Half of America sits between Colorado and the Red the River Gorge, but to cross that expanse in two days, on four wheels, and with a huge Rock & Ice Easy Up booth in tow, was never out of the question.
I was in like Flynn as the expression goes. I wanted to carouse like that ancient movie star, bark at the moon, shoot the shit, drink Kentucky bourbon and stay up late. But more importantly, I desperately needed a vacation. Work had gotten tough in Colorado, and the endless weeks of a little climbing mixed with a lot of business had worn my psyche paper-thin.
Fortunately the 2012 Rocktoberfest celebration provided the perfect excuse to take a week off and head down to arguably the greatest sport climbing destination in the good ole US of A.
So at the crack of October, Lily and I rolled through the flatlands, hoping to glimpse a piece of history in that southern sandstone Mecca.
This year’s throw-down was rumored to be epic. The Red River Gorge Climbers’ Coalition was making the final payment of 65,000 dollars to secure the Pendergrass Murray Recreational Preserve. The PMRP (for brevity’s sake) hosts 750 acres of some high quality Corbin sandstone and the RRGCC was going to have an old fashioned hoe-down to celebrate the largest land acquisition ever made by a group of climbers.
So with tired, road beaten eyes, Lily and I eased into the Natural Bridge campground on a Friday evening, looking for a good time. We hoisted up the Rock & Ice booth like a pirate flag, drug the cooler inside, and cracked a can of PBR quicker than you could skin a cat. The sun hadn’t even set in the Eastern Kentucky hills, and outcroppings of red stone peeked through the trees, hinting at the spectacular days ahead. So we wet our lips with cheap beer and from folding camping chairs we gazed out over our table of magazines and witnessed the 2012 Rocktoberfest begin.
“Working” the booth
Climbers filtered in from a myriad of states, the tribe growing thicker by the hour. Booths from the leading outdoor companies lined either side of a 50-yard, grassy strip, with a stage sitting at the prow of the venue.
At the opposite end, crowds gathered to watch the traditional milk crate-stacking contest. Brave participants would strap on a chest harness, clip in to an auto belay attached to the raised arm of a small crane, and literally stack milk crate on top of milk crate, while climbing higher and higher, until BOOM! A fatal foot slip or wobble of the hips would send the crates and climber careening to the ground. Stacks upwards of 20 crates high swayed precariously, like a redneck leaning tower of Pisa.
Lily and I snapped photos, handed out magazines, and faded with the days dying light. A few dollar hot dogs later and we turned in, dreaming of crags we had not yet seen.
Saturday broke open like a fresh egg, sunny and clear despite the forecast for rain. I hustled through breakfast and coffee and packed up the Element, anxious to see some stone. The party would resume at five that evening, so the day was free of restrictions. Not a worry in the Gorge… well except finding a parking place at the Red’s flagship crag, Left Flank!
Oh, but the climbing was so good. At the Flank, swirls of iron run through the rock, creating a trippy aesthetic. Porter Jarrard’s masterpiece, Table of Colors, serves as a testament to the stone’s beautiful blend of hues. Classic routes line the cliffs. Climbs with strange names like Mercy the Huff, or Stunning the Hog give the Flank an authentic feel, conjuring memories of ancient climbing articles, in which Jarrard climbed in bright patterned tights, pumping up through the overhangs. We climbed until our skin hurt, and then packed it up, hoping we had saved at least a little strength for the party to come.
As we eased off KY 11, we noticed that the campground had transformed into a circus and the tribe had grown considerably. I rolled the Element to a level perch and we hurried to the booth. More crate stacking was already underway as the sun began to dip behind the Kentucky hills. Magazines and beers flew through our hands as we worked the booth.
Eventually, the night was a riot of events, starting with a fully sanctioned, off the chain, arm wrestling competition. The crowd gathered to witness some truly spectacular “try hard” faces as both men and women locked arms and fists, each battling to destroy the other. Burly men with mysterious names such as “Woodchuck” appeared from the crowd, mean-mugging the competition as they clutched hands. Women with 12-inch biceps stepped forward to punish their opponents.
As the arm wrestling finalists awaited the closing round, the crowd shifted to the awning surrounding the stage, where the RRGCC spoke to the masses about their recent purchase of land. Like proud peacocks, members of the Coalition took turns holding a massive check in their arms made out for 65,000 dollars.
The check that secures the future for climbing in the PMRP
“You know this is great that we’ve paid this off,” said the Coalition’s future president Bentley Brackett. The crowd began to hoot and holler.
“But what we want is debt.”
