A rough year Austin to Vegas part I

I have a wonderful family. Good people. Generous. Supportive. Humble. Respectful. There when you need them to be. Chunkers and Thunkers. Blade-slingers. Hunters. Morros and Mountain Men (and women). Cowboys, Indians and Vikings.

Like Davy Crockett, Annie Oakley and Logen Ninefingers.

Legends and real-life heroes.

Warriors all.

Found in every Podunk town from Tierra del Fuego to Novo Sibirsk, from Djakarta to Djibouti and from Ottawa to Johannesburg.

My Brothers and Sisters of the Knife.

Reunions are metal storms of epic proportions.

Like characters from a Joe Abercrombie novel, many have earned a warrior’s blood name or three (even if they gave it to themselves). Alamo. Lizard Killer. Jack Dagger. Quicksilver. Talon. Hightower. Special Ed. Choke. Che Che. Paiute. Wolf. Gator Wayne.

Etc.

You get the picture. Frontier, Texas-style attitude and humor. People You Don’t Trifle With.

I’ve had a rough few years. They aren’t likely to get any smoother. A broken rod. A crushed lumbar fusion. Two 12 hr surgeries in five days. A lengthy rehab hospital stay. Falls. Lots of pain, anxiety and situational depression.

Heart-breaking obligations and losses.

Much of it only my closest friends know.

Some of it nobody knows.

Life is hard, but death is harder, darker.

And if you’re not living, folks, then, ergo, you’re dead.

But I ain’t dead yet.

They say the best blades are forged in the hottest fires.

Bent, folded and twisted, over and over again.

Pounded, tempered and honed.

“I am the blade,” I tell myself.

Straight and true.

Got no time for worries and sorrows.

May not be around for many tomorrows.

So I’m trying to live, no matter how, just one more day.

To give back what I get.

And what I got.

Late last August, I was diagnosed with DVT. My legs hurt. Couldn’t breathe sometimes. I just couldn’t throw in the heat of a high summer, high desert afternoon and early evening. If the solar index is over 95, I just get too dehydrated.

Heat exhaustion no matter how much water I drink.

Pain, too.

Ugh.

However, it all eased up a bit in late August. We started throwing more.

Then, with some regret, we decided to cancel our November 2015 High Desert Throwdown. We just didn’t have the time and/or resources to put on a professional throw.

But that little imp of the perverse on my left shoulder wasn’t happy about it. In fact, she showed up for the first time in 9 months about that time.

Like she crawled inside my head and died when I broke a rod and crushed a previous spinal fusion while throwing knives in my girlfriend’s backyard.

After all, it was her fault. Keli told me to take it easy that day, but the imp had other plans.

“Come on, pussy,” she’d said, tossing a stiletto longer than her heels from hand to hand. “You got the underhand no-spin going on. You won’t hurt anything by trying it overhand.”

“But I have to do that little twist thingie,” I’d replied. “I’m not supposed to twist. The rods in my back…”

“Pfffft. Rods, shmods,” she’d said as she eyed me like a feral cat eyes a baby woodchuck stuck in the hedge. “Those rods are titanium steel. They won’t break.”

That’s what I wanted to hear, that day, deep down in my heart.

And the imp was hip to it, too.

I picked up a Cold Steel Sure Balance and chucked it like RC does.

“KERPOW!”

Then an echo off the house, “KERPOW!”

Was that a freaking rifle shot?

Hey…  Why can I suddenly bend like this?

Damn… it feels good.

And I nailed the bullseye with a 4 meter no spin throw.

Cool!

Wait… I’m not supposed to be able to move my hips like this…

I glanced at my shoulder and raised my eyebrows.

“Oh shit,” said the imp, then she snapped her fingers and, poof, she was gone.

WTH?

I took a tentative step.

Immediately collapsed to the ground and screamed.

Yet all parts still worked.

I gritted my teeth, struggled to my feet.

Found myself holding another knife.

“F#$% it,” said the echo of a faint impish voice in my head. “In for a penny, in for a pound… pussy…”

So I threw it.

“CLANG!”

Damn, that hurt.

Ok… No mas…

I staggered and hobbled to the back door and yelled for help.

What happened after that is another story and may never get written.

After nine months of recovery, the imp was suddenly, and somewhat alarmingly, reborn. I guess the gestation period of an imp is about the same as that of the humans they resemble. She seemed to spring right out of my ear hole to regain her place on my shoulder.

