The Ho

Time:  12:37 AM

Day:    Wednesday

Fare:   $6

Tip:     $2

Passengers: 2 females – early 20s

After a fairly tame evening, I got a call for a pick-up from the Canmore Hotel (one of the busiest bars in Canmore, aka: The Ho).  The Ho has a younger demographic than any of the other bars in Canmore.  More often than not, the party spills out onto the street and the tenuous line between jubilance and fray entwined in any large group of inebriates is on display.  When I get a call for a pick-up from the Ho, it can be a bit of a fiasco to get the right person into the cab.  This night however, I was pleasantly surprised, by how quickly they loaded up.

-       Are you Katy?

-       Yep

-       Alright, hop in.  How’s your night going?

-       Mi neight wuz real goood.  Hur neightT?... natasgoood…

-       Oh no, that’s too bad.  Can’t win them all I guess.

-       We met a guy on da tstreeet, hiss mame was Furbo.  Is dat a drugg deelers ‘ mame?

-       Yeah, sounds like it to me.

-       Neeways, sshes av’n sumboy trooblez Furbo seemedd tuu bee a gud pursen soo I axedim to geeve hur sum boytips  Hee didn’t tho so we r goin ome.

-       What kind of boy troubles are we talking about?  Maybe I can help out.

-       Yeea u seem ike u wood naw wat to do so she met a boy onligne

-       DOUGHN’T TELL’M THAT!

-       Wat?! Sory, ‘s part o wat ‘appens whan I drinc. So she net dis boy onligne ‘nd day av’nt ssceen eech oder in ttree weaeks. Schee raly liiks ‘im dough. Wat schoould chee do? I tink dat ‘f u real ‘ike sumbady u kneed to ‘ell ‘em, n try to get bakk wid dem. Wat do u ‘tink.

-       Yeah, that sounds like good advice to me, although you might want to sleep on it before you make any decisions…or phone calls…or texts.

-       Woowu, ur a grat cab diver. U now cab dicers r kindaj ‘ike modern ‘ay barteenders do gud at geev’n advice.  U r reel grate. Narmallie I taak Apex cabs, buut cuz a u, I’m goona tak ‘ougar reek cabs now.

-       Glad I could help out.

-       Yeeh, ‘m praty gud normuly fur daadvice, but ‘m a lil fdroonk rite now. ‘ow lon ‘ave u bean divin’ cabs fur?

-       This is my third week driving cab.

-       Wooow! ‘nd ur alredy dis gud?

-       Hehehe, yeah I guess so.

Awkward/drunk silence ensues. Katy, the passenger without the boy troubles was sitting in the front seat, and hasn’t taken her eyes off me since we left The Ho.

-       Well, here we are.  That’ll be 6 bucks.

-       ‘ears sum honey.

Even in the best of times, the moody idiosyncrasies of the sliding doors in cougar creek cabs are enough to trump efforts by the most clearheaded teetotaler.  As I leaned over, and reached behind the passenger seat to help the boy-troubled backseat passenger, I glanced at Katy.  Her eyes - shut, her lips – puckered, and she was listing heavily in my direction.  Apparently someone was looking for more than just a cab ride. I dodged right, unlatched the door, and cleared my throat all at once.  It amazes me how the most embarrassing of moments can be so easily brushed off when well lubricated with alcohol.  Katy, un-phased, gathered her purse, fumbled her way out the door, then turned towards me and waved goodbye with the muster of a Marine Land dolphin.

$6 minimum

Who could have guessed that after an unseasoned dozen years on this planet, a defining moment would blaze the trajectory of my existence to one day become a van-dwelling cab driver in mountain town of Canmore?  When moments of such significance arise, he who is subject rarely realizes the gravity of the instant until one’s persona is symbiotically attached.  More so now than ever am I filled with pure amazement as to the pure joy that rock climbing has brought me.  For years, when people asked me why I climbed rocks, I struggled to find an answer that truly depicted my feelings towards this sport.  A couple of months ago, while climbing alone in the gym no less, I gained a deeper understanding of my attachment.  I was using the self-belay machine, running laps to gain some fitness before the outdoor rock season when it hit me.  Rock climbing is the most beautiful “thing” I have ever encountered.  The places, the people, the movement, the views, the routines, the equipment, the steadfast commitment it requires.   What more could you want to guide you across this planet than the profound magnetism of beautiful rock faces? 

After graduating from University, the grip that rock climbing had upon me tightened.  I was forced to find an occupation that would allow for me to climb as much as possible, and save for future climbing trips. This made getting a “real job” a near impossibility.  I narrowed my job search to the Bow Valley, the limestone Mecca where I cut my teeth as a sport climber.   Environmental Science jobs here are far and few between.  Supplanted into the shoes of a professional, university-educated immigrant looking for greener pastures, I too left my parchment in the drawer and decided to go behind the wheel of a taxicab.   

Why a taxicab you ask? Well, the all hours nature of the job, in combination with my ability to function at a relatively normal energy level with 6 hours of sleep per day allow for rock climbing any day of the week.  This tight schedule has taken a little getting used to.  For the first week or two, I was only getting out on my days off.  Even the call of the mountains weren’t enough to spur my vertical addiction after a 12-hour night shift. My cozy bed on wheels was all too enticing.  Having realized the error of my ways, after an après-work mission to Planet x with Marshal, my summer of climbing is looking up.  Canmore is rife with climbing partners raring to get out, now the hardest piece of the puzzle is where to fit rest days in.

This space will serve as a record for the most memorable Cabby moments of the summer.   Entries may be sporadic, but based on the uproarious profligacy I have been witness to in my first three weeks of employment, the limiting factor is likely be my commitment to putting pen on paper (or fingers on keys).

