SkiSickness

Last night I went to Freemont to see a band from New Zealand that I like. I arrived an hour early, which made me laugh because I thought I’d arrived a half hour late. The bar was nearly empty except for the opening band setting up alongside a few bar dwelling drinkers. Didn’t seem like the liveliest of scenes so I decided to pass the time with a stroll down to the canal. For whatever reason, perhaps because it was 9 pm on a Sunday or perhaps because clouds threatened rain overhead, the neighborhood seemed empty. The combination of dusk light and empty streets made me aware that I’m alone.

I begin to get in touch with that difference between solitude and loneliness that so often occupies my mind. I gain a side street and walk with my eyes first on the sidewalk in front of me, then on the surrounding grass made green from the recent warm rains. It’s not often that I take time to stroll in the city. I begin to relax and enjoy it. Up ahead I see a crusty looking man sitting at a picnic table asking for money from a couple passing by. I don’t want to disrupt my mood with panhandling so I make for the opposite side of the street.

About half way across I pause. The days before I’d been in Squamish with Casey having a blast. We'd hit town around 8 on Friday night, mostly because my truck-less life makes commuting to and from work a little more time consuming:
We thought we'd squeeze in a few pitches at Murrin before sundown but after missing the parking lot headed to the Smoke Bluffs instead. When we saw the Apron empty and practically calling our names we opted instead to bust up Diedre. We made it up and down with enough time to grab pizza and beers at the brewery. Not a bad day. Or as E$ has been known to say: "it's embarrassing how good it is the life we lead."

The next day Casey and I opted for St Vitus Direct to Squamish Buttress. I apparently didn’t get enough with breakfast so I opted for a healthy dose of spank sauce on Baseline Direct as an alternate way to get to St Vitus. I can ordinarily flounder my way up face climbing, but this one stumped me. I bailed on the fourth bolt. Refreshed by my failure we made our way to the queue now formed at the base of St Vitus. Casey on the beautiful 3rd pitch:
I took a minor detour near the top of the 4th pitch that put me on some some challenging slab to the left. I linked that with the bolts above, ran out of rope, and brought Casey up to a makeshift belay I built at the top of Calculus Crack. After that it was smooth sailing in perfect weather:
One of the things I enjoy most about Squamish is its history and place in North American climbing. It’s fun to be around world class climbers. I get the same feeling when I’m in Chamonix, and or when I was in Canmore, and although I haven’t yet been to Yosemite I imagine it’s the same. After one of the first times Sky and I climbed the Chief to the top we were groveling down the descent in pitch black without headlamps. We’d just climbed some moderate route and were feeling good about having “upped” our game, despite our retardation at having forgotten lights. From up above we saw two headlamps floating towards us. Two women were skipping down the trail in flip flops. When they found us stumbling down the steep rocky trail by braille they took us under their wings. One walked behind Sky, the other behind me, so we could each poach light from their respective headlamps. We, or at least I, could tell from their nonchalance that they both climbed way harder than us. We were right. They’d just climbed Northern Lights, a route I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to do.

When Casey and I got to the parking lot after having climbed the Buttress, I remarked to Casey that the 4 guys standing by one of the few cars remaining climbed way harder than us. I could just tell. The short dude facing us had the same look about him as does Sky, or Himmelstrafer, or the two women who came upon Sky and me, or hell, just about anyone who finds their way to this site. Casey laughingly agreed.

Just then a miniature barrel chested blue heeler sprang into sight. Super cute dog. I knelt down and coaxed her over to me. She sniffed all around as she approached me nervously. When I reached out to pet her she barked in alarm. I've only ever heard one other heeler bark so it kind of surprised me. Heelers don’t ordinarily bark. They usually nip. I used to work for a guy who became my friend and who owned a brick shithouse looking red heeler named Fitzeroy . A stout, powerful dog who barked incessantly when in a car. I used to take Fitz running with my own dogs, and would occasionally take care of him when my friends left town. A few weeks ago I’d stopped by their home expectantly on the way back from Index because I hadn't seen them, or Fitz, in years. When I called, Fitz lumbered over and seemed to remember me. I scratched his head and talked to him in my Fitz voice. Every dog elicits a unique voice, at least from me. Deacon, Taurus, Thor, Opie, Vagabond, Crip, Lander, Fitz, Sadie- every dog I’ve ever had affection for I’ve talked to with a different tone of voice. With Fitz, I used a low guttural authoritative tone. He seemed to like it, or at least respond to it, so it’s what I used. It was good to see my old work and running buddy. One week later I saw on Facebook that he had died. So when I saw this miniature Fitz barking blue heeler in front of me I immediately took a liking. The guy with his back to us turned when he heard the commotion and came over, laughing and apologizing. It was Dean Potter. The point being, you never know how interesting a random encounter might be.

Getting back to my night in Freemont, I decided to approach the guy down the street. From afar I could tell he’s lived way harder than me, so I figure I might learn a thing or two from him. Some life lesson equivalent of carrying a head lamp when climbing at one’s limit on the Chief. At the very least he might have an interesting story or two. I turn around in the middle of the street and return to the sidewalk. As I get to within talking distance he asks whether I can spare some change. I instead extended my hand and introduce myself.

“Hi, my name's Ryan"

“Preacher John,” he replies as he takes my hand into his own. I’m not the strongest guy in the world, but as a carpenter/climber/skier I tend to use my hands fairly regularly. In his, my hand feels like that of a child.

