Between 14 and 16 I hosted three gatherings at my father's lakehouse near Rumney. I must have met a hundred RC.commers, hailing from Texas, California, Oregon, North Carolina, and all up the eastern coast. At its height we housed 50 climbers; not a square foot of floor, deck, or yard unoccupied by tent or sleeping bag. Drunken debauchery abounded; people fell off ten-foot-high slacklines; many were dunked into the freezing October river, and one bit by a vicious beast threatened by the same fate. Many lobsters fell victim to my father's feasts. The kind donations of our esteemed guests purchased me my first crashpad, which serves me still today.

By summer I was a gym employee and enlisted RC.commers from about New England to drag me around the region to climb.

Between 14 and 16 I hosted three gatherings at my father's lakehouse near Rumney. I must have met a hundred RC.commers, hailing from Texas, California, Oregon, North Carolina, and all up the eastern coast. At its height we housed 50 climbers; not a square foot of floor, deck, or yard unoccupied by tent or sleeping bag. Drunken debauchery abounded; people fell off ten-foot-high slacklines; many were dunked into the freezing October river, and one bit by a vicious beast threatened by the same fate. Many lobsters fell victim to my father's feasts. The kind donations of our esteemed guests purchased me my first crashpad, which serves me still today.

The summer before I got my license, I connived my way to Rumney every weekend between May and October, unstoppable even by the crutches and aircast that followed an unfortunate incident at Lincoln Woods. I acquired that most liberating piece of plastic and was free to drive my mother's car through the bogs of unknown depth at Pawtuckaway, going out alone into the woods with a crashpad and a thermos of tomato soup.

good to see you jules


that's been one of the better posts in community these days.

Woo! that's me!

:wave: Hiiiii Jules

One of my prouder moments.

I take offense to that.

I did get you back.

4 people and 1 dog to toss a 120lb guy in the river :P L-R Cracklover, The Pirate, Wideguy, Edge, and Shippy(RIP) supervising

If you pulled down half as hard as you fought the inevitable that day, you could onzite teh one one bee.

Sorry, life has been chaotic and difficult. My primary motivating factor for moving back to Flagstaff was that I'd been fucked over by the community college I was attending -- they canceled my 1-yr program halfway through due to low enrollment. So I moved back to Flagstaff, where I was not far from an associate's. Then they canceled several key classes necessary for graduation. Then [Glendale Community College/Coconino Community College/Direct Lenders/National Student Loan Database/some combination thereof; take your pick, as nobody could ever tell me] fucked up my financial aid so I couldn't get my loans and I got dropped from my classes for non-payment, after the deadline to drop with a refund. So now I owe them money for classes I can't take, I've been unemployed for 9.5 months, I'm facing the distinct possibility of homelessness, I'm suffering from crippling depression and can barely leave the house, haven't seen my boyfriend in two months since neither of us can afford the gas money, and haven't spoken to him in days because he works 70+ hours per week just to pay rent and bills and gets home from work, cooks dinner, and goes to bed. I also haven't slept prior to 3am for about two weeks despite several heavily sedating prescriptions and additional assistance.

So, yeah. The climbing hasn't really happened. Life: it fucking blows sometimes.

So, here, I stand before you.

They always come back! And so do I.
I remember when you were one of the campground's VIP. A long time ago.

Yes, for the elders here, it is I-- little Juliana -- returned to tell my story.

On August 30th, 2001, my thirteenth birthday, I was taken toproping at a glass-filled graffitied ghetto chosspile in the bustling metropolis of Manchester, New Hampshire. After thirteen years of athletic failure, the moment my hands touched rock, I knew what my future would hold.

I joined here several months later. In May of 2002 I dragged my dear mother to a Gunks gathering to meet the likes of rrrAdam, Karen, fiend, darkside, and their ilk. They took a total novice under their wings and up multi-pitch routes, filled with epics and pigtails in rap devices and poking copperheads with sticks. I left with a massive bald spot after tearing my own hair from my scalp to escape, a terrified mother, and a renewed passion for the art of ascending stone. Shortly thereafter, I became RC.com's first thirteen-year-old moderator and editor.

Around my 14th birthday I led my first route, Glory Jean's at Rumney. My love affair with the area began to burn brightly. I got a gym membership and started to train day in and day out over the winter to return to my beloved. By summer I was a gym employee and enlisted RC.commers from about New England to drag me around the region to climb. A battled raged between RC.com and the long-forgotten foe, b.com, and unable to bend my will to the then-tyrannical moderating duties, I stepped down. Not long after, Trevor himself dismissed me from my other duties for referring to the RC.com administration as "bitches" for the unfair banning of the esteemed oozingpustule. I turned to the dark side of boldering.com, lured by the lawlessness and shit-talking, and rose the ranks there.

Between 14 and 16 I hosted three gatherings at my father's lakehouse near Rumney. I must have met a hundred RC.commers, hailing from Texas, California, Oregon, North Carolina, and all up the eastern coast. At its height we housed 50 climbers; not a square foot of floor, deck, or yard unoccupied by tent or sleeping bag. Drunken debauchery abounded; people fell off ten-foot-high slacklines; many were dunked into the freezing October river, and one bit by a vicious beast threatened by the same fate. Many lobsters fell victim to my father's feasts. The kind donations of our esteemed guests purchased me my first crashpad, which serves me still today.

The summer before I got my license, I connived my way to Rumney every weekend between May and October, unstoppable even by the crutches and aircast that followed an unfortunate incident at Lincoln Woods. I acquired that most liberating piece of plastic and was free to drive my mother's car through the bogs of unknown depth at Pawtuckaway, going out alone into the woods with a crashpad and a thermos of tomato soup.

Finding myself in the interesting position of assistant youth coach young enough to compete, I led my team of girls throughout Northern New England, competing beside them. I brought two of them and myself to nationals, where I lost my desire to compete and failed miserably accordingly, swearing off climbing as a means to compare one's self to others.

At the end of that summer, at age 17, I left alone for the greener pastures of Flagstaff, AZ, where I was taught the art of climbing limestone roofs by only the best. Come spring break, I embarked on a solo pilgrimage to Bishop, avoiding as many people as I could, giving those chosen problems more than I ever have, and knocking my jaw out of place for years in the process. I arrived back in Flagstaff strong enough to prove myself against my nemesis roof.

But it broke me. My shoulder orthopedic surgeon told me that my options were surgery or "worsening until, well... you can't do anything". I opted for the former, not knowing whether I would ever return to the sport I loved above all else. I went into massive debt to cover living and medical costs. It was two months before I could lift my arm above my head. Six months later I was granted permission to climb again, only to heinously dislocate my pinky finger in a bike accident and tear tendons in my palm. As that recovered, I was hit head-on by another bicyclist, damaging my back and neck likely for life. This was the beginning of the end.

I tried to come back, tried to return, tried to find it in me. Discouraged and embarrassed by how far I'd fallen, I was pushed away by my own pride. It's been three years since I've done any climbing worth measuring.

Six months ago, I moved to Phoenix to by with my boyfriend. It has sapped the life out of me and I can remain here no longer. I'm rising out of the ashes, returning to Flagstaff, leaving behind the man I love, returning to climbing a humbled woman, your child no longer, with perhaps misguided hopes of someday returning to my former glory.

So, here, I stand before you. A child of rock climbing grown to a woman of rock climbing. My overlord; I will never forsake you.

I am not the child you once knew, and if you still remain, I have many of you to thank for that.

This is my story.