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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Original Post - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:44pm PT
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A little over 10 years ago I published about 8 stories relating some climbing history (see You Want Climbing Lore - I'll Give You Climbing Lore, Nov 2008). Over the years I've posted a bunch of short climbing anecdotes. These are scattered through dozens of threads.
I've decided to gather these anecdotes into one location so that I can keep track of them and keep myself from repeating them elsewhere. So you want climbing lore?
In the redacted words of William Mulholland when he opened the aqueduct bringing Owens Valley water to Los Angeles in 2013, "Here it is. Take it."
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:45pm PT
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A Day on the Rock
Hennek and I were on the Vampire at Tahquitz back in 1968. We weren't even thinking of doing it free -we just wanted to do it.
As we started up to the climb we noticed two young boys beginning the Trough. The oldest looking of the pair was quite overweight and seemed to be the leader. Hennek quipped, "There's an accident going somewhere to happen." My thoughts were in concurrence.
As the day progressed, Hennek ran into a real problem on the Vampire where the flakes were thin. While he griped and complained I was watching the young duo on the Trough - they were struggling on the lower pitches.
Hennek felt it was unsafe to continue due to the looseness of the terrain. I don't remember exactly how
it all went, but I remember we called down to Lunch Rock and Chuck Wilts was there. Hennek wanted to knock some of the looseness off and asked if it would be safe. Wilts surveyed the area and then assured him that there was nobody in harm's way. I made sure the Trough boys understood they were in no danger and Dennis screamed rock a few times and let it rip. The rock fall was just a single large flake, but it shattered into hundreds of pieces. Everyone on Lunch Rock applauded.
We continued up the route and reached the summit after using up most of the day. We coiled our rope and raced down the Friction Route and the down the trail. As we emerged from the bush on to the asphalt we notice a woman standing next to a car with binoculars. She was crying. Dennis asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, but that's my boy up there", she sobbed, her arm extended, pointing up at Tahquitz Rock.
"She must mean the kids on the Trough, Dennis". I asked her if I could use the binoculars. I zoomed in on the Trough and there they were, still about 3 pitches from the top.
We determined that they were first-time climbers. Her son, the obese kid, was the leader. He was 15 years old and had talked a buddy of his into going climbing. The previous weekend he had seen a special pictorial article in the LA Times on climbing at Tahquitz. He talked his mother into buying him a rope and some shoes. Then on this day she drove him and his buddy up here.
I didn't have the nerve to tell her that I was one of the climbers in the pictorial article that her son had read. I looked at Dennis. He looked at me. "We'll go get them", I said as we threw our rope in my car and started back up the trail.
We didn't waste any time. We were on the Trough in record time and caught up with the boys. It was getting dark. The mother's kid saw us coming and didn't want any help. I asked him if he knew the way down. He said that he didn't. I said it's getting dark. Think you can get off in the dark? That made him think. Then I sprung it on him. I told him it was I, Don Lauria, the one in the LA Times. That was all it took. They were putty in our hands from that point on.
It was pitch black all the way down the trail. The kids slipping and sliding and falling most of the time, but we got them to Mama's car all in one piece. Mama was grateful.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:47pm PT
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The Soy Sauce Story
It was November 9, 1962 - Yvon’s 24th birthday. At the time he lived in a room built in to the garage behind his parents’ home in Burbank. In front of his room, which was separated from the garage by a lawn, sat an open BBQ – maybe one of these Webers. It, of course, was without a lid and an anvil sat next to it with the necessary tools of the blacksmith trade. John (Jack) Hansen, the “original” Vulgarian, the one that gave the Vulgarians their name, had brought me out to Burbank to visit Yvon. I’m not sure whether we knew it was Yvon’s birthday – cranial cobwebs obscure the details.
In this small room, we sat with Stratton, and Yvon chatting away – Hansen, in contrast to me, was a great conversationalist. My memory on this is vague, but as I recall, later in the evening, Peanut, Yvon’s tiny longtime girlfriend (and later his first wife), arrived with a small birthday cake. The conviviality of the affair was dampened somewhat by Yvon’s obvious somber mood. Yvon was appreciative of all the good wishes, but he was contemplating his next day’s pre-induction physical exam for the U.S. Army.
Yvon, like most of us, had no particular interest in serving in the armed forces. Yvon’s aversion to authority and interest in continuing his “little climbing business” was causing him concern. He was mulling over a plan to fail the physical. He had heard or read somewhere that drinking a sufficient quantity of soy sauce would elevate his blood pressure to 4F levels. Hansen jumped up and offered to make a soy sauce run to the local market. Hansen and I went out and bought a six pack of 6 oz. Kikkoman Soy Sauce. Yvon managed to down maybe two of them before he began to feel sick and gave up on the idea. The party broke up a little later.
A week later, I met Hansen at Stoney Point and he informed me that Yvon had passed the physical exam and was on his way to Fort Ord. Yvon told me later that he was still feeling sick all the way through boot camp. For further reading on the subject, I refer you to page-20 of Yvon’s Let My People Go Surfing.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:48pm PT
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One for the Road
In the Winter 2001-2002 issue of the Backside I wrote a memoir relating the life and times of Warren Harding – the Yosemite Valley climbing pioneer – the prime mover in the first ascent of El Capitan in 1958. I have managed to collect a few classic “Harding stories” through my long friendship with him – none necessarily complimentary of Warren, but I’m sure Warren would be amused by most of them – not caring a fig about what others thought. Here’s “One for the Road”.
In the years beginning in 1982 through 2001, I had been riding in the annual Death Valley to Mt. Whitney bicycle race – a two-stage road race between Stove Pipe Wells in DV and Whitney Portal out of Lone Pine, California. The first day ended after 80 miles in the town of Lone Pine and on the second day proceeded up, not very directly, 20 miles to the Mount Whitney trailhead at Whitney Portal - a total of 100 miles and 13, 000 feet of elevation gain over the up and down route.
Each year I would have someone accompany me to Stove Pipe Wells in order to have a
driver to shuttle my car back to Lone Pine the next day. It was in the mid-1990s that Warren
was visiting in Bishop. One evening over many glasses of Red Mountain on Bardini’s patio, he volunteered to be my driver. I had some reservations about foisting the responsibility upon him – mostly because of his tendency to imbibe, but acceded and explained the details of his responsibility. He was anxious to do me the favor.
The next day he arrived at my doorstep with a smile, a cooler, and his luggage. Before departing Bishop I snuck a peek at the cooler contents – a few bottles of red wine, a fifth of cognac, and a variety of beers. He placed the cooler in the back of my pickup – close to the cab’s rear window within easy reach from his front seat perch. Surprisingly over the 130 miles to Stove Pipe Wells, he did not even hint at getting into the cooler. We arrived at the motel and had a pasta dinner in our room over my propane backpacking stove. Warren opened a bottle of wine and we each had a couple of glasses and went to bed early.
The next morning it was necessary to be up and ready to go by 6 AM when the race began. I reviewed his responsibilities to him – leave Stove Pipe Wells any time after the race begins, just make sure you get to Lone Pine ahead of me and you have a cold six-pack in the truck. Okay, he got it.
During the 5 hour ride to Lone Pine I was vigilantly watching for my truck to pass me with Warren at the wheel. Finally, after about 50 miles, Warren raced past me with a wave. When I arrived at the finish line he was waiting with the prescribed six pack and all was well. We went directly to our motel where I showered and we finished the six pack.
That evening we went out to dinner at the Seasons Restaurant instead of eating the picnic meal at the park with all the riders. Warren loved that restaurant and mentioned that the last time he ate there he had tipped the waitress $100. She brought his check back and assuming he had made a mistake. “No, I appreciate service, especially from beautiful women” was his reply.
Our dinner order consisted of escargot, filet mignon Bourdelaise, Caesar salad, and a bottle of fine Zinfandel. I had two small glasses of wine, Warren drank the rest as well as a glass of white “to go with the snails”. During our dinner conversation, he barely touched his filet mignon and requested a doggie bag. After tipping the waitress $50, Warren insisted on treating” me to a thimbleful of Courvasier, for which he tipped the flabbergasted waitress another $50 - by mistake - he thought it was a twenty.
He staggered ever so slightly as he rose from the table and we proceeded to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s large glass windows. I was in the driver’s seat as Warren attempted the high step from the sidewalk into the cab. I saw it coming but was helpless to assist. He lost his balance and careened backward toward the large window that separated us from the table we had just left in the restaurant. It was a near catastrophic event that ended with him on his back and me rushing around the truck to retrieve him. As I lifted him from the concrete, the restaurant owner’s wife came rushing out with Warren’s doggie bag. “Mr.
Harding, Mr. Harding, your dinner!”
Back at the motel I went over his next morning’s duties with him. Tomorrow, Warren, all
you need to do is get the Toyota to Whitney Portal by noon with some cold beer. It’s only
about a two and a quarter hour bike ride over the 20 miles with over 4000 feet of elevation
gain, so I should be there about 10:30. It usually takes until noon for all the riders to finish and for the awards to be presented. “Oooo ... oh, I think I can do thaa....aat, Don.” We retired immediately at 9:00 PM - I was exhausted.
At 7 AM the next morning we arose. Warren was more alert than I expected he would be. He was sipping motel coffee as I dressed and reviewed his routine with him. As I headed for the starting location, I rolled my bike out the door and I glanced back to spot Warren pouring cognac into his coffee. Oh, oh, I thought.
Part of the second day’s ride is through a residential area off the main road to the Portal, so it was quite possible that he could precede me up the hill without me seeing him. I was, again, very vigilant on the ride, but did not see him pass me. When I crossed the finish line he was nowhere in sight. It was early – 10:30 AM. Since I came in second (in a field of two), I awaited the awards ceremony. An hour later, still no Warren. One of my awards was an unwieldy hibachi. Without Warren, I was anticipating a 4300-foot descent to Lone Pine on a bicycle with a hibachi under my arm – a suicidal thought. I found a friend and resident of Lone Pine to carry my hibachi down. The bicycle descent on the Portal road is always adventurous due to rocks on the road, the multitude of pot holes, and the steep terrain. I had the additional distraction of looking for Warren in every approaching pickup and scouring the sides of the road for my wrecked Toyota. As I approached downtown Lone Pine I had to think about where to go. The sheriff’s station? The hospital? I opted for the motel - I’d go there first.
I rode into the parking area at Best Western to find my truck right where I left it. The maids were busily refreshing the rooms and all the motel doors were wide open. I went into our room. Nobody visible. I called out, “Warren?” No answer. Again, “Warren?” This time a low agonized groan emanated from behind the closed bathroom door. “Warren, are you in here?” The door knob rattled and finally the door swung open and out staggered Warren. He offered, “I over schlept!”
I put him up against the wall, hands over his head, and told him to hold it up while I packed my stuff and put my bike in the truck. When I finished I said, “Okay, let’s go.” He turned from his wall-holding position and tumbled into the dresser next to him. On the way down his head hit the corner of the dresser and opened a slit above his right eye that began to bleed profusely. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and pressed it to his forehead. He was sitting on the floor dazed, but smiling. “Here hold this against your eye. Do you have any first aid stuff in your luggage?” He muttered affirmatively and I was able to retrieve a Band-Aid, cut it into a butterfly, stanch the wound, and lead Warren to the truck.
Warren began to sober up as we drove the 60 miles back to Bishop. He managed to converse intermittently and occasionally uttered complete sentences. When we arrived in front of my apartment all the parking spaces on the apartment side of the street were taken so we had to park across the street – right in back of Warren’s car. My job ... get him across the street and into my apartment without the neighbors noticing. At the rear of the truck I asked him to assume the “wall- holding” position while I removed the bike and luggage.
