The Radium Release Hitch

 

Start by tying a figure-8 on a bight on one end of a 33 foot, 8mm static cord.  Clip that into a locking carabiner with the loop next to the spine.  Next, loop through the second carabiner, back through the first, and then up again to the second, finishing with a Münter hitch next to the gate of the second carabiner.  Tie off the Münter hitch with a half hitch on a bight around the three strands and as close as possible to the Münter, and secure the half hitch with an overhand on a bight (again, around the three strands).  Tie off the end with another figure-8 on a bight and clip to an anchor, if desired.

There.  You now know how to tie a load-releasable 3:1 hitch that you can use between a pulley (if raising) or a brake bar (if lowering) that can be used to unload the line if you have a locked prussik hitch.

The things a guy learns in Mountain Rescue training....

Garden Mania

Fifteen cubic yards of topsoil

This is starting to get out of hand.  I've known for some time that I have a tendency towards addictions, so I have to watch what I get excited about.  But this gardening thing is truly beyond my control.  I spend hours and hours planting, amending, fixing, planning... you name it.  When I really get going, Laura laughs and says "oh, you have SUCH a gardening boner right now."

It's really like the first time that I felt that adrenaline rush from climbing.  I still remember the first climb that I ever did, on toprope, inside on a gym wall, and I still remember the first time on real rock.  And the first time leading a trad rock route (all two pitches of it). 

Or mountaineering.  I remember the rush of seeing "15,000'" on my altimeter for the first time.  And "17,000'" and "19,000'" and "20,000'"!  And seeing the conical shadow of the mountain at sunrise for the first time.  And skiing off an insane cornice, hoping that the ton of snow wouldn't follow me down.

Or riding a motorcyle really fast up a mountain road.  By which I mean, really fast.  I remember the first time that I ditched, too, watching the bike spin away from me, motor still running as the asphalt ground through my leather jacket.

But those things are nothing compared to gardening.  Seriously.  I think I go out to check my garlics about four or five times a day, and I'm now looking at greenhouses because I can't stand the thought of not being able to bring my eggplant seedlings to fruit.

All this is not to say that I've stopped mountaineering, or rock climbing, or riding fast motorcycles.  Those things are still fun.  But when you're done climbing a mountain, or leading a rock route, or zooming up a twisty road, it's really, really nice to come home to a quiet garden of herbs and vegetables, to listen to the sound of the wind in the trees and the creek and the frogs, and to know in a really visceral way that setting roots is right and good.

Return to your porch rocker and resume whittling

I graduated from high school in 1984, and I remember thinking what dinosaurs the alumni from 1964 must be.  So now here I am, older than they were, when I thought that.  Woah.

So is it just me, or do only the people that we really don't want to keep in touch with post their vitals on the alumni web pages?  All the people I am really interested in are missing, but yup, right there are the people who never moved away from Colorado Springs (where I grew up), posting the pointers to their web pages and blogs.  I would note that my own info is also missing on that alumni page... but at least I'm google-able. Googlable?  Googleable?

On an entirely different but very related note (tease those apart, I dare you), how is it that I can remember the phone number of my parent's house that I grew up in (598-2384), but I don't know my own mother's phone number today?  Cell phones are a bit of a curse, I would posit.  I'm sure that the answer involves a variety of jokes about alzheimers and old age. 

INFP

Gardening circa 1/13/2010

So, it turns out that dirt is heavy stuff.  It also turns out that tilling up clay soils it backbreaking work.  Finally, I will note that living with a masseuse is one thing, but that getting her to use her talents on you after a day of moving wheelbarrows of dirt and tilling it into the clay to amend the soil is, in fact, a completely different thing.  Not that I asked, mind you -- that would be far too gauche.  She should be able to tell from my subtle moaning, exactly what was needed!

I kid, of course.  But the larger issue about being honest is on my mind tonight.  I'm not a demonstrative sort of person, so talking about wants and needs is never high on my priority list.  Maybe it's easier for demonstrative people, for extroverts and their kin.  Hell, tonight I went to the facebook page of a colorado climber who died recently, and it was awash in awkward sentiments from strangers.  On the one hand, I'm really, really, REALLY creeped out by the whole facebook phenomenon and people airing private stuff in public.  On the other, it impresses me that people are able to be so honest, so publicly, not only to the person they are addressing but also to the entire world.  That just isn't me.

I'm good with that.

