becauseihavenowife.com
| following Andy Polley as he travels around the world... |
Spring Break. Again, a common theme in my life...
We had piled into the Ford Taurus (the same one that K-Niggit and I took
55 MPH over a ramp and became air-born for longer than is healthy)...(oh,
and the same one that K-Niggit and I took through a ditch after crossing a
non-X intersection...who was to know the opposite road wouldn't match up
with this one?!). It's me...and K-Niggit and Jared. The trio together again.
We were seldom separated during our high school years. Whether it was
a trip out of the country, a trip within the confines of the United States, or a
trip five miles away from home, we lived for the times together.
And with Spring Break here, we headed west. Ok, granted, so it wasn't far,
but our feeble minds were weak with roadtrip experience at the time. I
mean, you have to start somewhere, right? We headed to western
Illinois...to a little place called Cooperstown...to a little place which coined
the phrase..."You can't get there from here."
We were going camping.
We had been looking forward to this for some time. There was talk of
biking across Shawnee National Forest, hitting both the east and west
sides of Illinois. I even had a brand new luggage rack bought for my
mountain bike. But that trip didn't so much work...so we opted for camping
instead. And we were excited. Just a few days of three guys with
absolutely no plans...well, except for blowing things up and shooting
whatever moved.
So there we are, driving along an old gravel road...when we saw something
odd to the left of the vehicle. In the trees, you could spot a cliff of sorts.
The earth just disappeared down below. Now hold on a minute...I am not
talking Oregon cliffs...or Idaho cliffs...or even Indiana Jones cliffs. We're in
Illinois, for [insert your favorite non-Pete name here]'s sake. It's more of a
ravine. You can see it taper off in the distance, the top slowly making its
way down towards the bottom.
There was only one thing to do.
"We should rappel down that!"
"No joke...pull over."
And with that, our trip had officially begun. We were going to rappel down
the ravine. And it's a good thing we had packed our climbing gear, or else
this could have been dangerous. So we popped the trunk and grabbed
our...
Yellow nylon 1/4" ski rope from Wal-Mart...and my brown jersey gloves
from Huck's (they were only 99 cents!...what a deal!)....and we headed
over towards the top of the ravine.
The drop-off was about 25-30 feet. And so we began our preparation...
"Here, tie it to this one."
And with that, we wrapped the ski rope around the tree and secured it
good and tight.
"Now throw it down."
Perfect. It hit the bottom with a few feet left to spare. This was going to be
cake-walk.
"So who's going first?"
Now that was a silly question to ask. Because really, there were only two
options: K-Niggit or me. We both knew that Jared would not take part in
this event. That simply wasn't his role in life. His role is to encourage
other people to do outrageous acts while he sits back and laughs. And he
does it well. But frankly, this wasn't too outrageous. We had a ravine, we
had some gear, and we had nothing but time.
What more could we need? So K-niggit volunteers to go first.
Now let me tell you a little bit about this ravine. It has bunches and
bunches of trees on top. Lots of 'em. And then there is just this
drop-off...hence the cliff. But some of the trees were along the edge of the
drop-off. And since we don't have rock in Illinois, we only had dirt to
support the trees. So the dirt below had caved in long ago, while the trees
were hanging on up top by their roots. So essentially, if you looked at it
from the side, the cliff would look like a "P"...with the curved part being the
tree roots sticking out from the wall and the left-hand line being the cliff.
Got it? Good.
So K-niggit shimmies his way over the "hump." And, of course, this is
where gravity starts to kick in. Up until this point, he has only been working
his way backwards...but he still had solid ground underneath him. As his
body weight starts to put pressure on his hands, he realizes that our gear
is not set up right.
So he comes back, and he does what any professional rappel artist would
do. He takes the rope and we weaves it through the belt loops on his
jeans. Now he would have much more friction, and he could use his left
hand behind him and his right hand above him. What a genius!
He makes it out to the hump again. The pressure increases, this time all
around his waist as well as his hands. He shimmies back a lil' further...a lil'
more...a lil' more...(he's still mostly on the top of the "hump" but his legs
are starting to go over the edge now...)...the pressure increases, and then
it happened!
He stopped. He managed to crawl his way back to where we were
watching him, and he said he wasn't going to do it. Then he said a few
words I will never forget..."I don't want to die today."
Obviously, the combination of the gear, the cliff, and the rappeller was too
much....
For him.
"Ok, I'll do it!"
