Fantastic Pit

November 25, 1994 by Leave a Comment

Ellison’s Cave, Georgia

Fantastic Pit — a 510’ vertical free-fall drop, deep within Ellison’s Cave in Georgia. A waterfall runs off to one side, and my flashlight lacks the strength to penetrate the mist to the bottom. There are two separate 600’ ropes rigged for the decent through the pit, and I prepare to go down the first one wearing full rain gear.

Standing on the edge, just before committing to the rappel, the size of my world shrinks to encompass nothing but the hardware, harness and rope immediately in front of me. All parts are meticulously examined before I release my safety tether, then step out over the free-hanging emptiness.

My weight is supported by the combination of a brake rack, a Speelean Shunt, and a good dose of faith. Fear and caution led me to set more friction than necessary for the start, so only after releasing one of the bars on my rack do I begin to move.

Shortly, the ledge is lost from sight and the mist from the water fall grows heavier and louder. My rope goes almost directly through the center of the fall, and in a short while, so will I.

When in the fall, visibility is near zero. I am bombarded with water pouring from above, and heavy spray from all other directions. The noise from the water is almost overpowering, yet I can still hear the buzzing whine of my rope sliding through my brake rack. My only perception of speed comes from the pitch of the brake rack noise, and the water that shoots out towards my face as the rope is squeezed between the bars.

When I finally reach the bottom, from out of nowhere two of my comrades jump out from behind the rocks to help free me from the rope and hardware contraption that safely delivered me to the ground. I stand in awe of the sheer magnitude of this pit and its surroundings. It is indeed a "Fantastic Pit."

* * *

Note: This above article was published in "Table Rock Views", the North Carolina Outward Bound staff newsletter in the Spring of 1995

Copyright (C), 1995, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Land

Bridge to Bridge Bicycle Ride

September 18, 1994 by Leave a Comment

Hickory, NC

September 18, 1994

Early this morning, I woke up knowing I had to eat a large breakfast, but was really not that hungry. It’s hard to eat at 6:00am. So I just had a plate of spaghetti, a banana, a bowl of ice cream and a lot of peanut butter, then washed it all down with some orange juice and a bowl of Cheerio’s before leaving for Hickory.

There was very little traffic on the road at that hour, and I kept looking at what few cars there were to see if they were carrying bicycles. Close to Morganton, none of them were, but as I got closer to Hickory, one and then another car would enter the highway from the various tributaries with bicycles clearly visible. Instantly, there was an identification that we were both headed to the same place. Soon, almost all of the cars on the road had bicycles… like we were all descending on a cosmic bicycle Mecca or something.

And as we got closer to the registration area, there were people RIDING there — why, I’ll never know. I can’t imagine riding a bike to the beginning of what is going to be over a hundred mile course.

There were just under 900 cyclist for this years riding of the Bridge to Bridge challenge. The staging area was about a mile and a half from the official start, and served as a rolling start for the ride that gave the cyclist a little time to spread out so that we were not so dangerously clumped together.

For me, the first 40 miles went by in just over two hours. Groups of cyclist would ride in packs from 4 to 12, all riding within inches of the wheel in front of them. As the terrain changed, the ordering of the group shifted as people vied for position in a friendly manner. I would usually start in the back of a group, then work my way forward, always trying to remain on the outside or front of the group when we came to the crest of any of the MANY hills. As soon as the terrain sloped downwards, I would break away from the pack and try to catch the next group to repeat the process.

Riding in a group, there was a simultaneous feeling of both togetherness and isolation. My group-mates were all strangers, and I knew I would ride with them for only a short while. Yet while traveling, I felt very much like a wolf among a larger pack, traveling at considerable speed on a trek that would only get harder and harder as we entered the mountains.

After mile 41, things slowed down greatly. We had all just been rained on, and were now soaking wet. We could not ride as close to each other because the tires in front of us spewed rain-water straight up like a rooster-tail at whoever was behind it. It was also after mile 41 that the hills started getting steeper. From an average clip of 19 miles/hour, the pace dropped to around 12. By mile 50, my right knee was starting to flare up, and made pedaling more difficult. The rest areas were spaced closer together now, ranging from 3 to 8 miles apart depending on the grade.

