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I can't be sure about the exact time
of our third discovery, but I am sure it was by or before this
day. I will never buy a Mazda Protégé. I can't
say that I have settled on any clear or reportable reasons for
this decision, but the 8 day experience left me wanting a bit
more. It has power windows, which are in eternal threat of burning
out. This would leave one either gasping for fresh air, wet,
freezing, deaf, or gagging on fumes, depending on the position
of the window upon burnout. Moreover, the window control had
some counter-intuitive fiddle-diddly where you had to pull to
make it go up. Also, in a stroke of true genius, some engineer
set the gear ratio so that it constantly hops between 3rd and
4th when cruising at America's most common highway speed of 60
mph. This is maddening, and certainly threatened our group cohesion
when traveling.
We arrived at Black Velvet Canyon shortly
before 7 am, only to find a parties from Utah and California
already present. Surely as the sky was blue, they both were bent
on climbing Frogland. Upon reconsideration, I convinced Tom to
head out to Black Velvet Wall, which housed many worthy routes,
including the much acclaimed A Dream Of Wild Turkeys. As could
be expected, we followed a somewhat erroneous path to the route,
scrambling up and backing off of crumbling escarpments, and tearing
the collar off of a favorite t-shirt, until we finally arrived
at the base of the headwall in something like 3 or 4 times the
estimated approach time.
Black Velvet Wall is a forbidding feature.
It towers at an average of 12 pitches in length, is mostly vertical,
and is completely covered by dark varnished plates. It is clear
to me now that the mental impact of standing beneath such a behemoth
is considerable, but we roped up all the same, expecting to finish
the climb. Tom set off on the first pitch. Terror consumed him
shortly, with all visible and audible effects present. I pretended
to be unaffected, but as the second pitch stretched on, I also
developed the heeby geebys. With us both hanging at the second
anchors, the wall loomed ominously above us. The executive decision
to escape was made. Later, I met a friendly Coloradan who had
done the route. "It's a great route, and the crux is trivial,"
he said, "be sure to take it to the top."
Being early still, we departed for Calico
Basin where, reportedly, there are many single pitch moderate
routes worth doing. Miraculously, we found the routes within
only double the time suggested, and I tackled the left-facing
corner of Valentine's Day. In a continued stream of events that
called for the end of the day, we both struggled considerably.
At one point, Tom was talking to both his leg and himself in
a desperate bid for control; "Dammit, leg, stop shaking!
Now is not the time to shake! OK, Tom, now concentrate!"
In looking for The Route To Mecca we found a rattlesnake nestled
near the trail. Soon after, Tom spotted a scorpion that turned
out to be a leaf. With our psyches against us, we turned tail
and fled for the car. We spent the remainder of our daylight
wandering amongst the riotous walls and natural corrals of the
First Pullout area. It was a brilliant place to experience the
warm glow of sunset.
Back at camp, we whiled the hours away
before the time when we would head into town to pick up my miscreant
brother, Dave. By now VD was in full effect, and our Lipton's
meal of Butter and Herb Pasta was incredible. Not only did the
BHP hit the spot for warmth in a rapidly cooling desert, it was
an orgy of taste compared to our "daily bread" of granola
and fruit bars. Once in town, Tom found an internet cafe that
was only partially outrageous in price, and looked into an e-prospect
of the opposite sex. In later discussion, we agreed that e-dating
is inherently flawed for several reasons; try balancing brevity
and appeal in a descriptor, and you will sound like everyone
else. I am a single male, 25-30 years, educated, social drinks/smoker,
who enjoys the outdoors, good humour, and travel. Looking for
something more, are you? BOX #12345. Since one might assume that
internet dating is really just a way to sift through the crap
more easily, from a larger selection of people, then a soporific
uniformity is rather defeating. As it turns out, his date wouldn't
even drive across Langley to meet him. It's like blackjack, I
guess: low bet, low return.
Dave arrived in true fashion, sporting
a plaid golf cap and old man duds. As per our request, he brought
CDs and soon we were driving down Tropicana Ave, listening to
James Brown belt out The Big Payback. James was really in his
prime then, and, for me, one line really sums him up: "I
don't know karate, but I know ka-razy!" The Strip was alive
with people, and after a few queries, we decided to head for
The Pussycat Lounge.  As promised by our
cabbie, it was a "dirty joint, with dirty girls." We
were fleeced almost before the door closed behind us: $10 cover,
and a two drink minimum. It seems that the domestic O'Dooles
is hard to come by on that end of town, and as a direct result,
beers were $6 a bottle. Two minutes into our visit we were $76
lighter. Reaching the "lounge" I waffled for where
to sit, before heading for an inconspicuous corner table. The
room was predictably dark, with a figure 8 stage, sporting two
poles. I spotted the pole cleaning rag sitting on one edge of
the stage, a practical hygiene aspect of stripping that somehow
shocked me when I first visited a club in Vancouver. Dave, of
course, headed directly for "gyno row" and seated himself
beside the rag. In the couple of hours that ensued, I spent my
time in the front row trying to fend off solicited sex in the
most genial way possible, while following the customs of the
natives in giving monetary tribute to the dancers. The strippers
were significantly more aggressive than their northern counterparts.
One dancer was crawling around naked, collecting her tips from
the stage when she turned on three latinos who hadn't coughed
up. "This is how I make my money, you cheap motherfuckers!"
Another dancer we talked to, during one round of soliciting,
was working a year here before starting her career as a K-5 teacher.
Truth remains stranger than fiction.
Thoroughly polluted, we returned to
the cold Nevada desert. |