Adventures in Idaho - Bergman/Miller, North Face of Gunsight

Adventures in Idaho- Bergman-Miller, North face of Gunsight

         Ignored for decades, the bulk of Gunsight Peak in the N. Idaho Selkirks is like a lost world. Most climbers heading into the area aim for Chimney Rock, a popular northerly cousin. But in doing so they miss out on devious paths, lonely cirques, and hidden tarns. This peak and the surrounding expanse have fascinated me since the late ‘60’s, when the scent of smoke from the Sundance fire still lingered in the air. For years I dabbled; exploring various approaches, hiking the ridges, completing several circumnavigations. Finally, I knew I had to climb the face.

          “Let’s just go do it and get it over with!” proposed Joe Lind, my climbing partner for a number of years. It had become exactly that. The infamous 800’ North face of Gunsight Peak rivaled my every excursion to the Selkirk Crest. Many years had passed since its cold heights had felt the warm touch of man. Three routes have been authored up its broad face. Bergman and Miller were first in ’62, taking the obvious line, III 5.8 A2, with possibly only one repeat since. Then came Roskelley and Castle in 1969, ascending the next prominent line to the west, III 5.9 A1(R), with NO repeats, (three known attempts), in over 40 years!  Finally, in ’78, Oka and Bates ventured up the far right side, III 5.8, claiming the last of the three main lines. And although it pales in comparison to other great faces, it is one of the largest pieces of technical stone in N. Idaho. It is, in its own way, a rite of passage.         

    Early one day in late August of ’98, Joe and I gain the notch in the ridge west of the face. Our sights are set on the Bergman/Miller line. After a quick bite we drop into the cirque, rock-hop to the base of the route, and take a good long look. Only two or three sections appear difficult, although from directly below we are unable to see the whole thing. We begin working our way up the lower angled section. Not far above it is distinctly harder and within a few more feet I find a good belay stance. After tying in, he and I Ro-Sham-Bo, and since I always lose, Joe leads off while I lean back and enjoy the view, feeling satisfied with our surroundings. Intermittent beams of light turn to shadows as the sun passes the ridge top. Joe wanders in and out of view above, hard at work. After some delicate face climbing he finally disappears for good, then eventually,“Off belay!”.  I break everything down and take off, eager to get going. I am warmed by the exertion, especially the killer lie-back near the end of the pitch, redefining boldness as the last twisted moves, at least 5.8+, were made quite a few feet above a Lind-engineered set of stacked stoppers.

          The next lead begins with a deep, wide trench, narrows to an acceptable chimney, then a steep crack to a blank, flat roof. A thin ledge leads out and left, a couple of clean hand jams get me up onto a large protruding boulder and suddenly I’m hanging it out above everything. I spot an old piton behind a flake with some weathered sling tied to it. Beyond the pin the way is steep, the main chimney/crack system always blocked by some obstruction or corner. I mix some free and aid moves above the roof to a small alcove, dunk in a cam and slam home a pin, setting up a quick anchor.
“I’m off!” I yell and start preparing to minimize the inevitable mess. We’re deep in the shadow of the mountain now and I begin to cool off as Joe starts up. I lean out and soon he comes into view, his silhouette framed by sheer walls and the cirque far below.

           When he arrives at the belay there’s a quick reorganizing of gear and off he goes. Not far above he’s forced into an AO move and soon he’s out of sight, whooping it up about the view.  More bold face moves bring him up to another deep trough. In he dives, setting up a belay and hollering me up.

          By now, even with my jacket on, I really need to get going, and my body seeks heat as I crank up the moves. I pull out of the AO crack and take in the view. Wow. The upper middle face is impressive, curving up in a gentle sweep until, halfway up, a subtle buttress juts out right at the direct center face, gently overhanging. Someday a very difficult aid line will go up it. A tug at my waist reminds me I’m involved with something else at the moment, or should be. I look up and see Joe grinning at me and beyond him portions of the rest of the route. I join him in the trough and we discuss alternatives.

          The remainder of the chimney looks like junk, so I opt out left onto a rock rib that joins the main crack system below the obvious exit notch. After 100 or so feet I reach the base of a gigantic outward-leaning block who’s left and right sides offer the only two sane choices out of our predicament. The left side is nice and clean; and wide. Although our rack is complete, I have nothing to protect this with. I ease over to the right side. The ugly, steep gash oozed its way up, choked with moss and stones. After several aid moves I pull up onto the block, then get into some necky terrain and hit the end of the rope. Just a little more! I yell down at Joe to climb; he casts off quickly and up we go. Within a few yards I find a sound belay; plug, plug, clip, clip.
“Ok, go!” We’re feeling it now, pumped at the finish line. Just as Joe reaches me, a pair of Golden Eagles come swooping in from the south up the crest, up over down past us into the cirque, the first one folding her wings ever so slightly to gain some speed. They whoop it up awhile then cruise. We finish up to the summit awash in late afternoon light. Priest Lake shimmers off to the west…one of those last few summer evenings that seem to never quit. Finally, with heavy loads but light hearts, we follow the sun back down to camp.