Ciao,

AQ

+20°C to -25°C

Well, my southern sojourn has come to its inevitable conclusion.  Five months on the road have left me penniless and psyched for the next chapter.

Since my last post I made my way to the Grand Canyon, where I fought off snow and fog to take in the amazing vistas. I then met my good friends Josh, Regan, and Pete in Vegas for some Christmas bowling, and beers. Oh, I guess we climbed too.  From Vegas it was off to J-tree to meet the Evolv crew for New-Years festivities, then a jaunt to Mexico where our buds Jeff and Dea run an orphanage.  Josh and Regs headed home from the land of delicious tacos while I spent a week chillin in Fallbrook, California with my buddy Buck.  We climbed, we hiked, we ate, we drank.  We had a great time.  It was in Fallbrook that I learned of my grandmother's passing. I drove to Vegas, climbed with Terry, Selena, and Jeremy for a day, then took a flight back to the great white north.  After an emotional, and cold 2 weeks I returned to Vegas.  Getting in late, I parked my van at the Red Rock Casino, only to be woken up and informed at 3:30 am that this was not an acceptable location to bivy.  In my sleepy stupor I made my way to a nearby neighborhood where I camped-out for the next few days.  I departed Vegas and made my final stop in Bishop.  In Bishop, I climbed with many good friends, scared myself, and dealt with a misbehaving passenger door lock.  Every day I would wake up, make myself a cup of coffee, bask in the rising sun, and question whether life could get any better.  Bishop truly is a bouldering paradise.  Three weeks of perfect weather led to a couple days of rain.  The incoming cold front, in conjunction with my dwindling bank account were all the provocation I needed to make my northerly migration.

The Grand Canyon at sunrise

The crew at the Gallery in Red Rocks

Regs on the beach in Mexico

Josh tucking into a delicious taco

Campsite bocce in Vegas with team Edmonton

Jedi Mind Tricks

Welcome to the Buttermilks

Grandma Peabody southwest arete

Paul Szaror climbing Suspended in Silence

This trip was an amazing experience I will not soon forget.  Not only did I visit some amazing locales, but I met a bunch of truly amazing people.  You know who you are.  Maybe we shared beta on a boulder problem, or hung out at a sport crag.  Perchance we were just campsite neighbors, but more than likely at the end of a glorious day of climbing we kicked back and enjoyed good company, and good beer.  If this sounds like you, then my thanks go out to you, and I hope it isn't too long before we find ourselves in a similar setting.

Ciao!

AQ

This is Texas

Hueco sunset

Couldn't resist the self portait in this beautiful light - See spot run V6

Sierra Blanca - ghost town I passed through

Bored on the road...Texas is a big place. Especially when you're driving from end to end

Nobody here gets out alive V2

Quick one

Hello Hello

Just a quick post: I'm leaving Horse Pens 40 today in seach of warmer clim(e)(b)s.  Hueco Tanks seems to fit the bill.  Here are a couple pics from my last week or so.

Skywalker V9

Skywalker V9

Alex Bain sending The Flow V7

going boulderin'

Pictures from 'Bama

Leaving Marshal at the Greyhound

Slopers Slopers Slopers

Myself climbing Great White in Horse Pens 40, Alabama

Alex Bain on Law-dog, HP 40

Cold mornings

AQ

New Territory

After dropping Marshal off at the greyhound, I drove through Tennessee into Alabama.  Why Alabama you ask.  Well, let me tell you, Alabama is host to some of the best and most unique bouldering in North America. Horse Pens 40 is on top of a “mountain”, 45 mins north of Birmingham.  Huge rounded sandstone slopers the size of beach balls, and beautifully comfortable edges. It’s not only the style of climbing that makes HP40 what it is, but also the concentration of boulders.  From one end of the boulder field to the other is a 15 min walk, and the whole thing is packed with blocs. Corridors between boulders are lined with classic problems, and everywhere you turn is another line that begs to be climbed.

I arrived on a Wednesday, it was about 10:30 PM local time, and I was tired from driving all day.  I exited off the highway, and stopped at the gas station to fill up on gas and water (I didn’t know what amenities were available on the mountain).  This particular gas station seemed to be the local Wednesday night hangout for all the guys with big trucks.   I have never seen so much camo, or heard so many “Y’alls” in my life.  Leaving the gas station I had to squeeze between 2 Ford F-9000s meanwhile being glared at by their bucktoothed owners.  With a glimpse in to the local demographic, and a full tank of gas, I headed towards HP40.  Down Hwy 35, right on county road 42, and up the “mountain”.  As I made a couple switchbacks the air grew foggy and it became very difficult to see.  I slowed to a crawl, and kept on driving.  Ten minutes later I was at the HP40 gates.  It wasn’t raining, but everything was soaked.  Everything.  As soon as I stepped outside, the humid air cut its way through my layers, and sent a chill through me I will not soon forget.  I took a minute to glance around at my fellow campers in their nylon tents, and to thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t setting up a tent, but getting back in to a deliciously warm van.

The next morning, everything was still wet but a wind was doing its part to dry out the rock.  Not unlike Squamish, the boulders in HP40 are a short jaunt from the camping.  I spent an hour running around the forest touching holds here and there, scoping out the prime lines.  After a pot of coffee, and some breaky, it was boulder time.

Now, 7 climbing days and 3 rest days later, I am sore.  Holy crap am I sore.  Climbing in the Red for 8 weeks did not get me into boulder shape. It certainly did not get me ready for the squeezy slopery nature of the HP40 rock.

Ciao for now,

AQ