Transplanted 1.0: Ears of the Hound
A granite Yankee finds his way into the heart of the Sandstone South 
by Tino Fiumara

The end of September meant I was out of a seasonal job at the beach and the coming of the best season for climbing this side of the equator. No longer will your hand slide relentlessly out of granite jams, off sandstone slopers and conglomerate crimps. Feet begin to stick to the tiniest of smears and jibs, and they stay in the heel cup like the manufacturer intended, while hooking above your head. Invigorated with unemployment and a small cache of cash, I packed up my pad and ropes, strapped the playboat on the car, lifted half a case of pinot noir from my parent's cabinet and headed to break the news of my departure to my mistress over a couple of solos. Saying 'ciao' was easier than I expected as I had to temporarily hijack a handicap parking spot to speed solo a couple routes before they towed my truck. So long Shawangunks, your horizontals have been sweet. Hello Boone, does anyone need a spot?

Monday: Twelve hours behind the wheel, two hours in traffic around DC, over twelve dollars in tolls, and about sixty bucks in gas. The gas sounds cheap you say? Somewhere in southwest Virginia some random do-gooder paid for the almost 21 gallons of Plus I filled my car with before heading to the little boy's room. Driving down the road away from the gas station, eating a sandwich I bought with the savings, I began looking at the experience as a good omen. So I turned up the volume and enjoyed to rest of the ride to Boone.

Wednesday: Two days later, back aching from sleeping on my sister's futon, we rolled into Blowing Rock to feel some of that magic stone for the first time in a year. The last time I was in Boone was for Hound Ears last year. The first day was called for rain so we ended up bouldering at Grandmother, where I toasted my fingers on a banner day and left myself prey to the serrated holds of Hound Ears. Unfortunately I missed this year's registration so I was hoping to mingle my way through the boulder field and into some information on how else I could attend the event.

Part way through the session, already nursing my pink tips, my sister and I ran into a friend who said she would ask if they needed volunteers. Other people that day had already told me that it was basically sealed and I couldn't get in, but if there's anything I have it's faith. She also told me she could hook me up with some part time work at night for a couple weeks and I could start tomorrow night. I take all this as a good sign in line with the omen.

Thursday: Tips sore from two days on and not having bouldered in months, I found my way to the new job, which was making telephone calls to gather opinions on wind powered energy that is being considered for implementation along some of the ridge tops in western North Carolina. If the person doesn't refuse the call instantaneously, a survey takes about ten minutes. In three hours of dialing numbers I had 6 completed surveys, one forty minute bureaucratic rant session by an 82 year old retired political science professor who told me about more of his health problems than I would have like to know, about fifty refusals, one f*%@ you before I could say a word, and a hell of a case of swamp ass from that chair. Oh, and the girl from bouldering, Lara, told me to come with her to Misty Mountain where some of the volunteers were working out some last minute details.

If you had coordinates and a GPS you would still get lost trying to find Misty Mountain and probably end up in a stream in the effort. Inside the building there were shadowy outlines of crash pads and leg loops while walking toward the lighted room at the end, echoing with voices. When I hit the light it was full of familiar faces that I had seen around bases of climbs and landing areas. In front of them were tables full of shiny new bags, piles of t-shirts, hats, chalk bags, helmets, jackets, bouldering mats and other products emblazoned with logos. Sponsors who donated really kicked it up a notch this year was what I heard and it was clear as I looked at the stack of certificates for rock shoes and approach shoes. Despite previous sentiments about The North Face, I must recognize their full on support of the event; they seemed to take sponsorship to the next level.

In the middle of one table was a mountain of ropes; 50, 60, 70 meters, 9.7mm, 10.2mm, and even a 11.5mm static line. It looked like pure treasure, I was pining at the 70m, 9.7mm; these things should be big prizes. As the group sorted prize bags for the winners it was clear they were staying away from the ropes. Then it dawned on me, it was a bouldering comp, and most of the participants probably wouldn't know what to do with a cord. Hours later, everything divvied and boxed I got the OK that I could help out with the event. Jim Horton, the event organizer, said to meet tomorrow to go to the site for last minute preparations; he was going home to try to finish the guide before sunrise. Wait, did he say Hound Ears tomorrow? All I could see was the concentrated area from last year minus 250 competitors and I could not wait.

Friday: As I awake my sister tells me the plans for roped climbing today are firm and we're going at 1. I totally forgot we had plans for Shiprock with one of her friends. I pleaded with her that it might rain and the plans should be flexible. She didn't buy it. When I told her what was up she seemed disappointed, but she knew it was a great opportunity. So I drove off to meet a crew to finish hanging banners, taping problems, and, umm, test a few problems to make sure they were still in working order.