At all of the rest areas were people handing out water and either apples or banana halves. The physical exertion was quite extraordinary. With a banana in my hand, the urge was to just swallow it whole, except that I needed to keep my mouth open to breath. The moment the food hit my tongue, physiology took over. My body was DESPERATE for more calories. Rather than just engulfing the banana, I felt the need to let it SIT in my mouth as I rode, turning it into baby-food before swallowing so that it could be absorbed more readily. This was not something I consciously thought of doing, nor did I think about WHY I was doing it, but it just seemed the thing to do, and I listened to my body.

The latter rest-areas had cookies too. Sugar and carbohydrates – cookies from heaven. By the time I reached the 50 mile mark, I think I had more than eaten my registration fee in just bananas and cookies alone. WOOF!! Where did it all go?

Between mile 50 and 64, my pace had slowed to around 6 miles/hour. I was simply plodding from one rest-stop to the next. As far as energy and endurance goes, I was definitely beginning to fade, but the real limiting factor had become my knee. I was pedaling up hill with about 85% of my power coming from my left down-stroke, and letting the momentum take my right foot through the revolution. So when I stopped around mile 64, I decided I would only further injure myself if I went on, especially since there was still another 3,000 vertical feet to climb.

Another rider had severe mechanical trouble, and the two of us were driven to the "reception" area beyond the end of the course. Shortly after getting off my bike, I could feel my temperature dropping rapidly. After all, I’d just expended several thousand calories, gone through 6 miles of rain, ridden 64 miles, and climbed several thousand vertical feet, and now I was actually STATIONARY. I asked if the other rider and I could have a garbage bag to wrap ourselves in, since we would be riding in the back of a pickup, and were at great risk of hypothermia. The other guy thought it was silly, but once we were moving he was glad to have that bag around him!

After hanging out at the end of the course for a while, I met up with the other folks from the OB office, then I caught one of the shuttle busses back down to the start in Hickory. It was about an hour bus ride, and when all the riders got their bikes out of the bottom of the bus in the parking lot, not a single one of them RODE from the bus to their cars, even though the cars were still quite a ways away.

When I got in my car, one of the first things to cross my mind was what an incredible man Henry Ford was. The idea of being able to just push a pedal on the floor with one foot and GO was simply astounding. And to actually go UPHILL by just pushing the pedal a little further? Simply a modern miracle if ever there was one.

By the time I got home and disrobed, I saw that my legs were completely covered in road-slime, and my arms and face looked like I had been playing in the sand. It wasn’t sand, of course — it was crystallized salt. A nice long shower, and I’m almost back to normal, though I suppose the real test will be to see what condition I am in when I wake up in the morning… (or afternoon).

In any event, since my office has two floors and I usually have to go up and down quite a bit, I’m giving serious thought to re-arranging my schedule: until 1:00p, the people up-stairs are shit-out-of-luck, and after 1:00 it’s the other way around. If the problem can not be brought to ME, then too bad.

I’m also going to bring in an extra pillow to sit on, and I don’t think I’ll be getting on my bicycle for at least another week or two. My ass hurts just thinking about it.

2002 Seattle to Portland Bike Ride (STP) 
2004 Seattle to Portland Bike Ride (STP)

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Bicycling

Spring, 1994

March 20, 1994 by Leave a Comment

Table Rock, NC

Today is the first day of spring. Though I fettered away the better part of the afternoon, in what remains of toady’s daylight I have taken to the hills.

I’m perched on a rock beside Upper-Creek Trail. It’s strange to think that a short drive and hike can take me from roads, buildings, shops and other conveniences, right to the edge of a 50’ vertical drop with a roaring water fall and nary a sight of man’s mark upon the land.

The rhododendrons and pines along the banks are still green, and scattered about the distant mountainside are isolated hemlocks, but for the most part, the forest appears unaware that today holds any special significance.