And with that, I had the yellow rope in my hand, already backing myself
back towards the drop-off. "Man, he isn't kidding...once you put yourself
over this edge, you start to feel your body weight!" But I had on jersey
gloves.
"Hmm.....this still isn't going to work."
Again, we had equipment failure. So I crawled back up to the top and did
what any professional rappel artist would do. I pulled the entire length of
the rope up to me, and I began to tie knots every foot to foot and a half. I
needed something more to grasp. And knots would do the trick.
A few minutes later, I had some 30 knots or so. I was ready to go.
Jersey gloves. Check.
And then I worked my way back to the drop-off again. I don't really
remember what it was this time, but for some reason, the boys knew that I
was serious. Because this time, they had left the top of the ravine to go to
the bottom to my destination. They knew that Andy Polley was not going to
come crawling back again. Maybe once. But never twice.
And so they were gone. Of course, it would take them awhile to get to the
bottom, as they had to walk the entire length of the ravine as it slowly
slanted down towards the bottom. Maybe a couple of minutes.
Well, there I was...my feet were over the edge. Not too bad, though, as my
feet don't weigh too much. Then my legs.....then my mid-section. The
pressure was getting heavier on my hands.
"Man, it's a good thing I put these knots in this rope!"
And then it happened.
My entire body had now cleared the "hump," the top of the "P," whatever
you want to call it. And there I was...a professional rappel artist hanging in
mid-air. It was photo-worthy.
Well, except for the part where I couldn't move. You see, I was now
holding my entire 165-pound body 30 feet off of the ground...with a ski
rope. Now I don't know why they didn't teach me this in school, but a ski
rope is not your best weapon for fighting gravity. The rope actually
became smaller as my entire body weight was hurled upon it. I now had
less than 1/4" to grab. Go ahead, take your pinky and try squeezing it as
hard as you can. Now pull your pinky out. It's really not that difficult to do.
I was hanging onto a 30-foot pinky. 30 feet above the ground.
So I tried to reach higher. Not a good idea. My two hands were solidly and
vigorously grabbing the rope as tight as they could. Any lessening of
either hand resulted in me beginning to slide. And that's when I knew I had
to do something. Panic mode was not here...I'm not really a fan of
panicking, really. But Deep Concern for My Life Mode was here. And so I
had to act.
"Guys!"
"Guys! I'm going to need your help!"
Who knew where they were. I couldn't see them. I don't remember
hearing them. But there I was, dangling from below the "P" now. And that
was the problem! My feet couldn't hit the cliff wall...I was too far out!
Because the rope rolled off of the "hump," it simply put me a few feet away
from the cliff way! I had no way to take any pressure off of my hands! The
"hump" was simply too far out from the actual wall! My entire body rested
on my two hands. And my two hands rested entirely on that 30-foot pinky.
A minute went by. I couldn't slide down (I tried). And I couldn't pull myself
up (I tried). Either method simply made me lose a grip with one of my
hands. And one hand simply could not hold 165 pounds on a vertical 1/4"
rope.
K-Niggit was nowhere close, though he was backtracking his steps. Jared
had just got down to the bottom and was making his way over to me.
I was left with no other option.
"I'm coming!!!"
And with that, I released the pressure and plummeted the 30 feet down to
the ground. I hit the slanted dirt floor and just sat there.
"Andy's down!!!" That was all Jared could muster to let K-Niggit know of
the recent breaking news.
"Are you OK? Did you break your leg?!"
I just sat there. I was sort of stunned. My feet were fine. My legs were
fine. But something wasn't right...
"Andy, are you OK?"
"Huh-uh." And with that, I took my left hand and slowly pulled off my right
brown jersey glove.
I had to pull it off slowly because it just didn't feel right. I gently lifted it over
the ridges and curves of my hand. It's one of those few times in life where
elastic becomes your sole enemy.
"That cannot be good."
My hand was like nothing I have ever seen before. Out of all of the things
which I had thought to expect...blood, broken bone sticking out, nasty burn
marks, anything, this was the last thing my mind could have conceived...
I had a groove in my hand...the size of the rope. No, no, I mean I had a
GROOVE in my hand the size of the rope. As in...I could take the yellow
nylon ski rope and lay it in the groove, and the rope would be flush with the
rest of my flesh. The groove started on the bottom right of the top of my
hand and made its way around the right-hand side coming out at the
middle of my palm. The hand had simply followed the path of the rope,
with the palm being the pivoting point.
