I lost my head for choss.

Lee sent the new big project this weekend. That picture is from last weekend.
He didn't think he would. I wasn't convinced.

 That's about where I got to. The cave rest at 3/4 height. But that's not me. It is my T-shirt though.

So last weekend the alarm caught me dreaming at 4:45am, I snuck out without waking the grand daughter. I stayed at their place in Brisbane.
Arriving some hours later at the walk-in to the new Crossroads Crag out in nowhere NSW, I shoulder the lightest pack I can get away with.
Industrial harness (for back support), camera, and shoes, just in case. It's a photo trip.
Walking is difficult, not too painful if I don't have to re-balance suddenly. Back injury again, not as bad as last time, or the time before, but bad enough. Steep rocky bush walking ahead. I squeal and whimper consistently, annoyingly.
On the Monday before I never thought I'd climb again. On Tuesday I committed to going to Crossroads.
Anyway, back to the proj, it's a 40 meter monstrosity of stinking, decaying choss.
"An over-hanging freshly ploughed field" I've always remembered those words, by Silvo Caro  about something, somewhere.

It would be a despicable pile of pus if it wasn't capped with a few meters of the most perfect, steep, impeccably featured stone.
But back to my head for choss.
First shot, second weekend. I went first and beat my previous high point by a mile. I was going to give this rig a good shake.
Lee went next and sent it. I should make that the headline. But it's my blog.
Second shot I took a hang down low on the route. It took the fight outta me. By the time I hit the steep choss I could not convince myself the cliff could handle my weight on it. I seriously could not believe the whole thing wouldn't come down on top of me if I hung on it. I thought the bolts would rip great truck loads of rubbish from the wall if I loaded them. I lost my head for choss. It happens.
Third shot was a bit better. Choss brain heals itself with time, and sandwiches.

Duncan sent that:

Duncan Steel on the first ascent of his route - un named. 

ps. He called it Giant. He gave it 19. In human grades that's a round 28.

 I reckon we should get crag jackets. Black satin frat jackets with that on the back. Your thoughts?

All the while my Facebook wife, Sandra, has been in Hong Kong for a couple of weeks, so she won't find out. I've hardly been home.
Why would I?
In my absence, and hers, the real estate agents have been doing their best to make my lovely home look like an abandoned crack den, there's piles of their brochures and sponsored newspapers around my letterbox.

Without Sandras' clerical support at work this week, I have faced, alone, the Food Safety Program auditors, the council compliance officer, over the lagging operational works progress, the building certifier, the hydraulics engineer, the pest controllers, the business owners, and QFRS breathing fire down my neck.

Without her at home I've organised:
*The tiler.
*The waste water engineers - apparently I have to submit a report to council once a year. It's been fourteen.  So sue me.
*The electrician - Of course I tried the electrics myself first. Mistakes were made.
Hey, how long can a goldfish live without food? Never mind. Rhetorical.

The tanks are full despite currently suffering through what could turn out to be the second worst drought in almost two and a half years across the Sunshine Coast.

The letter box was stuffed full.
A gold envelope arrived for me. Ooo, what could it be?
Nothing.
St. Leonards 100 years school reunion, it turns out.
I'm not that old.


The Urbenville pub is open again, maybe permanently, if Big Dazza's ex-wife will sign over the lease. Live right Dazza. So it was a Vesuvio Pizza on the way home again, to cap off a high carb - high peanut butter day at the crag.

Slept in till 6:30 on Sunday, play with the grand kids, make brekky, drive up to Eumundi in time to help my brother battle a wave of customers at the cafe. Cook, buss tables, pull coffee, wash dishes.
Drop in sometime.
104 Memorial Drive Eumundi. Look for the blue Merlo umbrellas at the North end of the main street.

3:00pm I'm in the car heading for home, I really should vacuum the house and sweep the drifts of dry leaves off the roof, when suddenly it occurs to me, I'm not done with this weekend yet.
I throw the tiller leeward and set a course for the low-ethic safe-haven of Coolum Cave.
The Atmosphere was high on  arrival, the send train had been running, notably, Shannon Keys got Gasoline Rainbow.
I stretched my back on lap 160 of the cave trade route Wholly Calamity.
Home, vac, sweep, cook, blog. Midnight.

Time for Soundcloud.    
Track me johnjobrien. I'll be there all night.

But I'm rambling.  jj