Smelly Prank
During the 5 years I spent at the University of British Columbia, I lived the entire time in a men’s dormitory on campus. We were a rowdy bunch, and never turned down a chance to pull a prank on our fellows. All of the rooms in the dorm were shared, 2 men to a room. There was one exception, though, a much larger space shared by 3. In addition to the usual sink in every room, that room also had its own toilet (all other rooms had to use the toilets and showers in the shared bathrooms down at the end of the hall). Their toilet was in a small room with an exhaust fan in its ceiling. One day some of us decided to have some fun at the expense of our 3 friends in that room.
We went down to the aggie barns at the edge of campus and started nosing around. One of the workers asked us what we wanted, and we came right out and told him we wanted some shit to use for a prank. Well, they had every kind you could imagine – cow, horse, pig, sheep, goat – you name it, they had it, and it was free. We explained that we needed the stinkiest shit possible, and he said that in that case we needed pig shit, that nothing else would do. He led us over to the freshest he had and we filled a few plastic bags.
Back at the dorm, we waited until our 3 friends were at classes for the day, then climbed up on to the roof. Removing the cover from the exhaust vent, we tied a bag of shit to its underside and lowered the bag down the vent on a cord just long enough that the bag wouldn’t be visible from their toilet. We had carefully cut slits in the bag to let its aroma escape into the vent. Then all we had to do was wait.
Since the 3 of them were our friends, we didn’t need much of an excuse to hang out with them in their room. Within a day, they started to accuse each other of not flushing the toilet often enough, or of needing to bathe more often. We assured them that we couldn’t smell anything and that they had vivid imaginations. It got pretty ripe in there for a week or more, until eventually the shit dried up and the smell faded away. Much later, we confessed what we’d done over a few beers, and how we’d had a good laugh at their expense. They forgave us, but never could figure out a suitable way to get back at us for the prank we’d pulled.
Climbing World Record
If you look in the Guiness Book of World Records, you can find my name in the mountain-climbing section next to the world’s slowest ascent and descent. Here, I’ll prove it.
On January 1st of 1991, I was trying to get to the top of Aconcagua in the Andes. The sun had risen and I found myself at the base of a feature known as the Canaleta. As I stood there, at 22,000 feet elevation, I looked up the final slope of the mountain. The summit was about 800 feet above me. This last part wasn’t really steep, maybe at an angle of 30 degrees, I’m guessing. Here’s what it looks like.
The thing about the Canaleta, though, that is soul-crushing, is that it is a big pile of loose rock. You take two steps up and slide back one. That’s annoying enough anywhere, and we’ve all been on slopes like that, but to do it at such an elevation is almost heart-breaking. People come from all over the world to climb Aconcagua, spending a lot of time and money to get to the top, and plenty of them turn back in the Canaleta. The thing is, the day I was there I felt fine. I was well-acclimatized to the elevation, was warmly-dressed and not suffering in any way. But time seemed to stand still. I never sat down to rest, nor did I stop to eat. I must have been going at a snail’s pace, because it took me eight full hours to climb those 800 feet and reach the summit at 22,837 feet. Even stranger, I have no recollection of time passing while I was there. Perhaps aliens abducted me, then put me back near the summit. After a short while on top, I headed back down, and the descent of 1,000 meters to my high camp took place normally and in good time.
And now, for the rest of the story. On August 19th of 1989, my 10th day on Mount Robson, my two partners and I decided it was time to bail, to get down from the wintry hell we had been enduring. Two Welsh climbers were also there. Fresh from an attempt on Mount Fairweather, we knew that they were in a different league than we. Since escape through the upper icefall in the Robson Cirque was not an option (both teams had already checked it out, and the route was blocked by impassable crevasses and dangerous seracs), our only other option was to use a feature called the Razorback to descend. This was a mixed route of ice, snow and rock. Part of that route can be seen in this next photo. It follows the ridge over there in front of the clouds and goes down to the left. The climbing is to Class 5.8. The 2 Welsh climbers, Richard and Dave, went on ahead, moving quickly and were soon lost in the distance.
By 1989, I had done very little roped climbing, so, on this day, I was the slow one. My lack of comfort on the 12 places we had to rope down really slowed Brian and Scott tremendously. The hours flew by, and by 8:00 PM it was getting dark. We could either try to do an emergency bivouac in the snowstorm which had engulfed us, or keep on going. We kept on going. Richard and Dave were camped on the glacier below, and their headlamps helped guide us in. By the time we reached them, it was one o’clock in the morning. It had taken us a full 15 hours to drop 1,000 feet. So, now you see why I hold the world’s records for slowest ascent and descent!