In my apartment, after the last load, I turned toward the truck and my heart skipped a beat – Warren wasn’t there. Simultaneously, I heard to door to the upstairs apartment slam and realized my neighbor – a wonderfully conservative woman – was on her way across the street headed for Warren. He had left my truck and was bent over, leaning into the back seat of his car rummaging through a cardboard box. I raced across the street to arrive just as my neighbor finished asking Warren what he was up to. He reared up, wheeled around and with his nose inches from hers uttered, “What the [expletive] do you care?” Damn, just what I was trying to avoid. “Excuse him, he’s a little drunk.”
Warren continued his search through the box, mumbling something about an upcoming slideshow. My neighbor explained that she initially thought he was into her friend’s car, but now realized that her friend’s car was further down the street. She was very
understanding of the situation and was not offended by Warren’s remark. Relieved, I ushered Warren to my apartment where we settled in and minutes later he was asleep on the sofa. It was about 3 PM.
Around 5 PM the phone rang. It was Bardini, Allan Bard, asking how the race went and how Warren had performed. After my long response, Allan invited us over to a backyard party at his place. Warren had regained consciousness, seemed completely sober and alert, and was all for going to Allan’s party. So off we went. Hours later and many glasses of straight scotch later, Warren was arm-in-arm with Morpheus being led astray once more - down the road.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:49pm PT
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Pratt's Memorial
I thought about this a long while. Should I throw it in? Would it be disrespectful of Doug’s tribute?
More of Pratt’s life has been revealed – but there’s not that much more that any of us could have known.
Yes, he visited Jeanne Walter‘s place in Bishop just about every year and we sat around and reminisced. We sat at the bar in Wilson and drank into the wee hours. But there was so much more to know.
At his memorial in the Tetons, a bunch of us were lined up – Foote, McKeown, Millis, Chouinard, Swedlund, Robinson, et al –a bunch of us listening to the tributes and memories of those that knew him best.
There were many adoring women in his life and more than a few of them showed up. At least three of them rose to the podium one after the other to reflect on their remembrances of Chuck. All of them fought back the tears – as did we all.
Now this is where it gets edgy. The last gal to speak had obviously been seriously in love with Chuck and was sobbing incessantly as she related her times with him. She went on and on at length, the tears flowing. It was touching and sincere, but as we stood there the length of her outpouring began to reach the limits of our propriety – not an unattainable goal. As we stood there anxiously shifting our weight from one foot to the other, Swedlund leaned in and in his inimitable voce sotto uttered, “Now there’s one he should have never f%$ked”.
With all due respect to the woman, we did our best not to totally destroy her moment and muffled our impending outburst, but man did we roar later. I think maybe Chuck laughed too.
I hope this didn’t offend anyone.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:51pm PT
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Roper
I first got to know Steve Roper on the back side of Half Dome in 1966. He and Chuck Pratt were camped beside us (me and Michael and Valerie Cohen) in preparation for a NW face climb. Both ours and their intentions were foiled and, as it worked out, Steve and I hiked back to Happy Isles together.
That evening in Camp 4 Roper asked if I had ever done Phantom Pinnacle. Nope! I hadn't, but I was anxious to do it, especially with someone who knew exactly where it was. It was agreed - we would get an early start in the morning.
With Steve rousing me at 6 AM the following day, we were off and running. With no hesitation at any point along the approach (we walked from Camp4), we arrived at the pinnacle. Roper kept asking me if I thought I could lead the final pitch which he considered the crux. Hell, I didn't know. If he thought I could I would certainly give it a try.
I remember little of the interim pitches -they went by so quickly, but I do remember the final pitch which was my assigned lead. When Steve arrived on top he immediately set up the first rappel while quizzing me on my reaction to the last lead. Three rappels later we were on the ground.
As we approached Camp 4 around 8:30 AM, Steve stopped in his tracks and said, "Come on we're going back to the Lodge for coffee!" I asked why and he replied, "S##t, if we go back this early no one will believe we did it."
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:55pm PT
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Beverly and Alan
Sometime between April of 1966, when we opened our first little 600 sq. ft. store on Pico Boulevard, and September of 1969 when we expanded into our new 25,000 sq. ft. store on Olympic Boulevard, somewhere in that brief period, something wonderful happened at West Ridge Mountaineering.
Those early days at West Ridge we opened the store at 5 PM because the owners worked in aerospace from 8 to 5. We also only hired climbers to work sales. On that particular wonderful evening,I happened to be the working owner. As I recall two young climbers were also working that evening when a stunningly attractive young woman wearing an exceptionally short mini skirt entered the store.
She announced that she was a student at USC and was interested in rock climbing. She had no experience -zilch. She was a student taking ballet and gymnastics. All the while, she is doing these incredible stretching exercises - one leg up on the waist-high sleeping bag table, her forehead pressed to her knee. These are very vivid memories.
She wanted someone to teach her rock climbing. My co-workers that evening were crawling all over each other trying to set up lessons.
As it worked out neither of these handsome young lads was to land the job. Instead, one of our newest employees, and one of our least experienced, a lad named Alan Roberts, happened to be working the weekend she walked in and set a date for Stoney Point. Alan Roberts was, at that time, sort of the Woody Allen of West Ridge - not considered by his peers as anybody that should be teaching others how to climb.
Ends up, he took her to Stoney twice and then to Tahquitz - where they failed miserably on the White Maiden – the classic Tahquitz 5.1 route.
Alan went on to become a highly respected rock climber and Tuolumne climbing guide. She went on to become Beverly Johnson.
Other Version:
Just a little aside on Alan Roberts. Alan was an employee of mine at West Ridge back in the late 60s. Alan had very little climbing experience - though he was learning.
A very attractive young woman walked into our tiny little store on Pico Blvd. one evening in a mini skirt and was inquiring about learning to climb. She introduced herself as Beverly Johnson. She was a USC student and was currently taking a ballet class - climbing interested her.
There were just a few employees in the store (me, Roberts, and at least two others - I think maybe
Hennek, Boche, or McLean). As she conversed she went through a few ballet stretching exercises in her mini skirt - she maintained everyone's close attention. She asked if anyone was willing to give her some climbing lessons and received four simultaneously overlapping and immediate offers.
To our consternation, it was Alan Roberts she chose - probably because he looked harmless compared to the three other leering males surrounding her. Over a period of a few weeks, he took her to Stoney Point and Tahquitz for her first climbing lessons. As I said, Roberts was as much a climbing neophyte as she and their success at Tahquitz was minimal. They couldn't even get up the White Maiden.
Well we all know the result of this improbable relationship and the subsequent climbing history, don’t we?
The last time I saw Roberts I was climbing with TM and we were waiting for him to get his client up El Condor so Herbert could test my mettle on pebbly run-outs - probably 100 years ago.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:56pm PT
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An Art Gran Story
Yes, Art Gran took his share of kidding about his famous descriptions of “hard” moves on his latest climbs. Always with animation – and total re-enactment , sans rock.
I first met Art at Stoney Point in Southern California - a bright Sunday afternoon with a large Sierra Club contingent in attendance. I was there with Jack Hansen (the “original Vulgarian”) and Yvon Chouinard.
We were bouldering at Boulder #2 and Gran and I had just climbed a steep route on the south side. We dropped the rope to Yvon and he tied in. For whatever reason (it was a very nice day), Yvon was wearing a full length heavy wool overcoat – a thrift store bargain. It was buttoned closed from bottom to top. When he signaled that he was ready to climb, Gran whispered to me, “Grab the rope. Let’s pull him up.” So, the second Yvon yelled, “Climbing”, the two of us hauled. In a matter of seconds Chouinard was on top gasping for breath and laughing nervously. He literally had not used any of his extremities in the ascent. His overcoat had spared his body from abrasion, but in the dynamic contact with the sandstone the coat had lost most of its buttons.
Gran was in stitches. Yvon had stopped his nervous chuckling. He was untying and seriously inspecting his damaged coat. I quickly explained that it was all Gran’s idea – sorry about the buttons, Yvon. Chouinard was no longer amused, but Art, still laughing uncontrollably, had dropped to his knees and began rolling around the top of the boulder. Yvon and I left Art with his rope and downclimbed to the road.
As we trudged toward our next objective, Chouinard was mumbling and staring down at the front of his coat, feeling the texture of the abraded material. Glancing back at Boulder #2 - Art was still on top coiling the rope and still laughing. Chouinard looked back and mumbled something about hyenas and burros – or was it jackasses?
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:58pm PT
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After Six - How Hard Is It
In June of 1965, I was camped in Camp 4 with Russ McLean, and Aaron and Ruth Schneider. Yvon Chouinard came over and asked if anybody wanted to do something. Well, Russ, Aaron, and I already had plans to climb at Swan Slab so Yvon took off with Ruth for parts unknown. At the end of the day Yvon and Ruth reported back in with the announcement of a new route, "After Six" they called it. Yvon said it was really neat and ONLY 5.6
So the next day Russ and I went over and did it. We had no argument with the rating. A year later I did it with my 13 year old daughter and she cried. It seemed a little harder than 5.6.
In about 1968, Yvon talked Dennis Hennek and me into doing After Six in the rain with mountain boots and no rope (good mountaineering training he said). I'm alive to report about it now, but I had my doubts regarding longevity back then.
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cleggy
Trad climber
Derby, UK
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Apr 22, 2019 - 12:59pm PT
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Thanks Don. Great stuff.
Steve
‘cranial cobwebs’!!
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 12:59pm PT
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Who's Bobbo?
Many were the times that I noticed Allan Bard sporting a stem of Pennyroyal blooms in his ever present white hat. One day, while hiking into our Third Lake camp, I asked him if there was any particular reason for always wearing that flower. He answered, “Yeah, it’s for Bobbo.” I had no idea what he meant.
I queried, “Bobbo? Who’s Bobbo?’
“My old friend Bob Locke” was his answer. I didn’t know Bob Locke. Allan explained that Bobbo died in a climbing accident and that Locke used to wear Pennyroyal in his hat. Allan wore Pennyroyal in his memory.
Since Allan’s death I have always picked a stem of Pennyroyal in the backcountry and worn it in my hat for Bobbo - and Allan.
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Tom Patterson
Trad climber
Seattle
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Apr 22, 2019 - 01:02pm PT
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What a bunch of great reads, Don! You made my day!
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:03pm PT
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Cable Memories
October 4, 2007. Up at 5:30 AM after illegally sleeping in the “closed” backpacker’s campground. Reached the base of the Snake Dike via the Mist Trail only to be delayed by a party of three ahead of us. Finally, on route, and on the summit by late afternoon. Lazed around and left the summit in early evening. The cables were down so we had to lift them to use them as hold holds. Reaching the base, I realized I had left our coiled rope on the summit. Oh well, not going back. Wrote it off. Although we did ask two young climbers that were going up the cables if they might contact us later and we’d reimburse them. Never heard from them again.
My knee wouldn’t take the steps of the Mist Trail going down, so I took the Muir Trail and promised to meet my partner, who was going to use the Mist Trail, at Curry Village for dinner and a beer. We both took off with headlamps aglow.
I reached the parking area and my partner’s car was gone so I scurried over to Curry Village. No partner to be found, so I had a beer and headed back to the parking area to see if his car was there. Nope. It was about 9 PM by then so I decided to sleep in my car, right there in the parking area with the bear boxes. Well, sleep was intermittent at best and interrupted by bears making their rounds around 1:30 PM.
I gave up and headed back to Bishop. Avoiding a few herds of deer cluttering the highway to Tuolumne, I arrived home at 3 AM – 21.5 hours after arising. It was a long day.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:06pm PT
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Five Ten October 22, 1994
528 Amigos Dr Suite D
Redlands, CA 92373
Re: A dilapidated pair of Five Tennies
To Whom It May Concern:
A while back I bought a pair of Five Tennies because TM Herbert was always beating me up Toulumne approaches in his. What I didn't know was that his were an older vintage than mine and that my newer pair had some inherent flaws. Almost immediately the rand around the toes started to separate so I quit wearing them thinking that I might return them to the mountain shop in Toulumne for a refund. But I didn't. Tony Puppo at Wilson's Eastside Sports gave me his prognosis - the shoes should be taken off life support. So I did it.
