Landlines

Les Drus on the left, from a cave below the north face of the Grands Charmoz, 11-1-84

Bill Nicolai was (and likely still is) a crazy person, and crazy smart. He was observed either naked or wearing a loincloth in the Cascades and Sierras, covering vast distances and technical terrain, putting as little between himself and the natural world as possible — integrating rather than insulating. That said, once, while traversing the incredibly remote Picket Range, when shelter was needed, it failed him, and this single event changed the outdoor industry forever.

The storm in the North Cascades destroyed his traditional A-frame tent so he and Mark Fielding designed an integrated, double-walled tunnel shelter, named the Omnipotent in 1972. It was easy to set up, could withstand enormous wind loads, and weighed a mere seven pounds.

The revolutionary design, based on Jack Stephenson's tunnel tent concept, changed the lightweight, mountaineering tent market overnight. Making and marketing the product involved some 'creative financing' to buy sewing machines, fabric, rent space and purchase advertising in local print media. Nicolai's idea was implemented by architect Bill Edwards, and proved to function exactly as Ron Zimmerman's deliciously worded marketing promised it would. Shortly thereafter the team discovered a new, experimental, cutting edge, waterproof-breathable fabric that would become known as Gore-Tex. Their company, Early Winters, was the first (or second if Banana Equipment's timeline is believed) to manufacture outdoor clothing and single-walled tents utilizing Gore-Tex fabric. It was a revolution.

I got a job working at Early Winters in 1980. I'd been working at Tipples, a restaurant on Lower Queen Anne Hill near the Seattle Center, which backed up to the Early Winters retail store. I spent every break from clearing tables and washing dishes at the little climbing shop that catered to outdoor enthusiasts who knew enough not to shop at REI. The employees were as cutting-edge as Nicolai, drawn to his intelligence and vigor, and his anti-establishment way of doing everything. I was a child without enough experience to speak to buyers so the only gig I could get was in the factory at 110 Prefontaine Place, near Third and Yesler, which wasn't the shithole it is now. I cut fiberglass tent poles, seam-sealed single-wall tents, put toggles on drawstrings and inspected products prior to delivery. There I met Andy and Brad, climbers who opened doors and opened my mind, correcting mistakes I'd made by believing what limited marketing I was exposed to by printed catalogs and periodicals. Climbing with them showed me that what we are sold by the marketing is often wrong.

I kept visiting the retail store because the guys inspired me, and I wanted a job there, a position where the public considered me an expert, where buyers believed my pitch because I had earned their trust. Eight months of factory drudgery and inhaling fiberglass dust opened the chance to work retail so I set down the dust mask and cleaned up my appearance.

The work was good and I did it and learned well. After some months the friendships that developed were deeper than anything I had ever experienced. I learned what truth and honesty meant, something school and society had so far failed to teach me. How do you hand someone the rope and trust they will do what's right when asked to do it? How do you hold that same rope when they ask and trust you to do it right? Which means paying attention to the exclusion of all else without consciously excluding, simple presence is all that's needed, and the most difficult to realize.

Ski touring was a big deal in that shop. It was one of the few Epoke ski dealers in the area, and generated a special interest in the telemark turn and the modern, lightweight gear that allowed access to backcountry areas. Steve Barnett, who authored "Cross Country Downhill", was tight with Nicolai, and his Heel Locator revolutionized what could be done on lightweight, edgeless cross country skis. I'd been alpine skiing since I was two years old and quickly took up the telemark concept because I believed it would eventually give me access to better climbing terrain. I did a seven-day ski tour through the Pasayten Wilderness with Newton Morgan and, although I learned a lot, it did not quench my thirst for more technical mountains. Once the Kastinger double boots and Karhu Titan skis with full-length metal edges became available we were off and running. A year later I was doing routes in the Cascades with Andy Nock (a winter ascent of the north face of Dragontail among others), wearing Asolo double boots clamped down hard in Lowe Foot Fangs to make the soles rigid ... an interesting, if dead end, experiment.

