Extreme Parasitism

A tick that has found its way onto your body can take days to actually find a suitable site and bite you. Obviously, while they're crawling around they're easy to remove and do no real harm. The only time they become a problem is when they're lodged in place.

The same is true for climbing parasites like me. If I latch on to a group at a crag, I'm usually only with them for a few hours and it's easy enough for them to get rid of me and go their own way. But recently, I have reached new levels of parasitism. I have latched onto a host and am currently writing this post on their enormous computer IN THEIR APARTMENT.

I should be clear, describing this as an act of parasitism suggests that I'm somehow responsible for the pretty sweet situation I find myself in, but in fact this is all the doing of my most generous and benevolent host, Ward. I met Ward in the car park at the crag and climbed with him and another friend for the day. I had spent five days at the Skaha Bluffs trying unsuccessfully to bum rope and soloing easy climbs, so getting a chance to climb with other people in relative safety was most welcome. I ended up carrying a bunch of Ward's climbing equipment back to the cars at the end of the day and, since we were both tired and pretty chuffed about they day's exploits, I completely forgot to give it back to him.

Later that night I realised my mistake and contacted Ward to explain. He had also completely forgotten, and was near Walmart at the time, so he dropped by to collect his stuff. In the process, he noticed the slightly squalid conditions I was living in and offered me a room at his place if I wanted to get out of the van for a while. The next day the weather crapped out and I took him up.

Since then, Ward has been an incredibly warm host. I've been staying with him for a whole week now, and since the weather has been terrible for much of that time it has been great to have somewhere dry to hang out. It also means that we can climb together when he's not at work, which is great for me and hopefully means he gets something worthwhile out of this arrangement too.

Like any good parasite though, the time will come to leave this host and move to the next stage of my life cycle. If I were a tick (specifically a female tick), the next step after feeding off a large mammal would be to lay my eggs. I won't be doing that. Instead, I meet my brother-in-law, climbing buddy and all-around-good-guy Rohan on Wednesday in Vancouver (it's Monday today). We'll go on a four week climbing extravaganza across British Columbia, focusing on long rock routes in the mountains (think 1200 metres long) and then return to the Southern Hemisphere, where by all accounts winter is in full swing.

Dirtbag Life

OK, this post is actually a bit out of date, but I thought you might like an insight into the dirtbag lifestyle, so I figured I'd still put it up.

Since the completion of the portrait, I have returned to Penticton to resume my parasitic ways at the Skaha Bluffs climbing area. Last time I was staying here there were cheap rates at a nearby campground, which served as a neat social hub to find climbing partners and meant I could charge my laptop and take showers. Having a functioning laptop and being able to take showers are the hallmarks of a civilised life. But during my absence, peak season started in Penticton, a summer resort town, and now the campsites charge an unholy $35 a night for site. So instead I have been sleeping in my van in the carpark at Walmart. I realise that Walmart is a large corporation, and is thus the embodiment of evil and greed and capitalist terror, but they have a North America-wide policy of allowing people to sleep in campervans and RVs in their carparks, which is pretty much the best thing ever.

But before you lose all respect for me because I'm sponging off a giant corporation, save a bit in reserve so that you can take satisfaction in abandoning it too when you discover that this Walmart has a built in McDonald's, and that I regularly steal their WiFi. Yes, I have sold out to our capitalist overlords in exchange for a free place to park my van overnight and heartbreakingly slow access to the Internet.

