Heroes

Ray Purcell

Driving home from the Alabama Hills Climbers Festival my windshield suddenly became caked with layers and layers of San Joaquin Valley pesticide impervious flying insects. The insects seemed to be spilling up out of the valley like an Old Testament plague through Tehachapi Pass on their way to the Mojave Desert. With the windshield wipers arcing across the glass at maximum warp and industrial strength ammoniated washer fluid gushing through the little hoses behind the hood, it was as though there were part "A" and part "B" epoxy bugs mixing together on the glass and becoming an impenetrable resinous gel.

I wasn't so upset with the mini environmental catastrophe occurring on my windshield as much as having to pullover and clean the glass distracted me from a perfectly good epiphany. To wit, whereas there are times that as a member of a society an individual, despite the most reasonable descent, can feel pretty roped in to riding along with said societies really bad idea, there are, on the other hand, individual acts which are enormously empowering and beneficial. That said, and not wanting to get too political, I am most especially and particularly astonished by the human conditions capacity and desire to give back, i.e. donate, tithe, volunteer, do art, raise a family; a veritable bursting at the seems to share of ones bounty and passion. This is humanities closest approach to perfection. That said, what a singular tragedy it is to have so little materially and have no apparent outlet for that need to give back- but more on that latter.

Case in point, National Public Lands Day overlapped the Alabama Hills Climbers Festival so the Bureau of Land Management, who manages the hills, also had some trail building projects available for anyone who wanted to invest a little sweat for access- what a nice coincidence. So, on Sunday David Kirk and I had started the day by getting in a nice route on The Walnut called Macadamia (5.8*) when Scott Justman, a climber and one of the BLMs recreation staff, showed up in a stake-side truck full of tools and a load of boulders. We joined in with others who had come out and went to work like we were getting paid for it, probably harder. We closed off some of the tangle of social trails that meander across the fragile desert and marked with stones more suitable trails to the base of the various climbs.

David Kirk is a painter, a watercolorist specifically, who recently relocated to Lone Pine from Mt. Hood. A skier and climber, David followed the footsteps of Smoke Blanchard and initially came to the Eastside to ski. But he found a new muse in the Eastern Sierra for his art, and a small studio at a reasonable price through the Southern Sierra Artisans Guild, and that was kismet enough to stay. His new studio is located off of the courtyard of the vintage 1920's Old Lone Pine Hotel that also houses the offices of the Lone Pine Chamber of Commerce. A kind of residential propinquity occurred during his tenancy at the former hotel and David began to also work for a program that serves the many families invisibly living in poverty along the 395 corridor, Southern Inyo Healthy Communities, who also has offices in the facility.

David is an immediately engaging guy with a relaxed and comfortable smile that's set against the tanned face, blond beard and mustache of someone who spends more time out than in. He explained that the program that he works for part time mentors families, serves teens at risk, and makes the recreation opportunities, that most of us take for granted, available to people who would otherwise never be able to enjoy their own... well, backyard legacy. These outings are typically combined with a voluntary work project, like yesterdays litter pick up, and help participants feel a sense of stewardship- you know, giving back.

We were just about to wrap up the work day by running Scott's BLM stake side back over to the boulder cache for one last load, when a small van topped with an assortment of nordic skis pulled up to park. Three guys bustled out, two were younger, Rick and Jeff, and another much older guy who was no less energetic. They had stopped to climb a bit before heading up to Mammoth Mountain to guide a cross-country ski trip from there to Yosemite. The older guy said he didn't get out to climb much for himself since he was typically either guiding trips or climbing with his kids, and since I was still jonesing to do one last climb before heading home asked if they minded if I hooked up with them. But first, Rick, Jeff and the old guy joined us for the boulder shuttle.

After the last of the boulders got kicked off of the truck Rick and Jeff headed over to the Tall Wall with ropes and quick draws. I found myself and David standing in the buff desert sand and surrounded by olive-green sage splashed with broad strokes of wildflowers the pastel colors of an Easter Bonnet. We stood talking to the old guy. He had a compact sturdy build, and in shorts, legs that looked like the pistons on a steam engine. The old guy looked serene as he stared out at the Sierra from under the brim of his signature white golf cap. We talked about the backcountry and the best places to ski and climb, and as we talked I began to feel an energy radiating off of the old guy. The kind of feeling that causes the hairs on your neck to rise when the thunder heads begin to pile up on the peaks around you and the electricity starts to build like the charge in the giant Tesla coils in the old Frankenstein movies. Then the lightening flashed across Doug Robinson's eyes, he popped up on his toes and a smile broke across his face as he said "the Sierra is just so great, I want everybody to know about it!"