Scott A Lewis

late Aug. ‘98

Rathdrum, Id.

Just What I Needed

            Just What I Needed

         Twice now I’ve been up the North Face of Burgundy Spire in the Cascade Range, there beyond the Methow. Love the approach; very direct. Hard to imagine getting lost on that one. Both times with Paul Schenkenberger, who’s last name, when properly translated means, “Man Full of Energy”.

The second time we arrived at the Burgundy Col (approximately 7800’, sleeps 6-8 comfortably), we discovered we were not alone in our endeavor. A pack was stashed by a rock and you could hear distant voices to the south from high on the wind. We dropped our stuff and climbed up the opposite side to a comfortable ledge and watched with binoculars. Two lonely figures could be seen far above, just topping out. We had originally planned on going up that afternoon, but with two people on the route and about to descend, I wasn’t going. A near hit on an alpine route in Switzerland in other days had convinced me to never climb when there are people above you, so we bagged it for the day, deciding to go early the next. We had bivi gear and were, as usual, in no hurry. The weather was settled and staying so. We puttered around and wound back up on our perch, glassing our fellow climbers. They had gotten down below the start of the steep, upper section, plus one rappel. We see them finish to a ledge, ropes swaying above in the breeze.

My eyes and mind drift about. The view towards Washington Pass and the Liberty Bell/Early Winter Spires is compelling. Climbing is rather engaging; to do. To watch it is tedious at best, something only other climbers could stay interested in for any length of time. Fortunately, the view from the office is usually fairly decent.

         After a while, it was apparent our comrades were experiencing some sort of difficulty. They had been on the ledge considerably longer than it takes to pull the ropes and set up another rappel. And, a rope was still hanging above them, what’s going on? The afternoon was getting on.

Finally, they were descending once again, but now different from the normal way down, and the rope still hung there. They disappeared behind an intervening rock rib and we didn’t see them for a couple hours. When we did, it wasn’t rappelling down the N. side as we thought. Here they were, climbing up the E. side couloir to the notch.

“Hey, betcha we know what you’re doin’ tomorrow!” I greeted, as they pulled up and took a breather, collecting their pack.
“No, what?” was the reply.

“Why, going and retrieving your rope,” I said.
“Nah, I’m leaving it,” one said, “in 15 years of climbing I’ve never had to abandon one.” The rope had snagged upon retrieval and they pulled as much as possible and cut it. “Whoever wants the rest can have it,” he said, further admitting that he felt the anchor was suspect and didn’t feel to re-ascend and repair the problem. So down they went.

         It was a beautiful starry night after a late dinner. Days are getting shorter. Our position high on this very serrated ridge is striking. The rotation of the Earth is obvious as the sliver of sky acts as a huge timepiece. Fascinating. What was it like to make all this?

         Early the next morning up we went. Beautiful, warm, sunny day. Familiarity did not diminish the adventure. I remember Paul cruising the crux in fine style. At the key ledge a couple pitches from the top I slid over and found a brand spanking new 10.5 mm Elderid, about 130’ worth. Apparently they weren’t able to pull very much. Paul said he didn’t need it when I offered to settle the score with a game of Rock,Paper,Scissors.
 “You sure?” I asked incredulously, stashing it. “I always lose.”

My current single rope needed retiring, and I didn’t like using my alpine doubles on shorter routes. And I had been finding too much rope piled up at my feet at our local stone. On our descent, I tied it to my back, thinking this was just what I needed. It turned out to be one of the best finds in my career. Shortly after getting down, I headed south on a three-month road trip; Yosemite, the Sierras, Josh. Exploring unknown desert crags. Back home I took to our local stone; in winter, the ice. Except for the really long stuff, I always used that cord. Many times it was very close, but I always managed to make it work. That rope went with me everywhere.

          Now it’s getting on in age; in fact, I have worn that thing out, and soon I’ll retire it. But it’s seen a good life. I probably used that rope more than any of my others, combined. I never got a chance to thank that guy and I want to say how proud I was to be the one to rescue it from a dismal, fraying existence high on some cliff, and give it the life it was intended to have.

Scott A. Lewis

Silverton, Id.

2.28.01

Ice 101, Copper Falls

        “ 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.”

~ Edward Whymper, 

Scrambles Amongst the Alps, 1871

                                                              Ice 101

                                                         Copper Falls

         Initially, I viewed climbing ice as I did rock climbing at the local crag; a practice activity. Training for the real stuff. It was only later, when I actually did it, that I realized it was the real stuff.