Bivouac
Brian had led us up a pretty fearsome peak – we made it to the top okay, but just plain ran out of daylight on the way down. After the first 5 rappels, we found ourselves about half-way back to the base but in a tricky spot, to put it mildly. We were in a deep notch with cliffs towering above us, and no level ground to lie on – boulders filled all of the space, having fallen down over untold years into the notch where we found ourselves. It was like being in a cave, or, some might argue, more like a tomb. We built a tiny fire in a rocky alcove. Although with just a fleece against the chill night air, the fire might have served as warmth, but it was too small for that. Rather, it served as a connection between us and the rest of humanity, affirming that we were alive and would survive this. A few feet away was a hole through which we could look straight down the rest of the face – it scared the shit out of me, and, I’m sure, had something to do with the recurring nightmares that tormented my sleep. And speaking of sleep – of that, there was precious little. Because we couldn’t lie down, we sat on our climbing ropes for a bit of comfort and leaned against each other, back to back. Each one passed his own night. Fourteen hours later, Brian checked his watch, announced that daylight was upon us and that we should make ready to continue down. That we did, and, 7 rappels later, some of them past overhangs where we couldn’t see what was ahead, we finally touched down on solid ground.
Bargain Meal
It was early 1990. Recently come from Aconcagua, I was back in Mendoza. Peter had spent the same awful 5 days and nights as I at Berlin camp, fighting the weather at close to 20,000 feet. Being back in the city was like being in paradise. At Berlin, Peter had regaled me with the details of fine meals he had enjoyed in Mendoza, and we vowed we’d dine together once we were done with the mountain. Now we were there and ready to celebrate. Our highest priority was a restaurant with the curious name of Señor Cheff.
We met at around 7:00 PM, and I told him I was famished, that it was long after my normal dinner time. He looked at me in surprise, saying it was far too early to eat, that we had hours to kill before we could dine. He went on to say that it would be quite absurd to show up at the restaurant before ten o’clock, than no respectable Mendocino would think of eating before then. Well, it was obvious I was unfamiliar with local customs. We wiled away a few hours in walking around in the beautiful downtown peatonal, working up a good appetite, then finally headed over to the restaurant.
Even with arriving at ten, we were still the first customers in the door. Hey, nice place – real tablecloths and cloth napkins, uniformed waiters – not at all like I thought it might be. We were seated and given menus. Peter pointed out to me a sign on the wall stating that, by law, tourists were not to pay more than a set price for a bottle of local wine. We proceeded to order a multi-course meal, the same as Peter had enjoyed there before. Here’s what we each had: an appetizer of tomato stuffed with tuna and rice; soup; fresh bread; roasted chicken and french fries; salad; flan; plus a full bottle of excellent Mendoza wine. We each had a bottle of wine.
Argentina was undergoing rapid inflation at the time. Their currency was losing its value so quickly that the banks were posting a new exchange rate for the U.S. dollar several times a day. Tourists like me who were walking around with U.S. dollars in their pockets were sitting pretty. Local businesses weren’t changing their prices, though, at least not yet. As a result, everything was going for what we considered to be fire-sale prices. The total bill for my meal, in U.S. dollars, came to $1.54, a big part of which was 34 cents for the bottle of wine! I left the customary tip of 10%, or 15 cents, bringing my final bill to $1.69. It was enough to make you feel guilty. Needless to say, Peter and I dined there several more times before departing Mendoza. Each time we did, the meal was cheaper than before due to the falling value of the Argentine currency.
Partying With Rich
Back in the year 2009, I was camped out in the desert with a group of friends. This was a yearly occurrence, to which I always looked forward eagerly. It lasted 3 days, Saturday evening being the main part of our celebration. It was my custom to bring along a bottle of booze to share with friends. That evening, around a roaring campfire, a group of us kept the party going until late. The crowd eventually thinned out, and only 4 of us found ourselves still partying after midnight. I had brought a 1.75-liter bottle of tequila, plus limes and salt. One of our little group was a fellow named Rich Gnagy, a revered older climber well-known to all. He always carried a little tin cup on his belt, and it saw plenty of use that night. Every time we were ready for another shot, Rich proffered his tin cup, which I thought was so cool. He outlasted all of us, at 84 years of age. He passed away 2 years later, and I know he was missed by many. I’m glad I had a chance to celebrate with him that night.