Now when I was a little boy… At the age of five… I had somethin’ in my pocket… Keep a lot of folks alive.

I was standing in the grocery store check-out line, vacantly looking around when I  noticed an older guy behind me with a boy that looked about 8-9 years old…most likely his grandson. I’m not sure how old the man was, but he was older than me by a number of years. Seems like as I get older everyone looks younger and younger.

They were quietly chatting and joking around but I heard the old man say “let me see it, did you lose it?” in the tone of voice that suggested this was a serious request and there was to be no clowning around.

The boy immediately dug in his pocket and pulled out a small pocket knife, a small 2 blade that looked like an old style Case or Schrade Old Timer. The kind of classic bone handled pen knife everyone’s grandpa had in the good old days.

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Schrade Old Timer

I said “nice knife, do you know how to sharpen it?”.  He put his head down, acting shy and said “grandpa showed me but I’m not very good at it”.   I thought, boy, could I relate to that. As a kid my dad’s knife was always razor sharp and mine always seemed dull as a day at church until dad touched it up for me on his old oil stone.

I told the boy, “you have to keep practicing at it, one day, all of a sudden, you will have the feel of it and make your baby sharp as a razor”.  He smiled with a kind of “sure mister” look and put it back in his pocket.

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Don’t cut yourself!

I paid for my groceries but kept thinking about when I got my first official knife. All this reminded of my own papaw Profitt.  I had played around with knives as most boys do, trying not to cut myself or get caught by my parents, with mom always saying “you’re too young to be messing with knives, you’ll cut a finger off!”. It felt like I would never have my very own knife.

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What mom always saw.

Then one day when I was seven years old we were down at the barbershop we always went to… George’s Barbershop, down on the corner of the block from my Papaw and Mamaw’s house.

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Papaw and my mom. You can see the barber pole on George’s Barbershop down on the corner, with the Market right across the street.

Now this was a classic barbershop, with spinning blue and red sign outside, two old school red leather barber chairs that leaned way back for a shave…

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…a place smelling of shaving cream, Brylcreem, Butch Wax and Wildroot hair tonic, with hot towels piled on men’s faces and the steady buzz of clippers or the strop, strop, strop sound as George touched up the edge of his straight razor on the old leather strop.  We were often threatened with getting our behinds touched-up with that wide hunk of leather.

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Tools of the trade. Strop, straight razor and shaving cream brush. George’s were in better shape.

It was the barbershop Papaw always went to, sometimes just to sit in the “next up” chair and BS half the day away jabbering about sports, work, old war stories and other manly stuff with all the other manly men. They were all blue collar workers from factories like Specialty Paper, Delco Moraine, NCR, Frigidaire and other big manufacturers that built Dayton Ohio.

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Speciality Paper, where papaw worked

Fresh out of the military, my dad also got his hair cut there regularly. My uncles and cousins went there, and therefore my brothers and I went there. It made me feel pretty grown up to sit around with the rough talking men, listening to stories they didn’t seem to tell when their wives were around.

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My brother Phil getting his first official haircut from George. Mom watching in the mirror

It was always fun to flip through the old men’s magazines like Popular Mechanics, Outdoor Life, True Adventure and if you were lucky maybe a dog-eared Esquire or Swank. Good times for a young boy.

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Manly magazines

It was best to remain quietly in a corner as long as you could, just soaking it all in, but the men always knew you were there and loved joking around with manly standards such as “how many girlfriends do you have, pull my finger, got any hair on your pecker yet, you need some whiskey to put some hair on your chest” and so on.  As a young boy in the 60’s it was a full-on man’s man hang-out.

This testosterone dripping palace of tonsorial delight became the traditional place for Papaw to perform his grandparental deeds of delight.  He would hand out various kinds of hard candy, buffalo nickels, silver dollars, odd souvenirs from the bar, stuff like that.

I remember him giving me a 2 dollar bill silver certificate that I didn’t believe was real money at first. I kept it in a special place until one of my siblings used it for buying candy.

So it was in this ultimate den of manliness Papaw told me to reach down in his pocket and see what was there.  Now, Papaw was always a snappy dresser when he wasn’t at work.  Button-down dress shirt, spiffy tie, nice shoes and slacks with pockets as deep as the Grand Canyon that held all kinds of the magical delights previously mentioned.

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Papaw looking dapper

I dug down, hoping for a 50 cent piece or silver dollar that I could redeem for a bushel sized sack of penny-candy at the carry-out across the street. There was some loose change so I felt for the biggest one and pulled it out.  Nope, keep digging he said. Went back in to my elbow and disappointedly found a lint covered stick of gum. Nope, that’s not it either, one more time.

Now, I had felt the pocket knife in there the first time, but quickly discarded the notion that it might be the object I was seeking. I was stumped as that was the only thing I hadn’t pulled out.  Could it be? I slowly pulled the knife out of his pocket, waiting to hear the “not that, you’ll cut your finger off” I had heard so many times before.

I got it all the way out and slowly opened my hand, expecting anytime to hear the words I didn’t want to hear. They never came!  I looked at my hand.  In the center of my palm was a small, single blade knife. It had scrolled carving on the silver handles. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen in my short life.

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Sterling silver knife similar to the one papaw gave me.

“A man needs a pocket knife” my papaw said. I looked quickly over at my dad, half expecting for him to tell me to give it back, or hand it to him until I was older. But he just nodded the silent “go ahead” nod with a grin. The next words out of his mouth were “Don’t tell your mother.  If you cut your finger off I will tan your ass with George’s strop.” All the men applauded and congratulated me as I stood there stone silent in disbelief.

There I was among men, in the ultimate place of men with my very own knife. I couldn’t believe it. I was officially a man. I opened the blade and carefully closed it, having been carefully sharpened and oiled by Papaw.

George showed me how to strop the blade on the leather to get it extra sharp…a skill that took me decades to understand and master.  All the men in the shop pulled out their knives and showed me their version of proper knife use and safety, many conflicting with each other.

Looking back, the knife was a small one, most likely made in Japan and commonly called a gentleman’s or gent’s knife, and used for light tasks such as trimming fingernails, opening mail, cutting string or peeling fruit. It might as well have been Excalibur to a seven year old me.

I cherished that knife, hiding it when I went to school to keep it a secret from mom. I’m sure she knew all about it.  Sliding it back in my pocket each afternoon, pulling it out and slicing apples, cleaning my fingernails like dad and whittling every stick I happened upon down to a toothpick.

I can’t remember what eventually happened to it, but from then on I have always had a knife in my pocket. I joined the Cub Scouts a year later and upgraded to a full sized Boy Scout knife with multiple blades and gadgets.

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Classic Boy Scout knife

Over the years dad gave me various knives and showed me how to get it super sharp on a stone as I practiced over and over. He always said “a dull knife will cut you faster than a sharp one”. I had the scars to prove him right.