         Ice is distinct from rock in many ways. Over contemplation of the medium you’re engaging can be debilitating, although some is necessary, even mandatory for survival, but only objectively. When I say ice, I mean either water ice (WI), or alpine ice (AI). They can and do occur together, although WI is usually reserved for running water that freezes hard, and AI generally denotes snow that has seen many thaw/freeze cycles. There are a lot of variables and many distinct differences. The steepness, thickness and sustained nature of an icy couloir or a frozen waterfall provide stock for its rating, usually, a progressive numbered system that can be interpreted by others. Since “Rating an ice climb is difficult and sometimes nearly impossible.”, many ice climbers view grading systems as rarely objective and largely based on emotion.

         The changing nature of frozen water cannot be overstated. Snow and ice are constantly metamorphosing; typically, a waterfall does not form and then remain in place until spring. It forms, or freezes, and melts out, partially or completely, many times throughout the winter, each example something unique.

         For me, endeavoring to climb steep, hard ice was a serious, life-altering mental journey; rarely, if ever were my physical abilities an issue. No, it was in the attic where these battles were fought, at times with searing numbness as I wrestled with myself for control. I know I can do this, I’m telling myself I can do this, and now some voice is questioning if I can pull it. Very annoying. I’m pissed that the voice is either: 1. wrong, which is very annoying or, 2. right, and that’s also very annoying.

         At this point, I begin to wonder just who it is I’m dealing with. Which is the real me? To whom shall I direct my attention?  Which do I allow to make the important decisions? And what if I don’t listen to the right one? That could be very annoying as well. I could fall and violently injure myself or worse, my friends might laugh at me. This would be the most annoying.

         For success, you must honestly and accurately evaluate each step and placement and do this well, for the entire length and time of the ascent and descent. A misunderstanding exists that it is by force one gains the top, and while climbing is physically demanding, it is usually a combination of delicate moves and precise placements, along with endurance, that has served me well.

         I take a deep breath as I contemplate the next several moments of my life. I detest seconding a route or climb, thus forced to mentally man-up a pitch off the deck. Dan had led the first pitch, Ronny and I had followed. Now, sheltered and in good spirits, they watch as I prepare to lead the second pitch.

         Copper Falls is a good gush of water, cold and clean, fed by a mountain lake high above. It’s namesake creek flows and drops into a narrow defile, freefalling over several smaller steps until at the bottom, it plunges almost 200’ into a water-worn chasm. In the winter this translates into one of the best ice climbs in N. Idaho. The ice is often split vertically by the continuous flow of water, providing a constant backdrop of wet sound. Up the right side, the first pitch is roughly 100’ of WI 3 to the Patio, a small floor of ice protected from above by an overhang in the cliff; a wonderful belay spot. Weathered slings hang from old pitons and anchors buried in the rock. Most climbers rappel from here because the second pitch is certainly harder, more committing, and not always in shape.

         The upper section of Copper Falls is solid WI 4, sometimes WI 5, and sometimes not so solid. I gear up, double checking the anchors, slings, ropes, knots, my harness, Dan’s harness, Ronny’s harness, etc; tie my boot… again. I take another deep breath and step out of the alcove to the thunderous applause of thousands of screaming fans. I’ve found this to be the only way I can climb ridiculously steep ice; by playing this fantasy. At least initially. By the time I’m 30 to 40 feet into it, I’m usually in full bore denial, humming some silly song aloud as I flirt with death. Ice climbing is nothing but death waiting to happen, thus the focused experience. I pull up over a large bulge, check behind a beautiful curving curtain of ice, and find a nice solid floor of glass to sink an ice screw into. With a carabiner, I clip my longest sling to the screw and, with another, clip the rope at my waist to the sling. I now have a dynamic, running belay. I’m roughly twenty-five feet above the Patio; The walls of rock are closing in, beginning to bottleneck, the noise of the water closer now. Above me, the ice curves up and out of view. When I get up higher, I can see the right side dead ends into a steep, blank cliff. The strip of ice on the left continues up and out of sight. I’ll have to cross the waterfall to the other side, a bold and committing proposition. I down climb a few feet while beginning to traverse left, probing for a way across.

         The ice is solid enough and I steal out to the edge and peer into something I’ve never seen before. An absolute roaring torrent of water slashes by my face mere inches from me. Seventy feet above, the water comes over the final lip of rock and free falls inside a mostly unbroken tube of ice, smashes into the rock before me, then disappears down a large opening. I touch the water to feel its strength. The opening created by the falling water is dark and portentous. Occasionally a chunk of ice or rock will dislodge and go slamming down the chute with a deep, hollow, booming sound. I begin to hum louder now, with frequent thoughts of Mom. I reach, swing a pick, then another, my right arm and then side instantly soaked. With unexpected ease, I step across and cling awkwardly to the other side, suddenly astride a long, strange fin of ice. I ascend as far as I can stand before setting a second screw, and with the help of the boys now out of sight, rodeo the rope in-line with my position. I breathe a deserved sigh of relief.

