One month, three dog-attacks.

Dale, sleeping off two consecutive dog-attacks.


I have never hit an animal before. I've hit my brothers, to be sure, but I always thought that the hitting of older siblings transcends moral boundaries, especially when it entails returning fire for injustices like wedgies and dutch ovens. But the hitting of animals was something I never considered. Not only does social prudence frown on animal abuse, I believe animals deserve a carte-blanche of good treatment, no matter now angry we get, or how we justify our rage. However, last week I found myself pummeling a full-grown Pit Bull as hard as I could.

Allow me to explain.

Two weeks prior to the tussle with said Pit Bull, I was trail-running up Rattlesnake Canyon with Dale, my amicable Siberian Husky, when a full-grown Australian Shepherd emerged around a corner, took one look at Dale, and charged him. Dog attacks happen exceptionally fast, and before I had time to react, the Aussie had clamped its jaws on Dale's leg, lifted him off the ground, and shook him like a rag. Dale yelped miserably, and all I could do was pull desperately on his leash. The owners (there were two of them) managed to subdue their nasty cur before any real damage occurred, but Dale continued to moan and howl in pain, so I carried him down the remainder of the trail.

The owners maintained a surprised, moderately apologetic demeanor.

"Bro, we're sorry. Our dog is never like that. I don't know what happened," they explained, as if it was somehow partly my fault.

For the record, owners always say "my dog is never like that" when their precious pooches go aggro.

Dale turned out to be okay, anyway. I let a couple of days go by, then continued taking him on trail runs. About five or six days later, we were jogging up Tunnel Trail when we encountered two men with an entourage of three Pit Bulls. Two of them seemed like puppies, but the third boasted a thick neck, burly chest, and the unmistakable intent to kill. The three Pits descended upon Dale while I, in my high running shorts, did a leggy dance trying to stay out of the way while maneuvering Dale to safety. The two youngsters romped harmlessly while the elder Pit immediately chomped down on Dale's neck. I freaked out. Amidst Dale's cries and the owners yelling innocuous admonishments at their dog, I decided it was time to save my dog's life.

Again, dog-attacks happen exceptionally fast, and I was terrified about Dale's safety, so my reactions, while fairly ill-advised, proceeded reflexively. It was simple: make a fist, swing it hard on the Pit Bull. Movies portray fist-fights in a cavalier fashion, with combatants trading head-ringing biffs like mildly painful insults, as if a knuckle to the cheek was the equivalent of bumping your head on a towel rack. And if you're the hero in a Hollywood film, your punches always strike true, and knock out assailants on the first swing. Hitting a full-grown and maniacal Pit Bull, however, is like hitting a punching bag filled with tires. While I swung madly at the stomach and neck of the Pit, i quickly realized I was waging a futile war, and likely inviting an attack on myself. Luckily, the hapless owners managed to drag their dog away.

"Hey buddy," they began, "our dog is never like that, I don't know what happened."

Yeah, right. But don't worry: the dog-attacks don't stop there.

The last—and most bizarre—of this string of canine misadventures didn't even involve Dale: just me, a waifish black mutt, and its dull, bro-tastic owners. Leaving Dale at home, Jake and I attempted to snag a mellow Sunday afternoon session at Lizard's Mouth. Since it was Super Bowl Sunday, we had high hopes for good times and good problems, unencumbered by the typical throngs of glass-breaking dullards, who were hopefully at home watching the game. Fat chance, as it turned out. While standing—perfectly still, mind you—and looking at a problem I hoped to climb, a smallish black dog of dubious ancestry suddenly commenced a rearguard action against my thigh. As with the previous dog attacks that month, it was over before it happened, and I didn't even have the presence of mind to register shock, or outrage. It's owners, who I will describe as cheerily vapid, were mildly surprised, but mostly just worried that I would sue them, as the wilting guffaws on their faces communicated.

"Dudes. Your dog just bit me." I said, as I looked down at a small puncture wound on my thigh, seeping a penny-size drop of blood.

"Shit. Bro, we're so sorry. Blacky (dog's name) is NEVER like that."

Again, owners always say that.

"I don't care. Just put him on a leash."

"Totally, bro. We're sooo sorry. Thanks for not suing us and shit."