All I could do was sigh and shake my head.

She looked hot as ever, that day, dressed in barely legal black leather and stiletto heels, whispering restless, breathless thoughts in my ear, her red hair like a flaming, sun-bright halo.

Fitting for a fire imp.

“Go to Austin, even if you have to go by yourself,” she kept saying.

“You freakin’ pussy, you need to do this,” she often added.

“Shut up, you evil bitch,” I always said back.

But I knew she was right.

This time.

Besides Talon really needed a break from work. He probably wouldn’t go if I didn’t.

So we threw and drank beer and talked and finally, after a week or so of it, we decided to go to Austin for sure.

Bob said he was in, too.

We paid our entry fees a day before the 1 Sep deadline, made some new targets and started training 3-5 times a week.

We got pretty freaking good, averaging in the 190s.

But my ex, Pam, was even then in the hospital again. She’d been in the whole time I was, and then some, back in the winter.

I hated to leave her alone, but…

And per usual, money was tight.

Entry fee, gas, 4 days grub and a pair of new tires.

I could swing that, barely.

Nothing for lodging, though.

So we camped at awesome McKinney Falls State Park again.

Plus Saturday night in the South Austin Karate bunkhouse again.

(Thanks, Mike.)

We performed well.

I came in second in the Intermediate class with a 194, throwing Talon’s Dragons, three points behind Big Bear Lagrasso in first, and only one ahead of Talon, in third.

Bob scored an expert 215 and had to turn pro after only 3 months of serious throwing.

I didn’t throw anything else that weekend. No hawks, no games.

I was beat and hurting.

But I made sure to visit with every person there.

I thought it might be my last throwing trip.

Maybe my last trip, period.

On the way home, we stopped at Pedernales Falls State Park, in the Hill Country 40 miles west of Austin.

Very isolated.

Nice park, though.

And I slept just fine on an air mattress in the back of my awesome Toyota Sienna van. Really surprising considering all the structural issues I have.

Makes attendance at any southwestern event a possibility.

All three of us would rather camp than stay in a motel. That’s why we live where we do. No tv. No movie theater. Not even a bowling alley.

Nothing to do but get out in the perpetual sunshine and fresh air and enjoy the scenery.

My performance in the World Championship gave me a confidence boost, and all the genuine well wishes and comments about me being awesome and an inspiration were real ego strokes.

Thank you all, but it is you who inspire me, especially guys like Mike Baintain, Ed Brown and Lee Fugatt.

But winter was coming up, and winter sucks. We all three wanted to go to Vegas in April, but that was 6 months away. I just couldn’t plan anything that far ahead.

The story of how that turned out is coming in a day or two, while I can still remember the details. Thanks to Rick the Rocket, and his fine photography, I have a few prompts!

Blood on the mountain, cactus spikes in my ass

Like every Sunday, I hitch a ride to the Magdalena Mtns. with my good friends Bubba and Bob. We arrive at the gate way up Jordan Canyon, the one just before the road splits. Not a gate anywhere the last time I was up here, what, eighteen-nineteen years ago, climbing with 'Drew? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Damn. That was a long time ago.

We each get our gear together, then hold a “safety meeting” before we go our separate ways.

Me, pointing west: "Bubba, I'll be on the road til I get up near that giant boulder."
Bubba: "Or fifty yards to either side? You never stay on the trail! You’re gonna fall off the mountain again. HAHAHA!"
Me: "HA! For real. I’ll stay on the trail."

Bubba hits his Camel again, points to the east, way up on 10,000 ft high North Baldy and squeaks out through slowly leaking blue smoke: "We'll be up there. You sure you'll be all right?"

Me: "Dude..."

I hike off the trail for a while in the upper reaches of the canyon without a hitch. See a big black bear and lots of elk sign. Deer. Antelope down on the llano. Squirrels. Wild cattle. Birds singing.

It’s March. The sun feels good on my aching, titanium reinforced bones.

Winter hurts me.

Spectacular views of the Llano de San Agustin, but damn, there’s cholla, prickly pear, barrel cacti, Spanish bayonet and yucca everywhere.

I'm scrambling down a steep hill 200 yards off the trail on the way back. Gotta go around a 30 ft boulder/cliff and a serious cholla cactus patch. Lots of limestone, mostly scree and unconsolidated jagged cobbles. Could see the truck, though.

