Foreword
All fingers are not the same. I’ve learned this the hard way as a child when I tried to give a thumbs up to my tennis coach in Iran. I was quick to learn that this is the equivalent of the middle finger in this culture. But it’s not just about the connotation of our digits, which is variable depending on your cultural context. Evidently, each finger has its own function. All fingers are not the same. I’ve not been able to find the origin of this Persian proverb. My father often told me that a family is like a hand, comprised of these different fingers. Individually, they are never as strong as when they work together. I asked my brother Wally to write something for my blog. I didn’t entirely specify what I wanted, other than a piece that described the Chossy Trio Renegades in his own terms. When I saw what he wrote and how well the theme fit with my blog, I just had to include it. And I know I skipped a couple of chapters. I’m still working on finishing my Birthday trip post and tying it back to the Wild West trip that I just posted. I digress. Without further ado, here’s Wally’s guest editorial.
Chapter Ten
Time Changes, and the times change. This is a cyclical maxim to which I’ve clung most of my life—at least since I was old enough to understand it. I was a nerdy, oddball, bullied child in grade school. Friendless. I was a popular criminal who commanded respect and fear in high school—and I did more than my fair share of the bullying during that time in the mid-Nineties. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a proponent of participation trophies; we all should earn what we get.) And don’t get it twisted. I was brutal, violent, full of anger and hatred. I was a soldier in the U.S. Army. I was a great writer—by some accounts—as I earned my B.S. in English-journalism, and I was a great professional writer until I burned out; so if you see me violate some conventions of prose, it’s because I know the rules and know when I should bend them.
I was a poet who wrote a poem that won some award, and the poem was titled “Time Changes; Times Change”. I was a lousy husband (twice). I was the prime suspect in at least one murder. I was the bull’s-eye target of several of the alphabet-soup law-enforcement agencies.
Now. On the same finger (we’ll call it my pinky as I count off bullet-points), I am a felon. I am infected with HCV. I am the man who prefers SPAM or sardines to oatmeal with a sprinkle of MCT oil with a side of electrolyte enhancers—whatever the hell that means. I am sometimes called a cult of personality. But this is my bud Nikou’s blog, so let me get to the point before the time changes back to Standard Time, which, I digress, should be burned at the stake as an outdated custom that serves no purpose but to frak [sic] with our natural sense of time.
So, back on route: I have studied human behavior my entire life, and if you follow me down the keyhole, I hope you’ll enjoy the ride.
People are like bread. If I can borrow a line from Orange is the New Black, “Toast can never be bread again.” If I can follow that truism to its logical conclusion, I’d say, “Croutons can never be toast again, and moldy croutons can never be crunchy again.” And the question you have is what does any of this have to do with times changing—or human behavior, a more advanced way of saying why people are who they are. I’m getting there.
Stick it out—this is the ring finger of my presentation.
Nikou is one of the most bombproof humans I’ve ever met. I’ve been around some scumbags. I’ve been around some people with legendary souls (or because this is climber-centric, let’s say legendary soles.) But you should already know this if you have followed his blog. I want to speak about the way the members of the Chossy Trio Renegades have changed my life—how they have saved my life—and more importantly how they have done it in, give-or-take, one year.
As the name implies and Nikou-bud has said, we, the Trio, were a true trio, and the duo of the Trio combine at least 40 years of friendship with me. The Jameses. Neither of them are really my friend anymore. It went from me saying, “My name is T, and this is my brother James; and this is my other brother James—to believing James T detests me, and J Frank effectively cutting his X-Rated friend out of his life when he “found Jesus” (figuratively, obviously, because if he actually found Jesus then I wouldn’t be agnostic anymore).
Time changes, and the times Change. This is the middle finger. This is the finger that means something to every American, and I use the middle finger for this point because it’s the most important. I had spent most of my adult life looking over my shoulder, (somewhat) fearful that someone I didn’t recognize would put a pistol to the back of my head, and I only say, “somewhat fearful” because the only truth I know is someday I will die. But that’s not the point. With power and influence comes the innate knowledge that someone somewhere wants what you have—and they might kill you to get it. Even now, when I go back to my hometown, Cookeville, Tennessee, the greatest place on Earth, I go with a member of the LTC to watch my back. LTC, a group built on evil. Not the CTR, a group constructed on the opposite philosophy. Middle finger: I thought I was toast and could never be bread again. I thought the times had changed, and they had. By the way, we Trevathans throw our middle finger with “no balls” on it, just one long middle finger in the air because when we flip you off, we are so mad we don’t have time to think about stylizing the gesture.
It’s time for the pointer-finger-point: I started climbing again a couple years ago, year-and-a-half? I can’t remember. I do remember sitting at my motel (I lived in a motel for almost five years) thinking I should buy a boat. I grew up on the water—or under it. I wanted to crawl out of the hole into which I’d slowly started to descend with a rack descender 20 years ago. I remember having the thought that it would be poetical (and a lot cheaper) to get back into climbing, to literally climb out of the hole, so I went to REI and bought a harness, a chalk bag, a belay device and a pair of trusty BD Mo’ climbing shoes. And I point with my pointer finger that my back is broken, and I had no idea if I could climb because I certainly wasn’t always a broke-down 39-again man my whole life.
