We're not dead!!!!

You might have heard rumors such as "hey didn't those nebraska chix get eaten by velociraptors?" or "did you hear that those nebraska chix joined the witness protection program," or the ever-popular "hey! those nebraska chix spontaneously combusted, right?" None of these rumors are true...well...okay...we did get chased by a velociraptor in Northern California but luckily Shannon had her blow darts and blow gun and she tranquilized it before it could do any damage.

Please check back...we will soon divulge the last (but not final) chapter in this adventure.

-katy

p.s.--sorry for the delay...

Bee-cuzzz it's been too long...

"Hey, Archie, nice up-down smile."

Top of Pingora Peak (11,884 feet)

Shannon on unicorn patrol. Cirque of the Towers, WY.

Bitchin'. Pingora Peak summit.

Is this diving board Olympic regulation? Or what?

Devil's Tower- we think? or stunt double?

Sinks Canyon Posse in full effect.

Shannon and Katy, we do climb!

Bee Town, salute that flag homeboy.

"Have fun at your first day of school, and don't
worry, you're not that different."

Another day at work.

"You've been naughty!"

Katy didn't sit for a week.

Last day, closing up shop!

Katy, Shannon, and Rattatouie.

Bringin' Bitchin' Back

"You've been bad!" I heard myself yell. My voice carried through the packed bar and more heads turned. Shannon had that crazy look in her eyes and a spanking paddle cocked back ready for contact. The recipient of Shannon's wrath was a 40-something bleach blond who'd had more botox injections than I've had bruises. "You've been naughty!" I yelled again laughing and then Shannon let her have it. The noise of a paddle spanking an ass rang out in the dusty bar. Shannon laughed, bikers yelled, and $5 was deposited into our tip jar.

Our spanking paddle was a cutting board we'd found our first day of work. It hung from a hook next to a sign that teasingly read "Have You Been Naughty?" This was but one sign we'd made for the coffee/cigar bar that we were running for the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Our coffee was bitchin'...according to our sign anyway...and we didn't have any complaints as we doled out caffeine and nicotine to our tattooed, leather-clad clients.

The Broken Spoke, "the world's largest biker bar," was our home for the week. We rode our bikes (the ones with pedals...not motors...pretty sweet) there every morning at 9am and usually arrived back at camp around 2am...our voices becoming progressively more raspy each night as we layed in the jeep laughing with craziness from lack of sleep.

We'd acquired our biker names the first day at the campground from our camp neighbors. Shannon was "Delicious", I was "Yummy." At that point I knew it would be an eventful week. This thought was reinforced as we cut apart a bag full of Goodwill clothes to make our work "uniforms." "I've never gone to work in my underwear," Shannon giggled as she tied the strands of a ripped AC/DC t-shirt around my torso. "What are we doing?" I asked through ridiculous laughter.

I didn't even have time to answer myself. Our two weeks in Sturgis went by in an incredibly entertaining and exhausting blur. Cigars were cut and lit, pot after pot of coffee was brewed, the espresso machine hummed, butts were spanked, rock 'n' roll blared, beers disappeared and all of a sudden Shannon and I were cleaning up and breathing sighs of relief with our new found family at The Broken Spoke.

Our time at "The Spoke" came to a fitting end. With the coffee/cigar bar shut down, we sat at a nearby table. Soon dollar beers lined up in front of us. Shannon had a trained white rat in her overalls pocket and I was smoking a cigar. We looked at each other and laughed. I traded her the cigar for the white rat. "What just happened?" she asked me in her raspy, slightly buzzed voice. We looked like crazy people. "I don't know...but I like it," I replied. We raised our beers to a cheers with a table of new found friends and finally relaxed. The following morning we were headed west to Wyoming, our biker days behind us, Devil's Tower looming on the horizon.
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Even through the day's dying light and the haze brought on by fires burning out west we could make out the shape of Devil's Tower edged on the horizon more than forty miles away. As the jeep quietly (thanks Bill the mechanic for fixing my muffler) steered its way through the hills of Eastern Wyoming the true power, beauty, and magnitude of the Tower became apparent.

As legend has it the cracks and gashes that characterize the face of Devil's Tower were created by a giant bear in pursuit of natives. The natives, seeking protection from the bear, climbed atop a giant rock as it made its way towards the heavens. The bear was left defeated, tearing at the sides of the protrusion with his powerful claws.

As Katy and I stood at the base of Devil's Tower, jaws dropped and eyes wide, we tried to figure out which claw mark amongst the seemingly identical scars would be our home for the day. "I hate this f#$*ing guide book!" Katy proclaimed, "Why didn't they include a picture of the route?" I sighed, sharing in her frustration and continued hiking. After more frustrated searching and a few more swear words we found just where we wanted to be- at the base of a climb known as 'Tad'.

Once up close, the rock looked slightly less intimidating (slightly being the key word here). I watched as Katy struggled her way up the first pitch- announcing she felt like she hadn't climbed in over a month. "Don't do that like I did," Katy hollered between grunts as she inched her way through the dreaded offwidth- a crack characteristic we have both come to loathe. In no time we were face to face, re-racking our gear so i could lead the next section. Then, I took my turn grunting up the sustained crack system, resulting in a large family of bruises residing between my shoulder and knee on the right side of my body as i continually jammed anything possible into the crack for support.

After a few nasty, frustrating pitches and a 300 foot scramble to a meadow we were greeted by a breathtaking panoramic of the Eastern Wyoming Black Hills. We sat in silence, catching our breath and basking in the late afternoon rays. Looking out at the horizon it was hard not to imagine all the people who had come before us. The Native Americans, the ranchers and farmers, the miners, the tourists, and other climbers- all attracted to the legend, the mystique, the spiritual power of the Tower. For that moment in time, perched high above the valley, surveying the land, we were a part of it all.