One of my favorites was a Case XX Stockman that I could eventually get sharp enough to shave arm hair.

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Case XX Stockman knife

I have had many knives over the years and feel very naked without one in my pocket. As I mentioned, every man in that barber shop had a knife in their pocket. Most men these days seem to have stopped carrying pocket knives, even the small pen knives that every man used to have in their pocket. I like the pen knives…when I go to something more “dressy”, like a wedding or funeral, I change my bulky knife out for a slim pen knife, you know, in case I need to open a present, perform an emergency tracheotomy or clean my nails.

My papaw, dad and uncles always had a knife to open packages, cut a string or whatever task was at hand…including holding one over a lighter and using it as a scalpel and probing device if you stepped on a nail or got a splinter. Ask any of my brothers or sisters, I think we were all operated on at some point.

Now, I’m not going to belittle your manhood for not carrying a pocket knife (OK, maybe a little, after all, I became a man at seven), but I just cannot fathom not having such a useful device on me at all times. It amazes me how few carry a knife these days. I have lost a few at airports and concerts, but not in a while.

I have had knives made by Shrade, Barlow, Buck, Gerber, Kershaw, Victorinox, Leatherman, Spyderco, various Kabar and Camillus military knives and countless specialty knives for climbing, kayaking, sailing and woodworking. But the best knife is the one in your pocket when you need it.

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My M7 bayonet and Camillus survival knife.
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Camillus Army pocket knife. Basically a stainless steel version of a Boy Scout knife.

For years now I have used a Victorinox Swiss Army knife as my daily go-to utility knife. A friend gave it to me as a birthday present and I would be lost without it.

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Victorinox Swiss Army Knife. Beat up but still going.

With screw drivers, bottle openers, cork screw, scissors, magnifying glass, toothpick and other gadgets I use it every single day.  But with a stainless steel blade, it will not take a really sharp edge like a quality Case XX, Schrade or other high carbon blade so I often have one of those in my pocket as well, and possibly a Leatherman on my belt for those handy pliers. You need to be prepared, after all.

But I would give every single one of them up for that little silver knife I dug out of my papaw’s pocket back in 1966, when he was about the same age as I am now.

Catch Up To That Tornado!

The recent tornado destruction in Port Orchard got me thinking about the time a tornado ran over over me and my friends back in the 70’s.  Tornadoes are pretty rare in Washington State, unlike forest fires, floods, landslides, earthquakes, tsunamis and the odd volcano blowing up.  Seems like a good bargain most of the time.

This is what reminded me from the local newspaper:

Emily Silverman told KOMO News she was caught in the tornado. She was in the car with her husband and 2-year-old son near Walmart.

“And it’s raining and it’s pouring down really bad and before you know it everything was flying everywhere,” she told KOMO. “Our car back windows blew out, our side windows blew out. Things hit us — there were a few people who had some head injuries from being hit by things. A car got pushed into a back… there was an accident. It was crazy. There were things flying everywhere. I thought I was a goner.”

My story starts when I was home on leave from the Army, maybe around 1979, just before I shipped out to Korea.  I was hanging out with my buddy Rick and his girlfriend Bonnie before going to my next duty station.

We were driving around in Bonnie’s old Pontiac Bonneville. I don’t remember exactly what we were up to, probably no good.  It was summer time, with typically muggy thunder storm weather in southern Ohio.

We happened to be out in Fairborn, by Wright Patterson, the local Air Force base, when I saw in the distance what looked like a funnel cloud forming up over some farm fields.

I had my new Canon SLR camera with me and I immediately began trying to convince Bonnie, who was driving, that we needed to get closer to the funnel so I could get some good pictures.

My argument consisted of “as long as we drive 90 degrees to the direction it is moving we will be fine”. I knew this to be true because I read it somewhere. There was no internet back then, so people generally still believed the printed word.

Rick and Bonnie were not convinced it was a good idea, but I kept it up, explaining this may be their only chance to see a tornado up close and personal… you only live once… go for the gusto… I think that was a beer commercial back then for Schlitz beer.  (I should probably confess a hurricane party has been on my bucket list since I was around 16 and still is)

I was either very convincing or just wore them down as Bonnie eventually pointed the car in the direction of the tornado.  It wasn’t raining all that hard where we had started, but as we got closer and closer the rain came at us harder and harder until it was coming at us horizontally.

We were getting buffeted around by the wind pretty good but I was still convinced her big boat of a car would be fine. The tornado still looked like a baby compared to the massive EF-5 that had wiped out the town of Xenia in 1974 and the hood alone on that Bonneville was the length of a football field and it was as wide as an oil tanker, so I was still pretty confident.

As the intensity picked up they both started in again about how this was “another one of my crazy ass ideas and why do we ever listen to you” complaints. By this time the windshield wipers were on high-speed, beating the window to death but still couldn’t keep up with the rain enough to see very well.

It was like being inside a car wash that had gone off the track.  I could still get a glimpse of the tornado once in a while to direct Bonnie which way to go, which was pretty much exactly opposite of the way she wanted to go.

As the sky got darker and darker we found ourselves on one of those straight, lonely roads that cut through Wright Pat that have the 10 foot security fences on both sides of the road.  With steep, deep ditches on either side, it was essentially a fence canyon with no place to get off or even turn around, and no where to go but forward.

The car was whipping back and forth, rain coming at us in buckets with shortage of irony in the fact that the closer we got, the less we could actually see of the tornado, much less get “good” pictures.

Suddenly, up ahead in a field on the other side of the fence I see the funnel cloud touch down along a hedge row and explode all the trees and bushes.  Vegetation was whirling everywhere and you could see it moving across the field, with crops swirling around like one of those invisible monsters on the old Johnny Quest cartoon as it bounced across the field.

The funnel then hit a big billboard sign and exploded it to pieces.  A full sheet of plywood was spinning right at us like a Frisbee and Rick and I were like PUNCH IT!, we’re gonna get creamed!

Bonnie put the pedal to the floor to try to speed past it but the car was being shaken back and forth all over the road, again with nowhere to duck into or get out of the way.

The plywood came at us like it was in slow motion, slowly spinning as it came at us with the Johnny Quest monster right behind it.

As we crossed the tornadoes path it got extremely loud and with a big blast the side windows blew out of the rubber seals around the door frame with a big pressure blast.  Our ears all popped at the same time and then the plywood Frisbee smashed into the front of the car, luckily taking most of the initial impact and as it continued on back and sheared both windshield wipers off in one big slice.

By now Bonnie is screaming “what have you gotten me into, I’m going to kill you if I live long enough” or something to that effect…along with plenty of more colorful language that I richly deserved.

She slammed on the brakes as she could no longer see anything out of the windshield and as we watched the tornado bounce across the road into the another field we all looked at each other kind of surprised we were all still in one piece.

