A Story About Not Climbing

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A Story About Not Climbing

Page Type: Article

Page By: fowweezer

Created/Edited: Jun 22, 2007 / Jun 24, 2007

Object ID: 303903

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This is a tale of loss, introspection, growing up, and not doing the things you love.

By Brenton Peterson

It's 5:00 pm and dark thunderheads have consumed the Oquirrhs to the west. The wind picks up a bit and blows away some of the stagnant heat as I watch the evening traffic begin to flow south on I-15. A much-needed thunderstorm is finally coming to the Salt Lake valley. The deck chairs on the south side of the building provide a little bit of isolation for my pre-work cigarette. I don't smoke often. The wind intensifies and a few raindrops fall.

The afternoon was spent considering what I should do. I looked at the photos from the Pfeifferhorn's North ridge briefly, and I thought about what I would say to your other partners. I'm sure some have already read the newspaper and seen your picture, as I did. I decided to try to contact your parents, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. The University registrar's office wouldn't be open on the Fourth of July.

Today there is a typical afternoon thunderstorm. I haven't been on a real route in ten weeks, since that April afternoon glissading down the North ridge into Maybird Gulch. The wind reminds me of being on a high peak again, and that we had plans to do a couple of local alpine rock routes later this summer.

The day before you left for Peru I finally got around to sending you a couple of the pictures from that climb. Your breathless panting as we gained the ridgeline, the first tentative steps on the still-firm west-facing snow. Your casual glance at the camera as we began to rappel off the ridge three hours later, and the youth showing in your eyes when I said you could go first on the glissade down. You promised that you'd send me the ones from your camera, but you couldn't at the moment. You see, your plane was leaving in the morning, and you hadn't finished packing yet. Three weeks in Peru? Sounded great to me, and I was incredibly jealous. We promised to get together later and I made lists of the routes I wanted to do before summer faded into fall.

Now all I can think about is that Mark Twight essay "A Lifetime before Death," where he lists his fallen partners. I suppose now my own list will start. The picture of you with blood on your face, smiling, is emblazoned in my head. Spring Wasatch mornings don't get much better than that, the sun just beginning to light the deep, powdery snow and the tops of the jagged peaks of the Alpine Ridge where darkness loomed--forbidding--moments before. Fifteen minutes of skinning and your nose was already bleeding, staining the white snow in the darkness under the pines. It had all the makings of a grand day and we soaked it in as we crossed the divide into Maybird. I had made the photo of you wiping blood from your face my desktop background at home, complete with our light-hearted comments from the day: "Alpine climbing is war!" and "It's not fun until you bleed."

I'll go back and finish the route now I guess. I can't remember why we didn't in the first place, but I vaguely recall that it was getting late and we were moving slowly. I wasn't feeling "it." I think my motivation had already started to wane, and I wondered why I caused myself physical pain on such a regular basis. A familiar feeling, one I had dealt with many times before. "It" would eventually return, I was sure, but at the time all I really wanted was to watch movies or lie in bed with the lights off. The trend continued, but each time I spoke with you, the old enthusiasm came back just a bit. Now it is back completely, and your absence makes me long for the mountains.

The harsh overhead lights hurt my head for the first time, a complaint I occasionally hear from coworkers. I had never noticed until now. The computer screen holds my gaze, but not my attention. What little control I once felt I exercised over the world has vanished, and I'm no longer able to resist the personal impact of events around me. My standard defense mechanism gone, the familiar analogy of the reed, buffetted this way and that by the wind, creeps into my mind. It falls short: a reed could never feel this hopeless, or helpless. I walk to the break room with glassy eyes and a blank, distant stare, shuffling slowly. A young man finally aware of the mortality of himself and others.

I'm certain that information will continue to trickle in from Peru. Condolences come from others in the climbing community, and the inevitable second-guessing begins in the news articles that report your death. Questioning your experience seems rash when it comes from Peruvian authorities and others who never knew you and never climbed with you. I know the truth of the situation now, and read with disgust the opinions of armchair mountaineers who judge based on your age. I spoke with your roommate earlier today and we both agreed that you had probably summitted, given the length of time you had been on the mountain. It seems likely to us at least.