Over the next month or so, the barren multitude of leafless branches shall shoot forth their buds for the next years growth, but today they are dormant. "March 20, 1994" — as if the forest were supposed to keep track of modern-man’s calendar.

The forest will wake from its winter slumber when it is ready, and not before. It will happen day by day, a little bit at a time. And then, on some warm afternoon a few weeks from now, I’ll remember to actually look, and it will seem as if the forest awoke overnight.

* * *

A waterfall is like a playground for a creek or river as it makes its continual journey from the mountains to the sea. Though water will forever move down-hill, a waterfall punctuates an otherwise uneventful passage with joy and excitement.

I need only sit at the base of a fall and look up to be overwhelmed by the amount of activity before me. From the top of the fall, the water almost knows a drop-off is coming, and begins to take a running start — it leaps out and away from the rock, forming brilliant cascades in the process. Gravity kicks in, and the water comes crashing down onto the rocks again, only to dance and laugh all the way down the jagged slope. All along the vertical drop are small pools here and there where the drops of water begin to gather. But more and more keep pouring in, and those that have been there the longest are forced to move on.

There is a gentle breeze here at the bottom. The air is cool and heavy with mist. As the sun has already set, the wind grows rapidly stronger and colder. And though I could easily sit on this rock for hours, visual details are fading one by one in the diminishing light. That’s OK… I’ll come back.

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Land

Autumn, 1993

October 11, 1993 by Leave a Comment

Fall is coming. Yes, already. Though in truth, it has been here since the Autumnal Equinox, it has only been it the last few days that fall has made its presence known.

Ever so slowly, an isolated tree here or there would begin to change color, but it was hardly enough to grab one’s attention. Even when several trees began changing, it sparked little more than "Oh, look at that."

But come the first cold snap, everyone suddenly wakes up to see that in their failure to open their eyes, nature has gone on without them. The trees are in fact bursting with color, and it takes only a slight wind to fill the air with falling leaves and the unmistakable scent of a winter that is just waiting to come alive.

At present, I am sitting in the middle of a large grassy field that is surrounded by trees of many shapes and sizes. The sun has already set, and the sky is completely overcast — the kind that always makes it feel colder and darker than it really is.

There are several distant patches of forest that are heavily laden with migrating birds. What is normally heard as a series of musical trills has been replaced by an overpowering chatter of too many winged animals all talking at once.

But as the last of sunset’s light begins to fade, the chatter dies down, and the winds gently rock the annual travelers to sleep. The details from individual trees slowly merge into one another, and the twilight carries us from the world of light to that of darkness.

(C) 1993, Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: miscellaneous

First Solo

October 4, 1993 by Leave a Comment

SoloFlight

I did it! Monday, 10/4/93, at about 6:00p. My flight lesson started at 5:15p, and I did 4 landings and one go-around with my instructor. He did one "uh-oh… what do you do now?" after another. He would pull my power off, or tell me to make an emergency landing in a field, then we’d pull out before touching down. Anyway, after 4 of them, he had me radio the airport informing them "full-stop."

I knew that meant he was getting out of the plane, and I swallowed hard. He told me that with him out of the plane, it would want to climb. I was thinking as if he were ballast, and simply by stepping out I would float up. He actually meant that I would have more lift when flying.

While on taxi to runway 24, all at once I shivered, laughed, and thought "What the hell am I doing here inside this contraption? These things need a PILOT to control them!!"

So I make my turn to the final taxi-way parallel to the runway, and this big 4-engine, turbo-prop, 46-seat, US-AIR plane pulls onto the runway from an entrance further up. I first thought "Do airplanes have horns?" Then I wondered "How far does one stay behind another plane? Is it two plane-lengths? Are they big-plane or little-plane lengths?" Eventually, the US-AIR plane took off, and it was my turn to get on the runway. It’s a HUGE runway, and I felt like a mosquito on a football field. Take-off is no problem. All I had to do was LAND three times.

