Red Rocks 2002
    "Hello everyone. My name is Mr. Hengeveld and I'll be your substitute teacher for, um, the larger portion of the year."
Being replaced on the job is a disturbing thing. There I was, minding my own business, and enjoying myself at Templeton Secondary School in Vancouver when suddenly I was out on my ear. I didn't even do anything wrong! Truth be known, it never was my job in the first place. It was just a really really long substitute position. So there's not much use in me being a suck about it. My students were so cool about it. They did all the right things to give me warm fuzzies and generally feel like a lovable and capable person. They complained bitterly. They made snide projections about the suitability of my successor. I bet some of them even spit on the ground at the mention of her name!    

 

 The Prince Of Darkness (Kelly Franz)
 

Of course, I didn't approve. By my nature, I just can't support that kind of behaviour. But, they wrote me beautiful cards, they brought me gifts, they clapped, they said they would miss me. It was all I could do to not break down and weep, wail, and gnash my teeth.

Oh but did I save that for when I got home.

And so it came to pass that my dear, dear wife, Rachel, agreed that I should probably take a vacation before returning to the drudgery of regular substitute teaching. Well, friends, it just so happens that a crew of people from the UBC outdoors club were heading down to Red Rocks that very week. Before I could click my heels three times and say "there's no reliable gear in sandstone" I found myself in a car with Mark Huscroft, driving a marathon 23 hours before our mighty steed exploded on the side of the road just outside of Beaver Dam, Arizona. We were towed back to St. George where an incompetent mechanic accidentally destroyed a part that had to be ordered from the dealer. It was President's Day Weekend. For the third time in my life I found myself standing around in a Midwest autoshop wishing I drove a domestic pickup.

In lieu of spending four days in the fuckhole that is St. George, Utah, we abandoned the car and used a shuttle service to get to Las Vegas. Along the way, I learned from the driver that Las Vegas used to use delinquent youth to clean up garbage along the interstate until a lady with junk in her veins veered off the road and ran over half a dozen teens. Man are the roads dirty now.

After taking public transit to the outskirts of town, Mark and I began the hopeless task of hitching in the failing light of the day. Eventually, we were picked up by none other than Randal Grandstaff (local first ascentionist extrodinare). I was like a teen meeting Britney Spears. What then, did the great one recommend for a week in the 5.10's? Unfortunately, Randal isn't very good with the concept of a short essay. He was dumbfounded--"well, there are hundreds of awesome routes!" Come on Randal. Try to work within the bounds I've given you. But how could I slag the guy? He was driving us all the way to the campground! Even if he didn't slow his Bronco down for the speed bumps at all, I didn't mind. Randal roared off and we wandered around in the desert darkness until we happily met up with our comrades: Conor, Kelly, and Marsha.

  

  Black Velvet Wall

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