Before leaving I twisted off the metal cap to to a pipe containing the registry for all to sign as the reach the top of the tower. I quickly inscribed a note to Katy, "Happy four month anniversary, Sweetheart!!!" and laughed at the absurdity of our trip thus far as I secured the cap safely in its place. Then I went to find Katy so we could rappel back down to "reality".
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Possible List of Things "B-Town" Could Stand For
1. Bee Bee Town, Iowa (My future home)
2. Boulder, Colorado (what? it's a town.)
3. A town shaped like the letter 'B'
4. A town where only people with a name started with 'B' are allowed
5. Katy's really good friend from Custer State Park, Brian, aka "B-Town"

B-Town lives in Sinks Canyon near Lander, Wyoming and works as a backcountry ranger for the Forest Service. He was a generous host for Katy and me, along with two friends of ours who had met up with us on our travels. Sinks Canyon climbing was reminiscent of Shelf Road, where we began our trip over four months ago. The limestone cliffs lined the canyon and provided a multitude of one pitch sport routes for us to test our growing strength and confindence in a relaxing, non-stressful environment.

Our days at B-Town's were spent climbing, reorganizing our "home", taking turns wearing the bee costume and posing for compromising photos, listening to Cal jam on his banjo while drinking PBR's, playing "dog xylophone" (the newest member of our travelling menogerie, consider him a shelter rescue, complete with dog bone striking wand), and mourning the loss of my cell phone, who was in an automobile accident (i.e.- run over by a car and smashed to smitherines). After much laughter, much reminiscing, many beers, and many hugs we pushed westward to a little secret B-Town let us in on- Cirque of the Towers.
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"How's it goin'?" I asked the gentleman as we passed ways on the trail that led to the Cirque of the Towers in the Wind River range of Wyoming. "I'm 80 years old," was his reply. I patted him on the shoulder, "you're doin' awesome." He was my hero for the day. I could only hope that at 80 I would be out hiking somewhere high in the mountains. He was on his way down so I didn't worry about him.

We hiked on, gusts of wind catching my pack and throwing me off balance. We passed under a granite giant, the wind ceased and the sun warmed our faces. I felt the presence of something greater, something powerful...and we stood humbly, necks craned, admiring nature's igneous masterpiece. Soon we'd hiked over the climber's trail and stood facing the Cirque of the Towers.

Clouds skirted over the jagged granite protrusions as if on a mission...not in a hurry...just on a mission. High mountain sun warmed my back and gave contrast to the cracks, corners, ledges, and roofs that made up the rock-laden landscape. Never before had I seen so much granite. The peaks pierced the sky, majestic and strong with perfect posture. "On belay" we heard filtering down the cirque. Shannon pointed out the figures on the distant ridge line delicately making their way up the harsh terrain.

We set up camp high above Lonesome Lake with a perfect view of Pingora Peak rising to the North. We smiled as we scoped out the object of our climbing desire...the south buttress...and went to sleep with bellies full of tortellini. After a rest day of snacks, Yatzee, and Pocket Farkel (thanks mom for the new dice game and NOT thanks Shannon for continually beating me at my own dice games) we awoke well rested and anxious.

We left in a dense mist. It was cool on my face. We made our way up the terraced south shoulder of Pingora Peak. It was like a dreamscape. I pinched myself. "I wouldn't even blink if I saw a unicorn fly by," Shannon admitted. "I would just say, 'yep...this is the place unicorns live.'" We roped up in the sun-illuminated fog. The peak itself emerged still partially cloaked in the moisture laden air. Slowly the other jagged summits of the cirque peaked out...glowing orange...basking in the morning sun as they woke up and poked their heads from the clouds. As we climbed, the fog burned away. The sun was cozy, the alpine air crisp in our lungs.

I shot up a crack system. The granite was solid, the laybacks smooth and liberating. Shannon gracefully led up the spine of a K shaped crack. She made it look effortless. She let our a triumphant yell at the top and I soon joined her, smiling. We scrambled the final 200 feet to the summit of Pingora Peak, laughed, smiled, hugged and soaked in the scenery.

T-SHIRTS!!

We still have shirts!!! If you want 1 or if you want 100 email us at nebraskachixrock@hotmail.com. Please include your mailing address and shirt size (Adult S-XL)

Coffee, Tea, and Spankings...

Sorry for the delay in the updates. Shannon and I are currently working in Sturgis, South Dakota at the Motorcycle Rally. Our schedule for the next week is crazy...9am-2am...but we're working hard so we can get back to playing hard. Check back as the stories are piling up...some highlights: dog-cat-mouse guy, spankings, electrical tape and sticky letters, spearfish canyon, harleys, and many more... thanks for all the support! okay...gotta go...katy

I glanced at Katy over a row of sweet peas. She was kneeling in the dirt, hands and lips stained red. There was juice dripping down her chin, onto her already soiled t-shirt. I noticed that her carton, the one she was supposed to be filling with fresh strawberries, was completely empty. I kept watching; popping sweet peas in my mouth like they were popcorn, as Katy consumed her body weight in strawberries before even attempting to collect them in her basket. ‘I could get used to this’, I thought, as I looked around at the tiny little organic farm that surrounded us. Maybe I had found my calling in life.

