arrives and gives you the parka (if swinging leads) or you take off leading again (if leading in blocks).

There’s plenty more to consider, like big coat vs small coat, synthetic vs down, and hard shell (waterproof) vs lighter shell. Intended usage, including conditions expected, affect your choices. More on that soon. Choices, choices.

But this was just the basics, to get us through while I grovel under the crawl space and fix my damned busted pipes instead of going climbing as I’d planned. But once I’m done and enjoying my marg, I’ll still pull on my belay parka – just so I can look like Biggie Smalls for a day.

At the BRC last night, I observed something uncommon for visits to Boulder climbing gyms: I didn’t find myself hating my fellow human. Granted, it was a snowy and cold Sunday night, so “nobody” was there. Jenna, who comes from North Dakota, surely home to the nicest people on earth, leaned over and whispered to me, people seem like, you know, everyday people here tonight, in all shapes and sizes and nobody’s being mean to each other – I looked around and replied, “What, like normal people?”

Lets be honest, Boulder doesn’t get accused of being overly grounded in reality. And not in that oldschool funk way, either, like the T-shirts that say “Keep Boulder Weird” – Boulder hasn’t been authentically weird in about 20 years. It’s home to the Beautiful People. For sure it’s a great place, I love it, and some of my favorite people in the world live there. Yes, that was a disclaimer, just so some axe-body-spray wearin’ douche doesn’t dub me a “hatta” (how do you spell the too-cool version of “hater” anyway?). If you find yourself making that snooty “ugght!” face while reading this and talking on your cell phone inside your SUV, clad with a “Live Simply So That Others May Simply Live” sticker, and going “That is soooo not Bouldaire!” then, well, um, yes, actually it is.

I know, looks like someone has a case of the Mondays.

(Side note: while searching for that clip, I found a real one of some Russian dude going off in his cubicle — the good part starts about 40 seconds in, this absolutely rules!)

At either end of the social spectrum, there lies a leisure class.

Soon I’ll be back home in Estes, the cultural third-world of the Front Range, where the men are men and the sheep are scared, and, damn, I’m appreciative – we’ve all got it pretty freakin’ good. Certainly so if you’ve got enough disposable time to read my blog.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere, really, it just made me think about turf wars, and I’ve read of how the arts can help expand people’s awareness, give them purpose, and help counter cultural strife. Venezuelan composer Jose Antonio Abreu founded “El Sistema,” a miraculous youth orchestra system that’s transformed the lives of thousands of kids so impoverished that we could hardly imagine it from our comfortable lives. If you’ve never watched a TED talk, you’re missing out. Click here for Abreu’s.

It made me think about the 2004 East Coast – West Coast tension in the old climbingboulder.com turf wars (RIP cb.com, which dissolved into the far more civilized, far less entertaining, far more useful mountainproject.com). There was some genuine hatin’ goin’ on between Boulder and Estes climbers, or at least their internet personas, which are never real people. God bless the Internet, home to the great unwashed (obviously). I don’t recall how this one started — I wasn’t involved, for once — but there was some Internet arguing over something woefully unimportant, and somebody posted this, titled to a handful of Estes climbers, including me:

“Surely you, the bitter half of the Estes Park climbing community, have better stuff to do then continue your circle jerk here. Maybe not.”

Someone else added:

“it is what they live for….the little wankers.”

Me:

“Well shit, I hadn’t even joined in the slagging and I got lumped in with those deadbeats. I’ll join now, though — since I’m getting flogged just the same I might as well get my money’s worth. BTW, you seriously overestimate the demands on our time up here — at least those guys. I’m quite busy, myself.”

And so I wrote a poem. Looking back, I’d like to think it was the start of the kinder, gentler mp.com. Another case of the arts helping humanity.

OK, maybe not.

I just re-read it. It’s really really bad (keep that in mind while reading the “highlights” below). It went on and on and on – like for three pages – so I just excerpted the best parts below. I must say that the Prana-pants-safety-dance part has a nice ring to it.