Sleeping in the Walmart carpark has its advantages (it's free), but there are definite downsides to the arrangement. The toilets (washrooms, for my Canadian readers) are only open from 8am to 10pm, which can mean that a late night call of nature has to be answered in some trees behind the building that are probably part of some one's yard. There is also no running water, so I have to refill my water bottles at a park near the Skaha lake. After several days of this practise, a maintenance person for the park informed me that I was drinking lake water. In a monumental feat of confirmation bias, I have managed to convince myself that he's wrong. There is also nowhere to charge my laptop, but I can use the local public library if it's open, or I can use a power point in the toilet block at the park where I get my water. Of course, actually using your laptop (or just hanging around waiting for it to charge) in a public washroom is off the scale of creepiness, so I have to plug it in, hide the laptop in a bag, and then sit at a picnic table outside and read a book while I wait to make sure the maintenance guy doesn't lock the toilets with my stuff inside. And finally, there is nowhere to shower. This is largely academic, because even at the campgrounds I was at before I didn't actually use the showers very often, but sometimes I wonder if my advanced personal odor might make it harder to find climbing partners.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, these petty hardships, living in a van at Walmart does give me unassailable dirtbag credibility. If I wasn't such a terrible climber I would be the complete package -an inspiration to foolhardy teenagers and a source of anxiety for parents. Indeed, I was once just such a teenager, dreaming of a life lived cheaply, where hygiene and a respectable place in the social order are given up in exchange for more climbing, more skiing, and a less financially secure old-age.Of course, living in a van in a city is only the tip of the dirtbag iceberg. But this small taste has given me hope that maybe one day I too can become a bearded eccentric living in a cave.

The Good Kind of Parasite

As much as I may dislike the ticks here, I share a kind of kinship with them that I cannot deny. For I, too, am a parasite of sorts. Like a tick, I hang around at the bottom of the Skaha Bluffs, waiting for a group of climbers to pass by. When conditions are right, I latch onto them and follow them around all day, draining their rope time and climbing gear. And when they are spent, and it is time for them to move on, I drop off and find a new host.

Being a singleton at a crag is a bit awkward, because ideally you need someone to belay you when you climb. Being a singleton at a crag with no rope or quickdraws is extra awkward, because when you do meet up with other people you need to use their equipment, otherwise you have no safety system and any fall will mean an ungraceful tumble to the ground and probable death or dismemberment. To further complicate matters, any other solo dirtbags that end up in the area are also unlikely to have a rope or quickdraws, so not only is it impossible to team up with them to climb, but they're also out there competing for potential climbing partners.

I have, therefore, developed a number of strategies for trying to find host climbing groups to latch on to. The most difficult constraint that I face in finding climbing partners is that I'm absurdly spectacularly Anglo, and I can not bring myself to simply ask people if I can climb with them. This isn't even as rude as it sounds, because often people are in odd-numbered groups, and an extra person will make even numbers, and that means maximum climbing efficiency (because this type of climbing happens in pairs - one person to climb and another to belay). So there are groups who would actually benefit from me joining them.

But I am much too Anglo to ask to climb with strangers. Given that this direct and simple path to climbing is taken, I adopt a more circuitous route.

If I'm looking for a new host to climb with, my work starts as soon as I arrive in the car park. As soon as I park the car I strive to look competent enough that no one will think I'll slow them down, but not so bad-ass that people will be intimidated. Admittedly, avoiding the latter concern is easy. My main strategy for the former condition is wearing my shoes without socks. Shoes-without-socks says "I'm completely comfortable in this environment." in a way that is neatly complemented by "toque/beanie-without-jumper" which has also proven to be a winner. Then, I check the noticeboard where people who are looking for partners will write their contact details, and on my way out of the car park I make eye contact with and chat to anyone who'll look at me.

Of course, I never actually find partners in the car park. But that's not the point. The point is to let people know that I'm around, and that I'm the kind of guy who will walk around their crag in shoes without socks. I also like to open all the doors of my van to make it absolutely clear that I'm living in it, which gives me all kinds of dirtbag chic.

With my round of the car park complete, it's time to walk down the main access track into the climbing area, which goes past a number of popular cliffs. Again, I am sure to make eye contact with and at least greet everyone I see. This is another chance to let people know that I'm mooching around. If I see a group of more than two climbers, I usually hang around and casually watch them climb in a way that I sincerely hope doesn't look creepy. If they make anything more than the most fleeting form of eye contact, I drop some cool questions like "What climb is that?" or "Are you comfortable wearing socks like that?" or something equally aloof but also approachable. I'm trying to give the impression that I'm cool enough to have friends, but not so keen on those friends that I'd turn down a chance to go climbing that to actually see them. This is made more difficult by the somewhat intrenchable fact that I don't have any friends, but I try not to make that obvious.

Hopefully, at this point someone in the group will think "Wow, I want to see if that guy without socks still wears his toque/beanie while climbing." (Which, if it's cold, I do. It's like a poor man's helmet.) Then they'll offer me a chance to climb. This is where I pull out my best moves.