This past summer I guided in the Sierra and wore the shoes until they finally died. The last two days of a week-long backpack trip my toes occasionally appeared through the rent that caused their death. I respectfully return the remains to their place of origin. May they rest in piece(s).
You folks should be ashamed of having released your progeny into this rough world without preparing them for the inevitable beating to which they most certainly would be exposed. It has been rumored that you are aware that some of your offspring were physically deficient and that subsequent generations have been adequately inured. Life goes on.
Respectfully,
Don Lauria
P.S.
Before Five Ten gets all upset, the conclusion to this episode resulted in my being presented with a brand new pair with an apology. Subsequently the replacement pair lived a full and respectful life being resoled a couple of times due to wear. Old age caught up with them eventually and they died peacefully at home surrounded by relatives.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:07pm PT
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Hammocks
I have nothing but fond memories of my nights spent in a Robbins hammock way up above buildings (an old Bud Couch phrase). I loved those bivouacs and looked forward to them on every wall climb. I found the hammock bivouac to be a comfortable alternative to lying on cold granite or sitting in slings all night (as Boche and I did on the 6th ascent of the Leaning Tower – three months after the 3rd ascent with Kor).
Granted, all these hammock bivouacs were subject to summer conditions. When Boche and I did the 8th ascent of the Nose in 1967 we spent 7 days in cold pouring down rain – not exactly hammock weather – no place for hammocks on that route anyway. The water tumbling down the face would enter the sleeve of the uplifted piton–placing arm and pour through the shirt’s torso into our pants, down our legs, into our Kronhofers. The suede leather of the Kronhofer klettershue was very absorbent and could soak up hundreds of CCs of H2O. Quite conveniently, however, when one stepped up into the next aid sling … squish, out came all the water and the shoe was ready to accept the next load. Oh, the memories!
I also admit to a prejudice in that my mountaineering store, West Ridge Mountaineering, was selling our own version (an exact copy) of the Robbins hammock. The prejudice was further ingrained by my mother-in-law’s participation in the manufacturing (she was the manufacturer).
An aside: I noticed a photo of Frost in a net hammock. Robbins, of all people, insisted we take net hammocks on the 2nd ascent of the Dawn Wall. Big problem with those mothers was that if you dropped any peanuts or M&Ms in them they were irretrievable – lost to the abyss below. Robbins hammocks, being less porous – impervious in this case - allowed one to recover lost morsels – a big plus!
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:09pm PT
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Helmets
Been climbing for 57 years. Started in 1961 at the age of 28. Wore a helmet once on Whitney’s east face in 1963 (not sure what sport it was designed for, certainly not climbing). I hated it. Kept hitting my head on little overhangs and projections. Haven’t worn one since. Not proud of that fact.
Yes, even before he put it in print, Yvon told me “You don’t need a helmet unless you’re climbing where rockfall is probable”. He had just (1961) climbed Edith Cavell with Beckey and Doody. Lots of rockfall.
So with that in mind and my experience on Whitney, I never purchased a helmet. However, I considered it late one day in August of 1964 when, on the first ascent of Pingora’s north face in the waning light, Aaron Schneider loosed a fusillade of rocks from the top of the last pitch. The last pitch is a steep rotten gully. Ed Speth (RIP) and I were positioned at the gully’s base when the rocks and Aaron’s “Rock!!” got our attention. I could see the sparks of the rocks as they approached our ledge and instinctively ducked just below the top of the ledge in front of me – just barely behind the lip. One very large rock struck the ledge and the back of my head simultaneously. I luckily was wearing a thick wool stocking cap and suffered nothing more than an accelerated heartbeat. Speth was unscathed.
After that experience you’d think I would have driven straight to Jackson and bought a helmet, but no. By the time I exited the Winds the rockfall experience was secondary to the jubilation of having done a first ascent and the experience was filed away for occasional “epic recounts” at parties and campfires.
I still do not own a helmet, but in my decrepit state I probably have seen the last of leading – especially alpine routes. However, thanks to this thread and Goldstone and Donini, et al, I’m ordering a BD Vapor today.
[Speaking of Ed Speth, I’m thinking about writing an anecdote about his life – later.]
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:12pm PT
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Ed Speth
I met Ed Speth in 1962 at North American Aviation where I worked as an aerodynamicist from 1955 until 1971. I was introduced to him by an engineering colleague and fellow mountaineer. It seems Ed was interested in rock climbing. So it was that he became a good friend.
Ed was 23 years old, tall, about six feet, dark hair, lanky, handsome, and bespectacled. Ethnically he was white – culturally he was black. He was a graduate of a small college in New York and had just moved to the Los Angeles area to take his engineering job at NAA. He had an obvious New York accent and a tendency to use phrases that he picked up from his fellow black students in NY – sort of “jive talk”. He lived near USC in Los Angeles with a beautiful black girl in a predominately black neighborhood. My concentration on ethnicity here should reflect no bias – it was an important part of his personality. He would sort of bounce into the room, snapping his fingers, and never quite stand still. “Let’s beak on down to Stoney, man.”
As he developed as a rock climber, he was a decent boulderer, but a lousy trad climber – couldn’t place a decent piton to save his soul. He was the brunt of a lot of derision for his lack of “nailing” talent. My family loved him and he was a frequent house guest and climbing companion.
Ed and I went to the Tetons in 1963. We climbed Symmetry Spire and Exum Ridge on the Grand. Coincidently, Exum, Corbett, Sinclair, Jackson, et al, where escorting the Sherpas from the West Ridge Everest expedition on the Ridge. They were just ahead of us and we all summited together.
Ed accompanied me on our first attempt on Pingora’s north face in 1963. My wife and three kids had hiked in with Ed and a Sierra Club family group, where my family was safely stowed with the Club around Big Sandy Lake while Ed and I hiked over Jackass Pass. We, in our ineptitude, without climbing any other route, just walked up to the base of Pingora from Lonesome Lake, skirted around to the north until we found a weakness in the verticality and began our ascent with absolutely no idea what was above. The idea of scouting a route from afar was not in our mutual repertoire.
As I was finishing the fourth pitch, the weather began to abruptly change. I set up a belay on a small ledge that allowed be to sit with my legs dangling over the edge. Then came the thunder. The lightning was getting closer. She–it! Now we have to bail. So while Ed waited below me, I placed my first-ever bolt right between my thighs and attached one of those Gerry pop-top hangers. I brought Ed up and we rappelled off the hanger (according to Kelsey, it’s still there and is one of the very few ever placed in the Winds). I also now admit to Joe that I lost “a sense of the sport’s dignity and a reverence for the rock”. My excuse was “there was no other way to safely escape the wrath of the oncoming storm”. Little did I know how important the bolt would become the following year.
Aaron Schneider was another engineer from New England that I befriended at North American Aviation. He and his beautiful wife, Ruth, and their dog Shane, had become family friends. They both were climbers and frequented the Valley, in fact Ruth did the first ascent of After Six with Yvon. Aaron, Ed, and I returned to the Cirque of Towers in August of 1964 to finish the North Face route.
As Kelsey relates in his guide, the North Face is “a perverse classic”. His description, I think, is apt. The perversity begins were Ed and I left off in ’63. We three swung leads up to the bolt, where I belayed with Aaron as Ed led a traverse right around a corner and out of sight. “Days” passed.
“Ed are you alright”? We could hear him pounding in some protection. “Lauria, you’d better come over. I can’t get up this”. Okay, I was anxious to get on with this and began, according to Kelsey, “a long terrifying traverse”. Around the corner, standing on a small ledge was Ed. Getting to him was terrifying. “Helluva lead, Ed!”
I was happy to have been anchored to that bolt. If he had fallen on that very delicate traverse with no intervening protection it would have been drastic. I’m sure that anyone who has done the route will agree that it is and was appropriate – even Kelsey.
Ed was stuck. He couldn’t manage the vertical crack leading off the small ledge. I got to him and thank god he didn’t attempt it. The anchors to which he was attached would have probably pulled if he leaned over to tie his shoes! I quickly replaced the pins and led off the ledge. Many pitches later, much later, we finished in the dark. Luckily we had climbed the South Buttress the day before and knew the rappel route. We also knew that our ropes wouldn’t completely reach a ledge on one rappel, so we tied my swami belt (about 12 feet of 1” tubular nylon) to the ends of the rope. We had no headlamps, so this was backcountry Braille.
After Pingora Ed began getting involved in the civil rights movement. Eventually he moved to Alabama and participated in a lot of protests, including those in Selma. All this time he was writing me letters, keeping me apprised of his involvement. In the summer of 1965, he mentioned in a letter that he was scared he might be killed and that he would be leaving for the Tetons shortly. He had a girlfriend waiting in Jackson.
On July 10th, I received a letter from his girlfriend. “Don, I’m writing to let you Ed was killed yesterday in a climbing accident on Symmetry Spire. He had hooked up with a climber from Colorado in the climber’s camp and they were a few pitches up when, while leading, Ed fell. Some pins pulled and his rope [9mm] caught on a flake and was cut. He fell about 300 feet …”. It went on, but I was unable to finish it. The tears that ran down my face that moment are still visible on that letter. Ed was the first person and climber that I ever knew that died in an accident and it was a shock to me and my family that none of us has ever forgotten.
We live on, as does Ed in our memories.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:13pm PT
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A Tahquitz Tale
Or the Sunday morning that Mclean and I, having spent the previous sunny day climbing at Tahquitz, with Michael and Valerie Cohen, crawled out of our sleeping bags to Cohen's berating of the weather gods. It looked like it would snow any minute - no climbing that day for Cohen! Russ and I, however, decided, "a little snow, a little ize, it eez nussing" (a favorite McLean Hermann Buhl imitation).
So up we went to do the Trough in a blizzard. Half way up the route, with Russ belaying me from Pine Tree Ledge where he was anchored to a huge pillar of granite, Russ yelled up, "Are you in a good place?" I wasn't. In fact, I was trying to figure out how to get across a ten-foot section of verglas in my Kronhofers. I answered back that I was not in a good place. The wind was picking up and communication was difficult. Russ yelled back that I had better find a "good place" quickly. The block to which he was anchored was moving. I cautiously backed down to a sheltered gap between the face and a huge boulder. Just as I fell into the gap I heard the horrible sound of an immense rockfall. It took a full 30 seconds for the noise to subside. Then total silence except for the wind.
Russ are you okay? No answer. Again, Russ are you okay? No reply. Finally, a weak voice from below in the gloom, I'm okay.
What happened, Russ? I had not felt a thing on my end of the rope. Can't explain now. Got to get back on the rock. Can you belay me?
Yeah, come on up.
Several minutes later Russ climbed into view. He was a mess. Blood all over his face, his clothes in shreds, his right arm limply dangling at his side. He had been dragged off the ledge by the huge rock pillar and had fallen, accompanied by tons of rock debris, to the end of the rope. He was temporarily unconscious and when he came to he was dangling in space staring at his belay rope. The sheath in front of his face had parted, and exposed in front of him was the rope's core. Two of the three internal braids were severed and he was suspended by the one remaining braid. When he was able to get his feet back on the rock, he tied off the exposed portion of the rope and climbed to my location.
Russ was on the verge of going into shock. He had lost some teeth; he had a badly cut arm, and a broken nose. I managed to belay him up the remaining pitches and down the icy slabs, around the Rock and back to Lunch Rock. I took him to the fire station in ldyllwild for first aid. I can still hear the crack when they straightened his nose. After the repair, we headed back to UC Riverside where the Cohen's were living.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:14pm PT
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A Camp 4 Tale
Not all tales will be heroic. Some are classic. This one is neither.