Appleton Farm is located in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and happens to employ my good friend Becky, whom I met in Costa Rica. She invited us to farm with her that day, offering us all the fresh produce we could handle in return. We rose with the sun, tossed on some old jeans and headed out to the fields. We spent the morning thinning carrots, picking turnips, weeding around the winter squash, and bunching leafy plants that I had never even heard of. We chatted with all the other farmers while kneeling in the rich soil, helping them cultivate the produce they had planted and nurtured into life. The farmers had their system, knowing which plants to keep and which to toss because worms had gotten to them or because they were underdeveloped. It didn’t come naturally to Katy and me however. With each turnip we pulled, we leaned towards Becky, whispering, “What about this one?” Becky would smirk, look at our find then tell us which pile to throw it in. At one point I had cultivated a bunch of green leafy things, rubber banding them together perfectly; just to find out they were nothing but worthless weeds. At another point I looked at Katy, she was eyeing the carrots from a hunched over, head tilted to the ground position, “Do you think I have left enough space between the carrots?” “They said to leave two fingers widths of space.” “Oh, um…” She was using her hand as a measuring device, only she needed both of them to cover the gap she had created. “I think I left too much space,” she giggled. I watched as Becky navigated carefully, deliberately, between the rows of crops, moving precariously around her piles, careful not damage any of the tender plants. “Oops! I stepped on the broccoli rabe again,” I would say as I accidentally mistook a pile of keeps as weeds, rendering them useless.
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“Don’t teach 1st-3rd grade,” our new friend Noah said, “those are the ‘yelling’ grades. You’re better off teaching eighth. Eighth is best.” We were lounging on rock in the middle of a river near Bartlett, New Hampshire. The swimming hole was dotted with some locals. Eight-year-old Noah was nice enough to take time out of his busy schedule of jumping off rocks to offer some guidance about my possible career path as a teacher. I pondered Noah’s words as he reassured Katy that the rock was indeed safe to jump off. “The water looks too shallow,” I overheard Katy saying. “It’s wicked deep, like 10 feet,” Noah retorted. Katy proceeded to humor him by jumping off the rock in the form of a ‘racing velociraptor’ hitting the water with a thud. She planted her feet and stood, the water barely reaching her chest. “Nice ten feet, Noah,” she muttered as she waded her way back to her place in the sun.

The following day we bushwhacked our way to White’s Ledge with our new friend Huck (the name we endearingly gave him after getting to know his barefoot, boyish charm, mischievous grin, and aptitude to create everything from his own two hands). We were in search of a climb known as ‘Endeavor’, which Huck promised we would love. I took my time leading the first pitch, not because I was scared of the nearly 200 foot climb or because I had lost the route in the seemingly endless sea of cracks, crevices, shrubs, bulges, and roofs, but because I was amused and I didn’t want it to end. In recent weeks trad climbing has taken on new meaning for me. It is a giant puzzle, the desired result always different and unknown. The rock is a constant challenge; where to find good gear placements, how to make the rope drag less and how to make it as safe as possibly for myself and my partner. Instead of the paranoid, completely intimidated climber that I was, I am now smiling when placing a solid nut, or when slinging an almost overlooked needles eye in the rock. I am constantly excited to follow Katy up a route, looking for her blood markings on the rocks, checking her creative gear placements, laughing when I reach her smiling face at the top of a pitch. “Man, I’m glad you led that one,” is usually the first words out of my mouth. That day wavering on a ledge somewhere between the unknown pine tree which was my target and the stability of the ground where Katy and Huck lingered, I grinned. I was on my way and there was no place in the entire universe that I would rather have been. I would have stayed there forever, lingering in the moment, had it not been for the black flies, those damn little vampires.

(Side note: After finishing our climb that day, between the three of us, there was no less than 200 mini-hickies, spotting our exposed flesh. Thanks for nothing, black flies!)
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“Hey, nice mustache.” Yet again Shannon was proving her ability to interact well with strangers. On this particular evening she was doing so in her bumble bee costume and hunter orange stocking cap. My friend Casey was belaying me up Kiddy Crack on the North End of Cathedral Ledge. By the time my feet returned to the ground Shannon had convinced both of the strangers to don the bee suit for their climbs. I realized in the fading light that I had spent the entire day laughing at the ridiculous things that came out of Shannon’s mouth. Earlier, as we drove into North Conway, she had called-on (teacher style) a twelve foot overall clad bear statue that was raising its paw. “Yes, you in the blue,” she had said in her best teacher voice. Tears had streamed down my cheeks as I exploded in laughter. What a day. We gathered our gear in the light of our headlamps and made plans for a BBQ with the strangers.

The next morning we awoke to light rain but soon Shannon, Casey, and I were making our way up ‘Recompense’ in the sun. The following morning we balanced carefully up the slabby ‘Sea of Holes’ on Whitehorse Ledge before parting ways with Casey. It was back to the two of us and I enjoyed the return to the comfortable rhythm of climbing with her. I watched as she led up ‘Pooh’…meticulously climbing and down climbing, setting gear, taking it out, adding and adjusting slings until reaching the top with zero rope drag. I was impressed and proud and even more so as I followed the awkward pitch. I was swearing and sweating as I decided that Shannon was now leading every pitch the guidebook described as awkward. At the end of the week we had merely scratched the surface of climbing on the impressive cliffs and I was disappointed to watch them disappear in the rear view mirror as we pointed the Jeep toward Maine.
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We were in Maine and it was almost time to board the lobster boat…I mean lobstah boat…but first we had some business to tend to. “Shannon, put this on your face. I’ll give you a dollar.” “Hand it over, I could use the money,” she replied matter-of-factly as she flopped open her palm. I started to hand over the starfish that was gently writhing in my palm, but I stopped short as our new friend Adam called to us. “The Sea Hawk’s leaving.” I put the weird creature back into the water and we ran down the dock to meet our new friends. We had met Adam in Bar Harbor two days prior. Shannon and I had ducked onto a side street after weaving our way through the tourists. We needed a beer to overcome culture shock and I was scared that if we didn’t get off the street we’d end up getting swallowed by the hoards of Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs. Adam, along with an assortment of climbing and kayaking guides were gathered on the patio of the watering hole we had selected. Soon we were all engaged in conversation making plans to climb the next day, Shannon and I having narrowly avoided a full fledged crowd induced anxiety attack.