But here was the scary part: my groove showed no blood. It was PURE
WHITE. I had fleshy skin pieces hanging on the end of each side of the
groove, but the middle was completely milky white.
I needed a doctor. And bad.
But first things first. We found a picture and took a picture of my hand. Of
course, I mustered a smile as any professional rappel artist would do.
But let me remind you of where we are: Podunk, Illinois. So we hopped
into the Taurus and rushed me to the nearest farmhouse. An old lady
answered the door, and we told her of our situation.
I showed her my hand, and she said words which will make any
God-fearing man question his faith and integrity.
"Oh, wow. We need to get some peroxide on that right now."
I have a deep respect for older people. I do. But it took everything within
me to not want to beat the living daylights out of her. "Are you out of your
mind, lady?!" Peroxide?! I mean, seriously, I might as well hold my hand
over an open fire.
She led me to her bathroom, where she proceeded to expel words out of
me which I never knew existed. Ok, actually, I was surprised at how little
the peroxide stung. Though don't get me wrong, it did sting! But not in the
"I would rather gnaw on my own flesh" sort of way.
But here's the problem...it's day one of our trip.
So we did what any other professional camping artists would do. We
wrapped my hand up in the biggest of gauze wraps, and we camped
through the next two days. No hospital. No crazy grandmas with more
peroxide. Just three guys in nature.
But, of course, we had to go back home. And when I got back, I was
shocked to realize that I was recommended a skin graft. They wanted to
take some skin from my butt and put it on my hand. In typical fashion, I
shrugged it off and said I would see how it would heal on its own.
But let me tell you, it took daily ointments, daily gauze wraps, and a couple
of months before my hand decided to get better! I was told that the skin
would not fill itself back in, but day by day, the ooze worked itself out into
skin. It was one of the most disgusting (insert awesome) healings I have
ever seen. Every day was more and more disgusting for awhile, as the
flesh tried to grow itself back.
Now today...I have a permanent (though nicely adapted) scar...different
from the purple scar and raised skin that I had for a couple of years. And
it's there to remind me of one solitary weekend and one of the biggest
regrets of my life...
If I opted for the skin graft, every time I shook someone's hand, I could say,
"Um, you just touched my butt."
Life's lessons, I guess...
We had piled into the Ford Taurus (the same one that K-Niggit and I took
55 MPH over a ramp and became air-born for longer than is healthy)...(oh,
and the same one that K-Niggit and I took through a ditch after crossing a
non-X intersection...who was to know the opposite road wouldn't match up
with this one?!). It's me...and K-Niggit and Jared. The trio together again.
We were seldom separated during our high school years. Whether it was
a trip out of the country, a trip within the confines of the United States, or a
trip five miles away from home, we lived for the times together.
And with Spring Break here, we headed west. Ok, granted, so it wasn't far,
but our feeble minds were weak with roadtrip experience at the time. I
mean, you have to start somewhere, right? We headed to western
Illinois...to a little place called Cooperstown...to a little place which coined
the phrase..."You can't get there from here."
We were going camping.
We had been looking forward to this for some time. There was talk of
biking across Shawnee National Forest, hitting both the east and west
sides of Illinois. I even had a brand new luggage rack bought for my
mountain bike. But that trip didn't so much work...so we opted for camping
instead. And we were excited. Just a few days of three guys with
absolutely no plans...well, except for blowing things up and shooting
whatever moved.
So there we are, driving along an old gravel road...when we saw something
odd to the left of the vehicle. In the trees, you could spot a cliff of sorts.
The earth just disappeared down below. Now hold on a minute...I am not
talking Oregon cliffs...or Idaho cliffs...or even Indiana Jones cliffs. We're in
Illinois, for [insert your favorite non-Pete name here]'s sake. It's more of a
ravine. You can see it taper off in the distance, the top slowly making its
way down towards the bottom.
There was only one thing to do.
"We should rappel down that!"
"No joke...pull over."
And with that, our trip had officially begun. We were going to rappel down
the ravine. And it's a good thing we had packed our climbing gear, or else
this could have been dangerous. So we popped the trunk and grabbed
our...
Yellow nylon 1/4" ski rope from Wal-Mart...and my brown jersey gloves
from Huck's (they were only 99 cents!...what a deal!)....and we headed
over towards the top of the ravine.
The drop-off was about 25-30 feet. And so we began our preparation...
"Here, tie it to this one."