I can’t remember what kind of tongue lashing I got after that, if I ended up paying for new wipers or any details really…I believe Rick switched to driving at that point since in order to see anything the driver had to stick their head out of the window and get a continual face full of rain.  We somehow limped back home with a great story to tell.

 

Slippery Slab Bivy

Slippery Slab Tower  Alpine Lakes Region/Cascade Range       Date –Sept. 23-24, 1995

Approach Route– Surprise Lake Trailhead #1060

Accent Route– Northface/Northridge Variation

Decent Route– Rappel from pine tree on east face (1 double rope rap)

Altitude– 6,400 feet  Elevation Gain – 4,200 feet

Total Distance – 11 miles     Maps/Guides– Becky Guide, page 328, Alpine Lakes Guide page 42,  Green Trails Topo #176,  Stevens Pass

Times:  Approach– 3 hrs. to Trap Pass      Ascent – 2 hrs.    Decent –(had to bivy) est. 3.5 hrs.

Grade –I-II     Class – 5.6 to low 5.8 some poor pro               Pitches – 3

Equipment Used/Recommended– Ropes, small to medium stoppers, cams to 2.5″, long slings & extra biners, (a few small knifeblades wouldn’t be out of place)

Weather– Good weather, clear skies, windy on tower, climbed in pile jackets.  Cooled down on our bivy to low 40’s – high 30’s

Climbing Partners – Tom Nicholas, Rick Baker

Climb Leaders – Les Profitt                Number in Party – 3

Flora/Fauna – Most wildflowers gone, saw a few marmots & picas.  Tom & Rick thought they saw an elk swimming in Surprise Lake from the top of the second pitch.

Comments:   We decided at the car not to camp at the lake, so we headed up with just climbing gear. Started up trail at 10:00, about a half mile in Rick discovered he left the whiskey in the car…so back we went.  Trail up was very rooty/rocky with many muddy or wet crossing that could be messy earlier in the season.  Cruised up to Surprise Lake in about 2 hrs. (4 miles).  Took a short lunch and continued up to Trap Pass in under 1 hr. Met a pair of Pacific Crest thru hikers that had been at it for 5 1/2 months.  Chatted with them for a bit and then headed down along the goat path on the east side of the ridge.  This could be tricky with snow covering the ridge.

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Tom and Rick at Trap Pass. Slippery Slab in the distance

Arrived at the base of the tower around 4:00.

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Foreshortening squishes the slab as we move in close

Assembled our gear and left what we didn’t need below the tower.  Scouted the west face a little and then looked at the NE face. I picked the first chimney system to the east of the ridge, leading to a group of trees about 70 feet up.  This pitch was full of loose rock and dirt. Lots of moss & lichen in places.

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Our route goes up right center and then out onto the “slippery slab” in the sun on the right.

Half way up I concluded we were not on the Class 4 NE face in the Fred Beckey guide.  Luckily I had taken a little bit more than the four slings he recommends.  After grunting thru the moss & trees (scrapes) I set up at a bomber tree belay with several rap slings tied around it.  Tom & Rick followed, with plenty of “class 4 my ass”, and “Beckey sucks” comments. This 1st pitch is around 5.6 with all the dirt & loose crap.

On the second pitch I moved to the left along a small heather covered ledge looking for the class 4 route, but it all looked harder than that above us.  I spied an old fixed pin above a block on the right and headed to it like a moth to light.  Standing on top of the block I couldn’t reach the pin, but I could slot a stopper behind a finger crack.  This kind of protected the move to the pin… a finger jam and foot smear on heavily lichened rock.  I clipped the old pin and took out the stopper to save on biners, (I didn’t have many loose ones) and started up the face.  This pitch is very mossy and lichen covered.  I started to figure out that this may be why it was called slippery slab.

Continuing up from the old pin I couldn’t find any placements for the pro that I had, and started chanting “help me Mr. Wizard, I don’t want to be a hardman anymore”.  Some of the holds were only held in by the moss that grew over them.  Of course Rick & Tom, who couldn’t see me, thought this was great entertainment and served me right for making them stand at the belay stance shivering so long.

I had to run it out about 40′ above the old pin until I made it to the north ridge, on dirty, lichened rock.  I set up a belay with two small trees and a cam and belayed Tom & Rick up into the dwindling sunshine along the ridge. Tom decided he didn’t want to lead a pitch after coming up that bit of hairy crap.  This pitch must be 5.6 to 5.7 also.

From here we moved 15′ to the west along a funky ledge to a better belay tree.  I started up the face directly above and again, no place to get any pro in.  About 25′ up is a sandy ledge with a tree to the right (with old rap sling).  I put a stopper behind a flake and started up to the right.  It looked like it would go OK, but I couldn’t see any good way to protect it.  I down climbed back to the ledge and moved to the short crack system to the left.  I moved up and got a better piece in and felt a little better.  I continued up to where the crack ended and stood where the north ridge continued.

I looked out on the face to the right and saw an old ring pin about 25′ feet up.  I figured if someone could stand there and pound it in I could reach it also.  I rigged up a long sling behind a shallow flake and weighted it down with a few stoppers to keep rope drag from lifting it out.  I then moved briefly to the east side of the ridge, put in a cam behind a flake, and threw my right foot onto a high foothold.

Throwing my weight to the right I was now back on the NW face.  An exposed traverse up and to the right got me to the old ring pin, not exactly bomber but I would have clipped a blade of grass at that point.  A few feet higher I got a decent cam into a crack and breathed a little deeper… until I looked up at the overhanging crap above me.

At that point, rope drag was becoming a real issue.  Tom and Rick are below telling me where it looks easier (sure, from down there) and other assorted climber humor comments.  I’m telling Tom he should be the one up here suffering, not me.

I finally get my mind focused on the fact that I just have to move thru this overhang and the difficulties would be over.  I moved about 15′ up and to the right of my cam, just under the overhang.  I looked all over the rock and can’t find a good crack that isn’t loose or flaring.  No dice. There is a beautiful bucket hold that would be perfect… if it wasn’t loose and fractured along the base.

I start sweating, look down at Tom & Rick, give the old “when in doubt, go up” chant, shit my pants a few times and commit to moving up onto small funky holds.  I wind up in a stance where I’m barely hanging on, smearing with feet, forearms blowing out and desperately groping for something decent above me.

My hand falls onto a blind bucket and with an adrenaline surge yard myself into a good stance.  After screaming Shit! Fuck! Shit! I look down and smile at Tom & Rick, “that was fucking wild, class 4 my mother fucking ass” and other assorted testosterone and adrenaline pumped drivel.  I calmed down and shook out my arms, found that I was sweating like a madman, my mouth was dry as a popcorn fart, and I was going to make it to the top.