Squeaky Wheels

Last night we tried to go to a lecture by Michael Pollan at the Performing Arts Center on the campus of WWU. We arrived in time, but forgot the cardinal rule about universities: parking S U C K S. After 30 minutes, we had finally found a spot and managed to get to the venue, only to find that they'd resold our seats since we had not shown up in time. (Aside: WTF?!) The same thing had happened to roughly 1/4 of those who had tickets.

It was frustrating. I love the message that MP is putting out there, and I really wanted to see him. Plus it had been raining for six straight days, and I was kind of ready for a night out. And so I understand the disappointment that comes with being turned away in that fashion.

But seriously, is it really necessary to start screaming and verbally savaging the people in the box office? They didn't make the policy.

This is something that I've never really understood: making a lot of noise to try to get something. I have friends who are really proud of the fact that when they complain loudly and often about something, they are usually rewarded. Want a free coffee? Raise a stink at the minimum-wage girl behind the counter about how your last skinny double latté was made wrong. Want free tickets? Bitch loudly about, well, anything. Eventually they'll give them to you just to get rid of you.

But you know what? I've been on the other side of that counter, and I know what it's like. They can't change what happened, and a lot of times what the complainers get for free comes out of their take-home. So we missed the show -- big whup. I'll see Michael the next time around, and I'll be sure to be an hour early instead of 15 minutes early.

As we left the venue, the box office manager stopped us. We'd already gotten a refund for our tickets, but she also now handed us a certificate granting us two free tickets to any show at the WWU/PAC that we wanted to see. We didn't ask for it, and she didn't give it to anyone else. I dunno what that means. I just looked at her and said "thank you," and she nodded.

We were the only ones who didn't give her shit. So thanks, Jessie. You rock!

Stupidity

Uh Huh.

So I've got this huge train of thought going about free will and automata and what constitutes independent thought, free of biological or environmental imperatives, as I should, being an overeducated AI researcher -- a train of thought that I've been fermenting on trips to the store and back, while skiing, when pulling rocks out of the garden beds, and....

Well, and then I come inside and the cats look at me like I'm a goddamn idiot.  "We're in front of the fire sleeping, my man," they seem to say.  "Do not disturb."

Being human seems to mean being an idiot.  I got an email that read "So guess what Venus is up to," and I read it.  The cats, at this point, would roll their eyes and say "idiot writes, idiot reads." 

What is it about us that leads us to follow those toxic people in our past that we have left behind?  Seriously, what is it?  That's something that will never make sense from a neurological model.

In Which I Return to My Porch Rocker to Resume Whittling

Photo Credit

So, apparently sometime in the last two years I have become a gardening aficionado.  Since about last september, I've been hoarding seed catalogs, reading gardening blogs, collecting free seeds from friends, building raised garden beds, tilling random parts of my back yard, and basically being the opposite of what one expects out of a self-proclaimed "outdoors sports and travel lover," which I am.

This evening while L very kindly made a heaping pile of something approximating eggplant parmesan with quinoa and chopped squash and a mustard green salad on the side ("approximating" because we didn't have all the ingredients, but she did a fine job nonetheless, as usual), I busied myself with cobbling together an indoor light frame out of PVC tubing, a pair of multispectrum LED light bars, and a seedling heat pad.  I've got this notion, see, of starting some pepper and eggplant seeds now, and then moving them to coldframes on the south side of my house.  And, you know, being awash in peppery/eggplantery goodness in a few months.  Or something.

So the question is: at what point did I stop being the no-discernible-credit-score wandering slackass with a backpack and a gear rack that I was ten years ago (and a good ten years before that, too, sadly), and start being a homeowner eating healthy meals cooked by someone who cooks better than I do while I Putter About The Rumpus Room?  Christ on a freaking raft, I've become my grandparents.

I mean, not that that I'm trying to denigrate the latter, or anything.  I'd just like to remember having chosen to take this path.

Gotta hit the sack now.  Dill and Calendula planting next week, and the pepper seeds go into the starter pots tomorrow.  If I develop any notable signs of rheumatism or gout, you can be assured that I will let you know -- unless it cuts into the 4:30pm buffet that I clearly need to begin patronizing, or into my 7:00pm bedtime that I will no doubt be adopting in the coming days.   On a serious and geeky note, though, I am going to time-lapse photo my peppers as they start.  Yep.  You read that right.

Wait, What?

Mt. Shasta 12/30/2009, Avalanche Gully:

Snowshoe/Skin up (right), Ski back down (left)

(note sea of clouds below)

Okay, I'm back.  What'd I miss?