Now then, off to the climbing gym…

2004 Poem excerpts:

Now riddle me this, what is it you do,

That there you sit,

Surfing the web and huffing glue,

How important you must be,

Watching cb.com incessantly.

Deadbeat losers, bums, vagrant-types,

Not making money like the archetype,

Cool-guy

Slick gal

Prana-pants

Safety dance

Side burn

Sweet car

Cell phone

Sushi bar

Mobile-phone ringin’,

Business deal swingin’,

Call your broker,

Pay for a smoker,

You’re no fool but

people in Estes, they’re so uncool.

Boulder, Boulder,

It’s so real and enlightened,

But that bum on Pearl,

He has me frightened.

Why don’t he just get a job?

Let’s ban homeless people,

They’re worthless knobs.

We’re all one, it’s equality,

Just keep those vagrants away from me.

Save the earth, water your grass,

You scratched my car, you worthless ass.

But what do I know, I live in Estes Park.

A circle-jerk redneck, I ain’t so smart.

How ya like my shitty poetry,

Are you getting annoyed, a bit fussy?

Your panties in a knot, wadded up tight?

“PLEASE stop soon!”–if you’re lucky, I just might.

Okay, okay, but lest you forget,

I’m not quite finished yet.

I know, I know, I’m so uncool,

What a jerk, a certified tool.

A web-surfing loser, unlike you.

A bad American I must be,

Slagging you relentlessly.

No 401k, no Bouldite attitude,

No 9-to-5, bicep or lower back tattoo,

Just this useless tome of platitudes.

But please o please do forgive me,

I live in Estes, with no TV.

Call me pathetic, call me lame,

I kinda like this little game.

I can’t watch Survivor, or Captain Kangaroo.

But don’t tell me I’ve nothing to do.

THE END

Since my original post on gloves for winter climbing, I’ve received several additional observations — it’s like the cowbell, ya can never get enough. Conrad Anker and Doug Heinrich (in addition to being a great all-around climber for decades, DH is the gloves guy at Black Diamond) responded to my original request about glove systems (I posted the other replies before they had a chance to add theirs) – click here to read their thoughts on gloves.

Good conditions in the Canadian Rockies.

Also of interest to winter climbing geeks might be a thread on UKClimbing, in response to my original thread, in which several UK climbers chime in with some of their systems. Hardman and gear guru Andy Kirkpatrick has some articles, too, on his outstanding page of gear info. I’ve mixed climbed (i.e. snow-covered and rime-frosted rock in heinous conditions) in Scotland, and those guys get after it on days that’d have me sitting inside drinking coffee, as I am today. I remember sitting in the Glenmore Lodge with a handful of guys, eating breakfast and wondering if we were going to bother heading out.

“Looks like a good day out ‘ere, should be lots of white plastering the climbs,” said the redoubtable Ian Parnell, my partner that day, as a cheese Danish crumbled out the side of his mouth. Trying to hide my true colors and not sound like a wuss, I nodded and we headed into the tempest. Standard fare over there, and, I suspect, a big reason why so many climbers from this little island with relatively minor vertical relief have historically gone (and still go) to the Himalaya and sent the Gnarwands and the Enormodomes. Anyway, more thoughts on that later, but Scottish winter climbers are badass.

Another friend, Doug Shepherd, had a big day in the Park recently (he did a great blog post on his day here), in full conditions, and got fairly worked on the gloves front – I’ve had the same freezing happen with gloves before, too, it sucks.

From Doug’s emails:

“On a gear note, I definitely pushed my glove system to the max. I would have killed to have another pair of warm gloves in my pack, because after all the rapping in the whiteout, my warm gloves were still warm on the inside but completely iced over so they were pretty much useless for extended warmth once we stopped moving.

I had a pair of BD Torques for hard climbing, a pair of BD Impulses for regular climbing, and a pair of BD Punishers for belay/rappel duties.