“You ready?” I asked Shannon the next day. She nodded and I lowered her over the granite cliff toward the crashing ocean waves. I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t in a dream. The sun warmed our faces from its post in the periwinkle sky and a channel marker let out periodic dings as it swayed in the Atlantic Ocean. Shannon grinned and I decided not to pinch myself. Dream or not, it was unbelievable. We were climbing in Acadia National Park having worked our way up from Texas. I shook my head and smiled as I watched Shannon gracefully make her way back up the cliff. That evening we cooked our dinner in the parking lot and accepted Adam’s invitation to spend the 4th of July out on his boat. As he gave us directions to the dock, the look in Shannon’s eyes told me she was already plotting a pirate-like adventure. I made a mental note not to forget my eye patch.

“Man, this is a big lake,” we told Adam and his friends as we boarded the Sea Hawk. “How deep is it?” We tried not to laugh but erupted into giggling. “You know this is the Atlantic Ocean, right?” I furrowed by brow and gave my best confused look…Shannon did the same. We certainly weren’t doing anything to squash Nebraska stereotypes. We laughed some more.

We bounced with the waves as Adam navigated the boat into perfect position for fireworks watching. The anchor sunk with a splash. The hum of voices floated through the salty breeze and around the community of boats that rocked gently in the cove, waiting for the culmination of the day’s festivities. I heard the familiar reggae beat of “Jammin” playing over the speakers on our vessel. Soon the sky was exploding in color, lighting up Shannon’s grin. It was not our night to shine as pirates, but rather our time to stand quietly in awe, totally immersed in the moment.

Shot through the heart and you're to blame, if you like pictures we added some more.

Look over there....---->

Southern Delicacies, for 200 Alex

Shannon leading Loosen Up, Red River Gorge, Kentucky

An evening passtime at Miguel's

Katy leading Fast Food Christians, Red River Gorge, Kentucky

Shannon coming across the South Peak summit ridge, Seneca Rocks, West Virginia

Shannon and Katy at the House of Trad with the guru, Tom

“Shannon!” Katy hollered out from ahead on the trail. “Look.” As soon as we were standing side by side I saw what it was she was yelling about. After all of our searches, our documentaries, our interviews with farm animals, the turtle found us. Katy let out a squeal of delight and amazement as she crouched and circled the turtle. With the video footage rolling Katy picked the little box turtle up with two fingers and made like Steve Irwin when he first came in contact with a poisonous and deadly species. She blinked twice, gulped, and then looked wide eyed at me, speechless. “That was easy,” she finally managed, “all I had to do was bend over and ‘get the turtle.’” Needless to say, crossing paths with the turtle, right at our feet, an arm's reach away was a little anticlimactic. We had built up the day in our heads; we even had some new “turtle-ing” boots. Katy was supposed to spot the turtle from the car window, cruising 30mph on a back road somewhere, I was going to slam on the brakes without even looking in the rear view mirror, then Katy would bust through the car door before I even brought the car to a halt. I would grab the camera as Katy took off, tearing through a wet bog in hot pursuit, a look of pure determination on her face. When she finally reached the turtle she would be covered in smelly mud, possibly a leech or two sucking at her toes. I would trail behind her, capturing everything, trying to steady the camera as I ran towards the breaking news. The turtle would put up a fierce fight and it would take the two of us, with all our new strong muscles, to pin it down and capture the final interview necessary for the completion of our turtle documentary, to be released in theaters summer of ’08. But I guess things don’t always work out like we imagine. That day, wandering frustrated, through the hills of the Red River Gorge in Kentucky, we were looking for Purple Valley, not a turtle. We explored for three hours before coming across Louie, the name affectionately given to all the turtles of Katy’s youth, and realized our venture led us right where it was supposed to. We turned around and headed back to the car.

The rest of our stay at Red River Gorge proved true to what we had already learned about Southern climbing. The sandstone was tough, overhanging, and much of it gave us a run for our money. We found every type of climbing to challenge us there, from overhanging walls, satisfying flakes and trad routes, to awkward or exposed climbs that tested our mental strength and abilities. We set up our home base at Miguel’s Pizza. Between the bright green front porch picnic tables and the back pond filled with bellowing frogs, Miguel’s hosts a bustling climber’s village. A sign proclaims the 2$/night campground is for climbers only, perfect for two gals on a budget. We added our tent to the many already sprawled out under the deciduous trees, a slack line creating an obstacle course in the main area of the campground. The nights were quietly reminiscent of our childhoods in Nebraska; the fields alight with fireflies and the evening air comfortably warm and sticky, only with the added element of a mysterious mist.