It's important not to seem too eager, or they'll get the impression that I'm a desperate loner. I must cover that fact up at all costs, because everyone hates desperate loners. I usually say something like "Sure, but I don't want to take up your rope time if you're in a rush." which doesn't make any sense at all, but it seems to put folks at ease. So far, everyone has responded to this approach favorably, and I've ended up climbing quite a lot. Once I latch onto a group, I can climb with them for several days. So far no one has tried to ditch me or hide from me, so I guess I'm doing something right.

Of course, not all of my climbing hookups have come about in this way. I've met some people in the campsite, and one of my most successful parasitic episodes came when someone mistook me for a friend of theirs and I ended up climbing with a group of Calgarians for several days. Unfortunately, hanging around looking like other people's friends is not a viable long-term strategy.

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm so Anglo that many times I don't even have the courage to speak to people about what they're climbing. Sometimes I just peruse the climbing guidebook (to make it obvious that I'm a climber, rather than out walking my dog) and wait for people to talk to me. I still play it cool though, so I guess that's OK.

I'd better head back to the campsite, because tonight (or maybe tomorrow morning) I'm going to get a shower. Also, last night I slept near a lookout next to the highway and a strange, well dressed lady with a nice car spent ages rummaging around in a bin, then rummaging in the back of her car, and then woke me up by walking around my van at midnight shining a light inside to see what was there. It was one of the most baffling episodes of my life, which has contained probably more than its fair share of baffling moments. I would have asked her what she was doing, but when I woke up because a torch was being shone in my eyes I blurted "Hello? What?" and the lady made an incomprehensible excuse and very quickly got in her car and drove away. So perhaps $7.50 to spend the night in a campsite is not such an unreasonable price.

The Bad Kind of Parasite

Think about ticks. Not the things you would put next to a correct exam answer (because over here those are called "checks"), the things that burrow into your skin and drink your blood while releasing a toxin that causes paralysis. The bad kind of tick.

You can usually tell if you've got one because the site where they bite you tends to itch and tingle. Plus you'll have a tick hanging off you somewhere, which can be a bit of a giveaway. But mostly they bite you in awkward, hard to see places like your armpits, scalp or groin.

Feeling itchy? Because here in Penticton, I'm slowly being driven mad by imaginary ticks. Real ticks are not a big deal. Even if they do paralyse you, you usually lose control of your legs first, so you have plenty of time to work out that somethings wrong and find and remove the little bugger. Besides,the whole paralysis thing takes ages, so it very rarely even happens, and even if it does the effect disappears once the tick is gone. The ticks here don't even give you Lymes Disease, so you can stop worrying about that too.

But imaginary ticks are a different story. Firstly, you can't remove an imaginary tick. You can't even find it. Second, you get bitten by them all the time. Every time I talk about - or even think about - ticks, some part of me gets the tell-tale tingle that suggests I'm sharing my bloodstream with a new organism. Every time. Writing this post is exquisite imaginary tick torture. The CIA should just give up on waterboarding and put their captives in long dry grass with a detailed description of how a tick will burrow its head into your flesh. I wake in the middle of the night and my head is itchy. I am the king of dandruff, and yet I still think every bump on my misshapen head is a parasite. Don't even get me started on having an itchy butt.

The fact that the last tick I got didn't actually itch at all doesn't seem to help. In fact, it only makes the imaginary ticks more insidious. If only the imaginary ticks didn't itch so much, then I wouldn't even notice them.

On a positive note, I did hear a neat way of getting a tick to let go of you before you try to pull it out. I had heard that heat usually causes them to back out of their little burrow, and I spent several awkward and dangerous moments trying to hold a lighter in between my shoulderblades for the one and only tick I've had out here. Try it folks, it's like yoga for the dirty and dishevelled. Anyway, the trick is to use the lighter to heat something up (like a sewing needle) and then use that to poke the tick in its bum. Like most living things, the tick will respond poorly to a hot poke in the bum, and extract itself from your flesh with all due haste. I have considered rolling around in a fire to remove imaginary ticks, but as yet I have not resorted to such desperate measures.