I had a set of hand warmers I used to the keep the insides of the Punishers dry, but I had to do so much climbing/rope work with them because of the wet snow (they were the only “waterproof” pair I had with me) that I just soaked the leather too much and it froze up, especially after rappelling. I think ideally I would have taken the BD Impulses, the BD Punishers, and the Patagonia Stretch Elements [no longer made, but still perhaps available online somewhere] with me.

The leather on my Punisher gloves had iced-up and froze, which I assumed was from them getting saturated. The inside of the glove and nylon outer stayed dry, which was good because I would have been screwed otherwise. I did Nikwax the leather on them about 2-3 weeks ago, but then climbed 6 days in Cody and used them on the descents which means a lot of rapping and then rubbing on rocks, so I’m pretty sure the Nikwax had worn off. I need to start doing it before every big climb but I just get lazy and decide it will be fine.”

Our emails remind me of a few things:

1. Bring several pairs of gloves.

2. Wax/waterproof the leather on your gloves religiously.

3. Avoid rappelling in your gloves when possible. Save it for when you have to (like big routes in bad conditions), but on regular cragging outings, rap in your bare hands. It’s not that bad and greatly saves wear-and-tear on the gloves and preserves the waterproofing/waxing treatment.

Doug’s done a lot of climbing and made a simple, key point in closing one of his emails. It represents an important mindset not only with things like climbing and glove systems, but overall. He wrote: “Still learning…”

Indeed, me too.

Alpinism evolves – we all know that the lighter you go, the faster you go. The faster you go, the safer you are, the cooler you look, and the more you can spray. Indeed necessity breeds innovation, and on Thanksgiving weekend a year ago I invented alpinism’s next great step: the amazing, poleless tent.

Background: My girlfriend (fiancé, actually), Jenna, climbs recreationally and also loves hiking, scrambling, and skiing – in other words, and making me look bad by comparison, she has other things going for her. She’s an elementary school music teacher (quite possibly the greatest ever, if the kids who absolutely adore her are any indication), and teaching music is to her what climbing is to me. I love listening to her play piano, and seeing the school musicals that she and her kids perform.

When we climb, I usually do well enough to remember that it’s for the fun of being together, and I take it upon myself to be sure to make it fun. And of all places inappropriate for such outings together, one stands above the rest: the Black Canyon of

A buddy trying to find the descent, on a different trip to the Black.

the Gunnison. Drop 2,000 feet down a horrible, loose gully, filled with poison ivy (apparently different people experience different sensitivities to it), then climb out via routes that are mostly loose, easy to get lost on, and often runout. Early starts, long hours of daylight, and a low IQ are good calls.

Anyway, last Thanksgiving…Jenna had the week off and I was in charge of the plans. We got to the Black Canyon about 2:30 p.m. It gets dark at 5 in late November. I figured we had time to climb a route called the Maiden Voyage – about a half-dozen pitches (less with simul-climbing, of course), 5.9, should be no problem for a guy like me and my lovely, lucky damsel. Except I’d never done the route before, didn’t read the description very carefully or bring the topo, and am a bit faster than she at bombing down the treacherously loose gully – for an apt comparison, picture me trying to play a Mozart concerto.

Hard to believe, but I got us lost trying to find it (3:00…). Then I got us immediately off-route by climbing a loose, runout pitch up the face on the right (3:15…). I came down to think (3:30…), and instead of trying to find the route again (turns out I was on the completely wrong face) I wised-up and accepted our fate: the walk-of-shame back up the gully to our campsite, me belaying Jenna up the rappels.

New frontiers in going lightweight.

It’s dark at 5, with nighttime lows in the teens, but we’d just scamper up to camp, set up the tent and crawl in and I’d treat her to a back rub with a scrumptious ramen-and-mashers dinner. Except that I – I’m a veteran, baby, stick with me and I’ll show ya the ropes – forgot the tent poles. Enter the amazing, the one and only, poleless tent.