Aside from climbing, most of our time was spent at Miguel’s with our fast growing posse of friends. Ben was our favorite “neighbor” and Yatzee competitor. Mark, who was eleven and the owner’s son, beat us in basketball, Yatzee, bike riding, extreme walking, and just about everything else we challenged him to. Dario, Mark’s older brother, allowed me to give him a new summer cut…enough said. The most generous of our new friends was an eight-year old who came up to me one evening and held out a marshmallow, “Would you like my last marshmallow?” he asked. “That is really nice of you,” I said, graciously accepting. Then he walked over to Kate, held out a half full bag of marshmallows and asked her if she wanted one too. He had glow-in-the-dark shoes and pushed me into a pile of sticky garbage bags during an intense game of basketball. And let’s not forget our newly adopted brother, Greg, who was a justifiably cocky climber, and somehow wavered on the side of endearing to the point that Katy and I wanted to take him home and make him our own. And true to our fashion of attracting strange hounds there was our favorite pooch, a German Shorthair Pointer named Snoop Dog…and last and certainly least in this case were the guys that introduced us to Kentucky Moonshine, complete in a Mason jar. If we had had to drive the next day the one-inch rule certainly would have been in effect.

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“This one’s on me.” I watched Shannon slyly slide a plastic gold pirate coin towards the bartender. The guy at the end of the bar lost his excitement as he realized the bartender was not going to accept the booty and he would therefore be responsible for paying for his own drink. I had the same realization and pulled a plastic sword from my boot and pointed it at Dave, the bartender. “Argghh. You better take it,” I said in my best pirate dialect…then erupted in laughter. I was sitting next to my friend Jeff. Shannon and I met Jeff in college and now here he was in West Virginia working as a raft guide on the New River Gorge. Jeff’s friend Amy seemed to be in shock. “They need to quit spending so much time in the car,” she said quietly to Jeff. I silently disagreed…it was too much fun. Our stint at the New River was short lived, our pirate career didn’t really pan out (no one wanted to accept our currency and our weapons were made of low grade plastic.) We stayed only a couple of days in the tent commune the raft guides called home. It was time to move on, so we built Jeff a table with scraps from the junk pile, wrote him a “Dear John” letter and headed out with the promise of a lake where we could swim and climb.

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Imagine the Caribbean Ocean, the pristine blue waters, crystal clear from surface to sea floor. Now imagine shrinking the Caribbean into a largish lake and placing it in the middle of West Virginia, surrounding it with 60 + foot slightly overhanging cliffs of sandstone. Then, give the lake a name like Summersville. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would want to visit a place like this, right? Well, unfortunately Katy and I were forced, 100% against our will, to ascend the walls around the lake, in our bathing suits, sun gently warming our backs, only to reach our desired height, and then plunge into the deep cool water below. We spent the day like this, fish with climbing shoe fins, and lizards with a strict basking regiment. But I don’t want you to become deceived; this day of ‘fun in the sun’ was by no means our choice. We would much rather have been macramé-ing hanging plant baskets or playing dodge ball with blind children. Between swimming and deep water soloing we met up with our friends Jeff and Jordan who we had left behind in the New River Gorge. They met us at a climbing area called Orange Oswald Wall, Katy and I had familiarized ourselves with the area the day prior. Katy, Jeff, and I took turns leading routes, and appropriately enough we climbed one called Jeff’s Bunny Hop. Jeff was excited to climb a route with his name in it and Katy and I were excited to get back to climbing routes with fluffy cotton animals in the title. After not enough time we packed up our belongings and headed north-east to Seneca Rocks.

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"No sense letting good meat go to waste." The words of our camp neighbors were ringing in my head as I bit into the tiny leg and tore the meat off the tiny leg bones. I am really eating road kill squirrel, I thought to myself. I looked over at Shannon, I could almost hear the vomit rising in her throat. Then I looked back to John, the proprietor behind my rodent breakfast. “Not too bad,” I told him. It was probably the best meat I’d eaten in a while…after all it didn’t come from a can or in log form….and probably no hormones, steroids or antibiotics either…just a little critter whose luck had run out as he tried to cross West Virginia Highway 33.

Shannon and I were staying in Yokum’s Indian Princess campground, just up a little gravel road from a pavilion (which we naturally assumed was for illegal dog fighting and not picnics), just across the street and over Seneca Creek from Harper’s General Store where we made phone calls from a pay phone on the porch and bought a six pack of Coors Light. The ‘town’ had two stores…one owned by the Yokums and one by the Harpers. The word on the street was there was something of a family feud between the two and this feud played out in my head in cartoon style complete with shotguns, yelling, and line drawing in the dirt. Our campsite, the two stores and two climbing shops that made up the town were nestled in the shadow of Seneca Rocks. The quartzite cliffs stood 1000 feet over the valley, like sentinel guards, protecting it and it’s few inhabitants. From this valley, I watched in the fading light each evening as the cliffs soaked up the last golden rays of the gloaming.

I sat perched high above the valley watching a vulture spiral upward on the thermals while I belayed Shannon up the last pitch of Old Ladies Route, a relaxing climb with astounding views. I was lost in the moment…a tiger swallowtail fluttered below as I fed rope out and it disappeared into the chimney. Minutes passed and soon I was not lost in the moment. I was in the chimney cursing Shannon’s name. “Hey Shannon,” I yelled. “Guess what I’m doing.” “Uh…” I could hear the shit-eating grin in her voice… “getting that little nut out?” These nut placements of Shannon’s had become somewhat of a signature move of hers and I smiled as I finally loosened it out of it’s rock home…a solid 15 minutes after I had first tried to pull it out.

Our days at Seneca were spent climbing the labyrinth of routes. I say labyrinth of routes because Seneca Rocks is not a ‘crag’…routes are not lined up, execution style to be crossed off like items on a grocery list. Rather, routes spring up all over the uncharacteristically large rock protrusion. Routes meet up with other routes. They top out on different tiers. You can climb one pitch of a route, walk along a ledge, go past two large trees and start up the second pitch of another route. Each climb brings you to a new perch, with a different vulture's-eye view of the valley. My favorite climb, Tomato, actually ended with a traverse across the narrow summit ridge of the South Peak of Seneca Rocks. Shannon put it best when she looked at me, her eyes wide like a kid with a new toy, and said “it’s like a real life choose your own adventure book.” It’s an area steeped in tradition (people were climbing in Seneca as early as 1905) and sitting on the summit is a gratifying yet humbling experience.