Wait... What's that? A huge, awesome rock full of drusy quartz pockets shining in the sun. Hmmmm... Gotta have it. I'll just give it a kick and let it roll down the hill to the truck. Is that serendipitous or what?
I kick the rock.
Oh shit!

Sky, trees, rocks, trees, sky, trees, rocks...
"Oomph, ow, snap, crackle, pop, oh shit..."
BAM! Oh my freaking ribs.
BAM! Oh my freaking ass.

BAM! Oh my freaking face.
Can't see for the blood in my eyes.
BAM!
Upside down, head over heels, head over heels, rolling, rolling, faster, faster.
BAM!
Where's my freaking cane?
CRUNCH! WHOOF!
Oh shit. HAHAHA! No sharp pains... Whew! HAHAHA! Oh hell! I fell off the damn mountain. Again. OUCH!... Freaking cacti... Freaking rocks.... Why can't I see?

I just sit there for 15 minutes, hoping I’m all right. I hurt, but I’ve known worse. I didn’t even lose the pistol clipped to my belt above my left hip. I landed on it though. The walnut grip is scratched and scraped. It left a vicious bruise.

Good thing it belongs to RB.

Carefully, trying to take a deep breath, I crawl back up the hill and fetch my cane from a crook in the roots of a juniper tree, then make my way very slowly down to the truck and just lean against the bed, slumped and shaking.

Bob shows up five minutes later. 

Bob: "WTH happened to you, brother?"
Me: "I took the short way down the mountain. WTH does it look like, Bob?"
Bob is impervious, as usual: "Oh... well then... let me reconstruct the crime scene! High velocity blood spatter here, way up there and... damn... how did blood get up a tree? Fabric on the cholla. Skin on the rocks, landslide over here.... "
Me: "Bob. Just shut the hell up and wipe the blood outta my eyes. This ain't freaking CSI..."
Bob, wiping the blood off my face: "Dude, red, black and blue look good on you."
Me: "Up yours, Bob."

Bob: <snicker>

Freaking Bob.

Bubba shows up a few minutes after that, lights a Camel, takes off his hat, raises an eyebrow at me. His shaved head gleams in the bright sunlight. Heavy silver earrings make him look like a genial pirate... or an avuncular soul trader.

“Don’t even say it, bro... I’m serious,” I say.

He smirks at me. “Toldja so. And give me back my pistol.”

Damn it!

The half-hour ride back down primitive Forest Road 505A is brutal. 6-inch gash in my right calf needs stitches. Two holes in the left don't. Right thumb the size of a bratwurst. Cuts and scrapes on my face. Cholla spikes poking out of my ass like a porcupine. Right side, buttocks and lower back all black and blue. Right eye swelling shut fast. Can't cough or laugh, but something that has been out of kilter in my spine seems to have snapped back in place, maybe something in my head, too. When the bruising subsides, I'll be better off than when I started!

Serendipitous indeed! HAHAHA!

Bubba told me later, “You’re finding your limits, like a teenager. You found one today.”

Did I?

We shall see.

Hidden Canyon rescue

I did go up the mountain with RB and Bob Sunday (Back in May). We were supposed to meet Byron--- he was in Water Canyon with girl scouts Sat. night--- but R&B were late, as usual, and we passed Byron going the other way on Hwy 60 near the hospital.

So much for that.

Hurting and tired, I decided to take it easy and just stay on Forest Trail 15, but first I ate my lunch while the guys took off, loaded down with picks, buckets, pans, and a lot of water for panning. Heavy, heavy loads. Those two men are badass!

And Bob might weigh 85 lbs in soaking wet clothes.

Loosening up enough to actually make progress requires an hour of pushing hard, through brutal pain and severe stiffness, through COPD. My pulse pounds in my head. I teeter and totter. This part is always hard on me. I’m not sure how many people could take the struggle and pain and push on through.

After an hour, I feel better. I can move and bend okay and for some reason, I start breathing better, too. Until recently, I ran out of gas at this point, but I get stronger every trip, though at 56, I know there are limits to that.

You know me, Little Imp, I’m always pushing those limits. “1-2-3 Go!” you tell me.

Probably kill me someday. I hope I fall off a cliff.

Hell, I might even jump.

I always wanted to fly.

I caught up with Bob right where the FT gets really steep, so I took a break. We split a cigarette.

Damn. That was good.

But bad.

Now I can’t breathe.