And shit, indeed. I'm not out to sue people; my climbing sessions and trail-runs don't begin with an impulse to litigate. I simply want to go and enjoy my afternoons without dumbass owners letting their dumbass dogs bite me or my dog. I hope I'm not asking too much.

Really quick, really.

Heavens, I've been busy.

I keep thinking I'll toss a post out in to the great web effluvium, but tasks mounted, ideas coalesced, and climbing projects distracted. In summary:

1) I've been on an Italian food crusade.

2) Dale got his twig-and-berries snipped. Actually, he kept the twig but lost the berries. He had to wear a cone.

3) Mary and I just watched Eclipse, the third movie in the Twilight Saga.

4) I regretted admitting that last heading.

5) I'm obsessively projecting an obscure route far up Rattlesnake Canyon. It's the hardest thing I've ever tried on a rope.

Here I be, sorting out the lower section of the Rattlesnake Canyon Project, or, as Jay and I are calling it, the Renaissance Man Project (we thought we should name all the climbs at this modest crag after a medieval fashion). I'm about eighteen inches away from a clean top-rope ascent, which, when accomplished, will mean it's time to rack up for the lead. How hard? Can't tell. Initial consensus is low 5.13. It's not a clip-up, either: I'm taking two cams to protect the climb. Much to my nervousness, the first placement is about twelve feet off the deck, and AFTER the V9 crux.


The bottom is stupid hard, the top is manageably hard.




The illustrious Bobo and Bret, enjoying a moment of levity in my living room.


An evening of Risotto.


He still humps things, don't worry.

Last night at the Shed

It had to happen eventually, but through some poetically unjust happenstance, REI recently announced plans to build a store in the Analucia building, thereby ousting The Shed and all its steel-fingered denizens. I climbed there tonight, purely out of nostalgia, and savored a slow, statically climbed ascent of Standard Crimp. It might have been my last—at least, until Phil finds a new place for the wall.

Justin Willet: winemaker and shed-regular.


Jake Novotny, crushing.


My lovely wife, crushing


After climbing—and a day of forging some cap-rail—I was pretty beat, so I snagged some takeout, and for good measure, a boutique Belgian Ale from my favorite purveyor of alcoholic esoterica: San Roque Liquor. Since Dan and I have plans to brew a Dubbel in the next couple of weeks, I thought I'd try some dark Belgian Ales of note, just to raise the bar for our attempt. Perhaps the bar has been elevated too high, because this beer was stupid delicious.

Behold, the Trappistes Rochefort #10, 11.3% of lively malt aromas coupled with darkly ripened berries on the nose, and a sultry, molasses flavor that belies the smooth, ridiculously drinkable character of this ale. Entirely worth the price of admission.


Mary and I are sprinting for the finish line this season. She has massive amounts of work to accomplish before Christmas, and while she typically works till 11 p.m. every night, her spirits are auspiciously high. We are both heading to Indiana for Christmas, and I'm sure she'll catch up on sleep and relaxation, as well as continue her quest to watch every episode of Bewitched. I am buried in work as well, and have no idea how to accomplish it all before the holiday. Tomorrow, after 56 fluid ounces of coffee, I will forge my brains out for eight hours. Talk to me afterwards and I'll give you a more accurate progress report.

Proceeding Apace

I've never been one to bemoan my age or give in to teenage nostalgia, so as I sip coffee while writing this entry, having JUST turned 29 on the 14th of November, I proudly proclaim my getting-up-there-ness. Thirty approaches, inexorably. What to do but take a gratuitous picture on the Eastside of the Sierra? In this picture, I am fresh off a slew of razor-sharp 5.11s at the Alabama Hills, having just attempted to burn out my fingers after a stellar weekend of Whitney Portal trad adventures. I succeeded.

I haven't updated this blog in a while, so here's the rundown:

1) I discovered Roller Derby. Santa Barbara has a team, much to my glee. Not merely a kinky tussle between angry vixens, Derby portrays the strange—but impressive—side of manic competition, a la roller-skate-clad thirty-somethings. It's actually a viciously entertaining sport. Here's me raising the emblem of soused Americana to the sky. This is only the second Bud Lite I've ever had. Ugh.



