2nd ANNUAL

Costume Weekend, Part Two
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2008: SLAM POETS FROM BOULDER (Of Course!), COLORADO

Behold. The inspiration for Sunday's theme: Dress as Elliott Dressing as Magnum P.I. Day

Flash forward another year. The world has (allegedly) gone once around the sun. There's been weight gain, fights with spouses, stress at work, pregnant cats, a plummeting economy, ya de ha. Though the last year has brought about many new things, the desert has stayed the same...

Nay! The desert has changed, but only superficially. The Superbowl now has port-a-johns (courtesy of Friends of Indian Creek), the hippies that use them have been given Mastercams by Metiolious. UT 211 is freshly chip-sealed. Somebody allegedly got stuck in an offwidth and required evacuation-by-oil-dousing. And I don't really know, but I'd bet some good climbers put up some more hard routes. Wow.

This year, when the calendar once again rolled around to October, we all got excited for Costume Weekend with the same fervor as last. Except this time there were more people and a bigger box for costumes. Personally, I was more excited because this year I've actually come to ENJOY crack climbing-- which is a new feeling for me.

We had many new faces, and many old. (...and by "old", I mean some as old as 30... or even older.) Definitely some key people missing, but also some new and colorful attendees. A slam poet that gifted us with some tricky thoughts and a series of words that end in "-ation".

This year we also had two phertographers. Dueling phertographers. Though their rivalry was only in our heads (not theirs), we still liked to imagine the possibility of a Clash-of-the-Titans battle between the two.

Zac "I'm not one of the two phertographers, but damn, do I look good with a crooked mustache" Robinson

No such battle did go down, but Nathan Smith (www.pullphotography.com) took a loaf of photographs and portraits, which he's shared with me for our viewing pleasure. See below:

Andrew "I'm meaner, but have less reach than Nathan Smith" Burr

Christine "I wanna take lipstick and go like this: 'Aaaaaa!' all around my mouth" Balaz

Elliott "You can't keep a good man down" Barcikowski
(aka Elliott "Which Elliott? Oh... LOUD Elliott, yeah I know him!" Barcikowski)

Zac "Oh Geez" Robinson

Christine "Fancy" Balaz

Steve "My costume is so rediculous, it's OK that it's prefabricated" Gourley
(But watch it in the future, Steve.)

Rob "Insert Camouflage Joke Here" Duncan

Laurél "My name is fancier than Laurel's" Flood

Zac "Wow" Robinson

Kev "go hang out in Boulder, Mr. Political Statement guy" -0

Nancy "Everybody loves me" (for real) Roth

Steve "Can't stab a goddamn beer can with this sword to save my life" Gourley

Caroline "I was a cheerleader" (also for real) Grist

Porscha "I don't know what the Hell is going on" Doucette

It's so much easier to climb while not wearing a huge prom dress.
(Three Strikes and You're Out, Battle of the Bulge)

COSTUME WEEKEND: AN INTRODUCTION

Part One
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2007: THE BAND IS HERE! THE BAND IS HERE!!!

When I was a kid, my mother would partake of an activity but once, and declare it a tradition. "Mom... duh. You can't just start a tradition by doing something once, and just calling it that... you have to do it over and over again... And THEN you can call it a tradition." I had always believed that a tradition must be a recurring event that endured many years of conflicting schedules, waxing and waning interest, childbirth, boxed holiday decorations, etc., etc... It was under this presumption I would live until October 19, 2007.


Above Photo: Zac Robinson greases up Layaway Plan (5.11 D), Copyright 2007, Andrew Burr Photography, LLC

IT WAS ON THIS WEEKEND that Zac Robinson declared an impromptu, self-thrown, weekend-long birthday party would be held at Indian Creek. "Costume Weekend" was appropriately named, and featured round-the-clock "festive attire". Enjoyed by close friends and curious strangers, its days were filled with climbing -its nights with campfires. Post-work urbanites arrived in the dark, tidy costumes in tow. Desert rat locals emerged from the backs of their topper-topped, 1990s Japanese pickups. From the depths of their musty nests, they pulled out what turned out to be some of the event's best costumes. The Band also arrived, (a bit late and) proudly self-announced. But despite chilly evening conditions, they selflessly performed with minimal clothing. As the weekend rolled on, each evening proved more powerful than the last and the lifeblood flowed strong.


Above: The Band, in costume as Coloradans.



THIS WAS THE WEEKEND that would found a proper tradition before it was out. Over the course of just three days and three nights, a magical blend of insanity was achieved. An organic critical mass of motliness -of relaxed morals and manners- that effortlessly transcended the threshold of normalcy in the way only the best such events (also called "parties") can.

