I FOUND A CAM ON THE CLASSIC CRACK OF CALICO, START OF THE 2ND PITCH AND HANGING FROM A TREE. IF YOU THINK IT'S YOURS, MESSAGE ME WITH A DESCRIPTION AND I'LL GET IT BACK TO YOU. READ FURTHER IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO AND WANT TO READ A RIDICULOUS STORY THAT IS PROBABLY ONLY FUNNY TO MY FRIENDS AND ME.............On 08/16/12, some of us spoulderers fell our way up the slightly less than, "Classic Crap of Calico." Admittedly, this was a weirdly chosen bouldering route for us to clip bolts on, but the 110 degree temperature and the sunny aspect of the wall had us thinking this was the most reasonable option. I remember my friend looking up from the base of the route and saying to himself before I set off, "I AM Michael Biehn and I'm going to free climb this entire pitch." Half way up the arduous first pitch, and much to my dismay, a torrential downpour didn't roar down against us. Visiting climbers might have thought this a god thanking position to be in, but I, a local, fortunately knew better. I know that water acts as a high strength epoxy as it permeates the pores of the sandstone and effectively binds the rock together as one high strength unit. I prayed for such strength as my endurance waned on the too dry and quickly eroding crack, with which I was using to employ side pulls and gastons. All visiting climbers seem to have the wacky impression that wet sandstone will lead to the destruction of routes as well as providing less than solid gear placements. Misinformation is dangerous. They have most likely been inoculated with this garbage info by the infamous "Calico Hills Bouldering Nazi," who strangely frowns upon the use of differently colored bingo blotters and 18" tick marks used to demarcate routes and usable holds. What a kook! Arriving at the top of pitch 1, I discovered to my horror, that the crash pads and quack draws I had were too few and inadequate to build a proper anchor to bring up my 2nd and 3rd. Thats when I serendipitously found the mythical cam growing cat's claw of yore. It does exist! I slung girthed some sporting draws around the bush and even managed to find a few crumbling cracks to clip my draws into. Before I brought up my devout followers however, I plucked the juiciest, most ripe looking traddling device from the bush's scrawny boughs and hooked it over the edge of a flake, producing a bombing proof, trucking stop, safety redundancy back up. Hours later, my fellow fellows managed to clamber their way up to the belay. With disgusted faces they began dry heaving at what they felt to be an inadequate scrub bush anchor. I told them that because Jack doesn't trust steel and that trees live forever, this was a totally solidish anchoring point. After they settled down, we discussed the game plan. We were worried about starting up the crux, 1 move, headwall of pitch 2 (of 2) because we only had 5 hours of daylight left and knew that climbing in Red Rock/s was illegal after dark. We didn't have enough money on our persons to call in a rescue either, so we decided to descend from the wall by means of rappel. Rappelling is the the most dangerous form of free hand climbing, so we didn't make this decision lightly. We chose to use autoblocking belay simulators backed up with a friend's spaghetti thin strand of nyloneema as a prussik. I have been employing this technique for years with every single one of my friend's nyloneema, alpinish runners. Although we had copious amounts of redundancy, we chose to call the Clark County Fire Dept. to assist us down with a fireman's belay. Usually we wouldn't have to employ such tactics but I forgot to bring my partner who always raps first and gives me a firedudes' belay while singing Michael Mcdonald's, "What a Fool Believes" (as he rises to her apology). Safely down, we properly thanked the CCFD with overtime pay and renewed XBOX LIVE subscriptions, then sent them off to perform less harrowing duties. Feeling utterly spent, we decided it would be best to bivouac beneath the shelter of the Potato Chip boulder, and face our 10 minute hike back to the car the next morning. The following day, safely at home, we told tale of our high attitude adventure on the "CCofC." We couldn't believe how SHIBBICHRONDOCIOUS our experience was! Oh, I almost forgot to tell you in detail about about the juicy trinket we found on the mountain! It is a futuristic looking, trigger activated, metal umbrella device used for wrapping around cracks and pulling oneself up the rock face. This is not a free hand solo clambering device. It is made to be pulled on and stood upon, while employing the practice of American Free Aid climbing. They are referred to as camming units. If you misplaced a camming unit on "CCofC," let me know via some sort of messaging system and you can have it back for free. No charge. .00 dollars. Also, the gear and bolt route going up the face of the squid feature to the right of "CCofC," looks fun. It's undocumented, but looks fun and probably 5.9. It's been there for over 5 years. I love you.
First it got weird, and then it got....AWESOME. Like a TR of an Adult Boy Scout Camp visit, on Nudie Magazine Day. A nonsensical paradox of whimsy, slang, slander, true stories of true lies, friendship, loyalty, pimps up, hoes down, getting kicks on route 666, bag of dicks, burnt slings, referential things, blown out o-rings, what a fool REALLY believes, social pressure, cross-dressers, small cliffs for small people, a day in the life of an automotive screwdriver, dirt, more dirt, disbelief, relief, concatenations of complications, struggles, successes, riptides from the lower choads, fixed ropes, wasted time, patience leading to impatience leading to understanding leading to disappointment leading to resignation leading to new resolve, all of which occuring while broadway becomes the new, scrub-free toe-tapping disco you never knew you'd missed, while across the way there are skyscrapers like skies to be kissed, you will/won't be missed, of course not to diss, what's up wit this?, lack of sentence structure nearly fucked'yer, but no one's faulting anyone here for making four hundred words out of what could've been twenty, the brush strokes make the painting and the artist paints with what he has, or lack thearof.
I thought to myself I wouldn't have much to say until cams started growing on trees, it was done deal game over, but here are the cams, what do you know?
If the cam is a Valley Giant #9 with a wiregate biner, it's mine and I left it there by accident, I want it back. Otherwise, tap a tha marnin tooya.