We had spent a day feeling out the rock and felt confident to push ourselves. I sat at the top of the first pitch of the route we had selected for the challenge. A man was rappelling off a nearby route. “Hey Kate, you on ecstasy?” he asked. This was a question I had previously regarded as one I might be asked in the artificial glow of a black light, with techno music blaring, somewhere in the depths of a city…but, from my rock perch, the answer was simple. “Yep,” I told him with a smile. Shannon and I were on Ecstasy, but not the drug reserved for raves and people who are masochistic when it comes to their brain cells, but a three pitch route with great exposure. The man inquiring about our climbing pursuit (not our drug habits) was Tom and he had leant us his guide book.

Borrowing Tom’s guidebook turned out to be the best thing we did. When we went to return it, he invited us into what a sign above the swinging saloon-style doors proclaimed was “The House of Trad.” The House of Trad was an outdoor porch overlooking Seneca Creek. A wooden mandala from Thailand hung on the wall and a plastic hula dancer stood motionless on the TV which was playing music from the Jam Bands channel of a satellite radio station. A bar swung out from the main wall and we sat with Tom and had a beer. Ben, one of the climbing guides at Tom’s ‘compound’ soon joined us, bringing his friendly smile and calm company. Like a bigger wiser bird and two little birds learning to fly, Tom soon took Shannon and I under his wing…and it was cozy. He gave us a thorough crash-course in anchor building and then fed us mouth watering barbequed chicken legs (a much more appetizing meal than squirrel.) Two days later he looked over our shoulders while we placed nuts, hexes, tri-cams and camalots in the walls of the climbing center he had designed and built. It may sound cliché, but words cannot do justice to the time we spent at Tom’s and Seneca Rocks.

Read this if you like LISTS of stuff or if you're just curious what we've been doing.

Foster Falls and swimming hole

Mandi climbing "Finger Lockin' Good"

Katy leading "Jay Walker" at Tennessee Wall

Shannon climbing "Finger Lockin' Good"

The 'T' that sparked "Things that 'T' Stands For List"

Ironically, this story begins where the last one left off....sitting in a coffee shop waiting for the rain to cease. Fortunately, it is not the same coffee shop. This rainy Sunday finds us sitting in Fayetteville, West Virginia in the Cathedral Cafe outside of the New River Gorge. Luckily, in between these two rainy coffee shop days we have experienced nearly a month of sunny weather, colorful people, and stellar climbing.

So back to Chattanooga. We arrived in Chattanooga with hopes of climbing at the Tennessee Wall, however after talking with some of the locals we decided to try our hand at Foster Falls, with the promise that it would dry faster than Tennessee Wall after all of the rain. Foster Falls is tucked in the hills 30 minutes outside of Chattanooga. A short hike down took us past the falls themselves, by a great end-of-the-day swimming hole, and along the base of an overhanging sandstone cliff band ("we"...meaning our biceps and upper bodies.... have found this overhanging sandstone to be the epitome of southern climbing). After a month of climbing under our harnesses we were feeling slightly more confident in our abilities. That is, until, while waiting at the base of a route a saggy armed mom- type suggested that we would have better luck at a route called "Bear Mountain Picnic". She might as well have sent us to the McDonald's Playland with a snack and our nap blankies. Dragging our egos behind us we made our way to the "Fluffy Little Bunny Route". We didn't know it at the time but the "climbing bar" is set high in the south. This overhanging sandstone breeds bad asses and leaves no room for McDonald's play dates.

(Side note: we put in our time on the recommended "Fluffy Bunny Route" and also managed to salvage some of our dignity by climbing some harder routes that didn't contain the word 'picnic'. And in the grand old tradition of never judging a book by its cover, we will never again judge a climber by their age or arm tone.)

You may have been wondering about other Nebraska chix who rock. It just so happens that one such chick was winding her way through Tennessee at the exact time we were there...her name is Mandi. Katy and Mandi graduated high school together 7 years ago and hadn't seen each other since, but as Katy flagged Mandi into the campsite with her headlamp she could tell that their lives had taken a similar path. Mandi's car contained all of her earthly possessions and as they recounted their lives into the night it felt like not so much time had passed. The following day was a "chix rock" climbing day. The Tennessee Wall provided the perfect setting for a mandatory lesson in crack climbing. We jammed our hands and contorted our feet to wedge securely in the cracks. As we hiked towards our cars, exhausted from a hard days climbing, we talked excitedly about driving to Nashville to celebrate the end of what we all decided was the perfect day. The celebration involved live country music, George Dickel, and proving that the jeep could "comfortably" sleep three.

The next day could become a dissertation for a doctoral candidate in psychiatry. We had coffee at the Waffle House with Mike, a coffee drinking, trousers wearing fly. This was followed by what we refer to as the "list making segment of the day". The list of lists is as follows:
1. Good Things about Bees List
2. Things in the Car (today) List
3. Things I Did Today List
4. Things that "T" Stands for List
5. Types of Tapping List
6. Funny Things to Roll Up in the Window List
7. Three Things Katy Wants to Do List (note: includes five items)
8. Things Stephen Foster Can and Can't Do List
9. Animals Katy Will Tattoo On Her Toes List
10. Border Collie Insults List
11. Possible Occupations for the Nashville Palace Guys List
12. Reasons Why that is a Prison List
13. Uses for a Small Dog List
(For more information or copies of the lists themselves, please contact us.)