I continued up some actual class 4, across loose blocks and mossy rocks a few more feet until I heard Tom & Rick tell me I was getting low on rope.  I set up a belay around a medium sized block and a small tree about 15′ from the summit.

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Les at belay stance on top.

The view was spectacular, the last golden light of the sun shining on Glacier Peak to the north, Mt. Daniels to the south, alpine lakes below, and all around us ridge after ridge of craggy mountains and high country.

I belay Rick up this 3rd pitch. I can’t see him and can barely hear him. The rope slowly moves up until I figure he is at the lower crux.  He spends a few moments and the rope is moving again.  I can hear him breathing heavy and talking to Tom.

The rope is motionless for some time… he is at the overhang.  He tries several times but can’t seem to get past the crux, Tom is below shouting encouragement that I can’t hear over the wind.  I hear Rick saying his arms are blowing out and he doesn’t know if he can make it.  Tom shouts something and Rick says “alright”.  I start pulling on the rope for all I’m worth, to help him thru the crux, bend forward, pull back…taking in rope again and again.

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Rick coming up just past the crux overhang with a bar-tight belay

Tom later tells me that Rick’s feet looked like a squirrel flailing on a greased pole.  I hear Rick say “thanks Les” just about the time my hands are worn out and cramping.  The rope goes a bit slacker, and I know he is thru the hard part.  A few minutes later he is pulling himself over the top, looking dogged-out but smiling.

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Rick smiling now after pulling over the crux

Tom starts up and when the rope stops I know he has reached the crux.  I say to Rick: “There ain’t nothin happ’nen”.  The rope stays motionless for several minutes while Tom tries his moves.  The rope doesn’t move.  Finally we hear a loud bellowing, “The Taz” has come alive and the rope starts moving up.

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Tom clear of the crux

Tom is thru the crux and is shortly on top.   I think this pitch is only 5.7 to 5.8, although with all the loose crap and lichen Tom thinks it deserves an “Alpine 5.11”.

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Tom on easy class 4 ground

We belay the few remaining feet to the top, sign the summit register and the sun disappears behind the mountains.  It is 7:00 PM.  We untangle ropes and downclimb 20′ to a nice tree with rap slings.  As I set up the rappel we decide that this is the class 4 route, and it doesn’t look bad at all.  I start down in the dark wondering if I can find another good tree.

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Les signing summit register
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“I’m calling it Alpine 5.11”

I get quickly to a ledge with good trees, but decide I can get to the base in one long rappel.  I make it to the base and Rick and Tom follow.  As they finish rappelling I start around the tower to retrieve our hiking boots from the base of the other route.

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Just finished rapping off the tower…but it’s dark, cold and still 6 miles through rough terrain back to the car.

I meet Tom & Rick, give them their boots and we head down to find our packs, somewhere down in the dark boulder field below.  I locate the rest of our gear and Tom and Rick catch up.  A shot of celebratory whiskey to conclude our “triumph” and we are ready to get off this mountain.

Rick forgot his head lamp at the car, and knowing how much he hates climbing at night, I let him use mine. I lead off down the goat path, using the light from Tom and Rick behind me. We work our way down but lose the track below a talus slope.

We wander along the steep ridge, trying to use the lights from campers way down by the lake as reference points.  We stumble up and down trying to regain the track, running into impassable headwalls and drop-offs.  The slope we were on is very steep and covered with heather and pine needles, making for treacherous footing.  Going from tree to bush we worked our way up and down the ridge for some time.  Talk of biving came up and started sounding better & better.

We stopped for a break and I took my head lamp and went to scout below us for the trail, about 40′ below Tom and Rick I was stopped dead by a tall cliff all around us.  It was 9:00, it was pitch black, we were tired as hell… it was time to bivy.

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After stumbling down a couple thousand feet of elevation and nearly walking off a cliff, we thought it would be prudent to bivy in place until sunrise.

Rick broke out the whiskey, a full liter, and we proceeded to empty as much of it as we could.  We made much noise laughing and recounting our “alpine adventure”, and settled in on our little sloping bivy site.

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Bivy down boys, it’s going to be a nippy one. Notice Mr. Baker pulling out the bourbon…the only liquid we had left. Just to the right of Tom’s leg is about a 200′ drop. We made our little nest and hoped we wouldn’t roll off.

Tom had his pile jacket, pants, and Goretex parka.  Rick had his pile jacket, long underwear, and Goretex jacket.  I only had a pair of shorts and my pile jacket.  I dumped the gear out of my pack and shoved my legs in up to mid-thigh.  Tom was nice enough to let me use his pile jacket to cover the bare part of my legs.

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Tom’s happy ’cause he’s the only one with fleece pants. I dumped the crap out of my pack and shoved my legs in.

The whiskey flowed and war stories were told, and we finally crashed around midnight.  Tom of course started snoring right away, nice and cozy in his pile and Goretex.  I laid there shaking and freezing until dawn.

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The lads tucking in for the night…snuggle up boys, the Fall Classic is underway. After a chilly night we found the error of our ways and made it down to a lake to get some water after sipping whiskey all night.

We awoke and saw that we were totally off course, but it wasn’t too far back to the goat path and onto the main trail.  By now we were out of water, severely dehydrated from all the whiskey and exertion, and had over a mile to get to the lake.

A very dry, stumbling hike down to the lake, a long break to fill up with water (ten minutes for iodine is a long time when you’re that thirsty) and we were on our way back to the car. Another total classic.

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Slippery Slab on the right from Trap Pass

Giddy-up, El Tehano

Seeing photos of Rick on a horse down in Mexico is extremely inconsistent with all his previous equestrian adventures. Horses and Mr. Baker never did get along too well historically, and here are a couple of reasons why.

The first encounters I remember were all out at the Woodland Trails Scout Reservation in Camden Ohio.  This was a 1200 acre spread about an hour west of Dayton.  It is where summer camps for the whole scout council were held and it had all the usual activities like archery, rifle range, swimming, canoeing at the lake and a horse ranch.

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Entrance to Woodland Trails

The horse ranch was situated well out on the southwest edge of the reservation and we always had at least one chuck wagon event where most of the troop would all go ride horses on a trail out to an old chuck wagon where a cowboy style dinner of chuck wagon stew, biscuits and cobbler would be served up.

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Old Chuckwagon

There were also opportunities for additional rides during the day if you and a few friends signed up for them.

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Sign to old horse barn

When you arrived at the horse barn each boy got to choose their own mount…some with more trepidation than others. Most of the younger boys were afraid of the biggest horses so, being the Senior Patrol Leader, there was an expectation that I would take the biggest or meanest horses.  Now, I wasn’t a super enthusiastic horse dude or anything, but it was kind of fun to act like a cowboy for a few hours and it was different than the other camp activities.

