A cold morning in February of 2020, my regular mud associate and I hit the Westside to go chase a goal of mine, take down Cuidado! For context, it's right before COVID-19 makes it to the U.S. We're still wondering, what's going to happen?
I remember looking up at the 3rd pitch arete of Cuidado leaving the West-side one day, being reminded of Tom Waits song 'Frank's Wild Years' that my dad used to pop into our car's tape deck when I was little, as I watched the sunset illuminate the lichen on the arete in a Halloween Orange glow. I knew then, that I needed to come back for it. Since this was pre-US-COVID, I was actually in climbing shape, not just cycling shape.
We get to the Westside parking lot really early, because I've egged my partner on, promising him an enjoyable expedition :-) We hike quickly over past chockstone dome and the tunnel entrance, before approaching via the quick chimney past lower Toog's. The base of the route at 7:30 am. All good to go! Or am I? I look up at the loose, slabby bottom, with apprehension, glad that I visited the westside lot bathroom before this. I start up the first pitch, climbing slowly, checking out the old & new mix of hardware, starting to finally warm up when I reach the first anchor, right before the business.
I'm a mere mortal, so I look up the overhung traverse-fest that is P2, and feel the last of my breakfast sandwich immediately 'digest'. Swearing under my breath, I belay my partner Bill up, doubting that P2 will go smoothly :-) However, I've been obsessing about getting to P3, so I check myself, and cast off pretty soon, up what turns out to be a hilarious pitch, that definitely did not get redpointed by me.
I keep making it through 3-4 bolts, and screwing up the traverse, taking one or two interesting whips, finally gaining the P2 anchor, feeling grounded and alive, just happy to be on Mud, near the money pitch. Bill comes up the traverse, happy and somewhat gripped like me. I finally get to look up at the arete in all of its glory, as the morning starts to warm up. The park is dead, it's a weekday, and all I can see is the cloudy and overcast February sky.
I start up P3 and am struck by the beauty of the moves, and my joy in doing them. This pitch has such a different character compared to the previous two, that I'm almost caught off guard. It starts off with a nice mellow 5.7/5.8 slab, that quickly kicks back to dead vertical arete/cobble-pulling.
and what a long pitch it is. I keep in mind to extend some of my draws where the route meanders, and start feeling the pump pretty heavily towards the middle-end of the pitch. It's move after move of 5.10a/b joy, but its length is totally superb. I finally make it to the P3 anchor with a huge grin on my face, laughing, like an idiot. This has been my favorite set of views on machete so far.
Bill comes up P3 with the same grin, and groans that I did, after the long 5.10a/b sequences, and pure joy at realizing that we'll probably actually get this done today
P4 is quick, slabby, and loose, nothing much to write home about, but a nice interlude after P3. You end up wrapping around Machete, before getting to the belay at the base of P5, the final pitch. P5 was interesting because it also had a weirdly-different character compared to the rest of the route, but no less enjoyable. It starts off with some of the hardest 5.10 moves of the route right off the deck, before getting established in a *stemmy* water chute that's actually pretty short, before topping out. I remember being pretty tired at this point, and excited to crank these moves, and eat our summit bars & hydrate, and enjoy the descent. As I finish out the pitch, I'm struck by the vision of the line the original ascentionists had, and what an interesting character the route has, never boring, with changing styles of climbing that I greatly appreciated.
As I sat up top and belayed up Bill, those same Tom Waits lyrics to Frank's Wild Years echoed in my brain, and I knew that another route obsession could be put to rest.
Well Frank settled down in the Valley
And he hung his wild years
On a nail that he drove through
His wife's forehead
He sold used office furniture
Out there on San Fernando Road
And assumed a $30, 000 loan
On a little two bedroom place
His wife was a spent peice of used jet trash
Made good bloody marys
Kept her mouth shut most of the time
Had a little Chihuahua named Carlos
That had somekind of skin disease
And was totally blind
They had a thoroughly modern kitchen
Self-cleaning oven (the whole bit)
Frank drove a little sedan
They were so happy
One night Frank was on his way home
From work, stopped at the liqour store
Picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths
Drank 'em in the car on his way
To the Shell station, he got a gallon of
Gas in a can, drove home, doused
Everything in the house, torched it
Parked across the street laughing
Watching it burn, all Halloween
Orange and chimney red then
Frank put on a top forty station
Got on the Hollywood Freeway
Headed north
Never could stand that dog