2) Work in the smithy continues at a mad pace. I'm currently immersed in a stainless steel railing project. Pictures soon to follow. I will also be forging an "old Spanish" railing for a residence on the Riviera. For those of you who don't know me, I have a long-standing distaste for what has been described as Spanish Revival, or Spanish Renaissance. In Santa Barbara, metalwork typically defers to the tried-and-tasteless motif of boring scrollwork painted with black paint. This railing, while fairly typical in design, will tout some pretty cool forged construction, thus making it cool. I should be starting on it later this week.

3) Dale is getting big.



4) I had my birthday in Yosemite. My camera ran out of batteries, but I got on a five-pitch horror-show climb near Serenity Crack (character-building), and did a cool boulder problem called the Bachar Cracker. I also checked out Cedar Eater, a fifty-foot long off-width boulder problem. The latter was sadistically entertaining, and my ankles and calves still hurt (nevermind...).

Another BBQ

A few months ago, a man walked in to my shop, interrupted my welding, and stated that he wanted a barbecue. In my line of work, if a custom request is not amended by particularities, then said project becomes more of a creative liability than a creative license. I need—and the customer appreciates—a more explicit projection of what they are paying for. So I drew a picture in my journal, showed the client, and he went for it. What emerged was a fairly angular, sturdy, and bitchin' flame bucket.

From the front, it's really just a State Park BBQ on steroids; no moving parts, no machinery, just a box on feet.



Front detailing.






Banding of banding.










We're firing this puppy up on Friday. Be there.

Yosemite, Sans Rope

For the first time in my climbing career, I drove the five-plus hours to Yosemite Valley with the intention of NOT roping up, but bouldering. This goes against much of the tradly fibers in my hand-taped being, but I'm happy to say that I can finally commiserate with the punk-ass kids at the bouldering gym. In summary: the bouldering of Yosemite Valley is so superlatively good as to warrant a wholesale yard-sale of your cams.

Well, not really. I will never do that.

But Mary, Jake, and I had a blast pebble-wrestling on the warmish weekend of September 11th, and lest you think we forewent crack climbing altogether, we managed to find some exceptional solitary suffering on problems like Deliverance, a heinous roof finger-crack, and Cedar's Crack, an overhanging offwidth crack that offers quality harumph-ing for forty feet, then spits you off with a burly top-out. I snagged Cedar's Crack on my second go. Deliverance, however, is going to take multiple visits and a tolerance of pain that I have yet to obtain.

Contemplating the top-out (which you can't see) above me.



After a day of Valley activities (including negotiating swarms of late-summer tourists), we went back to Bass Lake and putzed around on the Lewis Creek boulders (equivalent of SB's Painted Cave in terms of convenience and concentration), then enjoyed the bro-tastic scene that is Bass Lake swimming. The Willow Creek waterslide was in good form:

From Bratislava to Santa Barbara

I give you Geza Kummer, the man whose initials are imprinted on most of my hammers, swages, and sundry blacksmithing tools. After expatriating from his native Bratislava, this wry, scrappy, and chain-smoking Eastern European built one of the most successful blacksmithing and ornamental iron businesses in Santa Barbara, circa 1980's and 1990's. If you have seen classically honed metalwork around town, it's probably his. When he went out of business about five years ago, Dan and I bought most of his tools for a pittance, partly because Geza wanted to retire and move on, but I like to think this old-world badass actually liked Dan and I.

Well, he just might have.

While I was forging components for the Morley Wine rack (piece in progress; more photos to follow), Geza strutted in to our shop, aglow with goodwill—as his weathered features would allow. One thing you should know about Geza: he hates Communists. Most people my age barely retain a distant ire for Communism. We of the late-twenties mostly remember Communists as the bumbly, nasally-voiced bad guys from Rambo movies, or, at worst, an anachronistic regime of boring, gray buildings and propaganda posters. Russia, as an axis of evil, no longer presides over our worst fears as a nation. When Geza lived in Bratislava, however, Communism was omnipresent and hardly benign. I won't relate his stories, but he still drops vengeful comments about "the Russians" in normal conversation. For all the Russians reading this, I apologize; being Russian does not a Communist make.

Anyway, this guy may look small, but he could probably break my anvil in half, and then put a cig out on his tongue.