These growing pains occurred under the watchful eye of the shop's alpha, Dave Kahn. He climbed and skied harder than any of the others, paddled whitewater, spoke little and carried himself with unforgettable confidence. I wanted to learn from him, and to be like him, to become someone he would respect. My eager pitter-pattering about the crags and mountains caught his attention, and I could see an appraising smile every now and then as I recounted my journeys during downtime in the store. He took me climbing a couple of times, refused on the days when the weather was bad (he had a girlfriend and better things to do), but once, he convinced me to go kayaking in the rain instead of rock climbing. I thought I nearly drowned in the Skykomish River but that was just me being dramatic. I leaned upriver, flipped, didn't/couldn't roll, pulled the golf ball, and swam, but I kept hold of the boat and paddle and when he came alongside grinning and laughing as I drifted hopelessly, I knew it would be OK. He pushed me toward shore and we got out, dragging the boats inland to where I might wait while he ran back up to the car so we wouldn't have to portage the boats. Damn, he was a stud.

We climbed the north face of Index, a long route in Darrington that had a name I can't recall, and cragged together. Dave was my first mentor. He taught me things that would keep me both alive and hungry in the mountains where my career took me. Those were great, informative and forming days. I don't know whose idea it was but we drove to the Tetons together, both enrolled in the Mountain Instructor Training Course put on by Exum. He had the chops and experience to attend while I lied my way into it. I was fortunate to learn from Chuck Pratt, Yvon Chouinard, Dave Carman, Kim Schmitz, Peter Lev and Harry Frishman during those days, they shaped what was to come. But I must have looked like Dave's lap dog to the other attendees, Chip Faurot, Les Lloyd, Tracy Reynolds, guys who had already guided clients and done respectable routes in the greater ranges. Dave was himself, capable and confident, and hooked up with a girl at the Lower Saddle the night before we all climbed the Grand. It was an amazing and very educational trip, an absolute turning point that accelerated my already too-speedy trajectory to the big mountains. Following Dave's example took me towards the potential I had always doubted before. He showed me that what I wanted and feared was possible, and beckoning.

A few months later Dave traveled to Munich where the world's biggest outdoor and ski trade show, ISPO, happened each year and U.S. wholesalers and retailers shopped for the next year's most exciting products. It was a business trip he would combine with a visit to Chamonix. I thought nothing of it. He was going to the most demanding and intriguing mountains in the world, where he belonged. I'd see him when he returned, and revel in the stories. Back at home the retail sales continued while we waited for good weather to coincide with days off from work.

One day, when the shop was quiet, the manager, Paul, met me on the landing halfway upstairs in the back of the store, separated from the few retail clients. Maybe it was lunch time or maybe it was just the moment when Paul's courage coalesced to share the news. He was my boss, and a friend who I had once advised that he could afford to eat out all of the time if he only ate once a day. It was the old days, word traveled by mail, or faster on landlines when speed was needed. Then the information was shared by face-to-face contact, where one man could touch and hold another, a celebratory hug when the news was good or a comforting, solid, don't-ever-let-go embrace if the news was bad. Paul took a breath and then told me in a breaking voice that Dave had been killed while climbing in Chamonix. Paul held me while I broke apart, almost collapsing under my weight as the tension bled out of me and I fell. Two wounded men too young to assimilate the truth of life lived well and hard and the death that ended it.

Paul didn't know what route Dave had done (likely the classic south face) or who he was with. He only knew that during the descent, following a rappel, the rope hung and jammed behind a flake. Efforts to free it from below failed, and further descent was impossible without the rope. Dave volunteered to solo up and unjam it. Perhaps the climbing was too difficult or a hold broke, the cause doesn't matter; he fell and was killed. That was it. He was gone. No more details, no one to question, no way to soften the brutal, sharp truth. I was too self-absorbed in that moment to understand that there was a man flying back to the U.S. carrying unbearable guilt, processing terrible loss, not responsible, of course, but present, a witness, the last man to hold that rope. Such realization was years in the future.