And with that, we wrapped the ski rope around the tree and secured it
good and tight.
"Now throw it down."
Perfect. It hit the bottom with a few feet left to spare. This was going to be
cake-walk.
"So who's going first?"
Now that was a silly question to ask. Because really, there were only two
options: K-Niggit or me. We both knew that Jared would not take part in
this event. That simply wasn't his role in life. His role is to encourage
other people to do outrageous acts while he sits back and laughs. And he
does it well. But frankly, this wasn't too outrageous. We had a ravine, we
had some gear, and we had nothing but time.
What more could we need? So K-niggit volunteers to go first.
Now let me tell you a little bit about this ravine. It has bunches and
bunches of trees on top. Lots of 'em. And then there is just this
drop-off...hence the cliff. But some of the trees were along the edge of the
drop-off. And since we don't have rock in Illinois, we only had dirt to
support the trees. So the dirt below had caved in long ago, while the trees
were hanging on up top by their roots. So essentially, if you looked at it
from the side, the cliff would look like a "P"...with the curved part being the
tree roots sticking out from the wall and the left-hand line being the cliff.
Got it? Good.
So K-niggit shimmies his way over the "hump." And, of course, this is
where gravity starts to kick in. Up until this point, he has only been working
his way backwards...but he still had solid ground underneath him. As his
body weight starts to put pressure on his hands, he realizes that our gear
is not set up right.
So he comes back, and he does what any professional rappel artist would
do. He takes the rope and we weaves it through the belt loops on his
jeans. Now he would have much more friction, and he could use his left
hand behind him and his right hand above him. What a genius!
He makes it out to the hump again. The pressure increases, this time all
around his waist as well as his hands. He shimmies back a lil' further...a lil'
more...a lil' more...(he's still mostly on the top of the "hump" but his legs
are starting to go over the edge now...)...the pressure increases, and then
it happened!
He stopped. He managed to crawl his way back to where we were
watching him, and he said he wasn't going to do it. Then he said a few
words I will never forget..."I don't want to die today."
Obviously, the combination of the gear, the cliff, and the rappeller was too
much....
For him.
"Ok, I'll do it!"
And with that, I had the yellow rope in my hand, already backing myself
back towards the drop-off. "Man, he isn't kidding...once you put yourself
over this edge, you start to feel your body weight!" But I had on jersey
gloves.
"Hmm.....this still isn't going to work."
Again, we had equipment failure. So I crawled back up to the top and did
what any professional rappel artist would do. I pulled the entire length of
the rope up to me, and I began to tie knots every foot to foot and a half. I
needed something more to grasp. And knots would do the trick.
A few minutes later, I had some 30 knots or so. I was ready to go.
Jersey gloves. Check.
And then I worked my way back to the drop-off again. I don't really
remember what it was this time, but for some reason, the boys knew that I
was serious. Because this time, they had left the top of the ravine to go to
the bottom to my destination. They knew that Andy Polley was not going to
come crawling back again. Maybe once. But never twice.
And so they were gone. Of course, it would take them awhile to get to the
bottom, as they had to walk the entire length of the ravine as it slowly
slanted down towards the bottom. Maybe a couple of minutes.
Well, there I was...my feet were over the edge. Not too bad, though, as my
feet don't weigh too much. Then my legs.....then my mid-section. The
pressure was getting heavier on my hands.
"Man, it's a good thing I put these knots in this rope!"
And then it happened.
My entire body had now cleared the "hump," the top of the "P," whatever
you want to call it. And there I was...a professional rappel artist hanging in
mid-air. It was photo-worthy.
Well, except for the part where I couldn't move. You see, I was now
holding my entire 165-pound body 30 feet off of the ground...with a ski
rope. Now I don't know why they didn't teach me this in school, but a ski
rope is not your best weapon for fighting gravity. The rope actually
became smaller as my entire body weight was hurled upon it. I now had
less than 1/4" to grab. Go ahead, take your pinky and try squeezing it as
hard as you can. Now pull your pinky out. It's really not that difficult to do.
I was hanging onto a 30-foot pinky. 30 feet above the ground.
So I tried to reach higher. Not a good idea. My two hands were solidly and
vigorously grabbing the rope as tight as they could. Any lessening of
either hand resulted in me beginning to slide. And that's when I knew I had
to do something. Panic mode was not here...I'm not really a fan of
panicking, really. But Deep Concern for My Life Mode was here. And so I
had to act.
"Guys!"