I had no doubt that Doug meant it. The previous day I had hooked up with my friend Matt and his son Grant for a climb. We were walking past a bunch of top ropes that were set up by Laura Sanders and her climbing guides from Sky's The Limit while we were on our way to try out the Split (5.8**) in the Cattle Pocket Formation. There were kids all over the place, the ones who had come out with David Kirk and had been picking up litter earlier in the day, they were all qued up and fidgeting as only kids can when their excited and waiting their turn to climb. I was delighted when I saw Robinson carefully adjusting the harness and tying in what looked like a 10 year old boy who clearly had a lot to say to him. Despite the crowd Robinson only had one client in the world to guide at that moment and that little boy had his entire and enthusiastic attention.

That evening after the festival a dinner was fully hosted by Doug -The Oracle of Mt. Whitney- Thompson and his wife, the operators of the landmark Whitney Portal Store, and without so much as a request for donation to defray the cost. Not wanting to miss a meal that I didn't have to fix for myself, I arrived at four thinking the kitchen closed at five. Doug introduced himself and busied about serving me as though it was his greatest privilege and pleasure. There were a few people still eating and chatting so I joined in a number of conversations, ate a hearty pasta meal, and snacked on bowls of Schwab's peppers and olives all the while diverted by the Sun's setting over the Sierra Crest.

As the evening progressed the crowd only got larger and more and more food was served- had I only known I'd have climbed longer. The Master of Ceremonies, Jim Bridwell arrived in his mad bomber hat that looked like road kill and regaled us with the story of its purchase in China during a 1980 expedition, from there he launched into a lifetime of adventures. Hans Florine was there as well and had sponsored an all comer's speed climbing competition earlier that day. Hans had set up a top rope on a 90-foot 5.7** route called Rotten Bananas on the Tall Wall for the speed climbing demonstration/competition.

Once Hans warmed up he tied in to the top rope, called go and nimbley flew up the rock while his belayer Jim Bridwell ran out across the desert; all without spilling a drop from his Budweiser road master. Once the clock had stopped Hans had set the bar at less than 30 seconds. The mood was mellow; so not intimidated by Hans's performance there were plenty of comers. Most just seemed to climb at a pace that suited themselves and enjoy the afternoon in the company of Florine and Bridwell.

Through out the course of the festival I became aware of another gentleman of substance and character; perhaps a character of substance is a better description. He had obviously been working with David's group early Saturday and each time I saw him he was singularly joyful, and effusively gregarious. He moved about just a bit stiffly, and when he spoke he was slightly nasal. Steve joined into conversations like a battering ram and spoke slightly louder than necessary, and then would just walk way in the middle of saying something. I'll call this gentleman Steve, though not his real name, and asked how long he had lived in the Owens Valley, he told me 17 years. But when I asked why he had moved here his face was suddenly crossed by a dark cloud and he became brooding as he said ?"a bad motor home accident in Big Pine."

I latter found out that Steve had taken up Florine's challenge on the Tall Wall. Wanting to climb with my friend Matt I regretted missing Steve's moment of glory, and as the story goes some 40 minutes of glory. Steve doggedly bested the challenge with the encouragement of the crowd.

That evening Steve was awash with excitement, and looked as though he was about to pop. His retelling, and retelling, and retelling of the tale of his climb, at least to my ear was the story of the evening. It had all the elements of a great epic: daring do, bold action, uncertainty, dreadful risk, sacrifice, the support and encouragement of other climbers, faith in God, and ultimately personal triumph. That night after dinner Steve was presented with a new Metolius harness for the best effort of the comp. Standing decidedly taller Steve proudly wore his trophy for the rest of the evening because he was a climber and made it clear to anyone who'd listen.

Steve also made it clear that the only other things he still needed were a pair of climbing shoes and a "what do you call it, the thing you keep chalk in." Diane from the Lone Pine Chamber of Commerce said that she had floors that needed mopping and that she was sure arrangements could be made to help him get his shoes and then she smiled at Steve. The next day Steve rode in from town on his bike with a pre-owned pair of Scarpa shoes each autographed by Jim Bridwell, he also had a check ready and waiting made out to Bridwell for 50 bucks. Pretty clever the way Steve angled to get a third autograph from Jim, at least if Jim should cash that check. But as far as Steve was concerned these shoes were the magic ruby red slippers of a famous climber.

If anyone were to ask me when I was a teenager who my hero was I'd have quickly answered John Muir. In a kind of self conscious retrospect, considering my generation, that seems trite. But what I admired was his tramp's heart and vagabond spirit. If I'd been asked the same question as a young man I'd have added Theodore Roosevelt; primarily because of his bombast but also because of how his wildness emerged out of a culture of pretension of civility. Had the question risen five years ago I'd have added Walt Whitman for reasons so complicated that I'm still not fully prepared to answer; perhaps because I've yet to fully understand Whitman.

There has been an interesting warp and weave among my heroes as time has gone buy. Perhaps I've gotten all touchy feely as I've gotten older, or maybe I've been eating too many of my daughters Luna Bars. Never the less, I now most greatly admire those adventurers who are the most purely human, those who most unreservedly both give and receive. So, if someone were to ask me today who my hero is I'd have to add Steve.

March, 2003