RB showed up. He’d been on a scouting expedition. He pointed out a nearby narrow, steep-sided canyon, said, “Man, that little canyon is beautiful. Up near its head, way up high, there’s a series of dry waterfalls and little pools. They might be spring-fed. Lots of oak trees and firs above 8000 ft. Birds and insects and bees everywhere.”

To accentuate that point, we heard turkeys calling nearby, then I saw the first turkey I’ve ever seen in the Maggies, though I’ve heard a few.

I really wanted to see the waterfalls, springs and pools.

“Do you think I can make it up there?” I asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “Once you get over this hill, you’ll see several trails. They are easy, a foot wide, not much elevation change.”

“1-2-3 GO!”

R&B left most of their gear where we were, then took off. In minutes, they were outta sight.

Damn it! They always do that!

I made it up the hill, then saw three game trails. One followed the crest of the hill, which forms the northeast wall of the canyon. I didn’t really want to go up. Parts of the hill are steep, 60 degree slope or worse and the trail fainter than the other two.

Another trail switch-backed a hundred feet down to the floor of the canyon. I could see it, but no R&B.

That left the third trail.

Which is about 6 inches wide and traverses a 45 degree slope. Parts of the trail are missing all together.

Bloody Hell!

“1-2-3 GO!”

“Damn, Imp! Shut up. I’m going.”

To make matters worse, the slope was all dirt and loose material. I don’t know how it stayed in place. Seemed like it was all defying the angle of repose limitations for alluvial deposits!

I looked down at the streambed. It was a good eighty feet below me.

I used my cane on the downhill side and more or less crabbed sideways while pressed to the dirt above the trail.

Until the trail ran out. Couldn’t turn around. Too narrow, too steep, nothing to hold on to.

I turned and sprawled with my back against the slope, dug out places for my feet and inched across the gap. The bright sun had heated the slope to the point where even the dirt was too hot to touch. My arms burned with fatigue. Sweat stung my eyes. My left leg rapidly weakened.

I had no idea where R&B were, just somewhere up the canyon. There would be no help.

They always do that to me.

At the halfway point, about 60 feet or so, I stretched out my left leg, planted my cane in a spot that might hold and shifted my weight. The cane slipped. All my weight was on my weak left leg. Dirt started sliding, then so did I, feet first down the slope on my back. Rocks and dead branches clawed at me, scratched my left arm. I dug frantically at the slope as I was sliding. My cane flew out into space, then clattered all the way to the bottom. I managed to grab a small bush and stop, though a veritable landslide continued on down to the canyon floor.

I slid about 50 feet and was now in a worse spot than the bad one from which I started.

“Freaking RB,” I cursed. “I won’t sell him my soul, so now he’s trying to kill me.”

I had no choice but to try to retrieve my cane. I wouldn’t make it far in this rough country without it.

The only way to it was to slide the rest of the way down the slope, so, I did, most ungracefully.

Got my cane and sat on a rock for 15 minutes, re-centered my strength, caught my wind.

‘Well,’ I thought. “I made it this far, might as well see if I can get to the upper part of the canyon by staying in the streambed.’

Had to climb several dry waterfalls, at least a dozen gigantic boulders, but RB was right. The little canyon was gorgeous, shady, lots of firs and oaks up this high, better than 8000 ft elevation.

Leaf-covered small pools occupied the base of every dry waterfall.

A bluebird zipped by, then a piñon jay, then a flycatcher chasing its dinner. Green and bottle-nose flies buzzed loud enough to wake a hibernating bear. Sunlight filtered through the spring-green oak leaves.

I just sat down on another rock and soaked it all in, thinking, ‘Wow, I wish Keli   could share this moment with me. She would dig this spot, probably take off her clothes and dance with the dappled shadows on that patch of cool, damp sand.’

Wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen her do that.

Topless hiking, biking and rock climbing are popular in the Magdalenas these days.

Sometimes bottomless, too.

Nobody seems to care, much.

Eventually, I made my way to the area about which RB had spoken, a series of tall, steep waterfalls and pools. I could hear R&B banging on rocks and a low murmur when they talked. I yelled several times, but I was sort of down in a hole and they never answered. I couldn’t go any further, way too steep, so I rested for a while and studied the other side of the canyon hoping to find an easier way back out.

Up there… a game trail… looked promising, but damn, it went up instead of down.

Double Damn.

More climbing.