I sit down across from him. Preacher John tells me that he’s a Chip- his dad being a full blooded Chippewa and his mom being half Scottish half Irish. I spent summers in Minnesota and Wisconsin as a kid and frequently heard stories about the Chippewa, or Ojibwe nation. I tell him this, and we talk about where he’s from. A small town in North Dakota. He laughs hard when I ask whether he has a temperament to match his lineage. “It’s why I can’t get near the drink,” he chuckles between coughing spells. When I ask how a Chip ended up marrying a half Scottish half Irish woman, and vice versa, he tells me “She’s what my dad wanted. Her and her alone.” We talk about his family. He has several grown kids, one about my age even though he doesn’t know how old I am. My dad is 70. I ask him his age. ”64”. He looks 84, especially when compared to my own father. He goes on to tell me that he served in Vietnam and shows me a wristband to prove it. His was yellowish green. Gulf war vets have red, he tells me. I ask whether the army’s taken care of him and he launches into his thoughts on that. His few remaining teeth protrude at odd angles. He asks me for some sand paper so he could pull one of them. Sandpaper, apparently, allows one to extract a tooth without pulling out the roots. When I wince at the idea and tell him he’s hardcore, he laughs and says “Hell…. get tough or die. That’s my motto.” My own struggles and accomplishments both vanish and magnify before this man.

He begins to tell me one story after another until I can’t help but wonder whether he’s just feeding me bullshit so I’ll give him money. Certain details call other details into question. Like when he tells me he used to play music with a guy named Charles Dickens. Sometimes I feel cynical, and perhaps even cold hearted in a way. I don’t like that about myself. I mean, I'm struggling in my own life, especially with money, so I have a hard time giving away what little I have. Especially when I have friends who know my situation and occasionally spot me. I still owe E$ money for money he fronted me on our trip to Canada. I owe the bank and my brother a huge chunk of change for bailing me out after my divorce. On the other hand, I'm not an 84 year old looking but actually 64 year old dude sitting on a park bench with my sleeping bag nearby asking for handouts.

I try turning the tables and ask Preacher John if he ever gets asked for money, and how he responds if and when he does. He tells me he’d give his last dime away and the shirt off his back. He answers too quickly for me to believe him. Generosity, benevolence, compassion, empathy- all are different than sacrifice and I’m not convinced that any altruistic act which involves the latter brings about anything good. Helping others at your own expense won’t make the world a better place. Making sure one is taken care of and THEN helping others, on the other hand, now that does make the world a better place.

I try to stir a more meaningful conversation by asking whether it makes sense to keep a little savings in reserve for one’s own well-being. He replies, “Of course! You need to keep what you need. But once you have that you gotta help your brothers out.” But that, I already know, begs the million dollar question: how to know what you need so you can live with that alone. I realize that Preacher John won’t be able to answer this question. It’s something we each need to ask and answer for ourselves.

Still, I want to know for real what this man is like. I want to understand why and how he came to be sitting on a bench asking passerbys for money. Not so I can decide whether or not to give him money, but so that I can connect with him as a human being living a life not so very different and yet very different from my own. So while he continues to fill the summer air with words that make stories I think of the one question that would cut to the chase of all my own bullshit were it asked of me. I interrupt him from a story about his days living in a tent working at a lumber outfit in Forks. "Preacher John,” I say, “I’m sorry to interrupt you but I want to ask you sort of a weird question."

"Go ahead, boss, what is it?" He calls me boss for reasons I learn in the conversation that follows.

"Have you ever lost someone you loved?"

An hour later, after we shake hands and wish each other well, I hear him say to the people behind me as I walk away, "excuse me, miss? Spare some change?"

I'm quite sure you could write a book Ryan. Awesome story. Great insight. Thanks.

Do you know if your variation from St Vitus was No Saints Left? I liked the little roof on that but the slab, not so much.

How did you find the last pitch of the buttress this time? I like your picture of Casey pulling through the Squishy Butt crux. Were you carrying a big camera?

Sandpaper, so good for myriad medical applications.

Woh, that is quite the TR. This is the lesson I learned helping take care of my family in Japan, after I suffered both physically and mentally:

ryanl wrote: Making sure one is taken care of and THEN helping others...

How fun that you med Dean Potter!

I don't know what that variation is called. I only have the Squamish Select book, and it shows a dotted 10d bolted route that parallels st vitus, followed by a 10a slab pitch above. Your description sounds spot on though. I climbed the st vitus crack but then instead of cutting right for that bulge move I went straight up through the bolted roof. Fun couple of moves. And you're right, the pitch above wasn't very interesting.

Yeah, I had my big camera. Getting used to it, but i'd recommend getting a smaller one. I loved that crux pitch! I fell once, but then I figured it out. I ended up using a back step smear combination that gave me some no hands rests. Pretty sure I'm good to go the next time.

And Jason, thanks for the encouragement.

Gotta be No Saints Left. Here's a picture of Alex following the good part.


I already bought another camera, both smaller and better than my last, but I'm planning to get a really nice one in the near future too.

Good to see Casey on the sharp end, too.

Heavy write-up. I wish I had more feelings. Let's hang out and climb Chianti spire.

your writing is easy to read, if that makes sense. makes a chunk of text seem like three picture captions. i would buy your book.

nice trip(s) Ryan, and engaging prose. i'm no expert, but sure seems like you could take those skills places.
any pics from Adams last weekend?

nope, no pics. I was too cold to take any shots. Dressed for July and got blasted with 40+ mph winds. By the time I warmed up on the descent we were past the interesting terrain/landscapes.

thanks Klar. Some day I might take you up on that.