The crowd began yelling again, but then died down as the words finally registered in their beer soaked minds. We lingered for an explanation.
“Because if we have debt, that means we’ve bought another piece of land!” Brackett exclaimed. The crowd roared with approval.
The night continued with the arm wrestling finals, where free swag coaxed the finalists into ruining the next day’s climbing with shoulder wrenching battles. Competitors stormed off the stage in defeat, while the last man and women made out with free ropes and other expensive gear.
With the contest over, The 23 String Band, a local Kentucky bluegrass group took the stage to close the night and coax the already rambunctious crowd into a hill-stomp, mosh-pit frenzy. Lily and I stood to the side of the crowd, jaws dropped, marveling at the slam dance throw-down taking place.
Now personally, I have to admit that I’ve never been a huge fan of Bluegrass. Maybe the reason stems from my roots in the Mississippi Delta, where the Blues reigns supreme, and Bluegrass… well let’s just say it would be considered very “white” in sound. But this… this was different. As we stood there with mouths agape, it struck me that this was Bluegrass in its true element. I remember having a similar feeling creep over me while watching Thom Yorke hypnotically dance to Radiohead. It was so perfectly matched, in synch, and in tune. Well this was Bluegrass in its true element, an authentic hill-stomp in Kentucky. I looked to my left and saw a bearded man dancing in a galloping horse-trot, the middle finger of his right hand curled through the tiny glass handle of a whiskey jug. To my right, a shirtless man swung arm to arm with his lady, the circle growing wider with the climaxing twang. And just as I turned towards Lily to try and communicate my wonder, two hands were placed on our backs. A gruff “Get in there!” was barked from behind as we were hurled into the gyrating mass, spinning from arm to arm like a whirling dervish, dancing, literally, as hard as we could.
The music raged on through two encores and then half the crowd disappeared, running into the woods behind the stage. I figured that the crowd had located a hidden stash, and had all vanished to pillage the remains. But then you could hear them approaching, their drunken hollers coming closer and closer, as if they were the villainous Indians in The Last of the Mohicans, alerting the Red Coats to their dangerous presence. Then they appeared, sprinting in a mass herd, and wearing nothing but their birthday suits. I turned away in horror as a bearded, pony-tailed southerner dashed before me in the nude.
“Oh fuck!”
I turned to see Lily snapping photos of naked dudes.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, taking Lily’s arm. “We gotta get the hell out of here!”
One of Lily’s candid photos
We hustled back to the R&I booth, closed it down, and began making our way to our bed in the back of the Element. At this point it was somewhere between 1 and 2 in the morning, and we were still holding on to the dream of climbing everyday during our week long vacation. So we sauntered back to our ride, began preparing our bed, and tried to ignore the sounds of around 30 people screaming their full heads off in the distance.
“What the hell is going on over there?” Lily asked through gobs of toothpaste.
My curiosity had also risen to uncontrollable levels. Off in the distance we could see a group of people locked in a noisy huddle. We had to check it out.
We approached cautiously, not sure what we would find within that mysterious herd. After pushing our way through the outer crowd, we peered over shoulders to see what looked to be a woman versus man strip arm wrestling contest. Unfortunately for me, the guys were not winning. The bad to the bone, burly blond hair chick that was second only to the pro trad climber Madalein Sorkin in the evening’s earlier sanctioned arm wrestling contest, was now holding court, pounding the men’s fists into the beer puddled table top.
Eventually the arm wrestling competition evolved into guys versus guys only, so Lily and I snapped a few photos, and then pushed back through the crowd, crawling into the Element well past our bedtime.
The next morning was overcast and humid, the thick fog hanging in the Kentucky holler like a blanket. We awoke to a weary, battle worn crowd, all lining up for a pancake breakfast, ironically being served by a Christian climbing organization. I stood in line, wiping the sleep from my crusty eyes, while slowly recognizing certain faces from the night before.
“That’s the guy who told us he slept under the Rock & Ice booth the night before last,” I whispered to Lily while pointing to a dazed figure ahead.
“And there’s the shirtless dancer,” she added. “Still shirtless too.”
I looked up to see the shirtless man shamelessly strut from the pancake line to an open picnic table. It had to be about 40 degrees outside. Damn, these people don’t give a fuck, I mused. And then it dawned on me. I was home. Well, not exactly home, but in the geographical vicinity of my roots. I was in the South, where sometimes people just don’t give a shit, and will party their freaking shirts off if they get the chance. But more importantly, I was back to where I belong, deep in the heart of a climbing celebration, as just another psyched member of the tribe.
Freestone Press 