I was exhausted.

I ran into several steep slopes where the trail just disappeared. RB and Bob wouldn’t know I switched to the other side of the canyon, but their side was clearly visible.

Still, the whole scene was a bit frightening.

Again.

Once I reached the mouth of the smaller canyon, the trail leveled out. I enjoyed the walk back, the towering evergreens, the fine weather, but I was tired and gasping for breath.

I rested on a log for a long time. R&B passed not fifty ft. from me, but I didn’t have the breath to yell. I whacked my cane on a rock, but they were oblivious. They never saw me.

They beat me back to the truck by 10 minutes.

The last part of the trail is uphill, but not very steep. Still, it kicked my ass. I was overheated and had over-exerted. I don’t think I could’ve taken

another step just then. R&B didn’t bat an eye, just handed me a smoke and a lighter.

I couldn’t say a word, just shook my head and tried to catch my breath.

“WTH happened to you, brother?” asked Bob.

Again.

I held up a finger, like, “Wait a minute,” and puffed like a steam engine with no safety valve.

My left arm was scratched and bleeding. My shirt was ripped, my back covered with scratches. My cane was beat to hell and back, the tip cover shredded.

I was finally able to tell them, “I made it to within a hundred ft of where you guys were,” then I told RB, “You can kill me if you want, bro, but you’re still not getting my soul.”

He grinned. “There’s always next time.”

Freaking RB.

We loaded up about 5:30. RB turned the key. Click. Click. Dead battery. “Oh. I guess I left the lights on. The battery’s dead.”

GD it!

Bob muttered and cussed. That’s just Bob.

You know the wizened, bearded old prospector from b & w western movies? The one that waves his arms, jumps up and down and chortles in toothless glee?

That’s what Bob looks like.

Especially if he’s not wearing his teeth.

We were parked on a slight incline. RB said, “Ya’ll push and I’ll see if I can crank it.”

Damn. I was beat and pushing just ain’t my thing.

So Bob and I pushed. RB popped the clutch, but the wheels just locked up.

“RB,” I asked him. “Did you have it in second gear?”

“Uh... no... first gear.”

Dumbass...

“Well you better get to walking, bro, it’s three miles down to where you’ll have phone service. Call Byron.”

So RB took off. Bob and I built a fire, then gathered firewood. I hurt so bad I could cry, but you know me, I didn’t say anything, just listened to Bob’s bullshit stories. He NEVER shuts up!

RB got back about 7. He climbed up high on the mountain rather than walk down the canyon.

Byron is coming.

This will be the second time he’s rescued me in a month.

He showed up about dark in Dr. Sharon’s Subaru. He immediately shut the car off and asked, “Hey, ya’ll got any water? This piece of crap has a blown head gasket. It needs to cool off before I can give ya’ll a jump.”

Then he asked, “Who’s got the beer?”

“Well, Bob and RB drank the beer they brought and I’m beer-less. Can’t drink it much anymore,” I said.

Byron looks at me, grins and shakes his finger. “You know if there’s a third rescue, you have to put out, like on a third date.”

“But I wasn’t driving either time!”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the common, or uncommon, factor in this rescue business.”

The Subaru cooled off after 20 minutes and he gave us a jump. We followed him back to Socorro.

Got home at 9.

I feel all right today.

I guess if I come home bloody and with a story to tell, I had a good trip up the mountain!

Gonna leave a scar

"Bzzzt..."

"Text. From. Keli." says the monotone genie in my phone. 

I don't know which is worse.

Her or that perverse little imp riding my shoulder.

I check the time. 5 pm on the dot. My Keli is nothing if not punctual.

Check her text:

"We're at the Holiday Inn Express. Room 37. Park by the 6th St back door. Are you coming now?"

Cool. Hope she brought some grub.

I text back:

"B ther in 7 mins. Meet me at back door."

10 seconds later:

"Bzzzt..."

"Text when you get here."

I text back:

"I said 7 mins. Just be there."

Freaking Keli.

And I stagger out the door.

I arrive exactly 7 minutes later.

Sage let’s me in.

I say, “Hi Sagie-poo.”

She says, “Hi,” turns and walks away.

That’s about all I ever get from Sagie-poo.

Teenaged Queen of the F#@$ing Furbies.

I follow her. “Sage. Where’s your mom?”

“Keli is in dere.”

She points at room 37, then goes to room 38 and lets herself in.

