On Sept. 25, 2010, Dallas Kloke, a 71-year-old climber from Anacortes, Wash, was just below the craggy summit of The Pleiades in the North Cascades.He and his four partners were unroped on easy terrain, but with a 2,000-foot drop sucking at their heels. On the final moves, Dallas pulled on a large rock that came loose in his hands. "It happened in slow motion," said Scott Bingen, who watched helplessly, an arm's length away. For a moment, Dallas struggled to regain his balance, grasping for something -- anything. But he couldn't hold on this time. He teetered backward in silence. No scream or look of terror. Just quiet resignation, as if in those quick seconds he accepted that he was about to die.
I met Dallas when I was 17 years old. Our common thread was Solid Rock, a Christian climbers' organization we both belonged to. One day in the autumn of 1991, he called out of the blue and invited me to climb the Early Winter Spires with him. I'd never heard of those peaks, but I didn't care. I was desperate for a climbing partner -- even a 52-year-old stranger. I never would have guessed that the tall, skinny, wrinkled man, who drove a yellow VW bus (without heat), would become like a father to me.
Dallas taught me a lot more than how to climb mountains. He instilled in me a work ethic -- not only for climbing and fitness, but for life. He authored guidebooks, children's books, exhaustive climbing journals and various articles. My first article was co-written with him and published in a small, local magazine titled Pack & Paddle.Dallas inspired me to write.
By my 25th birthday, My climbing obsession had become dangerous.Through his example, and without judgment, he subtly nudged me back on track. Dallas shared his life with Carolyn, his wife of 43 years, and their three children. He had two granddaughters whom he called "the light of my life."
But as much as he loved his family, even Dallas fell short. At the memorial service two weeks ago, Steve, Dallas' oldest son, expressed palpable resentment toward a dad who spent more time climbing mountains than he did with his own family. With unobscured jealousy, he said, "Dad's climbing partners had the privilege of seeing the best in him."
Steve was right. Dallas was my mentor through several rites of passage as a climber. In 1993, we pioneered a 1,200-foot route of ice and snow up Mount Kent in the Cascades. It was my first new route.We were together on Storm Peak, my first peak in the Canadian Rockies -- a range much bigger and more intimidating than the Cascades. I was so overwhelmed by the loose rock and steep snow that I couldn't hold back tears. Without a word, Dallas took charge and led us safely to the top.
Dallas caught my first nasty climbing fall. I was leading the second pitch of a moderate rock climb when a foothold broke, and I went flying. My only protection ripped out of the rock and I fell 40 feet, past the belay. In the process of keeping me off the ground, the rope crushed two of his fingers. I escaped with nothing more than severe road rash and a good story.
Ultimately, Dallas and I shared more than 80 mountaintops and dozens of rock climbs. But much more important, we developed a relationship of trust, support and unconditional love that, at least for me, was nowhere else to be found.
Chris Weidner/ Daily Camera
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→Tribute to Dallas Kloke
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