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The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be…

These horses all knew the game very well, having been on dozens and dozens of these rides every summer. I’m sure they were chosen for the camp because they were calm, cool, collected and able to follow the horse in front of them without much help from whomever was in the saddle.  There wasn’t an actual mean horse in the mix, maybe a nipper or two… but there were a few large hombres.

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Woodland Trails horse barn

The ride that stands out was one where I had a horse named “Big John”. He was, of course, the biggest beast in the barn and all the boys had a good time encouraging me to pick him or I would be a big wuss, so it was my destiny to have Big J.

We all mounted-up and began wandering down the trail behind our wrangler with the usual fits and starts of a bunch of city kids that don’t know how to control a horse, but again, most of the horses knew what they were supposed to do so no big deal right?

Along the way all the boys started giving me a load of shit…namely because Big John had gotten excited about something and had an erection as long as my arm.  I thought he was named because he was just a large horse, but the size of his horse-wood may have been the deciding factor.

Rick was right in front of me and as we approached a small tree that had fallen across the horse trail he started laughing and yelling that I better grab ole Big John’s dong and lift it up before it whacked the log. This small tree was not a major obstacle on the trail and the other horses just stepped over it with no problem.

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Danger on the trail…

But, as predicted by Rick, as Big John stepped over the log he did in fact whack his wood on the wood and that was enough to set him off flying down the trail.  I pretty much just tried to hold on with everything I had as I had never actually been on a running horse before.  As Big John came up beside Rick’s horse, it was startled and took off running as well.

So now both of us are flying down the trail, trying to hang on to the spooked horses for all we were worth.   We were bouncing all over the place, getting beat in the face with branches as the horses went off-trail around the other horses in the line.  We were holding onto the saddle horns, mane or anything else we could grab as we quickly forgot all about the reins.

Even with my own troubles, glancing over at Rick with the sight of him swinging from side to side and up and down with the look of panic in his eyes got me laughing so hard I nearly fell off.  You would have thought he was on a champion bucking bronc at the rodeo.

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We probably only went a couple hundred yards down the trail before the wrangler caught up to us and got them calmed down, but it felt like we had just done the Omak Suicide run and Rick swore horses off for life.

The next time I remember Rick getting on a horse was during the early 80’s out at Ocean Shores in Washington.  His girlfriend at the time, Marta, enjoyed riding and talked him into renting some horses to ride along the ocean beach.  Sounds mellow and romantic right?  Not if you have Ricky Dean’s mad horse skills!

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Horseback ride on the beach

Now, Rick being Rick (and not being a Boy Scout anymore), he had stashed a few beers and his trusty bottle of whiskey in a rucksack to quench his thirst during the ride.

The ride started out slow and easy enough, but the pace picked up a bit when Rick’s horse tried to keep up with Marta’s.  This got the bottles clinking together, causing the horse to run even faster, which made the bottles clank even louder, and soon it was galloping at full speed with the bottles crashing and bashing together until the beer bottles were a foamy mess.

 

I am very impressed that Rick stayed on the horse…they went like that for quite a ways down the beach and there was no wrangler this time. Alas, the bottles in the ruck sack did not fare too well and the pack was full of broken glass and the tepid beer had foamed to the point of oozing out the seams of the pack.

And so that was the last time he got on a horse for decades…eternally pissed that a horse had wasted his perfectly good alcohol.  Then necessity transformed him into El Tehano of the Mexican jungle, riding off into the sunset, with steely gaze and chapped ass.

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El Tehano rides again…

Ashes to ashes, this is not just dust…

We returned what was left of Rick’s earthly remains back to the Earth this weekend.  We stood in a loose circle on a washed out forest road, sharing more stories of Rick. We took a few photos with him in a Target bag, kind of appropriate, as he often seemed to be the target of mountain wrath.

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Ashes crew at site
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Jim, Rick (in bag), Tom and Les

Patty then pulled the box with Rick out to prepare for spreading his ashes, adding some ashes from his mother Marie Ernestine, better known as Ernie to most.

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Patty prepping the ashes

It was a sack full of what everyone commonly calls ashes, but it is really more like a sack full of the more substantial bits and pieces that his human form was attached to all his life, with a little bit of dust mixed in.  It was surprisingly heavy, very unlike the light, fluffy ashes you get used to from a campfire.

I appreciated the heft of it.  It gave substance to what was left of the body that once carried the spirit of this man around for 60 years.  They say an adult male is about 60% water. Rick may have had a bit more bourbon mixed into that percentage, but even bones are 31% water so I just assumed the ashes would be light, or at least not heavy, with all that water and other easily combustible bits gone.

So it was surprising, yet comforting, to feel the weight of my old buddy as I held him one last time to say a few words.  I had often held his weight as he dangled on the end of a climbing rope and it seemed familiar.

Patty asked if anyone wanted to speak, so I opened my mouth to say something meaningful, really to just say anything at this point of inferred importance in someone’s life… but nothing came out.  I was overcome with yet another burst of grief, like I have experienced over the months since he died.

I had, of course, thought about what I might say…why I picked this particular point in the Olympics, how full of life Rick was, all the adventures, how much I will miss him, but I could only stand there silent for a few minutes, trying to will myself to get a few words out…

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Patty had asked me to pick a place Rick would like for his physical remains a while back.  While we had traveled all over the state, the Olympic Peninsula had been our back yard for decades of adventure.  We had hiked the entire ocean beach in Olympic National Park, camped alongside nearly every river, hiked days into the deepest, hardest to reach interior sections and even reached the highest point, Mt. Olympus. But there was one spot that we went back to regularly…Mt Ellinor.

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View of Lake Cushman from Mt Ellinor

On the southern edge of the Olympics, Mt. Ellinor is an excellent climbers trail with great summit views and is only an hour from Olympia, so it became our traditional “season opener” in the early spring for getting back into mountain climbing shape. We would run up it all seasons of the year, but as soon as the snow was melted enough to get a car close to the trailhead we would be off and running.

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Mt goat on Mt. Ellinor

I have no idea how many times we did that hike, but many, many, many times. We would use it for gauging how accessible other early trails might be with snow and just for the shear joy of getting up high in the mountains.  We would even dash out there with Rick’s dogs for a quick afternoon blast up to the top, look for goats, ring the summit bell and dash back down for supper.

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Now there is another old goat on Mt Ellinor

In our early days we would often have the mountain all to ourselves, but it has become more and more heavily used and these days you can barely find parking at the trailheads. In choosing a spot, I kept this in mind for both privacy and practicality, as not everyone would be up for a summit climb. The roads are narrow, potholed, and washboarded with small pullouts.

Just past the turnoff for the trailhead for Mt. Ellinor is the trailhead for Mt. Washington, another, much more serious alpine effort. While Ellinor is a steep hike with some scrambley bits, Mt. Washington is the big-brother, a real climb needing true route-finding skills through sections where someone can get really hurt when snow covers the peak. We have done Washington a number of times as well and it is one of our favorites.