I can’t remember Paul’s last name but I will never forget his face when he gave me the news, or his bent down shoulders, over-weighted with sadness and gravity. He lost a friend and I can only speculate what it may have meant to him, but I differentiated — as climbers will sometimes do — between him, who had never tied-in with Dave, never trusted him to do the right thing as the rope passed through his hands, or watched while he skied a suspect slope, and myself who had. Dave was my idol, my mentor. I couldn't help but feel that I had lost more ... a bullshit comparative idea but one that our competitive society pushed me towards and I never understood that pressure until many deaths later. I don't feel the same way now and I would love to say so to Paul, to review the moment we shared in the hallway of a building that no longer exists, that housed and broadcast an ideal that also no longer exists, we are both different now, changed, and I don't even know his name ... earth school, it ain't easy. The internet might allow me to find him, and I've the means to travel and visit but I ask myself this night and others whether the loss that matters to me, that shaped me, hit others with equal weight. Do they even remember?

Five days after Paul shared the news in that narrow hallway a postcard arrived at the shop. Dave had written and sent it before going up on the Dru, which was pictured on the front. His excitement was palpable, the influence of the Mont Blanc Massif apparent in the way his pen had pressed against the hard, thick card stock. I don't have the card now or remember more than one phrase where he described Chamonix as, "the cynosure of alpine climbing in the world". I had to look it up, the 'North Star', the 'one that serves to direct or guide', yeah, that one place in the world where all of the hardest guys do the hardest climbs and if you want to be one or be among them you must go there. It was a beacon, a place all climbers are drawn to, seduced by summits that sometimes show their teeth.

Back in the valley, the administrative procedures of death came to the fore. Dave's family handled the paperwork, and some of them drove up from Southern California to clean out his basement apartment. He was an aficionado of the industry he worked in, always testing the latest, cutting-edge equipment, looking for advantage, and taking advantage of the rapidly developing technology of the early-80s. I envied his cool gear until I understood (years later) that acquisition was not the point; he acquired technology to improve or shape his own potential, those tools were levers he used to lift or move himself forward. And the sedentary, overweight blood family was going to take it as their own.

We gathered at Dave's place to inventory and distribute his possessions. The SoCal family had no use for the technical climbing gear so Keith and Paul and I would take that. As the evening progressed and we worked through closets and lockers we saw his sister-in-law grab a Marmot Gore-tex down-filled jacket, which was bleeding edge tech that none of us could afford at the time, and exclaim it would be good for cool winter days in Los Angeles. Using eyes and hand signals we agreed to keep as much of Dave's physical wealth — the result of his foresight and expertise — from their grubby hands as we could. We weren't greedy but when you've held the rope and caught the fall anyone who hasn't is an outsider so we circled our wagons against them. It turned out that Dave himself was an outsider, the black sheep of their family, separate, distant, misunderstood, perhaps more successful, but certainly more free than any of them. And they would profit from his death. So we grabbed as much as we could, and as diplomatically as our relative inexperience allowed. Believing we were doing what Dave would want, I raised the flag against them. It was a horrible night that I never forgot.

In the months and years that followed I used the gear I inherited from Dave enough to make it my own. Each time I placed a nut or cam or ice screw that came from his rack I thought of him and everything he taught me. In the winter of '82-83 I worked at a ski area and put his Dura-Fiber XR-2 alpine skis to the test, every turn a tribute to him and our time together. I slept in the Marmot Penguin, a Gore-tex down sleeping bag rated to -35°, in Alaska, Nepal and Pakistan. Dave's influence affected me for many, many years after he died in Chamonix.

When I finally got there in 1984, seeking those mountains, those routes, those men, and my future, I visited the climber's cemetery. I walked until I found the section reserved for foreigners and when I found Dave's grave I hung a Stopper, slung on worried, white 8mm cord, that I had inherited from him over the small cross and Star of David that marked where he was buried. I could see the Dru from the cemetery, partially concealed and also tempting. It was October and the autumn light was soft, the air chill, the larches were yellow and losing their needles, reminders that lives lived hungry and hard in the summer did not always survive until winter. Some never survived at all.

Among the tombstones, Chamonix