Ogden M-, season-long Cottonwoods resident, doesn't screw around. But when he does, he does it in a gorilla suit. At least: that's how he did it in '07.

Despite the evenings' rigor, daytime saw wild successes, made possible only by a stream of heroic feats. 1980's mini skirts, children's superhero costumes, and vinyl S & M suits were donned in the name of ascending difficult routes (gut-wrenching off-widths notwithstanding). Was the event obnoxious? Probably. But you can't really get too mad about a dude cruising a 5.11 puke-'n'-bleed-wide crack in a spring-green women's pantsuit and Miami Vice-esque wig. Or a guy dressed as another guy dressed as Magnum, P. I.

AND SO, before the sun set on that fateful Costume Weekend, a tradition was born. The weekend was optimistically renamed "First Annual Costume Weekend", and it would be against the will and efforts of many loyalists that the title would be incorrect.

Can you tell which is the guy dressed as Magnum, P.I., and which is the guy dressed as the guy dressed as Magnum, P.I.?

Zac Robinson getting his tramp stamp. Why? We don't know, but it seemed festive at the time.

Funny, but my Glasses Seem to Have Taken a New Shape

Yours Truly

Second Annual Costume Weekend

First flight leaving tomorrow for Indian Creek from SLC at 3:00pm. Not coming back until late Sunday.

From Zac:
"...drive south from Moab. get gas" [and water and food and babes,] "in Moab as there are no services anywhere you will be going. Somewhere around 36-40 miles south of Moab, you will turn right on Hwy. 211. There is a brown sign that says 'Canyonlands Entrance' or something to that effect.

"From that right turn, it is 12 miles to Newspaper rock." Note: as you descend into the actual Indian Creek Basin, there are a few very sharp curves whose speed warnings you should heed, lest you Thelma-and-Louise it, big time. ..."This is pretty much the entrance to Indian Creek. From newspaper rock, it is around 8 miles or so to the turnoff for Beef Basin Road. There is a pit toilet and a bulletin board where beef basin road meets 211. More info will be on that board.

From pit toilet stop, "Keep going down HW 211 for 5 and a half (ish) more miles. There is one part where a road crosses HW 211. Take a left here and go through a gate. We are down that way. Hopefully there will be balloons up to show the way. 'The Superbowl area'"

The Forces of the Universe Align

UNTIL A MONTH AGO, I was quite occupied with a book deadline and the tasks of icing-and-immobilizing my left knee. However, the fall has arrived and with that, three things come simultaneously together:

*my knee is (apparently) healed
*my book is done
*the air has finally cooled enough to permit non-greaseball climbing

To kick off this season, I opted out of tutoring for a week, and headed first to Indian Creek (Sept 25-27), and then to Devil's Tower (Sept 28- Oct 4)-- for a grand total of 11 non-work days. What's up.


INDIAN CREEK was a hoot. Though I had remembered falling in love with it last spring, I had forgotten exactly how amazing that place is; it's freaking amazing. And "freaking" is a powerful word.

It was quite satisfying to get down there, and probably very necessary to have a warm-up session before heading to Devil's Tower for a week. There were no better inaugural buddies than Zac and Lizzy, and Team Night Climbing was once again resurrected.

DEVIL'S TOWER was wicked awesome as well. I went with two acquaintances-turned-friends: Dean Lords (aka Brian) and Nathan Smith (aka The Donk). Politeness quickly yielded to familiarity and fart jokes, and within a few days, the group became a giggling, nonsensical spectacle for bystanding hippies to behold.

The actual "rock climbing", on the other hand, took quite a lot of getting used to. The feet were (more often than not) slicker than slick- and the cracks were (also more often than not) finger-sized, and usually accompanied by cryptic stemming moves (on those aforementioned slick feet). Slick, slick, slick. However, within a day or two, we had sorted through the unsorted guidebook(s), and generated a list of classic lines to climb and shoot. Within another day, we'd figured out when was best to photograph each line, light-wise, and finally a day or two later, had greatly adapted to the new stone. We sometimes even managed to find unusual caches of good friction.

To comment generally: the second pitch of each route was almost always the "money" pitch. The top pitches were usually not worth doing (due to excess choss), and the first pitches were typically slabby means to approach the main line. The rock was generally "bomber, dude", and accepted protection gluttonously. Though the cracks were laser-straight, they required thoughtful climbing and sequencing, and featured flaring and constrictions. For the average attention span, there is at least a month's worth of routes; I would argue more. Tourists were silly, and and if I actually was to stay longer than a week, it would be necessary to find a Stealth Trail to the base of the routes.

"Yes, we climbed it. It takes 3-4 hours to get to the top. There are no aliens up there. No, we're not crazy."

For anyone who wonders whether there is enough climbing there to make the trip worth it: like totally, and stuff.