Legends, Lines, and Climbing

So as I alluded to in my last post, Nick and I had really been looking forward to attending an event for one of our climbing idols, Fred Beckey, at The Mountaineers event center. But we were a little more than disappointed as the night played out. At first it was awesome and rather touching to see so many people, ranging from barely walking to barely walking anymore, come to see Fred. For those of you who don't know, Fred Becky is "the" pioneer climber of the Cascades and author of several indispensable guidebooks such as the Cascade Alpine Guide Volumes 1-3, as well as of an inspiring memoir entitled Challenge of the North Cascades. Becky, 89 as of yesterday (Happy Birthday Fred), has lead the way for young cascade climbers such as myself and even at his age continues to climb and remains actively involved in the climbing community. He's always popping up in interviews and articles in Rock and Ice or Climbing and climbers often report having seen him at bar in Seattle or at The Tav in Ellensburg (my personal story). And I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of him with the release of his new book. The book signing and interview, conducted on stage at the center by Fitz Cahall of the podacst The Dirtbag Diaries, was sponsored by Patagonia to promote Becky's newest title Fred Beckey's 100 Favorite North American Climbs. Unfortunately, Cahall seemed to us to be ill-prepared for the interview, which amounted to a mere fifteen minute exchange. He asked maybe five rather poorly pointed questions which left Beckey with little room to answer. To be fair, Fitz, we were told, had just come from his child's birth and so understandably he may have been a bit distracted and or even disinterested in the task at hand. I can't blame him, and I congratulate him and celebrate with him as a follower of the DD's. However, I couldn't help but feel like he and Patagonia had kind of "dropped the rope" at this event. They kept telling us that they were going to keep the interview short and wrap it up quickly because lets face it "you're all here for Beckey." And that was true. But our understanding of what that statement meant couldn't have been more different. For Nick and I, I can speak for him only because we discussed this at length over beers at the Fiddler's Inn after leaving the event, "here for Beckey" really meant we wanted to hear him talk about climbing, which we only got a taste of during the interview. Apparently, to Patagonia, our coming to an event "for Beckey" meant we felt like standing in a line with roughly three hundred other people, waiting to have our book signed, with the hope of maybe exchanging pleasantries with the author. Well Nick and I, like I imagine most alpine climbers, don't do well in lines or crowded rooms. We didn't stick around long, who am I kidding, we left as soon as the line formed. I detest lines, in fact there has never been a line in which I have felt, either during or after the fact, was worth my time to be standing in. Don't get me wrong, I'm not assuming that I should be taken to the front of said line because I'M SO SPECIAL but only that I know that somewhere the same service is being offered or a superior opportunity is being missed because I'm following a slow moving or stagnant crowd instead of breaking my own trail. On top of that, I'm a bit claustrophobic, and Nick for his own phobic reasons needed know convincing, so we chased the cold night air out the door and found a quiet bar to drink and grub. This is not to suggest that we didn't enjoy being in the presence of someone that we so admire and that in many ways has accompanied us via his guidebooks on many of our adventures, but only that I understand and have come to appreciate the difference between the legend and the man. To Nick and I, and others I'm sure, Beckey is literally and metaphorically a rock star, he's the Jimmy Page of rock climbing. But I wouldn't stand in line to get Page's autograph either. This event made me realize that I don't idolize Fred Beckey, but rather Beckey's career and contributions to the discipline that has come to define my lifestyle. A career, that through his books and his influence on climbing has become ingrained into my cultural identity. I feel much the same way about Led Zeppelin for example. I love their music but probably wouldn't go so far as to cross an even moderately busy street in order to shake Robert Plant's hand. And if I saw a line forming, I might actually run the other way, gasping for fresh air. I don't regret forgoing getting my copy of Challenge of the North Cascades signed, or missing the opportunity to bs with a legend as he scribbled out one of three hundred "personal" notes, but I do feel a great opportunity was missed to introduce a younger generation to a climber whose career is grand in both size and scope, and inspirational to anyone who enjoys the freedom of climbing.

And so I've decided to dedicate a number of posts to Beckey that will hopefully illustrate how much he has effected my climbing career and explain how his books; directions, illustrations, photos, and route descriptions can directly influence, positively and negatively, a climbing team's adventures. I will post several journal entries and pics from my own adventures that involve Beckey routes. But that will start next week along with an excerpt from my uncle Ted's climbing notes, which Ted, who was recording some of my earliest climbing experiences back in '97, was kind enough to share with me via email. Thanks Ted! It really brought back a lot of fond memories.
But for now, enjoy another poem. This one, cleverly entitled I want the flesh of my knuckles to rip off and rot, I wrote at the end of last winter while I was still at university and was dying to get out and climb. I'm feeling much the same way this winter, it still rings true. And you'll be happy to know that I did leave some flesh rotting on Dragontail this summer. Stay tuned and climb on.

I want the flesh of my knuckles to rip off and rot

on the towers of Dragontail, Prusik Peak, and Argonaut.

To suck glacier-water off of frozen waterfalls,

scream “rock,” fuck fear, swallow scared, watch it fall.

To bleed from gashed arms, scraped knees, and cracked hands,

feel the stinging in cuts when sweat seeps in.

The rain pelting welts into my soft naked skin

beating me into a man less weak, less fragile, less thin,

into a man more raw, more silt, salt and earth,

mud and blood, tears and shit, a ball of clay out of dirt.