I kept my pattern reasonably clean the first time around, but the second time, there was another plane in the pattern that I could not see. I heard him on the radio, and asked where he was. He was above and behind me, so I couldn’t see him through my high-wings. I knew he wouldn’t run into me or anything, but kept thinking "Uh oh! There’s a bogie on my tail. RATA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!!!" I was nervous, and what should have been a clean, crisp, 90-degree turn from "down-wind" to "base" probably looked more like evasive maneuvers, though that was not the plan.

Most of flying is not really all that hard, except where it matters close to the ground. Despite the standard use of flaps, ailerons, rudder, trim, and stabilizer, I’m still convinced that it’s really just an artful combination of will power and sheer terror that actually makes the thing touch the ground.

Between all of that, I did it. I brought the plane to its designated parking spot, recorded the numbers I needed off the instruments, finished final landing procedures, and headed back to the terminal. In the back of my head, I heard "Don’t forget to lock the plane."

 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Sky

Outward Bound Board Meeting

July 21, 1993 by Leave a Comment

It was Friday evening, up at Table Rock, just after part of the board meeting. People were gathered around, socializing, talking, enjoying each other’s company, and greeting friends they have seen — some recently, others not so recently.

After the dance, some folks gathered together on the back porch of the Kurt Hahn center. There, people were playing music and singing. The moon was nearly full in the background, and to the right stood Table Rock. A majestic presence, it stood out from its surroundings and demanded attention with its moonlit face and an empty dark sky behind it.

People, I am reminded, are what life (and OB) are all about. Though I knew only a handful of the people present, I felt a close sense of kinship and community with those around me. Even when in the larger group, I felt we were all bound together by our own individual ideals and dedication to the philosophy of Outward Bound. 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Outward Bound

Vernal Falls Yosemite National Park

May 26, 1993 by Leave a Comment

As we finally begin our decent from half dome, the trail is filled with continuing marvels such as "vernal Falls". It is probably 300′ or more in height, and the sheer volume of water thundering out and over the drop fills much of the valley with the sound of its power. The water juts straight out from the top in massive sheets, only to be caught by gravity which shatters the sheets, then merges them together, then shatters them again as the water is crashed against the vertical wall.

There is an area surrounding the fall that is a perpetual cloud of mist. Along the edges, parts of the cloud appear to be leaping out in an attempt to escape the larger mass, only to be sucked back down to the pool at the base, or to instantly evaporate.

After coming closer towards the base, its splendor is only magnified. By the time the water finally reaches the bottom, it is moving at lightning speed. Droplets are screaming over the surface of the rock, desperately trying to slow themselves down. But no sooner does one drop land than another knocks it out of the way.

It looks like a torrential snow storm turned on end. The misty cloud at the base obscures everything from view — it is a magical zone where the forces of nature violently clash, yet give the outward appearance of serenity, beauty, and calmness.

Along the banks of the river below, huge wisps spin off from the cloud at great speeds — traveling outwards 200′ or more along the forest floor. There is an urge to walk closer and closer to the cloud — to somehow enter inside and experience the magic as only the water does. But those traveling wisps are brutally cold, and sting the skin as millions of tiny darts. The wisps are a warning to keep my distance, lest the cloud swallow me hole, and never let go.

Yosemite National Park
Vernal Falls
Ass Holes on Ice Hills

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Water

Ass Holes on Ice Hills Yosemite National Park

May 23, 1993 by Leave a Comment

After two days climbing through brambles and over obstacles nearly vertical, we arrived at the bottom. Having made the decision that we were well over our heads, we decided to take it easy and not climb the 5.9 route.

Working on the assumption that any route down would be better than the one we had ascended, we then made our way around the side of the north face of the dome. It involved still more climbing and we had been warned about a massive glacier field we would need to traverse.

Upon approaching the field, still wearing tennis-shoes, we did our best to kick foot holds through the snow and maintain our balance. the field became increasingly steep, and upon cresting the ridge, we were looking out at a 1/2 mile traverse across a field where one slip would send us sliding downward over 3,000 feet, pausing only momentarily where the ice changed to granite at about 5,000 feet elevation.