         Presently, I’m another 30’ up, near the lip of this thing, and the ice has become incredibly thin. I step lightly, as my fans cheer louder, getting further into the bottleneck. I’m setting and swinging my tools as gently as I can, and I still can’t seem to get a pick in without hitting rock, and pieces of ice are breaking off and I’m really wondering just what these guys behind me are going to climb up on? At the very top, I knew had to get some protection in before going up and over, as I was getting quite a ways above my last screw. By now the exposure, thin cover, tight quarters and roaring water were threatening to penetrate my fantasy, which had morphed into something I can only describe as nothingness. A void where only small points of steel intruded.

         I drape a sling over a small sapling and clip my lead line to it. I am almost eye level with the frozen surface of the pool above. So close. I am on a swath of thin ice literally no wider than my shoulders, a vertical wall of rock on my left. To my intimate right the flow of water gushes forth from an unrelenting dark place, frightening me. Because the ice is too thin for sound pick placements, I chip a couple small ledges to hook my tools and hands on. With a series of funky moves, I wheelie up over the top, the drag of the rope pulling the sapling out as I go past. I get some good anchors in some solid ice, and go back to the edge to watch the show. I am directly above the drop, and I can lean out and see all the way to the base.

         I throw on a jacket and prepare to bring up my partners. First Ronny comes into view,his denial  tinted with innocence (he was actually enjoying himself), and seconds the pitch in fine style. He is good natured and a tough little guy; once stitching up his own leg on Rainier from a crampon gash. When he reaches the top,he gives me a questioning glance concerning the loose pro on the rope and I mumble something about Mom.

         Dan’s denial is robotic. Like Devo or the Talking Heads. Up he comes, steadily swinging and sticking his tools. His fantasy is barely interrupted by the introduction of a back-clipped ice screw, a simple encounter that is but a two minute mental hiccup; he has to momentarily attend to something else. The rhythm is resumed until, just below the lip, he swings his axe and a chunk of ice the size of a small refrigerator breaks off and goes slamming down the hole. This leaves him on a smaller strip of ice, a roiling, dark space of fantasy destroying scariness suddenly below the droop of the rope in between us. I see fear in his eyes as he sends for the top with renewed interest.

         Dan pulls over the edge, beaming, and an instant spray session ensues. Presently, we begin to look around. We’re still deep down in this gorge, suspended above the creek on this frozen platform of ice. We explore up the creek around massive boulders, a wet and rather severe place; dangerous. We tiptoe around a corner or two until a way out left presents itself. It becomes the crux of the climb and I find myself leading up steep bulges of snowy, frozen rocky ground. I finally reach a stout tree and hug it, wrapping my arms around it as well as a long sling.

         We finish to the ridge as the sun wanes. Short northern winter days. Temps are dropping as we stash gear and don an extra jacket or wool cap for the slow hike down…  Why be in a hurry? We got all night.

1.28.95

note: Quote in the story from Ron Brunckhorst, Big Sky Ice.

the Ride from Salzburg

the Ride from Salzburg

                      (an epic mountaineering adventure)

       It didn’t start out as one, that’s for sure. The trip from Switzerland through Austria and into Germany was pleasant and without complications. The scenery was unparalleled, the weather, promising. Little did I realize, I was on a collision course with an epic adventure.

        What I was on was a combined climbing and mountaineering excursion (with some rafting to boot), into what is commonly known as Bavaria, around Berchtesgaden in S. Germany, just across the border from Salzburg, Austria.  The mass of rock, snow and ice known as the Watzmann had caught my eye, and I endeavored to climb it. Now, with the climb successful and preparing to depart, I should’ve been more alert to the fact that nothing out of the ordinary had happened the entire trip: no delays, no accidents, no boneheaded moves. I forgot about getting home.

         The weather was unsettled on that Sunday afternoon as I caught a train from Berchtesgaden to Salzburg, about an hour away. My intentions were to catch a connecting passage to Zurich, about a six hour ride, in a timely fashion, allowing me adequate, albeit minimal time to prepare for Monday morning obligations. I had not checked any schedules. Arriving at the Salzburg Bahnhof, I am informed the next train bound for Zurich would leave in approximately 6 and one half hours! Whoa. I had envisioned one every hour or so. I pondered my position, considering my options. It was evening, and the train didn’t leave until after midnight. I was tired, a little hungry. I figured I could find a place on the train to stretch out, enjoy a good 5 or so hours of sleep, and wake the next morning refreshed and ready to go. Finally accepting my predicament, I purchased a couple ham sandwiches and two beers and found a strategic location where I could sit and eat. Then I wandered around a bit, though my pack was as good as an anchor. Weighed about the same as one too. I went back to where I had eaten and set up a little camp of sorts. With the time my fellow travelers came over, conversing in bits and pieces, enlarging the camp. We shared food and drinks and various things, sampling some of Europe’s finest. I was growing more tired as the evening wore on, but, with such good company ignored it, as I was sure to get some sleep once on board the train.