"Adios Sage, say hi to Sev for me." I'm talking to her door as it clicks solidly shut.

Never heard her call Keli anything but Keli.

I knock on Kel's door.

"Come in!"

"Ungh... hey Kel? Why is this door so hard to open?"

For real.

Pushing ain't really my thing.

Doesn’t mix well with the rods in my back.

Or the plate in my neck.

Or bursitis.

Or…

I push harder.

The door opens.

Grudgingly.

Keli lies on her stomach on the bed, gray-green eyes open wide and staring up at me, long auburn hair all shiny and clean.

A big smile pasted on her freckled face.

She'd dressed casually comfortable, like always.

Daisy Dukes and an ancient, tattered Zeppelin t-shirt.

Is that a nipple?

Yep. That is definitely a nipple.

Keli is barefoot, like most of the time.

Calloused feet aren’t exactly sexy.

But then… neither am I.

She’s braless and panty-less.

No make-up.

Seldom ever.

She rolls over on her side, beckons with a crooked finger. "It's good to see you, baby.”

Huffing and puffing, I crawl up on the bed, then crawl up Mt. Keli.

Serious mountaineering for a bent and twisted old cripple.

Damn COPD just won’t cut me no slack.

Almost emphysematic.

F#$@!!!!

That damn imp *poofs* into existence on my shoulder.

Her long, unbound, strawberry blonde hair flutters as with a breeze. Freckles cover every inch of visible skin--- and God knows I love red-haired, freckled chicks.

Looked like she'd been standing by a mud puddle when a truck ran through it. She’s wearing red patent leather knee-high boots and an orange and yellow plaid mini dress.

“Very fetching, Imp.” 

I try to blow her up with my eyes, both in size and… well… just to blow the bitch up.

And if I can enlarge her, I can catch her.

Then all bets are off.

I really want a piece of her.

In more ways than one...

One of those “thin line between love and hate” things.

Then she’s singing in a wheezing, mocking, liquid gurgle right in my ear, “Aqualung my friend--- don’t you start away uneasy. You poor old sod, you see… it’s only me. Do you still remember, December’s foggy freeze, when the ice that clings onto your beard was screaming agony. And you snatch your rattling last breaths with deep sea diver sounds, and the flowers bloom like madness in the spri-i-ing…. Whoa-oh-whoa… Aqua… luu-uu-uu-nnng.”

Red faced and coughing, the little imp snaps her fingers and *poof*…

She’s gone.

Freaking cigarettes.

Freaking Imp.

Kel holds out a dish filled with chocolate covered strawberries. Don’t know where it came from.

She pops one in my mouth.

She pops one in hers.

She puts a hand behind my head…

Then smashes our faces together.

Juice running through my chin whiskers.

Maybe some blood.

This is how it always starts.

And it’s gonna leave a scar… always, always, always….

And ev'ry scar is a mem'ry aid when it comes time to tell the story.

The Mountain always wins

Pam, my ex, had a dream in which I lay dead at the base of the mountain, bloody and mangled. She woke up with a horrendous panic attack, almost had a total meltdown.

I blew it off, said it was just her anxiety disorder.

You know how I say it's only a good trip if I leave some skin and blood on the mountain and come home with a story?

Well, here’s another one.

 Last week, I thought I found an easier way up the 60 degree slope to the mine we obtained permission to explore, but today as I climbed what I thought was the right route, I missed the old ore cart track I planned to use as a marker to turn right, found myself on top of the ridge instead, realized I was up too high, more than 300 ft above the canyon floor.

Followed the ridge south, but after 30 minutes, knew I’d overshot the mine entrance, which is like a small cave and hard to find from above.

Shit.

I searched for a way down, but heavy deadfalls and almost vertical slopes frustrated me everywhere I went. I was terrified. I’m a bent and twisted cripple. Nobody would look for me above the mine. They’d just never believe I could be up there.

Double Shit. 

“1-2-3 GO!”

I slid on my back and scrambled down the ridge til I could get re-oriented. Jagged rocks and such everywhere. My buttocks are black and blue. Again! One cobble nearly ripped off my nuts.

Quit laughing at me!

Cause I know you are.

Or you are now.

So stop laughing at me!

I finally found the truck, started all over again. In the freaking rain.

Damn.

After scrambling around for a total of nearly 2 hours, I found the mine, arriving just as RB and Bob were about to look for me.