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Continuing on Forest Service road 2419, just beyond The Mt Washington trailhead, which is really just a boulder next to the road with no signs, the road bed has been washed out and impassible for many years. A short hike past this washout is a nice tall waterfall with a scenic view of the valleys below, as the stream tumbles noisily down the steep slopes into Big Creek.

I thought this place would be perfect; more private than the trailhead parking, easy to access, not too long a drive from Olympia, short hike, scenic view, waterfall, splashing stream, and at the base of two of our favorite climbs. Perfect.

After choosing the site I believed to be a perfect fit, self doubt starting creeping in. Was it majestic enough for a final resting place?  Should it be a mountain summit or crashing ocean waves on the coast instead? Will there be a locked gate preventing us from driving up there on the Forest Service road? Would the weather cooperate?  Would everyone think I was an idiot for picking this spot?

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These are the thoughts that were running through my head as I stood there taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself enough to be able to speak. I can’t remember exactly what came out of my mouth, but I began to talk at least, trying to express some of these notions, mixed with the dark humor we practiced on many of our climbs.

I had brought a shot glass that I have been keeping topped off on my whiskey shelf, for Rick, since the day he died. As it evaporated, I thought of it as Rick lazily sipping his share of bourbon, and as the level eased down I would top it off with whatever I was drinking so it never emptied. He was very thirsty when the weather was hot, as usual.

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Three months of bottomless bourbon

I pulled the Cling-wrapped glass out of my pocket, removed the wrap and handed Jim the bottle of Evan Williams I had brought. Now, Evan Williams is one of the bourbons we cut our teeth on in the 70’s, along with Ezra Brooks, and that we continued to enjoy even after we started enjoying the top shelf whiskeys. They were relatively cheap, good octane, and tasted better than the other bottom-shelf whiskey like Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Yes, we considered Jack to be bottom shelf.

Jim filled the shot glass, me making sure he topped it off as I know Rick would not want to be shorted on his shot.  I spoke a few more words, irreverent I’m sure, and poured the shot into the bag of ashes.  I won’t swear that I heard Rick give his whiskey-shot follow-up call, but I felt it.

We then passed Rick around to each person that wanted, or was able, to say a few more words or share a story.  I’ll let them share their owns thoughts and stories, but Jim added some higher-end bourbon from the traditional Nalgene trail bottle and Tom shared his Deschutes Pale Ale and other goodies as they spoke a few more irreverent words, as only climbers that have shared danger can, quenching Ricky’s thirst a bit more.

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Jim gives Rick a shot
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Tom gives Rick a sip of Pale Ale while Patty watches

Patty and Zach spoke much more reverently, others declined, there were more tears and more smiles shared and so when Patty asked “what now” I declared it was “time to dump his ass out!”.

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Patty’s sister Vickie listens as Patty shares her story
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Zack, Joe and Terri listen to stories being told

Patty carried Rick over to the base of the waterfall and poured him into the stream, declaring that mixing him with the water returned his physical form back to the living cycle of the Earth. I took a good pull of the Evan Williams and passed it around for everyone to have a sip.  I took the rest of the bottle and poured it over his ashes.

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Patty empties Rick into the stream

I had given Jim and Tom, Rick’s other long-time rope partners, a piece of the first “real” rope I had purchased back when I was in the Army in 1980.  Rick and I had done many climbs with that rope, including his first summit of Mt. Rainier.

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Rick with my old Mammut climbing rope on Mt Rainier

I had tied a re-woven figure eight in each one. This is the knot every climber ties to their harness to connect them to another climber. Jim decided to tie his piece of rope to a small tree over the stream, and proceeded to show us he had forgotten how to tie his mountaineering knots and create a solid anchor. Tom followed suit, tossing Jim his rope as we joked about his knot tying prowess. I’m too sentimental about that kind of stuff. Someone will be deciding why I have a hunk of old rope and what to do with it after I’m gone.

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Tom and Rick watching Jim tie the wrong knots

We told a few more stories, sipped a bit more brew and bourbon, took a group shot and then headed back down to Olympia while Tom headed up to do Ellinor.

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Les, Joe, Jim, Tom, Terri, Patty, Zach, Vickie

I don’t know about everyone else, but with all the emotions and love shared, in a spot where I can easily imagine him standing there taking a sip of bourbon, it was perfect at least for me. I believe Rick would think so too, it was so much more “him” than a formal funeral.

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Goodbye for now…

I will be back up to share a sip or two with him from time to time, and he’s not hard to find, now that you know where he rests.

 

 

 

The Climber Community

The day Rick died, his brother Matt posted that he had passed away that day on a hometown memorial page. It is one of the things that got me thinking about documenting some of the stories as it was swarmed by well-wishers for a couple of days and then rapidly moved down the news feed for that page.

No judgement, that’s just how things are in Facebook group land…the group is only as fresh as the latest post and time quickly moves on.

In Memoriam

Still, 66 brief posts of the “Sorry for your loss”, “Prayers” and the odd message of someone actually mentioning a memory about Rick made the response rather anemic feeling for me.  I get it…the site only has a few thousand members and only a few would have really known Rick for the time he was in high school or lived there.

Curious and kind of hoping for more notoriety for the passing of my buddy, a few days later I went to one of my Hiker/Climber groups and made a quick post amongst “or people”.

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What happened blew me away a bit, as my computer starting blowing up with over 300 people responding in less than an hour.  Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.  Eventually, the responses grew to almost 900 people until the inevitable moment where the post reaches the critical spot where it is too much trouble to scroll down that far and view older posts.

Now, there was some competition, since, at the same time I made my post, the one below was posted and began ticking the likes, loves and wows. I take some comfort that it took 3 hours for the poster to hit her 300, even with the cute mountain goat and bikini competition. The old goat still had a move or two in him.

Brittany 3 hrs

What impressed me the most, was it was a response to someone none of them had even met.  While there were a few “sorry for your loss” type posts, the majority were celebrating the life of one of their own… an adventurer and seeker of something more up in the mountains and wilderness.  They grasped that it was a life well lived and not one viewed from the sidelines.

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At the same time it was somehow comforting to see that the subject matter of the other post, Colchuck Lake, was a place Rick and I had been to many times and never tired of the wild looking mountains begging to be climbed and the serene lakeside offering relative peace and comfort from the intensity of being up on the rugged crags.

Seeing younger folks experiencing it for the first time, just as excited as we once were, gives a continuity to the community of hikers and climbers that can only be experienced by being “one of us”.

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Colchuck Lake in 1995 with our target for the weekend, 8,840′ Dragontail Peak, looming behind it.

 

Memory Collector Box

I have wanted to take photographs since I first understood that all the cool paper photos filling albums and crates came from these little magic boxes.  My first camera was a Kodak Brownie Reflex my mother finally surrendered and allowed me to use after much begging and pleading.