         Right on time, the moment of truth drew near. I moved to a new vantage closer to the tracks; this is one train I don’t want to miss. I wanted little else than to stow my things and crash out. Finally, I hear it coming, and then see the lights. But as it pulled up even with the station, I sensed something was wrong. I didn’t seem to move like a normal train. It came slowly to a stop and then stood there, as if tired, sagging on its thick, steel springs. Dull light came out a couple places on the windows where people had wiped away the condensation. Steam issued from every crack and cranny. The doors opened laboriously. A few passengers disembarked; more were getting on. As I stepped up to take my turn, the stench hit me. The nauseating smell of sweat, bad breath, body odor, used baby diapers, of people who hadn’t bathed in some time. It was at this point I made a critical mistake. Someday I will study which way people tend to turn when boarding a train, and why. I look both ways, neither presenting a clear choice. Mentally drawing straws, I go left. I had boarded about mid-train and now, as I picked my way through the dimly lit corridors and rows of people and baggage lying about, I realized I could only hope for a free place to sit, let alone lie down and sleep. I hadn’t considered this turn of events.

         After forcing my way through several more packed cars, I find a spot. By this time I would take anything and I did. It was the gangway between cars, with doors entering and exiting the train, as well as from one car to the next. It also had a toilet. This amounted to considerable foot traffic, but it was mine. Now, this part of the train car is not insulated, or heated in any way. Noise and cold come right in. I positioned my pack up against the wall in one corner, padded the floor, and found I had enough room to lie in a position similar to the mummies found high in the Andes (where I wished I was at the moment). Finally, I had a little space and solitude, if not silence.

         Laying back, I remembered the Ticket Controller (ominous voice here). This guy, along with the Passport Controller, became one of my more reliable sources of misery and agitation that night. Throughout the course of the journey both were to acquire many extra titles, none being very flattering. Having already traveled around a bit, I did have the required documents relatively near at hand. Not wanting to disturb my little nest, I postponed getting them out. Drifting off, I am rudely awakened by the Ticket Controller. I am forced to ruffle my nest and procure the necessary papers. All in order. He looks at me suspiciously and moves on. I drift back off into a sleep of sorts only to be rudely awakened by the Passport controller. Digging out my passport, I wonder why they can’t consolidate and make the TC and the PC the same guy? While pondering the idea of patenting an idea (you can), I again drifted back out into unconsciousness. I don’t know if it was the crowded conditions, being night time, a changing of the guard or what, but there seemed to be a lot more checks than usual that night.

         Roughly two hours into the ride, just as I’m pulling out my papers for what seemed like the hundredth time, the train slowly pulls to a stop. Not unusual; trains periodically do stop, though not normally on such a steeply banked curve as this one. I of course, now tend to roll and slip sideways into the walkway, being partly in it already. No outer doors opened; we were probably waiting for another train to clear the track. We would likely move along soon. This was not to be.

         Within fifteen minutes, water (did I mention it’s storming out?), begins to seep under the exterior door down by my feet and flow across the floor, soaking my legs. Up I jump to dig out my rain pants, discovering them at the bottom of my pack. I wring out my jeans the best I can then pull on the shells and, laughing at the rain, fall back over in a state of exhaustion. I’m so close to that final slip into oblivion where I can sleep and drip, drip, drip… Sigh. I forgot about the window right above my head. Jumping up again, I dig for my rain jacket, finding it as well at the bottom of my pack. Donning it, I ensure all velcro is velcroed, all snaps snapped. This was an all out emergency, my position was in danger of being over run. So the mind wanders when pushed out on the edge, where I was now constantly teetering. I pulled a couple cords to tighten the hood and thought, maybe I can still get some shut-eye; a nap would do me so good. Can I? Could I?...

        “ Could I see your passport please?”  Luckily, I was so deeply ensconced and my hood bound so tightly that my response was misunderstood, like a muffled couph or something. But I had reached my limit; I could take no more of this. I felt like taping my passport, my ticket, any and all pertinent papers to my forehead, but it wouldn’t have worked for all the water!

         It’s been an hour or more, and we’re still stopped on the banked curve. This, as far as I know, is highly unusual. I’m in a miserable state; I need sleep, now. I decide to go on a recon mission… there’s gotta be a better spot. Having been to the front of the train, I decide to check out the other half. Stashing my gear, off I go, high stepping and clambering over the somehow snoring bodies of my fellow travelers. Returning to my point of entry plus one car more, I find a few crew members drinking cafe’ in the dimly lit dining car. They have the whole place to themselves. I go a bit further and discover a regular seating coach, with very few people in it! Remember my mental coin toss? I turned left when I should’ve gone right. Did everyone go left? I had just assumed the whole train was packed. And this was 2nd class. Finally, I had a whole seat to myself, and I could get some sleep. I was so relieved.