She’s a lucky gal, that Jenna. But we still had a blast, proving that I’m an even luckier guy. Proving, as well, that I’m smarter than I look, the next night we skipped the amazing poleless tent and the poison-ivy choss-pit, and got a room at a Days Inn in Salida, where we hit the hot tub, sipped cheap wine out of plastic cups and watched TV. It was the good life. Until the next day, when she started to itch…

Postscript: I didn’t catch the poison ivy myself. And yes, we are still engaged.

Margs for Thanksgiving? But that was wine and turkey, right? Wrong! It’s a little known fact that margaritas played a huge role in that peaceful day. Before he went bad Christopher Columbus came in peace on the Mayflower and, upon landing at Portland Rock, was greeted with a nice marg – on the rocks, with salt. How? Because some of those Native Americans were actually Mexicans, but Columbus, being ignorant like a bellowing mouthbreather at a right-wing rally (thus lending the only existing evidence disputing Darwinism and evolution in favor of the ironically termed “Intelligent Design”), figured they were all the same. Sadly, this got buried in the historical record.

Anyway, the margs on that day were basic. They were simple people. They didn’t have Herradura, or even Corralejo Blanco (the tequila of my last marg recipe post – a damn good marg) back then, but they had Sauza Hornitos (reposado) and Minute-Maid Limeade mix, which comprise the key ingredients in my basic-level marg, too. And so in the spirit of the holiday, this week’s marg post is the baseline marg.

Tequila: Sauza Hornitos Reposado (or Cuervo Gold for beginners)

No swill margs made with nasty-ass sours mix and rot-gut Juarez tequila. At the same time, I am a climber, which means I’m also cheap. But life is all about balance, is it not? It’s a dance, it’s a beautiful…oh, wait. Margs. Hornitos is great marg tequila. Not too expensive, not good enough for sipping, but damn good for margs. A great value, too – probably $3-5/more per liter bottle than Cuervo Gold, but well worth it.

As a rule, never drop below Cuervo Gold tequila. It can make an OK marg for cheap, but, really, your low-end standard should be a little higher. Granted, we are in a recession, but just how much value do you place on true happiness?

Tip for cheapskates – er, budding connaisseurs: Transition-in by cutting Hornitos with 50% Cuervo – it’s actually still quite good.

Do two parts tequila, one part triple sec. That’s half your marg.

Triple Sec: cheap stuff

I go cheap on the Triple Sec. DeKuyper, Hiram Walker, whatever. On special occasions – say, special episode of Cops on TV – I go big and use Cointreau, but it’s way pricey.

Mix: Minute Maid Limeade mix and Water

First, a rule: Never use sours mix. That stuff blows. If desperate, you’re better off with some pre-bottled mix (it’s nasty in comparison, but Freshie’s and Cuervo make half-decent mixes). So, if you aren’t using fresh limes and simple syrup (see my last post), then the best mix isn’t a “marg mix” at all: it’s Minute Maid frozen concentrate Limeade mix. Don’t go generic on this one – get the Minute Maid. Go big. It’s worth the extra 50 cents. BUT – and this is key – don’t follow the on-label instructions. Here’s your correct Marg Mix Ratio (learned years ago from my friends at Ed’s Cantina, who make great margs – which is important to note, because you can’t always trust the margs at restaurants, as some use sours mix and rank swill tequila; but not Ed’s):

2 cans water : 1 can mix.

There, that’s half your marg. The other half is alcohol, which is a given.

The Margarita:

Half tequila, half mix.

Think of it in threes – each part (alcohol and mix) comprises three parts.

To Review:

1. Alcohol: two parts tequila, one part triple sec

2. Mix: one part Limeade concentrate, two parts water

3. Shake it all together.

-Key pointer: add a splash of OJ. Salt the glass, ice, enjoy.

I know I said this last time, but it’s worth repeating, especially since we’re just getting started. A couple of things to remember, for the uninitiated:

-Real men don’t drink blended margs. On the rocks, with salt.