I was a climbing neophyte compared to my companions. They were climbing legends. We were friends assembled in Camp 4 trying to keep warm around a fire that was slowly dying. Mark Powell and Bob Kamps had become my life-long friends. Life-long not that we retained a close intimate relationship over the years of our time climbing together, but life-long in that we shared memories that we mutually had never forgotten.
It was probably 1964 – that would make me about 31 years old, Kamps a year older , and Powell maybe 3 or 4 years older – not a group of mindless adolescents.
I was a married aerospace engineer from southern California with three children and a questionable urge to climb amongst the legends. They were legends – married legends.
It was late night in Camp 4. My kids were in their tent. We, husbands and wives, were cold. The wood fire around which we were leaning was no longer aflame - mere embers - we needed more wood. What to do?
Powell looks at Kamps knowingly, “Let’s go get some wood.” Kamps, “Where do we get more wood?” Powell, “I know where the Park Service keeps theirs. We’ll have to crawl under a fence and we better not get caught.” Kamps, “No way am I gonna to go steal some Park Service wood!” I, the adulator of legends, respond, “I’ll go.”
So it is that two of the small group of non-adolescents, Powell and I, drove down to somewhere around Manure Pile Buttress, exited our vehicle, and stealthily scurried into the woods, squeezed through the barbed wire fence, and absconded with four arms full of neatly cleaved hunks of firewood.
Hours later in Camp 4, we, husbands and wives, were warmly leaning in around a blazing fire of ill-gotten wood with no feelings of guilt and with great appreciation of the Park Service and their contribution to our comfort. Legends all.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:16pm PT
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Stumbling
Harding was in the Mountain Room late one evening, as was his custom, and he was in his customary state of inebriation. When the Room closed he and a few friends staggered out and moved sinuously toward Camp 4.
The group broke up as they headed for their respective tents. Harding, being considerably more drunk than the others, was staggering in the general direction of his tent, but lost his balance, stumbled, and crashed headlong into a small two-person tent. He fell across it and totally collapsed it as the occupants within began screaming and swearing. The male half of the occupancy came scrambling and cursing out of the tent, “You drunken son-of-a-bitch, what the f**k are you doing? I’m going to kill you, you stupid bastard!”
Harding, taken somewhat aback, blinked, stumbled back a bit more, stood straight up, sucked in a chest full of air, and replied, “You can’t kill me, you as#@&%e, I’m famous!”
Needless to say, he lived through it.
More ...
Warren was up before the judge after one of his numerous DUIs. After reviewing Warren's record, the judge looked down at Warren and said, "Mr. Harding you seem to have a problem with drinking." To which Warren replied, "Oh, no sir! I don't have a problem with drinking, I love to drink."
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Zay
climber
Monterey, Ca
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Apr 22, 2019 - 01:18pm PT
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This is like waking up to a free and unexpected book on your night stand. A true public service.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:18pm PT
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Wonderful Tahquitz
The first time I climbed Tahquitz Rock was in the early spring of 1952. I told this to Robbins last fall and he doubted my honesty. I explained that I was up in Idyllwild with my college buddy to visit our girlfriends who were on a spring break outing. When we spotted that beautiful rock outcrop we just had to climb it. Neither of us knew anything about rock climbing. We just plowed through the snow straight up to the rock. Tried every which way until we finally worked all the way around to the south face and then finally up to the notch above the Friction Route and walked to the summit.
I didn't return to Tahquitz Rock until 1961 when my life on the rock began.
You may wonder what all this has to do with Tahquitz. Very little actually. It's just that I associate Tahquitz with all the good times we used to have at Tahquitz and Herbert came to mind. Hennek, Boche, McLean, Herbert - God we spent a lot of time there.
It's not like it was a short drive from LA. You had to really love Tahquitz to drive out to Idyllwild after work on a Friday evening, hike up to the base of the Green Arch, lay out your sleeping bag, sleep through the night, get up early so that you could climb the Arch, get back in your car and be home in time to watch the UCLA-USC football game.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:19pm PT
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Rowell Remembrances
I met Galen just like I met most climbers in Camp 4 in the 60s – we just sort of got to know one another around a campfire or at a campground table or in the Mountain Room. Ah, the Mountain Room!
One day in Camp 4, I think it was in the mid 60s, Galen came running up to me excitedly brandishing his new camera. He had made a decision. We both had just had articles published in Summit Magazine and I had expressed my admiration for his writing. He had found his destiny - he was going be a writer and a photographer. Eureka!
Although I never climbed with Galen, our paths crossed and re-crossed over the next 36 years. In the 70s I was in Berkeley for the annual America Alpine Dinner at the Claremont Hotel. Galen and I were chatting. I had just run in a marathon earlier in the year and Galen, who was also an avid runner, invited me to join him early the next morning for a run in the hills in back of the Claremont. We were up before dawn and ran his entire loop in the dark. It damn near killed me. Steep!
Later, in 1975, we were supposed to be on the same expedition to the Karakoram. Our group had applied for permission to do Nameless Tower, but the Brits had beat us to it. Galen had also received an invitation to join the K2 expedition, so he switched teams. Our group went on to climb whatever we could – but, not Nameless. Galen’s group had lots of problems and did not summit. Damn!
I left the LA area in 1981 and moved to Bishop, California. Galen opened his Mountain Light Gallery in Bishop in 2001. I helped him haul a huge and very heavy wooden cabinet into the gallery a week or so after the opening. When he decided to make Bishop his home and moved into his beautiful new house, I was invited over to check it out. Outrageous!
I was on a Salmon River trip with Guido and the Barker brothers, Glen and Rick, in August of 2002. After take-out, we heard about the plane crash in Bishop. We were devastated – Rick had named his son after Galen. Sad!
A year after Galen’s death, his son, Tony, asked if I could guide him up the Mountaineer’s Route on Mt. Whitney. He had failed in a winter attempt with his father and Tony needed to finish it. I was delighted to accompany him. You can find a photo (TR037) from our climb on his website: http://www.tonyrowell.com/online.gallery/idx03.shtml See it!
Later edit: Rick Barker named his son Galen, but not for Galen Rowell. I misconstrued his meaning.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:21pm PT
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Ropes
Here’s the way I remember it (but remember my age):
When I started rock climbing in the early 60s the standard length had just become 150 feet, usually 11mm Edelrid or Mammut perlon (there were no American companies making perlon-type ropes), taking over from the 120 foot white nylon or Goldline ropes.
In the mid 60s, Robbins came back from Europe sporting a new 50 meter perlon rope. He really liked it and thought it was the ideal length. Since I owned a mountaineering store at that time, I decided to start ordering 11mm perlon ropes in two lengths, 150 feet and 165 feet (50 meters).
Prior to that, no American retail outlet carried the 165 foot rope. The 165 foot or 50 meter rope very quickly became the preferred length and the standard length by the mid 70s, primarily because I talked Mike Sturm (the wholesale rep for German ropes) into making that length available in the U.S.
I left the mountaineering retail business in 1981 and lost track of the continuing evolution of climbing ropes. I still use 50 meter ropes for two reasons: weight and communication. I’m getting too old to haul around a 60 meter rope and I can’t hear either. I opt for 10.5mm 50 meter rope as ideal.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:22pm PT
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I have lots more, but I have to pause. I'll be back.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:25pm PT
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Spire Repair - An Explanation
On afternoon circa 1966, a young Jim Bridwell accompanied by a young, but already bald, Chris Fredericks came rushing up to me to announce he and Chris and others had just done a first ascent. It's only 5.7 (Yeah, sure. It's really 5.8) and it's an incredible climb. You gotta do it. We named it "The Braille Book".
Well, we sat down at a table broke out some beers and began chatting about life in general around the Valley. Jim said he was sick and tired of the incessant queries from tourists who would walk up to him and ask if he was a rock climber. This, while he was standing there with a huge hardware rack and two ropes draped over his shoulders. He and Chris were getting some tee shirts made up that stated plainly on front and back, "High Country Spire Repair Service". They hoped that this would eliminate any further inquiries.
I have used the label "Spire Repair Service" innumerable times since in formulating answers to the inevitable questions from the uninitiated tourist. I have chosen to use "Spire Repair" as the descriptor of my life in the climbing world.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:28pm PT
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Climbing with Harding
Although I got to know Warren very intimately in his old age, I did not climb with him in his prime.
However, I did attempt a first ascent with him in the late 60s or early 70s in Yosemite. Dennis Hennek, TM Herbert, and I were approached by Warren in his effort to attempt an unclimbed crack (god only knows where - somewhere near Sunnyside Bench).
It was a typical Harding choice. The crack was filled with eons of dirt (mud) and Warren insisted that we bring along gardening tools - really, gardening tools - to clean the crack as we climbed. Obviously the crack required aid climbing as it was impossible to get anything into the crack until the dirt (mud) was removed. As I remember it, Warren led the first pitch and made good use of the mattock he brought to clear the crack as clouds of dust and clumps of mud showered down upon us. Hennek and TM glanced at each other in disbelief and began muttering and questioning Warren's sanity.
Warren rappelled back to the ground and asked, "Who's next?' Neither TM nor Dennis moved and I anxiously grabbed the mattock and Jumared up to begin the second pitch. It was a messy job. The dust and mud fell into one's face and made inhaling an exercise in discriminatory breathing.
Warren had spent over an hour on the first pitch and I was no faster. I had to pause often to stick a finger in my mouth and down my throat to clear the accumulated mud. It was difficult to communicate with the ground because of the mud caked around my tongue. I reached, finally, the end of the rope and descended to the ground and the not-so-happy duo - Hennek and Herbert. "This is bullshit!“ Herbert exclaimed. "This is ridiculous! I'm not going up there."
"Neither am l, Warren", Dennis agreed.
Thus ended my only climb with Harding. We had not made the first ascent, but I had succeeded in impressing Warren with my Harding-like stick-to-it-tiveness and he adopted me as a life-long friend.
We spent many times together through the rest of his life and I managed to collect a few classic "Harding stories" - none very complimentary of Warren, but humorous none the less.
As far as his climbing "ability" goes, he seemed able to get up whatever he started. Isn't that why we climb?
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 22, 2019 - 01:30pm PT
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Great stories - opportunities, time lost, triumph, tragedy and comedy...
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:30pm PT
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Don't Fall
When I started climbing I had a rule: Don’t fall. One of the guys I started climbing with, Tom Limp, said once, when I suggested going to Stoney Point with the Sierra Club to practice belaying, “I don’t see much sense in practicing dying.”
Never been much of a free soloist - the reason will become apparent as you continue this read.
I used to free solo a lot at Tahquitz – only on stuff that I had wired, and on nothing much harder than 5.7.
I was, and still am, not a very daring climber – I can recall only four falls in my entire 57 years of climbing (remember, I didn’t even start climbing until I was 29 years old, married with 3 children, and holding down three jobs). I never pushed a lead to the point where I was “willing” to risk a fall. If I didn’t feel I could make it, I backed off. Not really what you would call a “driven” climber.
It was only recently that I had a foot come off a smear on the crack pitch of South Crack in Tuolumne that sent my heart up into my throat. I didn’t fall, my fingers held, but I have since hesitated to lead that pitch even though I have led it innumerable times, often with absolute beginners belaying me.
The only time fear is a factor when I’m climbing is when I think falling is imminent. On many occasions I have “gone for it”. On those occasions I always succeeded. The four falls I took in the past were all surprises.
