I had broken my leg in the valley and was hitching back to Bishop to recoup in Round Valley. Deuce gave me a ride to the meadows and I was going to nab a ride from Dale and Bobbie from there to Bishop.
So I hit the store and buy a big jug of wine and other assorted goodies. The wine helped the Vicodan.
So I am on crutches, barely hanging onto this bag of booze and stuff, desperately trying not to drop it.
TM and sons walk by and he goes,
"Damnit Tommy! Look at that guy! Go give him a hand!"
So Tommy carried my booze back into the campground for me. He must have been 12 or so.
The only time I've ever known TM to be rendered speechless was when he and I climbed the Dike Route on Piwiack Dome in Tuolumne in 1971. He was full of his usual good natured if sometimes biting banter until I inadvertently (stupidly? blindly? foggy-mindedly?) by-passed two bolts on an already run out lead and was looking at one of those long falls it's best not to think too much about. TM was completely silent for what seemed like an eternity to me, and, I assume, TM, until I clipped into the anchors with even more enjoyment than listening to one of TM's stories.