An uncle of mine was a professional mountain climber for years. I vividly remember him telling me a story about when he and his best friend started to slide down an icy mountain and had to pull their ice picks out to drag along behind them. I was waiting to find out how they got out of it, when he said “And that’s when my buddy died.” It was real life, not just a story.
He mentioned with some regret that he’d never climbed Everest, “but at least I’m alive and still have all my toes.”
I’m a casual climber and know a lot of former pros/serious climbers—the death rate is simply staggering. I get that these people just have the drive and can’t imagine not pushing the boundaries even further, but when a single guy can tell me three different stories about watching a fellow climber or paraglider or whatever else they do in the mountains dying in front of him, that sport is too much for me to go further into. I remember reading outdoor magazines about the exploits of the most famous climbers fifteen or twenty years ago, and I look them up now and a solid chunk of them are dead. It’s wild, but there’s something appealing about it in a primal sense.
“started to slide down an icy mountain and had to pull their ice picks out” — Alive and toed was regret well spent, IMO! Ages ago I spoke with a roofer who told me of a time he was on a steep two story roof and started to slide on some loose shingles. He quickly took our his straight claw hammer to slam it down into the plywood underneath. As he pounded the roof repeatedly while skidding to the edge he recalled having borrowed another guy’s curved claw hammer that day. He fell but lived to tell the tale!
An uncle of mine was a professional mountain climber for years. I vividly remember him telling me a story about when he and his best friend started to slide down an icy mountain and had to pull their ice picks out to drag along behind them. I was waiting to find out how they got out of it, when he said “And that’s when my buddy died.” It was real life, not just a story.
He mentioned with some regret that he’d never climbed Everest, “but at least I’m alive and still have all my toes.”
I’m a casual climber and know a lot of former pros/serious climbers—the death rate is simply staggering. I get that these people just have the drive and can’t imagine not pushing the boundaries even further, but when a single guy can tell me three different stories about watching a fellow climber or paraglider or whatever else they do in the mountains dying in front of him, that sport is too much for me to go further into. I remember reading outdoor magazines about the exploits of the most famous climbers fifteen or twenty years ago, and I look them up now and a solid chunk of them are dead. It’s wild, but there’s something appealing about it in a primal sense.
“started to slide down an icy mountain and had to pull their ice picks out”
—
Alive and toed was regret well spent, IMO!
Ages ago I spoke with a roofer who told me of a time he was on a steep two story roof and started to slide on some loose shingles. He quickly took our his straight claw hammer to slam it down into the plywood underneath. As he pounded the roof repeatedly while skidding to the edge he recalled having borrowed another guy’s curved claw hammer that day.
He fell but lived to tell the tale!
Great article, thanks for posting!