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THE SURE THING
by Skye Cooley My friend Keith is 100% Wyoming. He’s a sober, long-sided fellow with a speaking cadence as stunted as a High Plains ponderosa. His incredibly long strides and nearly seven feet of height distort his movement across a mountain landscape; he looks like he’s moving really slow. The truth is that he is actually moving far slower than he appears. Keith is deceptively slow. I’ve climbed a lot of Rocky Mountain peaks with Keith. Mt. Moran’s CMC Route, the direct line up Lone Eagle spire in Colorado’s Indian Peaks, and Maroon Bells’ neighboor, Pyramid Peak are among the more memorable. But last year I had to bail on an invitation to join him on Denali. He went anyway, solo, officially recording his “expedition” name as the Wyoming Alpine Club. I got a postcard from him, penned around 4:15 a.m., from the summit of Mt. McKinley. He had come from the comfy 14,000’ camp at night and had the place to himself. I thought, “Maybe Keith found his wings.” I was wrong. Last month, I got an opportunity to make up for my cash-strapped bail out on the Alaska trip. Keith was on his way up from Reno with a few days to spend climbing with me in the Cascades. I was jobless, hiding out in a small mining town in British Columbia (which I still am), looking again at a zero balance. So, of course, I did the most responsible thing and began making up a list of summits for the week. I wanted a sure thing. No delays. No weather delays. No crappy snow slogging. No crappy weekend tourists dropping their Figure 8’s off ledges above. No crappy rock. No injuries. The only sure thing we have in Washington is, of course, Washington Pass. So for the next four days our goal was to be five summit photos with Vasiliki Ridge in the background. Cutthroat South Buttress, the Beckey Route and Overexposure on Liberty Bell, the southwest aręte scramble of Whistler Peak, and Frisco’s aesthetic ridge from Maple Pass completed the list. We accomplished our objectives in good style, perfect weather, and without incident save for one. I came face to face with the Mexico train station, time-warp slowness of my old partner. He had found no wings in Alaska. So I waited. I stopped here, sat down there. I mused, noticed the birds and trees. I managed to remember and recite the entire life story soliloquy of Dr. Evil, “meat helmets, luge lessons” and all. Waiting, waiting, always waiting. Each afternoon, nearing the end of my rope (as his seemed to be barely moving), I was shocked to tears of joy when, on peak after peak, Keith managed to produce from his pack -- cold beer! Like I said, he’s all Wyoming. During the minute or two it took to consume each high altitude brew, we reminisced about climbs of the past. He reminded me that we soloed the CMC in running shoes in 12 hours, and how Lone Eagle went in a 20-hour push with a waterless ascent and a bagless bivy despite the 18 miles of trail. He checked his watch, inexplicably we were early again. Deceptively slow? Hell, I’ll take that kind of deception any day. I resigned myself to the summit register, entering as always, the following: 100 MPH WINDS SHREDDED OUR TENTS, BUT THE GIRLS LOVED IT. -- Sven Hedin and George W. Heyduke |