        Around this time the train began to move again. Somehow I managed to retrieve my gear, 8 or 9 cars away, and not kill anyone with my 30 kilo rucksack. Arriving back at the semi-empty wagon I drop my pack on an empty seat and, deciding to push my luck, explore even farther. After a couple more cars I find an entire sleeping cabin...EMPTY. Then another one...wow. This is unbelievable! I think of everyone up front, all tangled together; well they could check too, and just might be, I reasoned, and hurried to get my pack. I wanted to lay claim to an empty cabin before any of the sweating hordes, who now lurked behind every doorway, could get their sweaty hands on it.

         We were now approximately four plus hours into “the Ride”. At this point all I wanted to do was just shut my eyes, no matter what position my body was in, and simply rest. I had paid my dues, done my time; I deserved it. I slipped into my cabin, shut the door, and folded the seats down so I could stretch out, a first-class feature. I made myself comfortable and reached up and screwed out the offending night light. The gentle swaying rhythm of the train pulled me quickly into the warm, quiet eddies of unconsciousness, secure in the knowledge I could finally get some sleep and only be a little late for work.

         I do not know for how long I had slept when my cabin door opened, and odd sounds and voices began to penetrate my bubble. A train official stood silhouetted in the hall outside the door. My German was good enough to understand what was being said to me. I realized why I had this whole cabin, indeed the entire car to myself. This car, along with a few others, was to be disconnected at Sargans, just 10 short minutes ahead on the Austrian/Swiss border. He was just making his last minute checks. I thanked the man for this motivating bit of information and started quickly cramming things into my pack… I only had a few minutes. By now my usual neatly packed rucksack was starting to resemble a mad porter’s load. I stumbled forward a couple of cars where I was told it would be safe, and keeled over into the nearest available seat. There I remained, putting to sleep and waking every part of my body but my brain until we reached Zurich, one and a half hours overdue.

         I was not yet home. I lived in Boppelson, a tiny village 15 minutes by bus above Otelfingen, a bigger village 30 minutes by train outside Zurich, the biggest village. The rail transition went smoothly (the Swiss are efficient), but the daytime bus from Otelfingen up to Boppelson doesn’t run every hour, and of course, it was not running the hour I most needed it to be. Not before ten o’clock that morning  was I able to drag my butt to the front door of my booda, the woodshop where I worked, and try to explain my tardiness. The Swiss,my boss in particular, are very punctual people, and I was overdue.

note: This story happened in late Aug. 1992.

          Written in story form on 1.14.1995,

           by Scott A. Lewis.

Returning to America

                       Returning to America

      So I left Idaho in March of ‘98, following a fine winter season, bound for the Far East. To offer my skills to an interesting Japanese gentleman, building log homes in the land of the rising sun. 

After three months of six, sometimes seven, ten to twelve hour days I departed, with a promise to return, taking the long way home: through Switzerland.

There I stayed for a month, soaking up intermittent sunshine, spending hours gazing out from a favorite window; seeing old friends and family; taking long hikes up steep middle land. Up the Moutatal; into the belly of Herrloch, one of the most extensive cave systems in the world.

And after a month of this I found I was not ready to leave. But my return flight was set; staying longer would only be more costly.

         Returning to America seems to never be that good of an experience for me. Only a couple, maybe three times have I been let right through customs, and that was mostly in the early years. 

I arrived in Seattle mid-morning in mid-summer following 35+ hours of traveling: Zurich to Rome, Rome to Seoul, Seoul to Osaka, Osaka to Seattle… man, lots of layovers.

As I waited in the baggage collection area, prior to going through customs, I spied a uniformed female officer with her dog making the rounds on the far side of the carousel. I did a mental inventory of my bags. All clear, as far as I could remember. She moved out of sight and my weary mind shifted to other thoughts. Suddenly, the small dog was at my feet, sniffing at my backpack and pawing it gently. It barked lightly, circled around it, sniffed again and sat right down. I recognized this as a definite sign the dog believes it has found something.

         “Sir, is this your bag?”. The question is direct and without emotion. I look down to see that, yes, it is my bag. 

“Yes it is,” I answer, “feel free to...”

Deftly I am cut off. “Sir, do you have any other luggage?” she asks with the same authority. 

“I do,” I reply, “a guitar.”

She again, ”Is that it over there?”

Yep, there sat the dull, black familiar shape.

“Sir, will you collect that and come with me?”; to other Custom officers she adds, “I’ve got one!”

I glance to see her signaling to a couple of uniformed guys; whoa, what’s going on here?! I don’t remember leaving anything in my bag. I collect my guitar, my mind resonating between overdrive and denial.

“Sir, do you have any weapons or narcotics in this bag?” Apparently we’re dealing with a bi-olfactorial hund here.