We did not have the proper gear for this. We had grabbed several long sticks to use as stabilizers and for "protection." I went out first, trailing a line to my brother who was anchored as best he could be given the situation.

Slowly and deliberately I stepped out onto the ice. Using the sides of my feet I’d kick hard to break through the hard packed snow, and test each step for sturdiness before committing my weight to it. There was a large section of the ice wall that showed signs of collapse and fracture nearly 1,000 feet below. Pieces of snow larger than automobiles had simply let go of the main block and fallen — their own underlying supports having already melted and washed away.

I faced up-hill, and tried to keep my mind focused on the section of ice that directly effected my well being. Kick-Crunch-Step-Transfer-Breath… over and over, I repeated this process as the line of rope grew longer and longer. Even with the rope, a slip at any point would send me tumbling downward like the weight on the end of a pendulum. I took one of my sticks and drove it deep into the snow. I draped the rope over the top, and knew full well that in the event of trouble, that stick would be little more than psychological protection.

There was a large tree about 40 feet away, and I could only hope that I would reach it before coming to the end of my rope. Despite the fact that larger trees had already been toppled by the weight of sliding snow, this one still stood tall and served as a gauge for my progress.

Continuing on, the snow beneath my left foot suddenly gave way and sent me sliding. I instantly dropped to my side and punched my fist deeply downward through the snow with speed, strength, and determination. I came to a stop only 10 feet below where my feet let go, but it served to harshly reinforce the realities of the danger we were dealing with. I was lucky, and I knew it.

So it was with great relief that I finally reached that tree, and the sound of my carribiner securely clipped to a quickly tied anchor was music to my ears.

Yosemite National Park
Vernal Falls
Ass Holes on Ice Hills

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Land

Yosemite National Park

May 20, 1993 by Leave a Comment

Simply overwhelming. Nothing I can say even comes close to representing the sheer grandeur of the world before my eyes.

For the last three hours, we have been hiking towards half dome. Here and there, we struggled over various rocks and scree slopes that had yet to find their final resting place in the valley below.

Our only guide has been ‘up’ and ‘towards that massive rock, far above us’. As we make our way generally East, we come to a spring — two, in fact, both cascading over the rock, forming a series of smaller water falls.

At some point, we would need to traverse across the streams, so we decided to cross at the base, which was a large pocket of snow and ice maybe 75 yards wide. "Avalanche", I thought, but the snow was quite packed. The other possibility was a cave-in, since it was clear the stream cut under the bed of snow.

Slowly, we made our traverse, and shortly before the end, decided to descend rather than move forward. Upon reaching the ‘land’ again, we saw we had only barely missed crossing an incredibly intricate network of tunnels and passageways carved by the water. The snow had formed a dome 10′ over the water, and chances are good that we would have fallen through.

10:15p

It’s dark. Very dark. Though we pushed on and on, I was simply unable to go any further with any safety. Like a gauge, I saw my reserves go from ‘warning’ to ‘critically low’ to ‘Danger! — find water and stop immediately.’

I do not recall ever pushing myself so far out on physical limits. Breathing was labored, and balance was beginning to fade.

At our ‘bivy ledge’, I got a terminal case of the giggles — everything was just so absurd. We’d been hiking since 2:45p, dusk was upon us, and I started moving rocks around to make a more comfortable sleeping area — moving rocks! "Lets see… this one would go nicely in the kidney, and this one is ideal for my ribs…"

After diner, we were better. We have a good bit of food — we need to eat it to lighten our load. We had planned to arrive at the base of the climb tonight. We are about an hour away.

I had one real scare on the ascent today. My pack had gotten caught on a branch in a rather precarious spot. I knew I was in trouble. I was not afraid of dying, just of getting badly hurt. It shook me up a bit, and I’m not fond of certain trees now.