"Guys! I'm going to need your help!"
Who knew where they were. I couldn't see them. I don't remember
hearing them. But there I was, dangling from below the "P" now. And that
was the problem! My feet couldn't hit the cliff wall...I was too far out!
Because the rope rolled off of the "hump," it simply put me a few feet away
from the cliff way! I had no way to take any pressure off of my hands! The
"hump" was simply too far out from the actual wall! My entire body rested
on my two hands. And my two hands rested entirely on that 30-foot pinky.
A minute went by. I couldn't slide down (I tried). And I couldn't pull myself
up (I tried). Either method simply made me lose a grip with one of my
hands. And one hand simply could not hold 165 pounds on a vertical 1/4"
rope.
K-Niggit was nowhere close, though he was backtracking his steps. Jared
had just got down to the bottom and was making his way over to me.
I was left with no other option.
"I'm coming!!!"
And with that, I released the pressure and plummeted the 30 feet down to
the ground. I hit the slanted dirt floor and just sat there.
"Andy's down!!!" That was all Jared could muster to let K-Niggit know of
the recent breaking news.
"Are you OK? Did you break your leg?!"
I just sat there. I was sort of stunned. My feet were fine. My legs were
fine. But something wasn't right...
"Andy, are you OK?"
"Huh-uh." And with that, I took my left hand and slowly pulled off my right
brown jersey glove.
I had to pull it off slowly because it just didn't feel right. I gently lifted it over
the ridges and curves of my hand. It's one of those few times in life where
elastic becomes your sole enemy.
"That cannot be good."
My hand was like nothing I have ever seen before. Out of all of the things
which I had thought to expect...blood, broken bone sticking out, nasty burn
marks, anything, this was the last thing my mind could have conceived...
I had a groove in my hand...the size of the rope. No, no, I mean I had a
GROOVE in my hand the size of the rope. As in...I could take the yellow
nylon ski rope and lay it in the groove, and the rope would be flush with the
rest of my flesh. The groove started on the bottom right of the top of my
hand and made its way around the right-hand side coming out at the
middle of my palm. The hand had simply followed the path of the rope,
with the palm being the pivoting point.
But here was the scary part: my groove showed no blood. It was PURE
WHITE. I had fleshy skin pieces hanging on the end of each side of the
groove, but the middle was completely milky white.
I needed a doctor. And bad.
But first things first. We found a picture and took a picture of my hand. Of
course, I mustered a smile as any professional rappel artist would do.
But let me remind you of where we are: Podunk, Illinois. So we hopped
into the Taurus and rushed me to the nearest farmhouse. An old lady
answered the door, and we told her of our situation.
I showed her my hand, and she said words which will make any
God-fearing man question his faith and integrity.
"Oh, wow. We need to get some peroxide on that right now."
I have a deep respect for older people. I do. But it took everything within
me to not want to beat the living daylights out of her. "Are you out of your
mind, lady?!" Peroxide?! I mean, seriously, I might as well hold my hand
over an open fire.
She led me to her bathroom, where she proceeded to expel words out of
me which I never knew existed. Ok, actually, I was surprised at how little
the peroxide stung. Though don't get me wrong, it did sting! But not in the
"I would rather gnaw on my own flesh" sort of way.
But here's the problem...it's day one of our trip.
So we did what any other professional camping artists would do. We
wrapped my hand up in the biggest of gauze wraps, and we camped
through the next two days. No hospital. No crazy grandmas with more
peroxide. Just three guys in nature.
But, of course, we had to go back home. And when I got back, I was
shocked to realize that I was recommended a skin graft. They wanted to
take some skin from my butt and put it on my hand. In typical fashion, I
shrugged it off and said I would see how it would heal on its own.
But let me tell you, it took daily ointments, daily gauze wraps, and a couple
of months before my hand decided to get better! I was told that the skin
would not fill itself back in, but day by day, the ooze worked itself out into
skin. It was one of the most disgusting (insert awesome) healings I have
ever seen. Every day was more and more disgusting for awhile, as the
flesh tried to grow itself back.
Now today...I have a permanent (though nicely adapted) scar...different
from the purple scar and raised skin that I had for a couple of years. And
it's there to remind me of one solitary weekend and one of the biggest
regrets of my life...
If I opted for the skin graft, every time I shook someone's hand, I could say,
"Um, you just touched my butt."
Life's lessons, I guess...
| What Not To Do With a Ski Rope |
