Substandard
In my younger days, while traveling on the world’s tightest budget, I stayed in some pretty shabby accommodations. Places that are best left nameless, faceless, in towns I can’t even remember. Places with no heat in the winter, or not even a fan in soul-searing heat in the summer. In rooms I shared with several strangers; in rooms with flea-infested mattresses that had more bugs than a Leopoldville tenement; in rooms where I feared being robbed, or worse; in rooms where hotel staff peeping toms tried to catch a glimpse through the window; in rooms with no window at all.
One winter in South America, I spent a few nights in a room with no heat – it was as cold as the outside, below-freezing temperature. The proprietor agreed, for an extra buck a night, to run a rubber hose gas line to my room to fire up a propane heater. In retrospect, it’s a wonder I wasn’t poisoned from carbon monoxide or the place didn’t blow up.
Many times when I’d spring for a really cheap hotel room, I found it prudent to ask up front when there’d be hot water available in order to shower. In some places, it’d only be for an hour or two a day, so you’d have to plan accordingly. Even then, some of them never delivered.
A Fun Challenge
Months earlier, Andy and I had gazed at the peak from a few miles away. He commented that he felt it would be technical. Now I was in that new, strange valley, alone, staring up at the peak from the desert floor, and realizing that this was the same peak we had seen from afar. There were several other peaks in the valley I had already done – I had left this one for last, hoping I might be able to tackle it by myself. I scrambled up an easy slope from the desert floor to the start of the rock.
Ten feet of near-vertical rock of so-so quality started things off, followed by 20 easier feet. I was then forced to traverse over to the left on decent holds but with plenty of exposure. Next came a steep part, easy enough but for the bush growing directly in my path. Satan himself must have planted it there, I had never seen anything so nasty. The thorns were amazing – long, sharp, numerous. As I delicately balanced below it, I removed my day pack and fished out a pair of thick leather gloves, de rigeur (at least for me) for desert climbing. Wearing them, I could push enough of the bush aside to pass. Several feet higher stood a teddy-bear cholla cactus, the nastiest that grows in the Sonoran Desert, which I also managed to bypass. I gained another 20 feet on easier ground, then found myself in a small alcove below an overhang, the top of which was only about 8 feet above me. I surprised myself as I managed to get up and over it on good, solid rock. I now found myself staring through a ten-foot window, or natural opening, right through the narrow ridge that formed the top of the mountain, affording me a breathtaking view of the desert floor 400 feet below. To the right, I scrambled up some Class 3 rock and, lo and behold, found that I was on the very summit ridge itself. All I had to do now to finish the climb was walk across a two-foot-wide bridge of rock which formed the top of the window, delicately dodging another teddy-bear cholla growing right in the middle of my path – the exposure on both sides was breath-taking. Since I’m writing this, obviously I made it okay. After a short stay on top, I took care of one order of business before starting back. I gathered a bunch of rocks from the summit area and threw them, one my one, at the cholla growing on the bridge until I had knocked enough of it down that it didn’t freak me out trying to pass by it again. The rest of the descent, I am happy to report, went without a hitch.
Border Stealth
Something I have done several times is to sneak across the U.S.-Mexico border to climb in Mexico. With others, yes, but also by myself. This has always been done in remote areas, far away from any population centers on the Mexican side. The reason I’ve done this is because to drive down into Mexico and approach the peak from that side would put me at risk, either from drug cartels or corrupt police. Also, I didn’t like the idea of parking my vehicle and leaving it subject to prying eyes or sticky fingers. Of course, I’m talking about climbs where the peak was only a few miles, at best, from the border, something that could be done in a few hours, tops.
Decades ago, Border Patrol agents didn’t seem to care much about such things. I’ve even told some of them in advance what I was about to do, and their only advice was to be careful. Not so nowadays. Friends have been told flatly by BP that it is a serious offense to cross the border back into the States without coming through an official border crossing, through a proper port of entry. To do so is an offense punishable by a fine of up to ten thousand dollars. Ah, gone are the days when things were so much simpler.
Elephant’s Foot
I’ve known about an elephant’s foot for fifty years, and I even owned one for a long time. Now if you Google the name, you’ll find something quite different than what I had. The main thing I found in my search was a radioactive blob of material resulting from the Chernobyl nuclear meltdown. There is also a type of plant known as an elephant’s foot. And of course there are 4 of them on any real pachyderm. However, there is a term known by serious climbers that is none of the above.