From where we now lay, I can see scattered campfires from the valley below, oh so very far away. The sky is amass with stars, and a waterfall tumbles 20′ away from where we have decided to bed for the night.

On the ascent, there were a great many details to observe, and each presented its own unique challenge: rocks, trees, talus, and dirt. But now, with everything shielded in darkness, my world is bounded by the width of my flashlight, and the sounds from all around.

I am several thousand feet high, but can see no more from here in the darkness than those in the valley below. It is as if not only am I about to sleep for the night, but my whole world is sleeping too, and will awaken me in several hours when the sun finally comes around again.

Yosemite National Park
Vernal Falls
Ass Holes on Ice Hills

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Land

Spring, 1993

March 6, 1993 by Leave a Comment

Sunrise, Saturday morning. For the last 10 minutes, I’ve been watching the sky reveal ever more detail of the splendor she holds. As daybreak proceeds, the blanket of darkness is pulled back, and an incredible picture of rapidly moving clouds and changing patterns begins to take its place.

It has rained for the last 2 days, and everything is covered in a fine sheet of ice. The grass makes a brittle crackling noise as it reluctantly bends under the weight of my steps.

Yet despite the cold, the morning has the feel of an early spring day — the number of birds calling from afar fills the air with a variety of unique and intricate sounds.

And slowly, the call of morning doves begin to fade, and a dog can be heard barking in the distance. As I write, a whole flock of tiny somethings fly overhead, each and every one calling out to its neighbor in flight.

On the edges of this field, in front of the houses, a few people step outside momentarily to fetch their paper or let out their dog. The people are bundled up like Eskimos — their bleary eyed bodies not yet ready to face the day.

But the animals — they are out in force. For they know that just as sure as the newly melted ice beneath my bottom, winter is on its way out, and spring is almost here.

 

3/21/93

March 21, 1993 — the first day of spring has finally arrived. Though there have been several days in the last few weeks when spring gave the appearance of having already arrived, winter then dumped a foot of snow on us last weekend to violently assert its power and right to be here.

So spring waited quietly around the corner and upon the duly appointed day, with equal strength and beauty did banish the snow and cold for yet another year.

I awoke this morning at the crack of noon, and knew that it was time to go for a run. The moment I stepped out the door, the light was blinding, and the air simply forced its way deep into my lungs, exclaiming "Breath me! Come alive and be free!"

As I walked through mounds and puddles of lingering snow scattered about along my path, it crumbled and let out an agonizing CRUNCHING sound beneath my feet. It tried desperately to cling to my leg and hide in my shoe, but as I burst into full speed on the pavement, the snow was hurled to the ground as drops of water, destined to continue its never ending journey back to the seas.

In fact, as I continued on my path, every crevice, gully, and curb side was over flowing with the water from melted snow that simply could not run fast enough to escape the energy of the fresh spring weather.

At the entrance to roadside sewers, the snow had formed gigantic overhangs where the rushing water had eroded the base faster than the crown. At the slightest touch of my hand, a 2-foot section of ice collapsed, falling flat on the ground and shattering. Defeated, the winter has no choice but to retreat.

There is no pre-defined path I am following today — I am simply running, going wherever I fancy. The road comes to an end, and I decide to continue forward through the forest until I again intersect a more navigable path. Along my way, I pass playgrounds that are teaming with children yelling and screaming their hearts delight. They are covered in mud, but one would think they were just let out of prison, and have more energy than they know what to do with.

Eventually, I cross a wooden bridge that I have never seen before, due more to my lack of exploring than its desire to remain hidden. An old crow lands on the railing close enough to me that I could touch it if I tried. It seems to be staring me in the face as it CAWS out at me with volume I have never before experienced. It stayed for only a moment, then flew off into the distance.

In the cracks of the railing beneath where the crow perched, there are a few dead leaves left over from last autumn. As I reach for them, they crumble into dust and slip through the cracks of my fingers. A gust of wind carries the fragments to the forest floor, and I know that as the cycles of nature forever repeat themselves, those pieces will one day live again.

 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Filed Under: Land
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