After a few hours of manually checking many crimps, slopers and pockets at Caffeine Wall, the Pocket Problem Area, and out by Pinesaw Area we met back up at the circle to see what was left to be done. Somehow I ended up on pizza duty to drive out and pick up five steaming specialty pies to bring back to the campground where entrant's booty bags were being filled. I remembered how a year ago the pizza was gone in a swarm of buzzards leaving nothing but cardboard and crumbs. So by the time I arrived and the mass of volunteers opened up the boxes three of the pies were no longer oven perfect, sporting wedge shaped gaps. We stuffed bags for a few hours while emptying a fridge of ice cold ales before going home for a few hours sleep, praying for the cloudy sky to retain it's imminent moisture.

Saturday: I awoke to a pitch-black sky, rose pink pads, and a mental fog that only a caffeine freight train could penetrate. The road was dry outside my cottage and all the way to Hound Ears, then I saw the mist that gave the area its stigma, and it probably went all the way to Tennessee. Somehow I knew inside that things would still go as planned. At the campground I gathered a waiting list of the slackers, stuffed chalk into booty bags and got the t-shirts ready for the hungry swarm of competitors, hats pulled down to their eyes, wearing the finest logo-wear money can buy and protecting their hands from the morning's moisture.

"So is the comp still on? Is the rock dry? Do you know what the weather's going to do?"

The barrage of inquiries came to the yellow shirt judge, still in a stupor from the previous night, clutching a half-gallon of orange juice. Oh, that's me.

"Yup, yup, sure, weather will pass…we've got peeps checking on the stone…plenty of wind up there…no worries", I responded hoping they'd believe my unconfirmed thoughts. Looking out from a covered porch I could see the lines forming in front of the bathroom and I could watch them hunch over more as protection from the heavy misting. The wind started to pick up, sending some of our papers flying about. We knelt to pick them up and arose to a clearing sky. Within minutes sunshine was staggering in the moisture speckled windows. We were on.

Somehow I ended up as a door thug making sure the bottleneck created last year by pushy registrants cramming the shirt selection was avoided. I turned on a hip-hop mix I made for the occasion and things started rolling. Registration didn't pass as quickly as hoped but eventually each pad clad climber was squeezed into a bus or van and shipped off to the bouldering destination the masses get to visit but once a year, and a blue sky and fresh breeze was becoming the backdrop for the day.

Driving over to Hound Ears I started the winding uphill from the gates of the guarded community passing several six-figure homes built on stilts overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just a couple days ago I read an article in National Geographic Adventure magazine about the quality of the wilderness contained within and how this is the primo time of year to visit. Such thoughts only boosted my morale as I wanted to climb again today but my red-eyed fingertips stared at me in anguish whenever I took them off my nipple-gripped steering wheel. This will be my fourth day on and the stone went from looking delightfully textured to horridly sharp in just a couple rotations of our planet.

The next hours passed in a whirlwind of clouds of chalk, flying bodies, and screams that carried over the hillside. The rich old folks living below must have been beside themselves at what sounded like a sadistic ritual of laughs, cries, and curses coming from above. I climbed a little in the beginning until I realized my skin would last as long as the beer did the night before and took a personal oath to spot the hell out of the best looking women that were cranking sketchy problems. And so I found myself at the Milky Way boulder, plucking women out of the air as they rolled off slopey bulges and out of heel-toe cams. Two girls in particular benefited from the scene as they steam rolled me, as I made sure they wouldn't end up in a broken heap away from the pads. Not to say I made a difference but I did see many of them grace the podium.

I spent the last hour of the comp taking in the warm sun in front of a classic arête full of slopes and pinches that teeters above an offset ledge landing and a final jug over the brushy hillside. I studied the movements necessary to send the problem, but a few thwarted attempts led me back to spotting and eventually basking in the sun listening to the tensions of the crowd as people rushed to fill in the tenth or eleventh problem of their scorecard. I'm not sure how many cards I embossed with the single red ink signature of a Hound Ears judge, but it seemed like a ream of paper passed through my hands. The breeze started to pick up and led me back to the starting holds of The Blade arête.

Left hand in a side-pull pocket, right hand on a flat crimp you toss your left heel up about ten inches from your hands. Suck into the rock, paste your right foot and shoot your right hand about a meter out the arête and snag a good crimp, stay in on that heel and match up the hands. I slide my heel up to a flat spot by my hands and basically throw your right the same way out to a sloper that feels like a gritty clamshell under your hand. Lock off frenchie style and power the left hand up inches away from the clamshell to a sloper with an offset edge your can snag with your thumb. Now lock off that left, pull your face up to the rock so you can smell the chalk on the next hold, toe in right on the first crimp you went to, and deadpoint your right hand about a yard to a good dish. Still squeezing the bejesus out of the fin arête with your legs bump your left hand down to that textured clamshell. Now full on Fred Nicole locked off you bring your heel once again way up and on your last left hold. Here some people bump the left hand to a crimp a little closer before bumping the right hand a few more inches to a side-pull pocket that feels heavenly after all the small holds, but your still in the thick of it. Fall left-handed into that dish your right had, bump the right down to a gaston sloper and the left up to a right-facing fin that you just shank wrap and squeeze as you bring that left heel along for the ride. Bump the right hand out to another sloper and then out again to the dark gray arête jug, now you just need to hold on. Keep that core strength wrap on the arête and bring the left hand higher to a pinch, drag that left foot a little higher, cross your left over to pinch the arête, keep squeezing, and the right out further to the top jug. Now calmly approaching a high step rock-over mantle on a flat hold you can see the rock and brush drop away under the landing. However, a stunning 180-degree vista of Blue Ridge valleys and a cool breeze greet your ascent, and always words of praise from spotters and those who should have been spotting.