I guess it's time to do some work now. I just wanted to say hello and let you know about things here. We'll keep on and I'll be sure to get back to the North Ridge before too long. But hey, remember that I've got those photos waiting for you. I'll put the CD on my desk. It'll be here for you, whenever.

External Links

Brennan's SP Page
The North Ridge of the Pfeifferhorn

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Viewing: 1-14 of 14

marauders

Thanks . . .

Hasn't voted

. . . for sharing your thoughts.

Posted Jun 23, 2007 5:21 pm

Lolli

Loss...

Voted 10/10

When I finished reading, it felt as I had been reading a long time. There's not much to say, but, thank you for sharing.

Posted Jun 23, 2007 6:01 pm

T Sharp

Time Heals

Voted 10/10

I took a drive yesterday to where I could view the memorial cross that is bolted to a wall of granite above where my climbing partner died. Even these 9 years since have not erased all of the sorrow, or the need to stay in touch with his spirit.
Your friend will remain in your heart and mind forever.
Climb On.

Posted Jun 24, 2007 10:35 am

vancouver islander

A moving tribute

Voted 10/10

Thank you for sharing.

Posted Jun 24, 2007 9:42 pm

baumann_pat

very touching story

Hasn't voted

i think any climber can relate and feel the grief. thanks for sharing.

Posted Jun 25, 2007 11:40 pm

TorstenW

no title

Voted 10/10

:-(

Posted Jun 26, 2007 2:02 am

myles

Here's to Brennan

Voted 10/10

He'd have been proud of that tribute. Very sorry for the loss to you and his family.

Posted Jun 26, 2007 1:37 pm

marlonwarren

Very Powerful!

Voted 10/10

Non of us are promised tomorrow. So we must live every day as if it was our last and
be thankful for the days we are given. I am so very sorry for your lost of a good friend.

A very moving tribute.
marlon

Posted Jun 28, 2007 12:07 am

itpimps

They'd be proud

Hasn't voted

The bond you share with partners in the mountains can never be broken. We're all sorry for your loss.

Posted Jun 28, 2007 5:26 pm

Duseks

difficult

Voted 10/10

Tough read, not because it's poorly written or is lacking, but because it puts the potential costs of what we do right in your face... no place to hide. I'm very sorry for your loss, I never knew Brennan but he crosses my mind a fair bit, if only because I'll be a young man in Peru very soon. Climbing is such a high stakes addiction, it defies logic at every turn, perhaps we seek that essence simply because it is uncontrollable, and so every time is different. One thing that you article shows is the kinship partners feel in the pursuit of their goals. It's a bond that transcends drama, bickering, fear... and as you show us - even death.

-Scotty

Posted Jun 28, 2007 7:41 pm

ridgegirl

Thank you

Voted 10/10

I knew Brennan briefly. Thank you for writing this.

Posted Jul 1, 2007 6:28 pm

tacoturner

Something Ed Whymper said

Voted 10/10

...comes to mind: "Still, the last sad memory hovers round, and sometimes drifts across like floating mist, cutting off sunshine and chilling the remembrance of happier times. There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end."

...not saying that the risks that Brennan took upon himself (or you for that matter) exceeded reasonable levels, but rather that this is what a climber assumes: risk. Sometimes these end in tragedy, but who here can deny the draw toward and desire for the freedom of the hills? Duseks also spoke well. The brotherhood of the rope is an awesome bond. I'm very sorry that you've lost one of those brothers.

I hope that you climb on, friend. Thank you for your transparency.

Posted Jul 2, 2007 11:53 pm

eric b

I was climbing

Voted 10/10

in Colorado on a noisy highway side cliff and my partner stepped off the top before I had but him on belay (he couldn't here me say he wasn't on) and I had to stop the rope with just my hands and fotunately I was able to. However the sight of him free falling was burned into my memory and after was very emotional for both of us. I do know its a hard subject and sharing these thoughts hopefully has lessened the burden. I know that if I were to go, I would prefer if it happened when I was doing something I love. Your writing helped me understand that it doesn't matter why or how the pain will still be there. My prayers to you and the family.

Posted Jul 6, 2007 8:50 am

Drizzlepuss

It sucks.

Voted 10/10

You never get over some things.

Sometimes you get used to it, but you never really get over it...

Posted Jul 6, 2007 12:50 pm

Viewing: 1-14 of 14