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.