“Nyet.” I tease, instantly regretting it. She gives me that look.

“No,” I reply, “feel free to open…”

Again I was interrupted, something to the effect of, “Oh, we will.”

          Now there are a couple other officers around, and I’m being herded into one of two enclosed inspection areas. 

“Sir, will you step this way?” Along with a half dozen tables in the open processing area, where U.S. Custom officials ask travelers a few nosy questions, maybe have you open one of your bags and then lets you right through, were two partitioned areas. I filled one and I guess the other was for overflow.

“Sir, place your luggage on the table and step back.” Okay… that was not a question.

“Sir, were you or your luggage ever around any illegal substances?” Hmmm, lots of things to define there; just what is meant by this?

“Sir, it is standard procedure to inspect all bags completely when our dogs alert on them.” They are no longer asking, simply informing me.

“Go right ahead.” I say. I may as well play along with them, as I really have very little choice in the matter.

By now the ensuing activity has attracted quite a few other officers, hungry for the big bust. I am openly regarded with contempt as I answer their questions and attempt to act as if this were something that happened to me every day. One man does engage me in a bit of conversation; probably a tactic, to glean what information they can from me. My passport and travel documents are requested and procured.

         It was soon painfully obvious that the kinder, middle aged woman attempting to extract the contents from my pack was going to need some assistance. I had been away from home over four months now, and anything I carried was an absolute necessity. Everything was packed just right and tight, and I began to dread repacking it.                        Apparent to me as well was the fact that most, if not all the officers present, seldom, if ever, encountered my type of traveler. As the inspection progressed they became openly impressed and amazed at what was being exhumed.

“Just what is it that you do?” I was asked at one point. That’s a hard one to explain in a few words; I try.

“Well," I mumbled, searching for a definition of myself, "I write a bit, and photograph… I ski patrol in the winter, and build in the summer. I… I climb and ski a lot.”

They stared at me unconvinced and kept pulling things out, and these things needed opened and inspected; camera bag, sleeping bag; 1st aid kit, book bag. They inspect the authors, flip through the pages. My basic mountaineering kit entertained them. I was asked to explain my avalanche beacon. Gifts I had purchased were opened and evaluated. Then my personal bag… all the things dearest to my heart. By far the favorite of everyone present. My journal full of musings, clippings and photos; a small taped box full of silver and natural jewelry and stones for trading or gifts; a film canister with a piece of stalagmite from the cave wrapped in cotton.

“What is this?” they asked, almost in unison as they pressed closer, eyeing me suspiciously. I made them guess, knowing nobody would get it. In an odd way it was fun; it’s not every day you get to meet U.S. Customs face to face in this arena, but I was beginning to tire of the nervousness in the situation.

         Within a few minutes I could sense the baggage inspection drawing to a close. Finally, the moment I was waiting for. 

“Sir, could you come with us?” The older man whom I had spoken with earlier and his fidgety young companion are standing before me. “Just bring your wallet and come with us.” the older one tells me. I pause… why just my wallet? I think. I don’t like being separated from my stuff.

“What about my things?” I ask. Finally, they seemed to understand I was more concerned for my things than my papers, and assured me all would be okay. Anyway, into a small side room we three went. The door clicks shut, and yes, quite ominously. That has got to be done for effect, I think. The atmosphere in the room is awkward. I sense a sort of rapport with the older one; now he does not want to find anything on me, but thinks he will.

“Sir, place your hands on the counter, face the wall and take two steps back.” The small room is bare but for a counter the length of one wall, with a small padded seat built into one corner. The counter has white tape the shape of hands on it. I am to place mine here; I do.

“One more step back Sir.” Apparently they didn’t like the size of my steps. “Don’t look down Sir; face the wall.” Yeah, well whatever; let’s just get this over with.

Once I am positioned correctly and things are to their liking, the older one comes up behind me, and, carefully stepping closer, initiates contact and searches me, one side and then the other; hair, collar, shirt folds. Pockets are emptied; waistband pulled; crotch caressed. His hands traced down my legs, and then;

“Sir, sit in the corner there and remove your shoes.” Another pause… just how far are we going to go with this? I think, looking around the room. I remove my boots slowly and hand them to the man, advising him to be careful. He chuckles something to the effect of having seen and smelt worse.

“These look very comfortable; like they have some miles on them.” he said.

“I couldn’t begin to count.” I reply.

         Immediately upon completion their attitudes instantly change; “Alright, Mr. Lewis, thank you for your cooperation...”, and I am once again considered something more than sub-human. I am led back out to my things, where I discover the woman who was doing the looting was, bless her heart, diligently trying to return everything to its rightful place. Give it up, I think, I couldn’t repack it as it was without a couple of hours. I thank her for her effort and quickly finish the job. I was feeling better, but weary and had absolutely no desire to be there any longer. I had already missed one shuttle to Spokane; luckily, they run several a day.

