Pertussis

I was born in 1947, and my childhood medical records indicate that I was vaccinated against pertussis, commonly known as whooping cough, in 1949, with reinforcing doses given me in 1951 and 1953. I have every reason to assume that my 3 younger sisters had also been similarly vaccinated. When I was in high school in the early 1960s, the eldest of my sisters, who was 2 years younger than I, came down with whooping cough. She would have been about 13 years old at the time. Apparently, the benefits of the vaccine can wear off, leaving teenagers and adults susceptible to the disease once again. That must be what happened to my sister. I can still hear the terrible coughing fits that she endured, her gasping for breath, which lasted for weeks – it was frightening, to say the least, to see her suffer so. In time, she recovered, and the rest of the family were lucky enough to not contract the disease. Years ago, pertussis had almost been wiped out, but is making a comeback. When I started to be a substitute teacher in my local school district, I had to get a booster for pertussis because I would be around so many young children, and I’m glad I did.

Fatherly Expressions

My father used certain expressions that I never heard anyone else use. I don’t know if these were a product of his growing up in rural Saskatchewan, or if he picked them up elsewhere, but they’ve stuck with me over the years. For instance – one time when I was preparing to travel across the country to a sales conference, where I’d be in the company of a group of complete strangers, he said that “everyone’s a hero a hundred miles from home”. Meaning, of course, that nobody can call you out if you happen to be exaggerating, and I’d probably find myself in the midst of a lot of heroes. Another one I never heard anywhere else was when he described how flat something was, it was “flatter than piss on a tin plate”. Here’s another I really liked – instead of saying that something was not so bad, he would say it was “not so worse”. Instead of saying “I’ll be damned” he would say “Well I’ll be god-damned”. And another that sticks in my mind after all these years is when he said something was “slipperier than cat shit on a linoleum floor”. He also would say that something would stick like shit to a blanket. He wasn’t shy about speaking his mind in public. If someone was blocking his view, he’d say “You’d make a hell of a poor window”. And if someone was blocking his path, he’d say “You’d make a hell of a poor door”.

Che

When I went to Bolivia to climb, I was struck by how revered the memory of Che Guevara was. He had been captured in that country and killed by Bolivian soldiers. Reminders of him were commonplace, such as this picture on the wall of a marketplace in Copacabana, Bolivia. The words mean “Che returns”, or perhaps “will return”.

And here’s the cap I bought in Bolivia, complete with flag and Che pin.

Killer Keas

Some time ago, I wrote a piece on this website about keas, the alpine parrots that live in New Zealand. In case you missed it, you can read it here:

Kea

Well, I’m here to report on a startling development about keas. I had heard stories that these birds caused harm to sheep, but I only half-believed them – until now, that is. There are millions of sheep on the South Island, but only between 3,000 and 7,000 keas, which are a highly-protected species. They have actually been witnessed in the act of attacking sheep, usually by standing on their backs and ripping their loins or backs. There is even lore in the farming community that kea “ring leaders” attack sheep and that other kea then feed on the carcasses. A couple of times, permits have been issued by the Department of Conservation to kill keas. Two keas were seen rounding up sheep, and a third was seen on a sheep’s back – the bird was then killed. Shocking, right, that a 2-pound bird would be doing that?

Harquahala Mountain

In 1986, I was newly-arrived in Arizona and starting to climb some of its more important peaks. One that was on my radar was the highest one in the southwestern part of the state by the name of Harquahala Mountain. I foolishly chose to climb it on May 18th, a time of year when the temperature can easily top 100 degrees – that was my first mistake. Starting from the desert floor at about 2,200 feet elevation, I found a trail of sorts that wound its way up the northwest side of the mountain, and hours later found myself on the 5,681-foot summit. The heat had about done me in by the time I arrived.

There was a large array of solar panels and some kind of repeater station there, as well as an old building surrounded by a fence. An interesting sign stated the following:

Harquahala Peak Observatory. Established in 1920 by the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory for solar research. Listed on National Register of Historical Places. Please help us to protect our heritage.

Here is what I saw:

What I saw that really blew my mind, however, was a road that came up the mountain and ended there. Damn, you mean I could have driven to the top?!! I had no choice but to hoof it all the way back down to my car waiting on the desert floor thousands of feet below. A dozen years later, I drove to the top with friend Dave for a night of viewing with his telescope, and that was easy. Nowadays, everyone who climbs the peak either drives the rough road or walks it, but nobody is dumb enough to do it the way I first did.

Crevasse

Crevasses are one of the most dangerous hazards mountaineers face. In 1981, a famous American climber named Jim Wickwire was crossing a glacier on Mount McKinley with fellow climber Chris Kerrebrock. Chris was in the lead, and they were roped together and dragging a sled. A crevasse opened up beneath Chris, who fell in headfirst, pulling Jim and the sled in on top of him. Jim was able to slowly climb out with an ice axe, but he was unable to rescue Chris, who was alive but wedged in tightly, still wearing his backpack and upside down. Chris was injured, and couldn’t feel his hand when Jim touched it. Jim had broken his shoulder, but managed to slowly scale the ice walls of the crevasse, six inches at a time, with his ice axe and crampons.