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Type of camera I started with

In those days everyone did not carry a camera phone in their pocket.  Taking photos was a special event and conducted only when special events happened, such as Easter photos of the kids all dandied up or relatives from out of town visiting.  A roll of film with 12 shots might last an entire year or even longer back then. Film and processing was expensive after all and not to be wasted by children snapping away at trivial subjects!

I explained in great detail how I needed it to document my all-important adventures.  It had long been kept in a safe, dark place in the black walnut china cabinet, out of the eyesight of probing children…which of course only made it all the more desirable.

I would sneak it out and run my hands over all the knobs and buttons, endlessly looking through the viewfinder and clicking the shutter release to practice my new art form. I figured out how to open the film compartment and longed for the day I could load a fresh roll of film and begin snapping away in earnest.

My first photographic trip was an annual “high adventure” trip my scout troop did every year down in Cumberland Gap National Park. Just the name Cumberland Gap was enough to get a young boy thinking about Daniel Boone chasing bears and being chased by Indians through the deep woods and carving your blaze on trees so others could follow your path.

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Entrance to the park
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Permission slip to go on trip. $22.00 was a small fortune for a Boy Scout trip.

The Mischa Mokwa Adventure Trail is 21 miles of challenging hiking up steep grades that always took place over the three day Memorial Day weekend.  It was almost mythological in our troop, with stories handed down from the older boys that had experienced it. Entire families went down and stayed at basecamp while the “men” went off into the mountain wilderness to prove their mettle.

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Patch for surviving the trail

Boastful stories were told of places along the trail like Hensley Settlement, an old frontier post with log cabins and spring houses, Sand Cave, an enormous cave amphitheater filled with, well, sand, and finally, White Rocks, a high cliff overlook with stunning views of 3 states.

 

Not incidental to this tale, Rick Baker was one of the subjects of this adventure and initial photo-journalistic attempt. Little did I know then that this fledgling experience would have a major impact on my life and that Rick would, over time, become the major focus of my camera.

So off I went on this wild adventure, camera around my neck with 2 entire rolls of film all for myself. I snapped pics of the troop climbing to the ridge trail, drinking water from the spring house, group shots in limestone caves, running wildly down the sand slope at Sand Cave, cooking dinner at high camp, sitting at the edge of the White Rock cliffs flinging crackers off into the abyss…man, I captured every nuance and detail that could possibly be captured. I was a now a true photojournalist!

Getting back home I waited impatiently to get my processed photos back from Woody’s Market and finally they were in.  I couldn’t wait to see my artistically glorious images captured in full color for all of eternity!  I opened the envelope with the big 127 negatives and finally the prints themselves and…was never so disappointed in my life (at least to that point).

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127 format had some big negatives!

They were grainy, out of focus, dark or simply blank. They were not framed the way I had envisioned looking through the viewfinder. There were light leaks from the old camera that blemished many with orange blotches from fingers in the shot. I was crushed.  They looked so great in my mind’s eye…what had the processor done to my beautiful, carefully composed images!

I dutifully put them in a makeshift photo album made from a school notebook anyway and tossed in in my box of keepsakes.  My dream was a bust.

It took a few years to recover from the huge let down…I all but abandoned the notion of taking pictures but eventually concluded that it wasn’t so much me as it was the old camera and lack of technical knowledge that was the issue. After I joined the Army and was sent to the exotic and extremely photogenic Pacific Northwest I was resolved to turn myself into a real photographer once and for all.  I saved my money and bought a real camera…a Canon AE-1 35mm SLR.

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Real camera, get outta my way!

Man, now you’re talking! Dials, buttons, self-timer, little numbers all over the place, this was a serious camera!  I could look through the viewfinder and see exactly what the camera would capture.  I could change from a regular lens to a wide angle, telephoto and everything in-between! I could stop a birds wings flapping in mid-flight with a super-fast 1/1000thof a second shutter speed…this is the tool I needed all along!

I read the manual front to back dozens of times, bought books, played with each control until I knew how everything on that camera functioned.  I shot roll after roll experimenting with backlit subjects, depth of field, long exposures, timed exposures, flash, fast shutter speeds, slow shutter speeds, print film, slide film, black and white, color, you name it.

As I developed my skills and artistic eye I started carrying my camera with me everywhere I could, even out on maneuvers and eventually arrived at the decision that I wanted to make capturing images my career.  After I got out of the Army I used my VA money to attend a 2 year course in photography and film making at a technical school and eventually moved on to a four year degree in visual art at a state college.

During all this time Rick was my long-suffering photographic target as he was usually a co-conspirator of my explorations to the mountains, beaches and anywhere else we could quench our lust for adventure.

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Getting chilly after doing the Sawtooth ridge traverse in the Olympics

There is no doubt that I have photographed Rick more than any other person or thing. In digging through forty-five years of photos for his remembrance I gathered over 1500 pictures of him to edit through. It became our social contract that a camera would just always be there and he used to joke that he was a terrible model and I was only doing it to snap pics of him looking goofy.

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Flapjack Lakes Trail 1991.  I never could get a hold of that tongue and release him from being tongue-tied.

To call him my muse would be misleading, as he was often simply the only one to point the camera at, but he did act as inspiration as he surrendered to being directed, manipulated and cajoled into assisting me to get the images I wanted.

Over time, he learned I didn’t always want him to be posing or just doing cheesy snapshots, although these were always amusing.  He knew not to always look at the camera to get more candid shots, to continue hiking or climbing past me instead of stopping when he got to me, to just act like I wasn’t there.

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Cruising the wild and raw Pacific Ocean Coast in Olympic National Park

I couldn’t help laughing when he would begin coaching new recruits to our adventures as I would overhear him instructing others “he doesn’t want you to look at the lens” or, “just act like he isn’t there” and “just keep walking or he’ll make us do it again”.

He also cheerfully played along when I wanted multiple takes of the same thing to change exposures or otherwise fiddle around with my photographic necessities.  I am sure there were times when having a camera relentlessly pointed at him was fatiguing and an imposition on his privacy, such as the many pics of him eating, drinking, sleeping, peeing, pooping and subsequently flipping me off, but he was always a great sport and being an extrovert I think he secretly liked all the attention.

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Rick keeping abreast of women’s faces melting off with the Weekly World News.

As I prepare the memorial video for Rick, my mind constantly wanders off as I sift through all those years of photos.  Over the years I have often thought of how these photos would become my memories as I grow older and begin to forget more and more details. I treasure each photo, some more than others, but all collectively telling stories of adventures with friends, family and transitory acquaintances.

As I dig through the boxes and boxes of slide pages and prints I come across one adventure or event after another.  Some were very exciting and some were simply filled with moments of beauty, curiosity, or some other kind of implied importance since a frame or two was snapped. They are certainly not all masterpieces but they are all treasured more than gold to me.