Not that they’d’ve ever found me.

We took a break. I was gasping for breath at 8000 ft. 

We entered the mine a few minutes later. To get in, I had to sit, then slide on my ass down a 10 ft slope of, you guessed it, more sharp rocks.

Right away, RB noticed some old det cord in the dust by his boots. He could easily have lost a foot if he’d stepped on it. Carefully, he removed it from the mine, then returned. We followed the ore cart tracks until we reached the place where we found sphalerite and various pyrites last week, in the back of the main tunnel, right beside a deep vertical shaft.

RB and Bob set up lights and battery packs.
Light showed the sparkle and glitter of pyrites, quartzite, calcite and other shiny minerals everywhere.

RB and Bob went to work with hammers and chisels. I held the light, but I looked around, thinking, 'Hmmm... some of these overhead slabs look unstable.’

I said so, but they just shrugged and kept on pounding. Bob found some pockets of gem-quality sphalerite.

Cool.

RB worked in a spot I told him not to. I know my stuff about rock mechanics. First blow and a 3x3 sheet of limestone skarn wobbled and nearly fell.

My turn to say, "Toldja so!"

<whew>

We worked for two hours. I even took a turn with hammer and chisel.

Afterward, I'm beat and still have to get down the mountain. Going down is hard for me. I have to zigzag and my left leg is very weak at the best of times. I got about 20 feet down the steep slope, but started a landslide.

Damn.

If I were to fall, I’d roll and bounce all the way down to the truck, about 300 ft.

I was stuck.

I tried to turn around, but I was in very loose material. My left leg wouldn’t work right, just worn out. 

“1-2-3 GO!”

“Okay, okay.”

Inch by inch, I made my way to a narrow, 12-in wide game trail, then followed that a little way to a sturdy pine tree and just leaned on it for a while. There was no place to cop a squat or sit.

Double Damn.

I thought, “Maybe I can make it to an easier path if I stay on this trail.”

As my Hueytown friend David Jones recently told me, “Pete, wandering off the trail has not been kind to you over the years.”

Literally and Figuratively.

“1-2-3 GO!”

“Damn it! Shut up! I’m going!”

I pushed off the tree. The rocks under my feet started sliding. I grabbed at a dead branch, but it broke and I went sliding down the mountain. Again. Slammed my ribs on a boulder, my left hip on another. Rocks and sticks left scrapes as I slid on my back and butt through and over fist-sized chunks of jagged limestone. I came to a stop after a 30 ft slide. I was on a ledge not 3 ft from a 30 ft vertical drop. Bruises all over my back and left side.

My heart pounded in my ears. I couldn't catch my breath. Ribs hurt bad. Left arm looked like I stuck it in a bag of angry cats.

Triple Damn!

I was so tired, my legs so weak, I didn't think I could make it down. Still, the view was spectacular. I pulled the camera from my pocket and shot a photo of thellano and the Lemitar Range.

I rested for a few minutes knowing I had no choice but to slide the rest of the way. The slope was too steep for R & B to help me as they passed by.

Bob said he'd be back after he got his pack and gear unloaded, but I didn't want him to get hurt.

RB agreed, said they’d be watching for me.

After a 10-minute rest, I started the descent.

Obviously, I made it. 

When I arrived at the truck, RB was pacing and fuming.

There was a ticket (traffic citation) on the windshield for an expired registration, made out to Woody. RB borrowed the truck from him.

I couldn't help it. I laughed my black and blue ass off.

Who gives or gets a ticket on a barely visible side road miles up a wilderness canyon?

On the other hand, we’ve got an arsenal with us.

There’s more than bears in ‘em ‘ere woods.

We didn’t see a ranger on the way out.

<whew>

By the time we got down as far as Box Canyon, the truck engine started missing, then died.

Schnell and I had that happen once after a climbing expedition. We made it from Box to Chris R’s house on Garfield, across from the funeral home and near the Capitol Bar, about 7 miles, all downhill.

We coasted the Chevy all the way to where the highway intersects the main drag, but the light was red.

Quadruple Damn!

I got out and walked all the way to our apt. Took me an hour. RB got somebody to pull the truck to Woody's house, where they left it. Dead. With the ticket under a wiper blade.

HAHAHA! 

I bet Woody is PISSED!

Anyway, that was my last climb up the mountain. I'll go hike and hunt rocks, but no more climbs, no more mines. The odds of falling are just too high!