I’d never heard of bouldering when I walked into my first climbing gym, even though that’s how I got my start. I simply didn’t know it had a name. I started as an early teenager climbing the limestone and sandstone pitches that are so often blasted out of the mountains in Tennessee to make roads. I learned to climb outside as a teenager, and at 38 years old, I fought a V0 “boulder” (polyamide holds in a gym) for two hours—the whole time thinking I can’t do this. Toast to croutons in a couple of hours, was my thought. Forgive my passive voice. I was humbled.
I met Nikou in the same gym as I progressed, learned that climbing—like swimming—was easy on my back. I could do it. I believed it until it became a positive self-fulfilling prophecy. Nikou certainly wasn’t the first human I plucked out of the gym, but he might be the most influential in my story. The curt kid I met at Active Athens Climbing Gym is not the man I know today—and don’t make the mistake of thinking that Nikou’s cold exterior that day didn’t belie a kind heart. He’s often asked me why did you push me so hard to climb outside. Well, bud, it’s just better. And you know this now.
I’m going to tell a quick story before I throw up my thumb point, and we all know humans can’t do most things without a thumb. The thumb point is the most important. It’s set in opposition to the rest of our digits—and humans are special that way. We are the only animal on the planet that has a thumb that flexes in opposition to our other digits. By the way, did you know birds are not mammals? I just recently learned this in an SCC Zoom party. They lay eggs! I’ve digressed again. Nikou sent me a text in between the first time I rigged him on a top-rope and the time we did our first multi-pitch.
The text was something like, “What does a tick bite look like?”
I resisted the urge to say, “Well, bud, every time I’ve ever had a tick bite, it had a tick’s ass sticking out the back of it.”
The thumb: all of the Chossy Trio Renegades have made me a better human being, and I’m proud of that. I have no problem making friends, and while I’m not proud of it, I’ll say it in Nikou-fashion: “I’ve never wanted for female companionship because I’ve never had to. True-to-the-story. Although everyone in this group has helped me be a better human, I’m going to leave a lot of people out of this to save being verbose.
Tom was the first person I ever took outside to play climb master. I met Tom the day I took a top-rope test at some gym. The first thing I said to him was, “Nice shoes,” because I noticed he had the same trusty BD Mo’s on as I did. Tom is a sexagenarian, and he climbs like I did when I was a teenager. If he can do it at his age with no experience, my pack can’t hold another excuse why I can’t. Moreover, he’s a bombproof human.
I met Ben at another gym while testing out my harness on auto-belay. I offered to take him outside, and he accepted the offer eventually. A nice, safe, top rope. Ben is also a vet, US Navy, and during our discussions in between climbs, I learned maybe I didn’t have it so bad. Moreover, he’s a bombproof human.
Chase I met on “Poutain Moject” while looking for another half of a rope-team. From him, I may have learned the most important lesson. We share a similar socio-economic background. Chase is the most like me, if you just use the beam and balance of our upbringing. My buddy SAR, a nickname he earned when one of the CTR members fell during a photo shoot, tells me when I’m wrong in life, when I’m right, and I respect his opinion. Moreover, he’s a bombproof human.
The Chrises (and Adam). Period. These people took me on my first multi-pitch, a 500-footer, but that’s not what I remember most about them. During the trip to Linville, the Carolina Trio were so accommodating that I began to question my entire study in human behavior. And they are bombproof human beings.
Steven and Kat are the power couple, I only half-say jovially. If Chase is one pole to me in background, Steven-and-Kathryn is the other pole, but I firmly believe they are my friends. I know they accept me for who I am. And moreover, they are bombproof human beings.
Patrick I met later in the microcosm timescale that is the Chossy Trio Renegades. I’ve often times said, “Don’t mistake my kind heart for a weak heart. It’s harder for me to be kind to you than it is for me to be a scumbag.”
Pat knows this. He doesn’t have to say it. He exudes it. Moreover, he is a bombproof human.
None of this would be complete without mentioning my friend Elliot. I only know him because he works at The Crashpad in Chattanooga, and apparently he likes me. The feeling is mutual. He took Nikou and me into our first “drop-in cave” and our first “walk-in cave.” Sometimes, er, he may or may not comp my bunk at the hostel that is the CP. I learned from him and the staff at the Crash Pad that I’m not soggy croutons. Moreover, he is a bombproof human.
I could go on listing the members of the Renegades and what they’ve taught me. I could list names like Tyler, Dakota, Collin, Joceline, Ashley, Patrick Mk2. I could namedrop CTR “members.” Chris Watford. Peter Zabrok, Zetterberg, etc… I could claim that I made this happen, these connections in life that are totally unexpected—but that would be self-serving, and the Chossy Trio Renegades aren’t renegade when it comes to helping our fellow human.
Times have changed for me as I raise my thumb for my swan song. I never thought I’d be a small part of something I created and feel good about myself for it. Nikou-bud, feel free to reject this as an unsolicited MS.
Time changes, and the times change. Make sure your subject and verb agree—just like we make sure we’re tied into our gear loops with single overhands.
If it ends tomorrow, I enjoyed the ride down the keyhole.
Sincerely,
Mushy Crouton
“Time Changes; Times Change” by Wally Trevathan
Epilogue
If I didn’t mention you, please don’t think it wasn’t because I didn’t learn something from you. Mike, for fuck’s sake, you know I learned from you. My point is as follows: I was bread once. I was toast. I was a crouton, and now I am birdfeed, a moldy crouton. But I feel better about myself than I ever have. Times change while the time changes. And all and none of it stays the same.
A sincere thank-you to everyone who calls himself or herself (sic) a Chossy Trio Renegade.
Second-hand-pinky point some other time.