 

 

 

 

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Two of the many bins of photos I had to dig through

Though there are thousands of images I can still recall each specific moment they were taken as I deliberately thought about composition, exposure, depth of field, motion, shutter speed and all the other things my training and experience had made me aware of over the years.  But many of the memories locked in these frames are now only triggered when I view the photos… my actual memory having forgotten or stored away the experience to the far off memory attic until being reminded by their visual presence.

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My kind of math: 20 slides per page times a buttload of pages equals a shit-ton of photos.

Often, it is the moments not shown in the photos that are triggered…those moments that were not snapped because someone’s safety was at stake, rain was pouring down, a snowstorm was raging, it was too hot or too cold or I was simply too lazy to stop, pull the heavy hunk of glass and metal out of its protective cocoon, change lenses and grab a pic. How I envy todays adventurers with their tiny GoPros and mobile phones to effortlessly record every small detail so easily.

In an activity where going light and fast was paramount, people did things like cut the handle off a toothbrush or take a poncho instead of a tent to save a few ounces. My struggle was always how many lenses do I really need and how much film to take along balanced with my allocated share of personal and team climbing gear and aching back from carrying too much.

One example of this internal struggle is deciding to leave my camera behind to save weight when I saw a climbing team slide into a crevasse far above us on Mt. Baker, a great story on it’s own.  It was nearly sundown and I made the instant decision to only take bare essentials for the rescue up an evil looking, heavily crevassed icefall to get to them as fast as possible.

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Mt Baker 1990 on the trip we had to rescue a climbing team of the Tacoma Mountaineers

We quickly jammed our packs with a sleeping bag, water, stove, first aid kit, ice ax, crampons, rope, sleeping pads for insulation, splitting the load with Rick.  As it turned out, we got to them with just enough light left to see they were in a terrible situation with blood, broken ones and one of them wedged into a constriction 40 feet down in the crevasse.

We performed difficult and stress-filled lifesaving operations to stabilize the victims and then spent the rest of the night down in a creaking, snapping and dripping crevasse trying not to fall into the dark abyss on either side of us.

We moved the worst off victim (hypothermic, concussion, serious neck injury, broken leg) to a small ice shelf, slightly longer than his body, with barely enough room for Rick and I to stand at either end.

We got him into the sleeping bag, melted some snow with the stove and stuffed a few heated water bottles around him to deal with his hypothermia.  We then spent the rest of the night standing next to him as there was no place to sit on the small shelf.

We had nothing but time on our hands waiting for the main rescue team to arrive (that we hoped a Canadian team was bringing back after running back to the trail head and sounding the alarm) and tending the injured climber.

I started kicking myself in the ass for not bringing the camera up from base camp.  The shots I could have taken!  We chipped a couple of small alcoves in the walls of the glacier ice and put some candles from the first aid kit in them. They cast a crazy magical glow over the whole scene that made it look like a narrow crystal palace and I imagined taking long exposures to capture it all.

I envisioned images of Rick comically struggling to stay awake, close-ups of the crystal candle alcoves, pics looking straight up at the incredibly clear band of the star field visible through the narrow canyon of the crevasse, pics looking straight down from our tiny shelf of ice into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the crevasse, painting the ancient ice walls with the light of our headlamps to further illuminate the surreal crevasse, images of the paramedic rappelling down to us in the morning, shots of the big Navy Sea Stallion helicopter hovering directly above us as they hoisted the victim in the Stokes litter out of the crevasse in the early morning light, pics of my brand new, never slept-in mountain tent being blown 100 feet into the air at base camp as the huge helicopter landed there to pick up one of the other victims carried back down by the Canadian team. None of these images were taken, but they remain very vivid in my memory.

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Big Navy rescue chopper.

The power of the images I do have, to remind me of the ones I never managed to capture, is something I hope will never go away.  These memories in-between the photographs are every bit as important to me, and are as subject to fading with age as the physical photos without careful curation and people to share them with.

A sleeping bag, water, stove, first aid kit, ice ax, crampons, rope, sleeping pads for insulation, splitting the load with Rick.  As it turned out, we got to them with just enough light left to see they were in a terrible situation with blood, broken ones and one of them wedged into a constriction 40 feet down in the crevasse.

We performed difficult and stress-filled lifesaving operations to stabilize the victims and then spent the rest of the night down in a creaking, snapping and dripping crevasse trying not to fall into the dark abyss on either side of us.

We moved the worst off victim (hypothermic, concussion, serious neck injury, broken leg) to a small ice shelf, slightly longer than his body, with barely enough room for Rick and I to stand at either end.

We got him into the sleeping bag, melted some snow with the stove and stuffed a few heated water bottles around him to deal with his hypothermia.  We then spent the rest of the night standing next to him as there was no place to sit on the small shelf.

We had nothing but time on our hands waiting for the main rescue team to arrive (that we hoped a Canadian team was bringing back after running back to the trail head and sounding the alarm) and tending the injured climber.

I started kicking myself in the ass for not bringing the camera up from base camp.  The shots I could have taken!  We chipped a couple of small alcoves in the walls of the glacier ice and put some candles from the first aid kit in them. They cast a crazy magical glow over the whole scene that made it look like a narrow crystal palace and I imagined taking long exposures to capture it all.

I envisioned images of Rick comically struggling to stay awake, close-ups of the crystal candle alcoves, pics looking straight up at the incredibly clear band of the star field visible through the narrow canyon of the crevasse, pics looking straight down from our tiny shelf of ice into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the crevasse, painting the ancient ice walls with the light of our headlamps to further illuminate the surreal crevasse, images of the paramedic rappelling down to us in the morning, shots of the big Navy Sea Stallion helicopter hovering directly above us as they hoisted the victim in the Stokes litter out of the crevasse in the early morning light, pics of my brand new, never slept-in mountain tent being blown 100 feet into the air at base camp as the huge helicopter landed there to pick up one of the other victims carried back down by the Canadian team. None of these images were taken, but they remain very vivid in my memory.

The power of the images I do have, to remind me of the ones I never managed to capture, is something I hope will never go away.  These memories in-between the photographs are every bit as important to me, and are as subject to fading with age as the physical photos without careful curation and people to share them with.

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Dilly-Dilly, the Pit of Misery and Despair. Scanning and Photoshop station.

I am deeply heartbroken that the one constant, the focus of so many of these images and wonderful experiences that began so many years ago, with such a comically dismal start, is no longer here to sit with me, have a glass of whiskey, giggle and laugh and tell new lies about each and every one of them. I will miss you my friend, but I will have to find some comfort in raising a glass and re-living a photo or two of our time together.

Mt Baker 1990 18
Rick Baker on Mt Baker, 1990