-Shaken, not stirred.

-Oh yeah – I shouldn’t have to state this, but – no umbrella.

The rules were simple: no hands allowed on the 80-foot roadside 5.5. You could brace with your knees, though, and you were allowed two touches from the elbows, one head, and a penis (one boob for women). You got bonus points for chugging a beer before the start. Ties would be broken with a solo race-off to the death (aka The Bean Bowers Rule).

On your mark, get set...Sonnie ready to climb, Timmy ready for something.

I think the whole thing was Timmy O’Neill’s idea – of course it was. He’s like a chipmunk on speed, always chattering, grinning, jumping around and completely full of it – full of great things, too,  like love, compassion and tremendous insight. But I don’t want to blow his cover, so let’s not get into that hippie shit. We were here to WIN!

I say “we” in solidarity with the fat guys who sit on the couch slugging beers and wolfing down chips, yelling at the TV screen and taking their team’s actions to heart. Yup, that was me, because I tied in and did a lap – one minute, 43 seconds. Not bad? Horrible! Timmy’s first lap was 43 seconds (same as mine, except for the minute). I then took a lap using my hands (and any body part, without restriction). Still slower than Timmy’s no-hands time.

But then came along a Canadian gunslinger with a molester mustache (which he finally shaved, much to everyone’s displeasure – it was fun laughing at him, while telling him it looked good): Sonnie Trotter. Chicks send him naked pictures of themselves. He tied in, listened dutifully to the rules (he’s Canadian, after all), and smoked it: 32 seconds.

Bean and Stella.

Someone immediately belted out the rallying call seen on T-shirts and bumper stickers coast-to-coast: “These Colors Don’t Run!” And so a handful of ‘Mericans stepped up to run. Lynn Hill won the women’s division, but, unlike her real-life climbing, didn’t beat all the men. Wilford put a sock on his head and gave it a valiant effort. Bean hucked an impressive lap. I think Gilmore tried, and Mikey Schaefer, too. Colin was too scared. Still, nobody beat the Canuck.

And so Timmy sucked it up – I mean, we ain’t gonna lose to no pinko commie country that does things like prioritizing health care over corporate profits, and doesn’t go on unprovoked bombing sprees around the globe. Sissies!

The outcome was never in doubt, aside from a wobbly moment that had him swaying double-time backwards and wildly correcting forward with a head touch onto the slab. He crushed. We won! Timmy: 24 seconds.

Sonnie stepped up as all fell silent. Tension locked-in every man, woman, and child who witnessed that moment on Wall Street. Sonnie’s unwavering focus could not be broken, not even wavered by an 18-wheeler speeding past, cloaking us in dust and diesel exhaust. The unflappable Trotter flew up the lower crux, used his two elbows (one left, one right, I believe) and one penis near the mid-point, and tagged the anchors: 23 seconds. The crowd stood in stunned silence.

Timmy looked shocked. Babies cried. We could do only one thing, and so the chants began: USA, USA, USA! The sun hovered low, allowing time for just one final run, one final chance to secure American’s place in climbing history. Someone crushed an empty beer can on his skull and burped.

These colors don't run: Timmy's final lap.

Timmy breathed deeply, focused, concentrated, while I whispered him words of motivation: You’re a technician, Timmy, one with nature, Timmy, you and motherfuckin’ nature!

Timmy hit the anchors: 22 seconds. The crowd went wild. Lynn did a handstand. Bean did a backflip. Gilmore did the limbo and Mikey dunked a basketball. It was a proud moment for Timmy, a proud moment for this great country, a proud moment for the world. We’d have shot guns into the air if we’d of had ‘em.

The next day, while we basked in our glory, the unflappable Trotter went to Mill Creek and sent a bolted 5.13d called Prosthetics – on gear, skipping the bolts, thirty-foot runouts. That damned pinko made us all proud – I guess those colors don’t run, either. Or maybe they do, in certain times. I thought about that for a second and chugged another beer.