The list making took us all the way to Lexington, Kentucky where an attempt to find a park to cook dinner landed us smack dab in the middle of a Border Collie Convention. After an educating discussion with a Border Collie trainer we felt competent enough to start deducting points from the Collies as they rounded up confused sheep. It was probably a good thing when we had to part ways the following day to attend two separate weddings in two separate states.

(The coffee shop is closing but we've been accused of being slackers by a person we call "Nick". So, check back to learn about the Red River Gorge and our newly adopted brother.)

Two insane girls seeking slow, green, armored individual who likes long walks in the rain...

Katy leading 'Gracies Eight' in the Far East

Shannon leading up 'Man Servant' on Magoo Rock

Katy working out the moves on 'Horseshoes and Hand Grenades'

A day at the ranch with new friends Mike (left) and Scott

Katy's favorite evening passtime at the ranch.


Exfoliation weathering on the granite domes of Enchanted Rock.

The blossom of a Prickly Pear cactus

Almost there! Shannon climbing 'The Controversy'

Googley eyed Foxy and Chili hangin' on the Horseshoe Canyon porch.

Katy calls this one "Sneaky Monkey"

"Get the golden grahms...in case it's epic!" Shannon yelled from the safety of the Enchanted Rocks State Park bathroom overhang. We had spent the day hiking around the park in intermittant rain, climbing trees to watch turtles and gazing mouths open at the hoards of blooming wildflowers and cactus. This was before a park employee warned us about the tornado watch/thunderstorm warning that was in effect for ....drum roll...our exact location, and told us to find shelter. This park employee came just after a gentleman shifted everything he was carrying in his hands for his picnic just to tip his hat when he said hello. We were in the heart of Texas and a thunderstorm was a brewin'. The winds picked up, the vultures stopped circling the granite domes, and Katy fumbled in the back of the Jeep for the storm essentials: headlamps, rain coats, campchairs, Yatzee and of course...Golden Grahms. The storm raged as Shannon, on her second game of Yatzee ever managed to roll two, yes two, Yatzees. Needless to say she won and Katy, who may or may not take Yatzee very seriously, threatened to put a premature end to both the friendship and the trip. The storm blew over and the evening found us relaxing in our campchairs, watching lightening spiderweb across the evening skies. The rain put a damper on our climbing...(i.e. totally shut us down). Disappointed but in good spirits we departed Enchanted Rock State Park in search of sunny weather. (Side note: Two weeks have passed and we are yet to see the "elusive buring dot in the sky"...or "the sun" as we've heard it called.)

Our search for the sun took us to Austin and for the first hour as we biked around taking in the city, it seemed our search was over. However, it was short lived. Within moments it was raining "armadillas and javelinas." We think the rain in Texas has magical powers because all of a sudden we looked down and there were beers in our hands. "Oh golly!" Katy exclaimed. "What do we do with these??" "Gee, I reckon we better drink 'em." Shannon replied matter of factly. Two hours later found us reading books at the library. (Okay, that, or dancing and singing "Hey Mickey" onstage with the Spazmatics, a helmet-clad, pocket protector wearin', Revenge-of-the-Nerds-type 80's cover band.)

The next morning we experienced a phenemenon we have come to call the "One Inch Rule." You may recall such things as "Einstein's Theory of Relativity, Newton's Laws of Gravity, and Murphy's Law." The "One Inch Rule" may as well join the list. The "One Inch Rule" opperates on the principle that Katy and Shannon, when departing a given location, cannot exceed one inch of map distance in less than three hours. In laymans terms we have not been able to get further than 60 miles from any location in a reasonable amount of time. The reasons for the time delay vary, but the result is always the same: three hours have passed and we're still listening to the same radio station, having not driven out of range of its towers.

When we departed Austin, we were still oblivious to this phenomenon. However, because of Katy's refusal to make sense of a common road map and Shannon's determination to make it all the way to Arkansas using only the car's eletronic compass and Texas' county road system we soon found ourselves in a time vortex that we later attributed to the "One Inch Rule." Luckily, during our stint in the time vortex, we stumbled upon a new passtime, a passtime we call "Turtle-ing." When driving on Texas county road 363, which happens to be gravel, at the blinding speed of 15 mph, it's amazing what catches your eye...namely, turtles. We spent the better portion of the day with the car's compass reading N, E, or NE and our heads out the window turtle-ing. "Turtle-ing" means we are looking for new friends that wear green hard casings, or "shells" if you will. We could go on forever about turtle-ing, but we won't...we'll spare you the details. We will tell you that as of today, we still do not have a turtle...

Oddly enough, we did not make it to our destination that day. Even more perplexing was that the next day it took us all of 9 hours to make it 120 miles to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch. Horseshoe Canyon Ranch is a little utopia tucked in the Ozarks near the town of Jasper, Arkansas. It’s a dude ranch, where horses, goats, and goat dogs roam the meadows and far outnumber the people. Cliff bands of spectacular overhanging juggy sandstone make up the walls of this little oasis. These walls seem to protect the valley, more so than Foxy the googley eyed, tick infested ranch dog that followed us up to the crag the first day. (Don’t get us wrong, we seriously considered kidnapping Foxy…but we're not sure how she'll get along with our future pet, Turtle.) As we sat on the porch the first morning waiting for the drizzle to let up…a little red car pulled in. We waved and smiled and soon we had two new friends…Scott and Mike. The four of us made our way up to the North 40. Mike and Scott jumped on the most overhanging route possible. We swallowed the lumps in our throats and headed for “The Green Goblin” a route we thought might actually house a little green monster. It unfortunately did not. However, as we looked around from the base of the route, we saw a younger guy in a cowboy hat cooking a can of corn on a stove and a group of hooligans drinking beer. We're pretty sure that none of them ever climbed, they were just there...great accents and all. The highlights of our stay at Horseshoe Canyon Ranch included pushing our climbing limits on the overhanging routes, stomping around in horse manure in our flip flops to help the head wrangler Joey to earn a night's camping, and countless late nights laughing with our great new friends Scott and Mike. The colorful, big-hearted people combined with the phenomenal climbing made it hard to leave, but the rain pushed us onward.