Once up on the surface of the glacier, he attempted to dislodge Chris, who was still conscious, by pulling hard on the rope. He set up a snow picket as an anchor, then descended on the rope. He tried to move Chris’s tightly-wedged backpack from within the crevasse, but all his efforts were to no avail. The two men said their goodbyes, and Chris died late in the night. It took Jim several more days to get down from the mountain. He came back to the spot of the accident with park rangers and together they extracted the body from the crevasse. Jim was bothered with guilt for months for being unable to save his friend.

Moment of Panic

Climber friend Andy Martin had discovered a new high-prominence peak that everyone else had missed, and I reluctantly decided to climb it. It was way out there, and it would take a concerted effort to get to the summit. Once my plans were made, I drove out to the closest approach that was allowable and parked. Early the next morning, I set out in the dark, following an old road downhill. Seven miles later, I arrived at a spot where I needed to leave the road and head cross-country. It was easy going for another mile to the top of a small peak along my path, where I studied the lay of the land. The big peak, the reason why I’d come so far, was plainly visible, as was my path to its summit. From the desert floor below, it was a thousand-foot climb to reach the top along an easy, winding ridge.

It was just after ten in the morning when I covered the last bit of ground to the summit, and I was excited – a new peak, one that no climbers had visited before, and it was all mine. As I approached the boulders on the highest point, I froze in my tracks. There, sitting facing away from me, were two men dressed in camouflage. They were speaking Spanish and obviously hadn’t seen me. I was right behind them, now only 20 feet away. Immediately I knew why they were there. Lookouts for one of the Mexican drug cartels, they were keeping watch over the movements of Border Patrol vehicles along the road in the valley below, many miles distant. Never in a million years did they expect anyone, such as myself, to come from the opposite direction.

In a split second, I had to make a decision. Should I, before they saw me, quietly turn around and head back the way I’d come, OR, should I make my presence known and confront them. Tagging the summit was really important to me, as were the 2 other peaks I hoped to climb today. My mind was made up in a heartbeat – I would not turn tail and run. In a clear voice, I called out to them, saying I was out climbing mountains and 4 of my friends were right behind me, coming up to this spot, and that we would then head south along the ridge to do more climbing. Well, you should have seen the look on their faces as they wheeled around to look at me – it was as if they had seen a ghost! It only took a few moments to say my piece (in Spanish, of course), and without hesitation, one of them reached down into a backpack. Shit, was he reaching for a gun!? My heart stopped as he pulled out …. a two-way radio. He started speaking into it, and at the same time the 2 of them disappeared over the steep edge of the mountain. It was immediately obvious they wanted nothing to do with me, and that suited me just fine. I tagged the summit but didn’t stick around, not even taking the time to leave a register – I just wanted to put as much distance between me and them as possible, as quickly as I could.

Many more miles awaited me that day, and although I never saw them again, I kept looking back over my shoulder for a long time, just to make sure nobody was following me. Once back home, I called a friend with the Border Patrol and reported the incident. Good news – they sent a chopper up there to flush out the vermin and put the fear of God into them.

Grudge Peak

Have you ever heard of a grudge peak? It’s a term climbers use, to denote a peak with which we’ve had some history. Not positive history, but negative, in the sense that we’ve tried to climb it but were unsuccessful. To me, at least, it means a peak that we’ve probably attempted, maybe more than once, but never reached the summit. I don’t think of a grudge peak as one that we may have planned the daylights out of, no matter for how long, but never actually started in to it on foot.

Thinking back on it, I guess I have a few grudge peaks of my own. During my first 20 years of climbing in British Columbia, I accumulated a couple. One that comes to mind was Grainger Peak. I made a few forays towards it, from more than one side, and even got quite high up on it one time. Never unlocked its secrets, though, and always wished I had. Mount Robson was another one, where I spent an inordinate amount of time skulking around its edges, and one year a week high on its flanks with 2 friends, to no avail. Don’t think poorly of me for Robson, though, as most attempts fail. It went a dozen years with not one soul standing on its summit. And more recently, in a year where 400 tried to best it, only 4 individuals succeeded. I guess I could add one more, this one from Arizona. Out on the bombing range, where you’re not allowed to go anyway, sits a fearsome peak called Dragons Tooth. I’ve explored it a bit, but have never mounted a serious attempt, lacking a partner with technical skills and cohones big enough to go in and try it.

In retrospect, maybe it’s good to have a few grudge peaks. After all, life isn’t perfect, and why shouldn’t we keep dreaming.