I was on the White Flake route in Tuolumne with Oriol Sole-Costa a few years ago. In my foolish, and dated, familiarity with the climb I led a runout about 45 feet up and left of Oriol looking for the bolt I remembered was out there somewhere. I was stymied. Unable to ascend and positive I could not descend. I must have stood there on old legs forcing myself to be calm and commanding my knees to chill for what seemed like 15 minutes. I’m sure it was less, but Oriol insists it was 15 minutes. During this distressingly long period, I kept trying to step out left to a small black fleck – just couldn’t force myself to commit. The bolt I had been looking for was now in sight, but far left and above my position. I finally stepped out onto the fleck.
I’m 86 now and not climbing. Too many years of treating my body with disrespect. The heart and the legs have finally surrendered to the abuse. From now on all I can do is talk and write about climbing. Much easier on my knees.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:33pm PT
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Kamps' Hobbit Boots
Yes, Kamps wore size 5 EEE Pivetta Cortinas.
TM always complained when on a Kamps route - about Kamps' stubby little feet and stubby little fingers, "No wonder he can stand on edges that small and get his stubby little fingers in these teensy weensy little cracks."
Bob Kamps, throughout the 60s & 70s wore Pivetta Cortinas (later called Muir Trails). He wore them because of his "little Hobbity feet" (that's the way TM described them). He required a size 5EEE and Pivetta was the only company putting out a significant selection of widths.
Super hard rubber rigid soles. Of course Bob loved edging. Smearing wasn't his forte then.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:43pm PT
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Joe Kelsey
I bought my first golden retriever puppy (with papers) from Joe in 1974 at the base of El Capitan where he was parading his dog and her brood - $50, a climber's special.
I am now on my third golden retriever and Joe is living (winters only) in Bishop just a mile from my home anticipating his acquisition of possibly his last golden. (I purchased my current golden 10 years ago, anticipating our mutual lifespans, she may outlive me). Joe and I and our dogs have scrambled around the local hills together on occasion. He even attends my Monday night football potluck get-togethers during the season and brings dessert.
We have recently (within the last few years) even climbed together, although recently I think we both have realized them days is gone forever.
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jogill
climber
Colorado
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Apr 22, 2019 - 01:54pm PT
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This thread is an excellent example of real climbing history that would probably not be suited for Wikipedia.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 01:59pm PT
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Third Ascent of the Leaning Tower – with Layton Kor
Layton Kor was probably the largest bundle of energy to ever climb a rock. Everyone is probably aware of his height – I wonder how many know how tightly wound he was. This guy was intense. Don’t get me wrong. His behavior off the rock was not abnormal – except when he was behind the wheel of his automobile.
It was early 1965. I was in my tenth year as an aerodynamic engineer at North American Aviation in El Segundo. My climbing experience was initiated in 1961 and was limited to Stoney Point, Tahquitz Rock, and three trips to Yosemite. My first and only Yosemite climb in 1962 was Higher Cathedral Spire. I returned to the Valley in 1963 for one weekend to climb the Higher Spire again.
In 1964, another Higher Spire ascent with Swan Slab and Patio PInnacle thrown in. That’s it – my entire Yosemite experience over a three year period amounted to five short ascents. Then I met Layton Kor and the curtain went up on my climbing career.
It was March of 1965, Layton was working at Chouinard’s tin shed in Burbank near the Lockheed aircraft plant. My Stoney Point climbing buddies, Dennis Hennek , and Ken Boche were both working for Yvon then and when I had time after work I would go by the tin shed by to visit and pound a few rivets in 1¼‐inch angles. Compared to the motley crew, I looked sort of out of place in my suit and tie, but on my first visit Layton was impressed with my work ethic. I don’t remember when or where it happened, but one day he asked if I was interested in doing a Yosemite wall climb. I didn’t even ask which wall, I just said yes.
The Leaning Tower ‐ he wanted to do the third ascent of the Leaning Tower. The first ascent in 1961 had just been followed by Robbins’ solo second ascent in 1963 and Layton had been quizzing Royal about the logistics. According to Royal there were still lots of bolts missing hangers and some bolts needing replacement. Other than that, he bade us well.
It was mid‐April. There was still six feet of snow on the ground in the Valley when Kor and I drove into the Bridalveil parking lot. With help of Ken Boche and a few other friends, we stomped in a path – a six‐foot deep trough – up to the Tower traverse ledge. It took us a couple of trips and most of the day to deposit our equipment. Kor and I spent that night in Camp‐4. I think we were the only tent in the campground. I had a large McKinley canvas tent – large enough for Kor to stand erect. We sat that night under a roaring Coleman lantern discussing Kor’s plan. He had a “plan.” I had no clue.
It was obviously going to be a cold ascent and we were only taking down jackets. We would use our rucksacks for our feet. Layton had borrowed two pairs of Jumars from somebody and he had shown me how they worked in the tent the night before. We would not take a stove‐ just cheese, bologna, gorp, and water. Kor was convinced we could use candles to warm our hands on the bivouac. That was his “plan.”
Up early the next morning, we trudged through the snow trough to our gear and began the traverse out to the beginning of the bolt ladder first pitch. The ledge was snowy, wet and slippery – and cold. There was no question as to who would lead the first pitch. Layton clipped into the first bolt and seconds later began what was to be a non‐stop, irate conversation with the Tower, with God,and with anyone else within earshot. I had never heard anyone curse as often and constantly while climbing. I heard curses that I
had never heard before or since – though I admit that one of his favorite rubbed off on me and I still hear myself using it – hopefully nobody else does. It is one that I can only repeat here as a reference to “matriarchal prostitution.” Every missing hanger, every loose bolt, every scraped knuckle, every dropped nut (those that hold the hanger on the bolt), and every time he didn’t get his foot quickly into the next loop, a curse would echo off the wall and down the Valley.
Layton climbed quickly and was up to the belay bolts – he was breathing hard when called down “Off belay.” I’m sure his respiration rate was due to more to his conversation than to his exertion. The Robbins Jumar hauling system was not in our repertoire, so we hauled our food and gear by the old fashioned way ‐ hand‐over‐hand.
My expertise with Jumaring was elementary at best and it took me longer to second the pitch than Layton took to lead it. When I finally arrived at his position he was already getting anxious and quickly put me on belay and urged me upward. About a third of the way up my pitch I clipped a bolt and in the process it came out in my hand. I thought, Whoa, now what? Layton was getting nervous, “Pound it back in, Lauria.” I tried, but it still just fell out when I tried to clip it. “It won’t go, Layton.”
Kor was reaching the red line on his patience meter. He had the extra bolts, but rather than send them up to me he suggested I come down and let him finish the pitch. With great relief, I descended and he took over the lead, replaced the bolt with a new one, and with minimal expletives raced on.
I cleaned the pitch and when I reached his belay stance, Kor suggested that for the sake of time he should lead the rest of the pitches – to Guano Ledge, I thought. He was off, epithets flowing eloquently, and after two pitches requiring several hanger/bolt modifications and some very tricky wet face‐climbing over the last ten feet, we arrived on snow covered Guano Ledge. Ahwahnee Ledge was out of the question ‐ It was two feet deep in snow. We attempted to level out the very sloped Guano Ledge by clearing
the upper portion and building up the lower portion of the ledge with the cleared snow. The temperature was in the 40s and everything was wet and it was getting dark – and did I say it was cold?
Never fear, we have candles. We settled down in our dampened down jackets with our feet in our rucksacks. Kor fought desperately with damp matches to light up three candles. With our 3‐candlepower heater ablaze we soon realized that whatever heat was being generated, we couldn’t feel it. The worthless matriarchal prostitutes!
It wasn’t all a lost cause – we did have a cozy candle lit dinner and Kor revealed his future plans to climb every major wall in the Valley before he left for Europe to do the Eiger. He talked a little about religion, only to abruptly change the subject to his “plan” for tomorrow. Layton quite reasonably thought it would be best for him to lead the rest of the climb. It was obvious that my inexperience was just slowing us down. So it was agreed – I was now auditing the course – and did I mention it was cold?
We still had seven pitches to go and Kor knew it. He almost left skid marks leaving the ledge in the morning. He was around the corner out of sight, but never, never out of earshot. “You damn [matriarchal prostitute]!” resounded from the canyon walls.
The most of the remaining pitches are just a blur in my memory probably because all I did was belay and clean. There were two exceptions ‐ The Evil Tree, where I learned even more new ways to cuss and the final pitch – the pitch where one traverses out from under the last overhang.
It was getting late. This was the sixth pitch. Kor finished it and, now out of sight, called down for me to be careful cleaning. He warned me about the difficulties of Jumaring and cleaning a traverse. Eventually I found myself up in a corner, with my head bumping an overhang, detaching my lead Jumar from the rope to bypass the next pin. With one aid sling on one side of the pin and the second aid sling on the other side, I began to understand the difficulties.
It was only after removing all but the last piece under the overhand that I had an epiphany. I realized that each time I detached the lead Jumar from the rope, I was supported by only one Jumar. Duh! But here comes the good part. I realized that if the Jumar (the ONLY one supporting me) came off the rope, I would plummet to the end of the rope – in those days, approximately 150 feet! Why, you ask? Read on.
This was my first wall climb and my first experience with Jumars. Nobody told me that I should attach them to my swami belt. I had just done the entire climb without ever being attached to my Jumars! The only thing attached to my Jumars when I released them from the climbing rope were my aid slings.
It was too dark and I was only a few feet below finishing the pitch, so I put the thought of my mind and continued on. I was too embarrassed to mention my folly to Layton. I wouldn’t have had time to anyway, as he was up and moving before I sat down. Over his shoulder came, “Come on we have to get down – now!”
So off we went on the wet rock as it began to drizzle. Layton knew approximately where we were going based on his discussion with Royal. I just tried to keep up. We managed to find the rappel anchors in the Leaning Tower Chimney and after three very wet and cold rappels we were on easier ground heading for the snow trough and the parking lot.
Two days later, at my home in Canoga Park, Kor was sitting at the breakfast table with me and my three kids and my wife relating to them the details of our little adventure. He kept rubbing his left eye nervously. I noticed that the eye was quite red. He thought there was just a little sand left over from the Tower, but hours later the irritation had become almost unbearable. So we took him to the closest ophthalmologist we could find. When he emerged from the doctor’s office his eye was patched. The doctor said he had found a sliver of steel near the center of his left eye’s lens (obviously chipped off a piton on the climb). If it had remained in the lens any longer it would no doubt have left a rust mark and Layton’s vision would have been impaired – requiring eventual surgery.
For at least a year after the Tower, I would receive a card or letter from Kor relating his latest climbs and his future plans – the last coming from Europe. It was over twenty years later that we met up again.
I attended the AAC annual Banquet in Las Vegas in December of ’86. At that banquet, as I entered the dining area, I bumped into Yvon Chouinard. We exchanged greetings and he mentioned that Layton Kor was in attendance.
“Where?”
“He’s hard to miss”, Chouinard motioned across the room.
I looked in the direction he was pointing and there in the distance,
standing well above the crowd, was a silver‐haired giant. By the time I got over to him he was seated at the dining table, his back to me. I tapped him on the shoulder hesitantly, fearing he would not recognize the idiot he led up the Tower in 1965. He turned, “Lauria, you rascal, how are you?”
I’m not sure I ever told Kor that I was never attached to my Jumars.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:02pm PT
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A Warm Summer Evening at Tahquitz
The mention of “mass assaults” zapped one of my abused brain cells and I remembered what, back in the old days (circa 1974), we called a mass assault. Another Tahquitz tale.
The Switchbacks is a 5.8 climb at Tahquitz that I had done at least seven times before Mark Powell suggested that I do the 5.7 variation of the first pitch. The pitch goes straight up to the belay ledge at the end of the first pitch of the regular route. The variation was(is?) protected by a ¼” Rawl bolt – about half way up the pitch.
I got so used to doing the variation that I often soloed it – trailing a rope so that I could rappel back down. The belay ledge at the end of the pitch used to have a small tree growing up from a crack at the back of the ledge. It was my rappel anchor. The tree had long since died, but I was able to jam it into the crack so that it remained a trustworthy anchor.
