A Kentucky drystone masonry fence has no mortar. The artisan places the stones so that their own weight and peculiar shapes hold them together from within. At first sight the stones can seem ill-fitted. Small stones occupy odd spots, loose fill can be seen spilling out. But the stones are placed to shift over time. Weather, oddly shaped stones, shifting ground, incidental damage, rather than undermining the fence, actually compact it together through the years, so that the fence grows even stronger and more beautiful. These fences have stood for over 150 years. Sometimes I feel my own thoughts to be ill-fitted, uncemented, and loose, but I trust under the pressure of the years and the forces of life, they can somehow fit together as well...
Am I On the Rocks?
©Lawson G. Stone, 2005
After so much serious talk about Genesis 1, I need a break. Some of you probably want to break something! So I've archived all six articles in two files below. Speaking of breaking something, what I'd like to talk about is my new mid-life crisis remedy, rock climbing!
I'd tried rock climbing once before, and got about 10 feet up the rock face only to find my legs jumping up and down like sewing machines. With no documented musculature in my arms, I had no strength even to hold on, and the sharp little ridges I had dug my fingers into hurt like the dickens. SO I bailed, and in humiliation watched as my (then) 14 year old son, 13 year old daughter, and 10 year old son scooted up the rock like they were born to it. So a couple of years ago, when my oldest son (now 19) took up climbing in earnest, I made a note to re-engage this challenge.
We live in a wonderful area for climbing. Just 3 hours away, the Red River Gorge region of Kentucky offers some sensational climbing, with bolted routes for sport climbers and some truly classic "trad" lines. Slowly, I began to envy my three kids and their friends as they moved up these rock faces with apparent ease, and obvious grace.So, on September 21, 2005, I began my new career as a 50 year old, somewhat out of shape, rock climber. 
I had consulted Zach, my older son, about gear, sold some books, sold an old pistol at a local gun store, and gathered the cash to buy my first "rack." At Red River Gorge, he led me to what looked like an over-grown boulder in a region of "the Red" called Muir Valley. "This is it?" I asked. Zach referred to it as "the climbers' nursery" and said it was actually called "the practice wall." My first route, a mere 20 feet, had been christened "Acrophobiacs Anonymous." My daughter had climbed it just a few weeks before. My younger son, Lyman, had climbed an even higher route at the Red as well. 
The pressure was on: how hard could it be?
Sweat, not of exertion, but stark terror broke out on my brow. The legs began banging up and down, just like the last time. "Push your heals down to stop the 'sewing machine leg!'" Zach called, and so I did, and they stopped! I kept reaching up with my arms, trying to pull myself up, and Zach kept saying "FEET, FEET!" Finally my arms gave out. I'm now...8 feet off the ground...and Zach says "You've got real bucket right above your left foot!" A "bucket" I assume is a nice big hole to put a foot in. The "bucket" was at least...an inch wide...but I wedged my foot on it, pushed, and saw a little crack to wedge my right toe into. Another push...another little crack to ram my left hand into...a twist..and agony of scraping on my hand...and I pulled up just enough for the edge of my right foot to catch a little hold.
By the way..have I talked about the SHOES? I ordered so-called "rock shoes" from a company called Pagan Gear. That should have put me on alert, right? Pagan? Great folks, I have to say. The shoes were made by a company called "Mad Rock." So here I am, Methodist minister, professor of Bible, wearing "Mad Rock" shoes sold to me by "Pagan Gear." And these shoes were clearly marked "Size 12." But apparently that was a size 12 HOBBIT. These shoes were at least 2 inches too short! Zach reassured me: "Oh yeah, they have to fit kinda tight..they'll stretch...and don't wear socks." Well, I haven't worn shoes without socks for 35 years...but okay. Still, I feel like "Big Foot" in toe-shoes. So back on the rock, I ram my already pinched foot...toe...into a crack and Zach says "you have to TORQUE the foot" which I don't understand at all. I push, the foot twists, and actually LOCKS into the crack. "What do I do now?" I yell...Zach answers with great profundity: "GO UP!"
Go Up. One hand now has no skin. Right foot "torqued" into a crack, not to be removed until Jesus returns. Left foot still hanging in space, right hand...good grief the right hand is slipping loose! So I shove with that torqued foot, because it's the only thing really attached to the rock. I'll come back for it later, I think. Pushing up, my left foot--the one hanging free--finds an actual ledge. Just 20 minutes ago, I'd have regarded a 2 inch ledge as slim support. Now it looks like an aircraft carrier deck. From here, I gather together most of my body parts and realize I'm now within a couple of moves of the top! Somehow, the torqued foot comes out of the crack it was in and lands on the aircraft carrier deck with the other foot.
At this point, Zach tells me I should have used a climbing move called "mantling." What I used was more like the "Beached Whale Maneuver." Somehow, I grunted, pulled, and rolled over onto the ledge at the top of the boulder in a shower of dust and rock fragments. I did it!
From here, I'm coached about clipping to the anchors, going "off belay" which is kind of like going "off oxygen" or "off life support" in order to re-rig my rope for rappelling. Now this part I like. Rappelling is the reward I get for having climbed to the top. In a moment, I'm down, and I can't believe what just happened. A half-decade of humiliation and shame has peeled off, along with a lot of my skin, and I feel 20 years old again!