To me, the term always referred to a pair of climbing pants where you could zip the legs together and make them into a sort of sleeping bag, useful for bivouacs. Coupled with a parka, you could spend a reasonably comfortable night. Here’s what mine looked like. You can see the black zippers on the inside of the legs. There were ties on the bottom for tying it closed. The pants were filled with down, meant for cold-weather expedition use. They were bibs, and came up pretty high, held in place with suspenders. Pretty cool idea, right? Like many climbing terms, the proper name is French, and is pied d’éléphant.
The pants
Afraid To Know
We were climbing in a remote mountain range, off-limits and way out beyond beyond. Our plan was to climb all 12 of the peaks, none of which had been touched by any climber before us. As we stood at the base of the toughest one yet, the one that would probably prove the crux of the entire trip, we saw a rough gully leading up to the highest part of the peak. Up we went, until we found ourselves in an airy gap which we figured must be close to the top. The only way to continue was up a short wall to our right.
My partner agreed to give the wall a try, and I agreed to follow if it went okay. He made short work of it – I was inspired by how easily he climbed up the steepest part, then disappeared. He had found a series of good holds on pretty decent rock. It went at Class 4, but the exposure was outrageous and we had no rope. I shouted up to him to please not say anything about whether or not this was in fact the highest pinnacle, because if it weren’t, I didn’t want to be distracted by disappointment as I did the trickiest bit. Once up, I walked over to his position and could see right away that we were on the true summit of our peak. A huge flood of relief poured over me, a very emotional moment actually, as I realized that the worst of our difficulties had been overcome and that it seemed fairly certain that we would be able to fulfill our dream of climbing all 12 of the peaks in the range.
Impromptu Recital
It was a fine July day when I found myself in Morelia. Having heard about the Baroque-style cathedral which was begun in the year 1660, I had to pay a visit. Once there, I begged permission to climb the stairs to the top of the 230-foot bell tower for a commanding view of the city. After a short stay, I descended and entered the cathedral proper, which critics say is the most beautiful in the entire country. While seated in that cool, shadowy sanctuary, something special happened. The most heavenly sounds started to fill the place. It turned out that the church organist was there that afternoon, and he started to play the most sublime music on the German organ of 4,600 pipes. Whether he was just practicing, or rehearsing for something special, it didn’t matter. I sat there, transfixed, as he transported me to a very special place for an entire hour.
Capital Day
One of the nicer days I remember spending in Mexico City was June 21st of 1972. Perhaps the summer solstice made it a bit more special, who knows, but it started off with a visit to the huge Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. As I strolled about the campus, I ended up having a fine vegetarian meal with the Hare Krishna monks. Then some students invited me to join them, so we drove to their lovely home home a few miles away for an afternoon of ping pong and socializing with the family. The day was capped off with an amazing performance of the Ballet Folklórico de Mexico at the Palacio de Bellas Artes. One fine and memorable day, for sure.
Snow Cave
Deep inside a British Columbia winter, I decided I’d try to dig a snow cave. Never having made one before, I read what I could about the methods, then headed out. I wanted to force myself to do the best job, so I climbed high up on a slope above the Chilliwack River Valley one afternoon. I didn’t bring a tent, on purpose, so I’d be forced to perform. There was no lack of snow, that’s for sure. On a moderate slope, maybe 25 degrees, I set to work near tree-line. Man, it was hard work. It turned out I didn’t have a clue. After much digging, I had created a hole about the size of a coffin, just big enough to lay my sleeping bag in and not much else. Oh, did I mention that I planned this escapade at a time when a good snowfall was expected overnight?
I concluded that the glorious, roomy snow caves I had studied on paper from the comfort of my armchair could only have come about by untold hours of effort by multiple persons with proper tools and knowledge. It was one of the worst nights I ever spent in the mountains. The entrance kept filling in with snow and it seemed like half of those long hours were spent making sure I didn’t suffocate. How vividly I remember waking up once in the dark and in utter silence, panicking as I realized I was shut in – quick work to create a breathing hole, true, but it was one long winter’s night, I’ll tell you. I was never so glad to see daylight. Tail between my legs, I headed downslope and home. I had had enough, and never tried again to dig a snow cave – lesson learned.