One wonderful warm summer evening after a warm wonderful day of climbing, a bunch of us gathered at Lunch Rock. Someone exposed two 4 liter jugs of wine and suggested that we might join him in a sip of wine. For what reason I’m not sure, I suggested that we imbibe on the Switchbacks belay ledge. Great idea! There were five of us. As I recall we were: Me, Dave Huntsman, Hooman Aprin, Conrad Willett, and Tom Limp.
Well, I led the pitch and began belaying the rest of the group. Did I mention that this ledge was small – so small that it could barely contain a group of five – something that never crossed our minds as began to occupy the ledge. The first person up brought the wine. While belaying the next two ascendants, the ledge occupiers, including the belayer, began imbibing.
By the time the last ascendant, Dave Huntsman, began his ascent, we on the ledge were feeling the effects of wine on a warm summer evening after a warm summer day’s worth of climbing. Tom Limp decided that Huntsman was climbing way too fast and with not enough respect for the difficulty of the pitch. So he poured a cupful of wine down the upper portion of the pitch. This slowed Huntsman for but a brief moment – just long enough to allow him to release a paragraph of obscenities. With all five on the ledge, two had to stand for lack of room. This had little or no effect on our ability to pass the bottles.
By the time we finished the wine it was very late and very dark. Time to think about rappelling and getting back to Idyllwild. Tom limp went first. Hooman was next, but one problem. Our dear friend, Hooman Aprin, was so inebriated that we did not dare allow him to rappel unbelayed. It was an unforgettable sight – Hooman being belayed as he wobbled down the near vertical pitch into the arms of Tom. That was the easy part.
With everyone down, now we had to get Hooman down the trail. With me on one arm and Huntsman on the other, we escorted Hooman down. No easy task as Hooman was unable to stand without support. Conrad and Limp would take over when Huntsman and I would tire. Thus our relay team was able to get Aprin back to our car.
Last time I saw Hooman was in the Tetons in 1995 where he was guiding for Exum. I hadn’t seen him for over 20 years. He had lost most of his hair, but not his memories of a warm summer evening after a warm summer day of climbing at Tahquitz.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:05pm PT
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An Encounter
Not exactly a climbing encounter, but an encounter none-the-less on the way to a climb.
Bud (Ivan) Couch and I had hiked (you can almost drive the entire way) into the Stone House at the base of Lone Pine Peak in the eastern Sierra. Lone Pine residents often refer to it as “The Monastery,” and a hiker’s manual refers to it as the “Stone House”; it is known by the U.S. Forest Service as the “Tuttle Creek Ashram.” Bud wanted to attempt a first ascent of the south face. We decided to spend the night on the floor of the church before beginning what became a complete fiasco the next morning. We spread out our sleeping bags and foam pads on the wooden floor and settled in for the night.
Sometime after dozing off I was awakened by a strange intermittent sound – like someone hesitantly using sandpaper to smooth out the splintered floor. Scrape, scrape ... pause. Scrape, scrape ... pause.
Weird, I thought, and cautiously began reaching for the flashlight lying somewhere on the floor around my head. Scrape, scrape … pause. Scrape, scrape … pause, it continued as I groped in the darkness.
When I finally grasped the flashlight and succeeded in lighting up the floor above my head, there facing me over its booty, with its two little beady eyes flashing, staring directly into the glare, totally unshaken in its task, shuffling backward with intense effort, scrape, scrape … pause, was a tiny field mouse obviously straining under the burden of the Almond Joy candy bar it was dragging to some far off haven in the darkness. The glare had interrupted the felony in progress, but then seemingly unshaken, the mouse continued its backward struggle. Scrape, scrape … pause. Scrape, scrape … pause.
I was so impressed with its show of intense determination, I switched off my light and bid the little bugger goodnight. Couch slept through the entire episode.
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john hansen
climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 02:14pm PT
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Great stuff Don. Thanks.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:15pm PT
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Memories of Mark
Just a little aside. Yes, TMs Jewel (a Tahquitz climb, FA June 1965) is not an aesthetic climb. Neither Powell nor I liked it on the first ascent. That's why Powell named it TMs Jewel. Not a good bet!
TMs Jewel was the name of a dog running at the dog track in Rapid City when Kamps and Powell were taking time off from climbing in the Needles of South Dakota. Mark figured he couldn't go wrong with a name like TM's Jewel. He laid some big bucks on TMs Jewel to win. The Jewel came in last!
Mark not only remembered limericks - he had an unbelievable memory for climbing routes.
In 1966, when I mentioned that I was going to do the NW face of Half Dome, Mark asked if I needed any help with the route and then sat down and sketched out a pitch-by-pitch topo with little side bars of detail like "be cautious under Psyche Flake" or "the last pitch is easy, but it's important to find the bolt because a fall here could be disastrous".
Then in 1967, before Boche and I went up on the 8th ascent of the Nose, he took out his pencil again and produced another perfect topo of the route. Pitch-by-pitch - perfect.
As for his climbing ability after his ankle was fused, in 1963-64 he put up a few new routes (The Chingadera, The Chauvinist) and variations (The Reach, The Green Arch, Sling Swing Traverse) at Tahquitz Rock.
Some of these routes were well known for sections of "Powell 5.7 friction". Back in the days of Kronhofer klettershoes, friction was more difficult and most often relied on edging more than smearing. Powell attributed his prowess with friction to his fused ankle which allowed him to stand with less effort on small rugosities. His ankle acted as a firm platform. Needless-to-say, "Powell 5.7 friction" seemed more like 5.8 to the rest of us.
I spent the summer of 1965 in the Needles of South Dakota with him and Beverly, Bob and Bonnie Kamps, and Dave Rearick. We did a few first ascents, one of which was The Phallus, where I – being the least experienced - was the last man up and – being the least experienced - was chosen to be the backup to a questionable rappel bolt … and thus – being the least experienced – was the last man down sans backup (the old “if it holds the three of us, it’ll hold you” story).
Sitting around a campfire every evening with the likes of Powell and Kamps in the Needles and Yosemite's Camp-4 are episodes in "My Life in Spire Repair" that are some of the warmest. More on that later.
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Mike Bolte
Trad climber
Planet Earth
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Apr 22, 2019 - 02:16pm PT
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this is fabulous stuff Don - thanks for getting it written down!
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:17pm PT
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A Letter from Doug Robinson
Don, my condolences on joining this nefarious crew. Little good will come of it, and much time will be wasted. Like drinking with your friends, only different.
As in all such mingling stories get trotted out, and at times we come to suspect that they have enlarged a wee bit in the telling. Just to set a good example, here is a tale featuring your good self, and taking place within the last decade to boot.
So Don is helping me with some Foothill College climbing students who we have been lured up to High Camp at the edge of the Palisades Glacier. The glacier was considerably bigger back then (did I mention there was enlargement in the tale?), and the ship of our little expedition had foundered alarmingly, yawing all over the ice, for our stores had run dry of the one most essential of all a ship's staples: rum.
Don jumped up, volunteering to save the day. Jumped? -- he fairly leapt to our aid, for some of us were sorely desiccated by the lack. Now you could hardly tell from Don's casual demeanor the seriousness of his task, for he sauntered away from the glacier camp with just a tiny rucksack and those blue shorts (no cagoule in sight).
Now it is full well ten miles down that trail to the roadhead, and drops five thousand feet into the bargain, but Don's resolve did not waver. And the next thing we knew he was back, having assuredly regained every panting step of the way just to bring us a full-gallon flagon, and for good measure more lemonade powder for the mixing of it. All hands were revived, and the very next day, emboldened by our good fortune, we dispatched the notorious Swiss Arete on mighty Mount Sill.
So, you see, Don is a fine gentle-fellow and always looking out for the good of the crew. We bid you, sir, most welcome.
In closing I make bold with just one small request. Would you mind telling us -- at your leisure, to be sure -- my very favorite of all your stories? 'Tis the one about Norman Clyde's favorite Norman Clyde story...
Cheers mate,
Doug
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ron gomez
Trad climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 02:18pm PT
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Wow Don, this made my day. This is great reading....hope you just keep writing. Worth of a short story book.
Many Thanks
Peace
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 02:18pm PT
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++++
Good reads
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:20pm PT
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Cohen on Roper
Just remembered another “Roper the pilot” story as related to me by Michael Cohen:
Seems, decades ago, Steve and Michael (and maybe others) flew to some remote canyon in the Southwest to explore. Roper put his plane down uphill into a box canyon.
When the time came to return home, Roper realized the predicament he had created upon landing. He had little room to take off and avoid the surrounding mountains.
In preparation for the takeoff, with engine idling, Roper exited the cockpit and marched off ahead of the plane. After reaching some particular distance, Steve removed a handkerchief from his pocket and placed at his feet. When he returned the plane Michael asked, “What’s the handkerchief for Steve?” Roper’s reply, “I want you to keep your eye on that handkerchief as we takeoff. If we’re not airborne by the time we reach it, yell and I’ll abort.”
Roper revved the engine and the plane began moving, gaining more speed, and more speed, and Michael’s eyes were glued to the assigned marker. Still on the ground as they passed the handkerchief, Michael yelled, and instantly turned to Roper. Roper, jaw set, his eyes firmly fixed ahead, the plane still on the ground, still at full throttle, was leaning forward, pleading, “Come on, baby! Come on baby!”
Michael’s yell to no avail, Roper pressed on. Since both of them are still alive, you know they made it.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:28pm PT
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My Friend TM Herbert
Back in late January of 2014, Bob Palais, representing the American Alpine Club, emailed me requesting some help in prying TM Herbert out of his reluctance to attend the annual dinner in Denver to receive an honorary membership in the AAC. Yvon Chouinard was to be guest speaker at the event and Bob assumed that would be sufficient leverage to pry TM from his obstinate dislike of being associated with any "club". TM never belonged to the AAC and never intended, ever, to belong!
Bob had tried via telephone to coax TM to attend. "TM, it's an all-expense-paid trip. We'll fly you to Denver, rent you a car, give you a hotel suite, pay for your dinner, present you with an engraved plaque honoring you as a member of the AAC. We'll fly you back home to Reno all at no expense to you. You can even sit next to Yvon and Malinda!" "No way. Not interested. Never wanted to be a member of the American Alpine Club." That was TM's response. Bob pleaded to no avail.
Then he emailed me for help. Bob wanted me to call TM and do a little arm twisting. I did, but I knew that it would be futile. One doesn't twist TM's arm - not without realizing that one cannot actually even grip his arm. I called TM, the resistance was fierce and the result was negative.
I suggested that Bob contact Tom Herbert, TM's medical doctor son, to see if Tom could change his mind. Bob asked me to make the call. I did and Tom said he'd try, but thought it would be useless. "You know my Dad, he's stubborn." Tom was right, it was useless.
Finally, driven to extreme measures, Bob, holding a plaque engraved with TM's name and no one to accept it, conferred with Phil Powers, the presidentof the AAC. They came up with a plan: Let Lauria accept it for him. Halleluah!
I, of course, accepted the invitation. It would be the fourth Annual Dinner I'd been able to attend since Yvon talked me into joining the AAC back in 1967. I attended one in Berkeley back in the early 70s when I was chairman of the SoCal AAC section, I was in Aspen, Colorado sometime in the early 80s when my daughter was still at U of CO, and I was in Vegas in 1987. Now 17 years later I got to attend another one - all expenses paid!
It all went well. I arrived at the hotel in downtown Denver on a Friday evening and the first people I met in the lobby were Yvon and Malinda. I explained my presence and they fully understood the circumstance. Yvon commented, "It's classic "Herbert".