So where are we now, you ask? If you answered "institutionalized, wearing straight jackets, dictating this story to a state-appointed therapist." ...well...we can see why you think that. But, after another run-in with the "One Inch Rule" and a quick stop in Memphis, to pay our tributes to the King we find ourselves sitting in a coffee shop in Chattanooga, Tennessee. And, you'll never guess what we're doing...waiting for it to stop raining. (Side note: If anyone knows any anti-rain rituals please leave them in the comments section of this blog.)

Shelf Road, Aliens, and Texas

Shannon leading Raven in Shelf Road.
Katy attempting the start of Chunky Monkey (Shelf Road)

The first injury...Katy's bloody toe.
Bob, the Hueco Tanks tour guide.
The only alien we saw in Roswell...a streetlight.
The white gypsum sand of New Mexico.

Right now we're in the UC in Alpine, Texas. "The UC?" you might ask...no it's not the Ugly Coyote, the Unicorn Cave or the Universal Commode. It's the University Center at the local state university. We're here putting "our" student fees to work using the free wi-fi.

We're working backwards here, so if you want to know where we started you're going to have to go to the bottom and read backwards (that or find a Super Mario Bros warp zone.)

We departed this morning from Hueco Tanks State Historic Park outside of Juarez, Mexico (or El Paso, Texas for all of you "gringos" out there). We managed to avoid getting spanked by Mary Beth, the volunteer park host, by abiding by the 6:00pm campground curfew each night. We followed Bob the park guide around into the "guided only areas" of East and West Mountain and learned from Bob that the pictographs were painted from "a mixture of stuff over different periods of time." (that's a direct quote) We camped right in the park in what we now refer to as "the Fun Palace" or "Camp Hilton." We had our own water spigot, a trash can, a sheltered picnic table, and the bathroom down the road had showers!! We spruced the place up with a hammock, slack line, and camp chairs. Our site even came with a raccoon that tried to steal food out of our coolers while we slept. The best part was that each morning and evening we'd ride our bikes by a guy sitting out in front of his camper in a lawn chair and he'd say stuff like "mornin' or howdy." Good ol' Texas.

Okay...this really is a climbing trip...we promise. Hueco Tanks is not just a clever name. The rocks are dotted with little round indented pockets of all shapes and sizes. (These are the "huecos" for all you gringos.) The rock just begs to be climbed and climb it we did. It took us a day of psuedo-bouldering and wandering to get our bearings. On day two, we met some friendly climbers, Ken and Jeff, who came all the way from Portland, Oregon. They needed an extra rope, we needed a guide book. The four of us teamed up and climbed some spectacular routes. After a semi-rough start in Colorado, we finally found our groove. Shannon had a great trad lead up a double crack system and Katy led up a run-out hueco face climb. After Ken and Jeff had departed, we climbed a two pitch route, Cakewalk Direct, that had a fun Indian Jones style descent. We couldn't quit smiling as we rode our bikes back to the Fun Palace that night.

For all of you geography buffs out there, you migh recall an area between Colorado and Texas. We call it "New Mexico," as does the rest of the literate world. New Mexico was formally known as "the land of enchantment." We now call it "the land of aliens and sand." Which brings us to our New Mexico stops: Roswell and White Sands National Monument. We drove into Roswell in the late evening and as it got dark we began a time journal so that we'd know if we had been abducted. You may deem this unnecessary, but there are a few minutes, after we walked into the Alien Walmart, that we can't account for. We awoke the next morning and after a few phone calls found that it was still the year 2007...whew! close call.

That afternoon found us riding our bikes down a white sand road...way more out of this world than an "aliens welcome" sign at the Roswell Arby's. We were in White Sands National Monument and it was virtually deserted except for us, our bikes, and the park ranger who would occassionally drive by and tell us to "pedal, pedal, pedal!" through his patrol vehicle loud speaker. We walked out into the dunes, danced around in our underwear, found a stink bug or two and marveled at the purity of the white gypsum sand. It was an afternoon well spent...it was so beautiful.

Which, naturally, brings us to the beginning...not just the beginning of this trip, but the beginning of our climbing history together: Shelf Road (say this like Lloyd says "Apsen" in Dumb and Dumber.) It was a rough start as Shannon had contracted the Black Plague (or some other fever inducing, lung hacking virus.) Katy spent a few antsy days staring at the cliffs while Shannon recovered, but by the end we had some challenging climbs under our harnesses. Sick or not, in good shape or not, Shelf did not disappoint us. We met some awesome and entertaining camp neighbors. (yes that's you Nick, Shawn, and Jonathan or Nick and Shawnathan as we like to call you. And really, we're sorry to hear that the watermelons stole your car. You never can trust a pink fruit with that many seeds.) On the last day, our boyfriends (Stevie and Jamie) came and climbed. Stevie led a route and Jamie was even caught smiling after a climb. They sent us off in style by buying us pizza, putting us up in a hotel and calling us "gypsies" as we said our goodbyes.