I was cooling down with some pineapple slices and water when my friend Lara came bounding around the corner. Someone had picked up her scorecard and she was disappointed by it, but wasn't going to let it stop her. Fifteen minutes left until the end and she needed a V4 send fast. Barefoot and pad in hand I followed her to two problems, spotting with encouragement and pointing out little foot nubbins. Alas, the lost scorecard was getting to her and the rushed attempts were repelled from the summit. We wound our way back to the meeting ground, but I had somehow lost the two shoes I had demoed from the 5.10 rep and had to backtrack and find them, which I luckily did.

The masses of worn out muscle lay strewn across a pad-riddled ground tending to each other's wounds. With all of the registrations turned in with the accuracy of a bunch of first graders, we judges had to sort all of the men's out of the women's piles (and vice versa), and bump up all of the sandbaggers into their appropriate categories. A steady of stream of climbers made its way down the hill to wait for buses to ship them back to beer, food, and the prizes that awaited the strong and the lucky. For the next hour we ran around stripping off the taped markings, taking down top ropes and picking up whatever else wasn't there before the comp. Driving away from Hound Ears, car packed full of pads and some friends my headlights blinded the stragglers who couldn't push their way onto an earlier bus, and were still waiting for a ride. A voice from the backseat praised our comfy ride as we have all been there before.

Back at Grandfather campground the festivities had begun. The smell of charring beef, chicken, and garden burgers wafted right on down to the barrel of Appalachian Pale Ale and pony keg of amber. While the final tallies were checked and rechecked, we organized the prizes for quick dispersal and readied a few boxes of toss out prizes for the crowd. Stacking the ropes in a pile a few people looked at the 70m rope and said it had their name on it. Eventually everyone crowded the porch and screamed for giveaways. Chad Oliver, one of the Misty crew, went out to tame the crowd and give props to the sponsors and ended up firing them up even more, and then the prizes came.

It started with the Access Fund raffle where donors and new members were picked out for a handful of prizes. Names were called for a chalk bag, a t-shirt, a guidebook, everyone hoping they would be called next for the crash pad or rope. The announcer, Goose from Misty, says the next winner was someone around named Tino. I swallowed and jumped up on stage arms in the air. All of my pining for that 70m rope paid off as I skipped away with it like a puppy with a new chew toy. Fully satisfied I grabbed a few handfuls of prizes and readied to launch them at unsuspecting members of the crowd.

Through the juniors, novices, intermediates, advanced and elite, Jim Horton and Chad kept dishing out fat sacks of prizes for all winners and some cash for the elite: $400 for 1st, $200 for 2nd, $100 for 3rd, and $50 for 4th. During the pauses between categories Jim and Chad would giveaway some high dollar prizes to randomly chosen participants while judges would rifle shirts, hats, cordlette, and chalk bags into the crowd. Ok, I'm guilty; I must admit that I did fire some goodies at some familiar faces in the crowd. Wouldn't you?

Thinking about a list of winners I can name a few, but mostly only by first name. The women came in as Jill, Rebeckah, Angie, and Charlotte; 1st to 4th. I pulled each of them out of the air a few times. The men: James, Dave, Joel, and Simon. It's funny because for years I've been seeing them all around. Angie I'd plucked out of the air at Horse Pens and at the previous Hound Ears. I did the Nose with Dave and my good friend Tim a year ago. It's fantastic how the climbing world can be so large, and yet so small. Always crossing paths with good people over and over.

Well the beer barrels started to float, the food was gone and no more shwag remained to give out. So tent flaps started zippering and tracks were starting to be made. A few last duties were taken care of and I took a good look around. Fully psyched about everything that had gone one, and still in disbelief that after only a few days in Boone I was able to pull the Houdini and get to climb at Hound Ears twice. Now it's been four days on this metamorphic rock and not even the cold beers and hand balm could extinguish the fire from my sore pads. It was time to sleep it all off and hope I'm not so weak as to get suckered into bouldering tomorrow. Not too bad for a granite Yankee recently transplanted into the heart of the sandstone south.

Disclaimer

Bouldering is dangerous. You could be seriously injured or killed. Do not attempt any of the problems described in this web page unless you have the expertise to do so. NewEnglandBouldering.com does not assume any liability for your safety or well being.