The presentation went off Saturday without a hitch and without revelation of Herbert's obstinacy. The next day I flew back arriving in Reno around 8 PM. I was sitting in my hotel room in Sparks holding the very attractive plaque when it occurred to me that TM lived just a few blocks away, why not deliver it to him right now. I called him and got directions to his house. When I arrived TM was standing out front waving his arms wildly. I crossed the street, my arm outstretched, with his plaque in my hand. He took it and without the least hesitation, did one of his patented fake baseball pitches - as if to toss the damn thing back across the street.
Later, in his front room, he placed the trophy on top of the TV. There it stood:
TM Herbert
Honorary Member
American Alpine Club 2014
I think he was proud.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:32pm PT
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Semper Farcissimus with considerable help from Roger Derryberry
Warren Harding
June 18, 1924 - February 27, 2002
“Warren Harding? Well, what can I say?”
That’s exactly how Warren would have started his own obituary. His usual demeanor was self-deprecating: To the question, “Are you the famous Warren Harding?”, he would retort, “Well, I used to be.”
He believed that people are never what they were. We all grow … older.
Harding died at home in Anderson, California, well aware that the end was near. He had been in failing health for over three years and refused to exchange his lifestyle for an extended life span. He approached his end with the same wit that he exhibited throughout his life. From his bed, just days before he died, he quipped that he was definitely never going to buy any more 50,000-mile-warranty tires.
Warren was introduced to climbing at the age of 27 in 1952 and within a year had found his niche in Yosemite Valley. Most of us remember Harding as the Yosemite pioneer -- the prime mover in the first ascent of El Capitan in 1958, via the Nose, a milestone that marked the first time a wall of such size and difficulty had been climbed anywhere in the world. His first ascents of El Cap, the East Buttress and North Buttress of Middle Cathedral Rock, the West Face of the Leaning Tower, the East Face of Washington Column (later freed as Astroman), the South Face of Mount Watkins, the Direct Route on the Lost Arrow, and the South Face of Half Dome spanned the next two decades. In the Sierra high country, he established first ascents on the East Face of Keeler Needle and the Southwest Face of Mount Conness.
Beyond his groundbreaking ascents, Warren was characterized variously as a rebel, iconoclast, and rogue. In his outrageous book Downward Bound, published in 1975, Harding described himself as “an undersized individual … [with] neither any outstanding physical attributes nor burning ambition. But I have a mind of my own and a love for the mountains.” Despite this self-description, Harding was a dashing figure in his heyday, well known for his penchant for good-looking women, classy sports cars, and Red Mountain wine.
And he did have a mind of his own and used it in formulating his climbing philosophy. He looked upon climbing as “an individual thing, not some kind of organized religion.” He was unimpressed and refused to be intimidated by admittedly “better climbers” when they espoused certain “climbing ethics.” Warren never hesitated to take on those whom he referred to as the “elite” of the climbing community and didn’t mince words in his castigation of “these gentlemen who, in effect, presume to tell me how to do my thing.” Climbing to him was something he did because there were no rules.
When he and Dean Caldwell completed their 27-day first ascent of the Wall of the Early Morning Light (a.k.a. the Dawn Wall) on El Cap in 1970, their placement of 330 bolts re-ignited a controversy that had smoldered in the Valley since Warren drilled his first bolt-hole. Was Harding putting up routes where no route existed or should exist? Excessive bolts and fixed ropes were being judged as “unethical.” To that sentiment Warren replied, “Climbing requires many disciplines, not the least of which is plain old ass-busting work, which is what bolts amount to!”
Royal Robbins, in concert with a few other well-respected Yosemite climbers, decided that the route should be erased. Two months after the first ascent, Robbins and Don Lauria did the second ascent, chopping the bolts as they climbed. On the first bivouac, after four pitches, the question of interfering with an established route -- especially one with some admirably difficult nailing -- began to eat at Robbins. By morning theye agreed to quit chopping. Robbins later wrote, “[It’s] good to have a man around who doesn’t give a damn what the establishment thinks … Harding stands out as a magnificent maverick.”
By the late 1970s Warren put serious Yosemite climbing behind him and dedicated his time to writing, lectures, slideshow tours, and the occasional sojourn into the mountains. Never giving up his union card, he worked off and on as a surveyor for the State of California. As he put it, “I’ll just plug along. Climb, work, climb, have an occasional glass of wine.” Into the 1980s there was a lot less climbing, a lot less work, and finally retirement -- and a lot more glasses of wine. He did, however, return to the Nose in 1989 to become, at that time, the oldest person to ever climb El Capitan.
Harding’s affinity for Red Mountain wine was his eventual and inevitable undoing. By the time he reached his 70s, he had been warned that his liver would not last if he continued to imbibe. When the end was near and his body began to shut down, he became confused and a little delusional. He wanted to know what was happening to him. The conversation led to discussing the Buddhists’ belief that the soul leaves the dying body and enters an embryo to emerge anew in a child. Harding pleaded weakly, “But how will you find me?”
During these last days, many of Harding’s old climbing friends began to visit. On one occasion it was planned to videotape Warren and some of his friends while they swapped stories of the golden era of Yosemite climbing. When his friends arrived they spent an hour or so greeting one another. Warren became impatient and whispered to the cameraman, “Do they realize there’s not much time left?”
During one of these story-swapping sessions, someone asked Warren which of all his bivouacs was the worst. He
answered without hesitation that the storm-bound bivouac on Half Dome’s South Face route was his worst. Immediately he was asked which was his best. He grinned, and almost in a whisper, answered, “You’ll have to ask my girlfriends.”
Finally, someone asked what he would do differently if he had it to do over again. He replied, “I would be taller, smarter, and less nasty.” Warren Harding? Have we said enough?
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:37pm PT
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Ron Gomez,
My favorites are in the 8 that I posted 10 years ago.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:43pm PT
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TM
Where do you start with TM? Let's start with his name. As related to me by TM himself, his parents never attached names to the initials. According to his version, his birth certificate has only initials on it. Now it's not unusual for people to be called by nicknames - sometimes by their initials. My son Don was usually referred to as "DJ" by his immediate family, but Herbert took it further. He says his name is "TM" and he should never be referred to as T.M. Herbert because the T and the M don't stand for names.
Okay, we got it, but do we believe it? I always have taken him at his word, so I believe it.
Okay, that's a start. Now to explore the character. Talk about characters! TM is The American Climbing Character. Anybody professing knowledge of American rock climbing history knows of TM Herbert.
TM is the guy who wore a swami belt of 1-inch tubular nylon for part or possibly all of a climbing season without realizing the webbing had a splice maintained by masking tape somewhere around mid-length. TM is the person that wrote those outrageously funny notes to me in the 70s imploring me to climb with him - stories funny enough to be published and republished. How can one forget his description of his physical prowess:"... I now weigh 103% lb. and can still lift the front end of a D-9 tractor. And also I can hold a full lever on the high bar with my wee-wee."
I was climbing Nutcracker Suite with TM back in the 70s.Above the crux somewhere we caught up with a couple of young climbers who were obviously finding the climbing a tad difficult. They were intently watching TM. As Herbert approached them finishing a difficult pitch involving a little lie-backing, he began what I have always referred to as Herbertian whimpering. Gasping agonizingly, "Watch me here! I'm losing it! Waaaaaatch me!" The young climbers were beginning to anticipate a catastrophic fall and visibly trembling. TM began muttering, for their benefit as he moved cautiously upward, "Five-eight ... five-eight ... oh, oh, 5.9 ...No only five-eight ...Watch me here!" All of a sudden, with his arms flailing, TM leapt from the lie-back landing right in front of the frightened spectators and began strolling up the steep face toward them gleefully dragging the rope behind him. His hands outstretched toward them, he broke into a trot, throwing in a few of his patented fake stumbles, "Fourth class ... fourth class ..,I'm saved ...Thank the Lord, I'm saved." When I got to the belay spot shared with the kids, one of them whispered, "Is that TM Herbert?" I answered, "You think?"
TM hates RVs, house trailers, and the people that drive them. He once got so irate while trapped behind an RV on the Tioga road out of Lee Vining that he started pounding on his windshield. He pounded one too many times and it cracked. He told me that he once over took a guy in a house trailer coming up to Yosemite on the road out of Fresno. It seems the guy had passed up one too many turnouts for Herbert. He reached into the guy's window grabbed his keys and flung them far out into the brush and left him there with his mouth agape. These were the things that raised his ire.
Herbert can be and often is a very stubborn person. He has his way of doing things and it is near impossible to change his mind. He has his rituals and don't try to modify them. I don't know how many times he has insisted that I stop at the dwarf Cedar on the descent off of Stately Pleasure Dome. "You've got to look at this tree. It's almost as wide as it is tall." I have repeatedly told him as we approached the tree that I am aware of its aspect ratio and that he is merely repeating himself. To no avail, "You've got to look at this tree. It's almost as wide as it is tall."
For years TM refused to buy a down jacket. He believed, because Chouinard convinced him, that wool was the only thing for bivouacs. "Stays warm even if it gets wet!" For that reason, he never slept on a bivouac because he was always too cold. I've mentioned before how he became a convert on the first ascent of BHOS Dome, but I didn't mention that the conversion was successful only because he forgot his wool sweater and was forced to accept the loan of a down jacket.
Just ask his former wife, Jan. Anything inside the house was "squaw work'. "Braves" chopped wood. Braves did manly things. None of that girly housework for this brave. In fact, to some extent, Herbert was drawn away from a promising teaching career because carpentry was a man's job - none of that wishy-washy political maneuvering in the educational field for him.
Don't expect Herbert to accept your hospitality. He has ingrained in his sculpted cranium that it is an
imposition to eat at your dinner table or sleep on your sheets. He often has insisted that he be able to heat his can of Dinty Moore stew on your stove while you ate your separate dinner. If he accepted a bed to sleep on, he always spread his sleeping bag on it - never turned the covers. Rather than eat at your table he will insist on going out to dinner - on him. In the old days that meant taking you to Sizzler because, "They have a great salad bar".
As a climber he was as safe as any I've ever climbed with. He didn't take chances with the weather. He always placed bombproof belay anchors and never trusted a single rappel anchor unless it was a tree or a new bolt. That's not to say he ever rappelled off a questionable anchor. He did if he had to, but he still didn't trust it.
TM's ability as a climber relied heavily on his strength. For someone who never weighed more than 160 pounds he had incredible strength. I use the past tense because he has quit climbing and working in Patagonia's shipping department is not like working out at the gym. He quit climbing when his eyes got so bad he had trouble focusing on the holds and climbing with glasses was out of the question. Last time I saw him I noticed his hearing aids and listened to his complaints of dwindling strength. If you've ever experienced the firm grasp of your wrist by an adamant TM Herbert, then you know how insistent he can be. I would guess that at his age he's still relatively strong, but he's not up to his old standards and that means he can't do what he used to do - climb.
Discussion of his incredible strength brings to mind one of TMs few winter mountaineering excursions. It was 1969.Yvon Chouinard, Doug Tompkins, TM Herbert, Bill Lang, Eric Rayson, and I spent about a week in the Northern Selkirks of Canada. We did a little climbing, but before making any attempts we warmed up on easy terrain with some snow and ice practice. On a steep, firm snow slope, we practiced self-arrests. TM had very little experience in this venture and on his first running start he flung himself at high speed down the slope. In a fruitless attempt at rolling onto his axe and plunging the pick into the snow, he gave up and while descending at breakneck speed, he rolled onto his back and with his right arm outstretched, ice axe gripped firmly, he plunged the spike of the shaft into the snow and came to an immediate arm wrenching stop. How anyone could have maintained a grip on the shaft under such circumstances still boggles my mind. But then I remember his firm grasp on my wrist and I understand.
Thank god TM doesn't have a computer and probably never will - did I say he was stubborn? Unless someone, maybe his eldest, shows him this stuff, he'll get it all word-of-mouth, subject to the usual inaccuracies. So I'll always be able to claim that it was not quite what I said or that I didn't say it at all.
