Bill's e-mail was cryptically titled "30 Minutes."
He wrote, "That's how long it had been since we pulled the ropes from the last rappel on Mt. Cromwell before a massive slide swept its north face."
Bill -- one of my closest friends -- and his two partners were attempting a difficult alpine route in the Canadian Rockies last October. After nine hours of climbing, they bailed off the face due to high winds and avalanche danger, despite the day's official "low" hazard forecast. From a safe distance, the trio watched the avalanche obliterate the Elzinga/Miller route from which they'd just descended. Had they continued, even for just another half-hour, I'd be writing another eulogy.
Most people avoid the potential for fatal near-misses; climbers anticipate them. It's just part of what we do. Close calls remind us that "What if?" is more than a hypothetical question. They offer us a glimpse into a potential future where we experience our own death.
Yet, Bill still climbs. The majority of us do. But why?
The late Todd Skinner, one of America's best rock climbers, answered this when he said, "Climbing isn't worth dying for, but it's worth risking dying for." He was killed in Yosemite Valley in 2006 when the belay loop of his harness inexplicably snapped during a rappel. He fell more than 500 feet to the ground.
Perhaps my most spectacular close call occurred in 1993 with my climbing mentor, Dallas. (He was killed last October while climbing in the Cascade Mountains). We were in eastern Washington's Peshastin Pinnacles, a collection of infamously loose sandstone towers where we only climbed out of desperation. It was the only dry rock within a day's drive of Seattle. We chose the route Windcave (5.8), a two-pitch slab of exfoliating sandstone that culminates atop a sharp pinnacle. A peak-bagger at heart, Dallas didn't mind the terrible rock if a summit was at stake. As for me, I was willing to climb anything.
After leading the first pitch, Dallas belayed from the route's namesake cave about 50 feet above the ground. He anchored himself, brought me up to his stance, and then I led past him toward the top. I was within arm's length of a solid piton, 15 feet above the belay, when my only foothold crumbled beneath my rock shoe. I fell so quickly there was no time for fear. Somehow I ended up facing away from the rock, feet first, cheese-grating down the slab. The only gear I'd placed between Dallas and me ripped easily out of the shattered rock during my 40-foot fall.
I hung on the slab 30 feet off the deck. Blood dribbled down my back and soaked my shredded shirt. It looked like I'd fallen off a speeding motorcycle. I later discovered that I'd chipped two vertebrae. When the rope fell past Dallas, it crushed two of his fingers, breaking them in several places. But I didn't understand how close a call it had really been until I climbed back up to the anchor and took a look.
I almost vomited.
Typically, a solid anchor is made of three equalized pieces -- in crappy rock, maybe four. But for whatever reason, Dallas had placed just a single nut as an anchor. Even worse, the fall was so violent that the nut (our entire anchor!) dislodged, slid a few inches down the crack, then miraculously re-wedged itself. That never happens.
And it was all that kept both Dallas and I from dying that day.
For better or worse, I've survived more close calls with Bill and Dallas than with anyone else. They're also two of the men I've loved most in my life. Perhaps that's reason enough to agree with Skinner wholeheartedly.
Climbing is worth risking dying for.
Chris Weidner/Boulder Daily Camera
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