So to finish up this brief series, there's the time I and Susie Condon went to Baja with the Herbert family. We were all packed into his Chevy Suburban or International Travelall or whatever - TM, with his crewcut, Susie with her very blond hair, Jan with her infant son in her arms, and me along with chaise lounges, coolers, boxes of food, water containers, camping stove, sleeping bags, and tents. We went as far south as San Felipe and had a wonderful trip. On the return, as we were passing through the border station out of Tijuana, the border guards, for God knows what reason pulled us over. If there was ever a more straight-laced looking group, I couldn't imagine it. Herbert was flabbergasted. Why me? Look I'm an American, a veteran, a father, an upright citizen. Why me?
All to no avail, they took everything out of the car and then began taking the inside side panels off. They used mirrors under the fenders and the frame. In all we were delayed over an hour. When they finished looking they said, "Okay, you can put it all back together now." Then it took us another half hour to put the panels back on and reload the car.
The entire 125 mile trip back to Los Angeles was a non-stop Herbert tirade. The language was colorful and descriptive. The adjectives flowed eloquently from TM's lips. I had never heard the Border Patrol described in so many different ways - all derogatory. I had no idea Nixon's parentage was so questionable. I learned that there was a conspiracy against all of us with its protagonists firmly entrenched in Washington, D.C. I was totally surprised to learn that they hadn't found the pot stash someone unknown had left in the glove compartment. A remnant from a party at which the Herberts were designated drivers.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:48pm PT
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Tom Limp
Tom Limp passed on a while back after a short bout with Alzheimer’s.
Where do you begin with Tom Limp?
For me it all began when I was introduced to him in a restaurant at lunch time when we both worked at North American Aviation in El Segundo. It was 1962 and I had just become interested in mountain climbing and Tom had been suggested to me as a potential climbing partner. My first impression was “this skinny guy is a mountaineer?” Little did I know – Tom had climbed all of the Sierra Club’s emblem peaks and all of the 14,000 footers in California before I met him.
We became close friends. We spent many years together hiking and climbing in the mountains. Did I say together? You had trouble staying up with Tom in the mountains. He was one of the fastest hikers I ever knew. Tom was a distance runner in high school and he still had that stamina. In fact, he started me running at the age of 40. I had never run more than mile in my life - by the time I was 46 Tom had seen me complete 5 marathons.
In 1966, we opened a small mountaineering store in west Los Angeles – West Ridge Mountaineering . The business grew considerably over the years and became the center of our lives. We went from 500 square feet to 25,000 - - our gross income went from $90K to $1M. Tom split off from the retail end and began his own manufacturing business in the same building. During those years Tom got me started riding long bicycling distances. Our first ride together was from Santa Monica to Santa Maria and back. Within a year, I was riding in double centuries – 200 miles in a day!
During those years at West Ridge Tom met and eventually married Norma. Tom and Norma led many trips to Central and South America to climb the most challenging mountains in those regions. They called their operation Freelance Alpine Research Team (FART).
Our interests in West Ridge Mountaineering were sold in 1981 and Tom and I went our separate ways. Tom and Norma moved their manufacturing business to Tucson and I moved to Bishop. We kept in touch. Tom bought a new home in Bishop and rented it to me in 1988.
My interest in bicycling, kindled by Tom back 1972, was reignited in 1983 and I spent the next 20 years in training for an annual Death Valley to Mt Whitney bicycle race. The same Mt Whitney whose east face Tom and I had climbed in 1963.
You might get the idea that Tom had a lot of influence on my life – well, he did. He helped me develop my climbing skills, he introduced me to distance running, he started me bicycling, and he was my partner in business. He was my best man at my second marriage.
Tom was a practical man – Henry Ford type of engineer. He knew the tricks of mass production and incorporated them in his manufacturing. He spent time figuring out more efficient ways of doing the most menial tasks – keying in times on the microwave – just hit 66 instead of 60 – or 44 instead of 40 – it was just quicker. He wasn’t very good at verbalizing his ideas, but great at demonstrating them. He sometimes said things that left you scratching your head until the wisdom slowly came to the surface.
We were both doing a lot of rock climbing at Stoney Point in southern California back in the early 70s. The Sierra Club was going to have a belaying practice session at Stoney one Sunday and I asked Tom if he was interested. Belaying is the method used by climbers (the belayers) to hold a falling climber (the belayee) with the climbing rope. The Sierra Club used to practice the method by dropping a heavy weight to simulate a falling body. The result often resulted in wrenching the belayer from his or her perch with considerable force and discomfort. Tom’s response to my question was “Why do I want to practice dying, when the time comes, I will.”
He did.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 22, 2019 - 02:51pm PT
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Climbing History
My introduction to climbing began in September 1961. In a few other threads I’ve related the details of that introduction. You may have read from The Original Vulgarian:
“I spent the entire Saturday climbing at Stoney in a pair of John’s mountain boots two sizes too small for me. He took me around the entire area, climbing everything in sight. By the end of the day I could barely lift my arms. I was exhausted - but was I stoked!
That evening at John’s apartment, … , John [Hansen] filled me with Gerwurztraminer and tales from his Vulgarian Shawangunks days. Well into the evening he talked about mountaineering – famous European and American climbers and climbing history. He pulled six mountaineering books off his shelf and insisted I take them home and read them.”
My reading list included:
Gaston Rebuffat’s Starlight and Storm
Lionel Terray’s Conquistadors of the Useless
Maurice Herzog’s Annapurna
Edward Whymper’s Scrambles Amongst the Alps
Clarence King’s Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada
A.F. Mummery’s My Climbs in the Alps and the Caucasus
Needless-to-say, my “introduction” included a basic history lesson. The Golden Age of Yosemite had just begun. Books covering that Age did not yet exist. Any Yosemite history was brief and oral, but John filled in what he knew from Anderson through Salathe, Steck, Harding, Robbins, Frost, Chouinard, and Pratt.
In September of 1962, I completed my first Yosemite climb (Higher Cathedral Spire) and finished off Hansen’s reading list. A pile of back issues of Summit Magazine brought me pretty much up-to-date.
I had acquired a respectable background in the history of climbing and most importantly I had, and still retain, considerable respect for that history. Should be a required prerequisite to calling yourself a climber.
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ron gomez
Trad climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 03:02pm PT
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Don I still have one of those Semper Farcissimus shirts Derryberry printed up. Still in mint shape, I try not to wear it. I’ll take a photo of it when I get home. Yours if you want it. Would be a worthy gift. Keep this stuff coming....best reading in years.
Peace
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D Murph
climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 07:16pm PT
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I'm loving this thread.. thank you!
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ron gomez
Trad climber
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Apr 22, 2019 - 07:43pm PT
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“I had acquired a respectable background in the history of climbing and most importantly I had, and still retain, considerable respect for that history. Should be a required prerequisite to calling yourself a climber.” Don Lauria
Amen Don, I have had this conversation with many people, climbers newer to climbing have no interest in history....well that goes back any further than their birthdate. I studied as much history of a climb before I even attempted it and read as much as I could about climbing history as I was learning to climb and still study the history. That’s why this thread is so valuable and people like you, Kerwin Klein and Steve Grossman, among other contributors are so important to our history.
Peace
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tolman_paul
Trad climber
Anchorage, AK
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Apr 22, 2019 - 09:06pm PT
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This thread and threads like it are what have made Supertopo a unique and treasured resource for climbers.
Having read stories about Robbins, TM, Frost, Kor and others when I got into climbing had an impact on how I climbed.
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hobo_dan
Social climber
Minnesota
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Apr 23, 2019 - 04:14pm PT
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This has been a well spent hour reading your stories--Thanks for sharing Don
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donini
Trad climber
Ouray, Colorado
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Apr 23, 2019 - 04:16pm PT
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Keep them coming Don, you’re helping me relive my youth.
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capseeboy
Social climber
wandering star
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Apr 24, 2019 - 08:55am PT
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Thank you DL. I enjoy the full meal deals.
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Jan
Mountain climber
Colorado & Nepal
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Apr 24, 2019 - 09:26am PT
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Thanks so much! This represents the best of Supertopo. You have a unique gift of having lived through the Golden Age and also being able to remember and tell about it in a wonderful way.
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norm larson
climber
wilson, wyoming
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Apr 24, 2019 - 10:30am PT
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Thanks for the blasts from the past.
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hailman
Trad climber
Ventura, CA
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Apr 24, 2019 - 01:57pm PT
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These really deserve to be in a book!
Glen Denny has a book with stories, similar in tone to these. It is called "Valley Walls"
It evokes a time and place that is gone (the Valley with just a few adventurous climbers) .... except that it lives on in his words !!!!
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Jan
Mountain climber
Colorado & Nepal
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Apr 25, 2019 - 09:02am PT
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I think a lot of the historical material on Supertopo if it hasn't been erased already, should be in a book.
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FRUMY
Trad climber
Bishop,CA
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Apr 25, 2019 - 09:18am PT
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TFPU! Great thread.
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hailman
Trad climber
Ventura, CA
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Apr 25, 2019 - 12:12pm PT
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I think a lot of the historical material on Supertopo if it hasn't been erased already, should be in a book.
I agree Jan.
I remember one ambitious Supertopo-an user put together a few threads that had links to the best of supertopo. I think I could find these summary posts, but even that takes some digging.
But that is the irony of a completely unorganized forum...the good stuff is hiding in plain sight.
It would be a nice project for someone to put some of the very best material into a book. I think it is getting easier to self-publish these days.
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john hansen
climber
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Apr 25, 2019 - 12:21pm PT
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I started a new thread with the link to Nahoo's Supper Topo Gold .
Did not want to distract from Dons great stories..
Hope he has a few more tales to tell.
Thanks again
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hailman
Trad climber
Ventura, CA
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Apr 25, 2019 - 12:25pm PT
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I'm editing this as well to stay on topic.
Thanks to Mr. Lauria for the great tales.
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jogill
climber
Colorado
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Apr 25, 2019 - 04:23pm PT
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This is a marvelous thread. Reminds me of rgold's thread on the triple lever. Great moments in personal histories about colorful characters and feats that should have homes here. Not suitable for Wikipedia.
But what of Steve's North American archives? He has an enormous task. Should there be a strong fund raiser here? Is that appropriate? What do you think, Steve?
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ron gomez
Trad climber
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Apr 25, 2019 - 04:49pm PT
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So Mr. Gill......I figure you have some wonderful stories to share! I remember talking with Bachar and how much he admired your skills and John had a story or two of his visits with you. Please help this GOLDEN thread going, it is wonderful for those of us who appreciate history and the wonderful first person stories that go with that.
Peace
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micronut
Trad climber
Fresno/Clovis, ca
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Apr 27, 2019 - 10:39pm PT
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Thanks Don! Truly a treasured collection. Looking forward to digging through all of them.
Scott
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StahlBro
Trad climber
San Diego, CA
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Apr 28, 2019 - 09:28am PT
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Great reading Don. Thanks for taking the time to share.
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FRUMY
Trad climber
Bishop,CA
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Bump for a good thread.
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Thanks, Don, for wonderful reminiscences and climbing history. Seems like you've got much of the material for a good book already written!
Wayne Merry
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Jamesthomsen
Social climber
Mammoth Lakes, California
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May 10, 2019 - 08:53am PT
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Don, I have always loved hearing your stories live, but these are great! Thanks for taking the time to put these all together!
We need to share another Thai lunch..
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FRUMY
Trad climber
Bishop,CA
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May 12, 2019 - 08:46am PT
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Bump
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FRUMY
Trad climber
Bishop,CA
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May 15, 2019 - 08:45am PT
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bump
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| Messages 1 - 73 of total 73 in this topic |
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