So, breathing a big sigh of relief, I go pay my three dollars and change for trying to import some forgotten item into the country, and I am on my merry way.

note: I traveled often for over 25 years, beginning in the late 70’s. For the most part my experiences have always been pleasant (I can just imagine the 50’s and 60’s), becoming really bothersome only in the new millennium.

The entire time this story was unfolding I did, in fact, have @ 10 grams of quality hashish on board. I would normally say, better luck next time, but there won't be a next time..

Scott A. Lewis 

Dead Mans Hang

Dead Mans Hang

                       "It does not, therefore, depend on human desire 
                         or effort, but on God's mercy." - Romans 9:16

       Contemplate water. As a substance, as an element. Without it we cannot live, our bodies nor our world. Salt water is remarkably similar to the very life blood coursing through your veins. It is the defining element, the one thing those who seek life on other planets and worlds initially look for, because again, without water, life as we know it is just not possible. It is the only element that exists naturally in all 3 states; liquid, solid and gas. One of the most erosive forces that helps shape our world, water forms, along with mountain ranges, natural borders and barriers that affect animals and humans alike. We know less about the deep underwater places on this planet than we know about outer space. We still find creatures unknown to us down there. I’ve never been on the open sea during a storm (does Priest Lake qualify?), but I’ve stood on shores and vantages at times during severe weather events, gazing out in awe at the malefic motion of water and air, wondering how it must be. I would not want to be out on the open sea at these times; in fact rarely, if ever, have I felt the urge to explore this frontier, or use it as a means to travel to distant lands. Something about all that water beneath that gives me pause. I’ve never been very comfortable around water; in it actually. I can be around it all day long with no ill effect. It’s when I get in…

      Being out in the middle of a large body of water can mess with me. I feel with immensity the vastness of the natural container I’m in, the vessel for all this water. I can mentally project myself above, way up and look down at where I’m at and really try and feel and understand the scale of things. Life is, amongst other things, a constant re-calibration of our sense of scale. Each new event can cause a change in perspective. I’m a small life-form floating in this organic mass of life and death.

      Water is also very dangerous. So very final in the way it can take your life. Submerge yourself for 30-40 seconds, a minute, and see what happens. The body must have air.

      When I was a boy, perhaps 12 or 13 years of age, I went on a summer outing with our church, a picnic social at Mica bay out around Coeur d’Alene Lake. The day was hot and there were a lot of kids, all yelling and splashing and having fun. A couple hundred yards offshore was an isolated dock; some kids were out there already. Although I was not a particularly strong swimmer, I thought I could swim out there. My mistake was not telling anyone.

      The swim out took longer than I thought. It also took more out of me than I thought, and I rested mightily upon reaching the little floating island, muscles not used to this. After awhile it was apparent I was going to have to try and swim in. The other children had gone in, and I was left alone.

      Halfway to shore I remember thinking I might not make it back, that I should have rested longer. I simply did not have the endurance. I remember somewhat calmly accepting this and objectively trying to decide what to do about it. At that very moment I remembered something I had read, something called the Dead Mans Hang. Essentially a last ditch effort,when you feel you can go no farther, take the biggest breath you can, and stop. Stop moving, kicking, struggling, anything… just rest. When I reached that moment my efforts became ineffective, I stopped. The decision was not easy to make. I believe I shouted before going under. My head slipped no more than several inches below the surface as my body found balance, and I hung there in the cool water thinking… about what? It was quiet; a couple of air bubbles snuck out of my nostrils and tickled my eyes on the way by. Fear.

       When I could take it no longer I began letting out air and kicked to the surface. I lifted my head, took a big breath of air, and yelled “Help!”. No one was even close as I slipped under the surface again. This time I was prepared for the lonely quietness of it and went zen, trying to conserve strength. I do remember the feeling of weightlessness, just suspended there, muscles numb with tension, listening to the pounding of my heart. I could hang here forever, if I just didn’t have to breath! I erupted out of the water a bit more serious the next time, scanning the shore as I took another big breath or two,yelling,”Help!”, before once more slipping beneath the surface. Had anyone heard me? More fear. It was not so quiet under the water this time. I could hear my body begging for air. I had reached a point where I understood all this couldn’t continue and began forcing my muscles to perform a dog paddle of sorts. I needed oxygen more than I needed rest. The 3rd or 4th time I came up there was this thing in front of me, an inflatable mattress. The old cheap ones with the long tubes of air and the integrated air pillow. This one was olive drab and a girl maybe not much younger than me… no, an angel not much younger than me was at the stern, pushing it towards me. I grabbed on and breathed hungrily, noisily, just resting. I was exhausted. We slowly kicked back to shore, not speaking much. I don’t remember what we might have said; I hope I said “Thank you!”, or something. At some point I believe I hauled myself further up on the mattress, and shamelessly let her kick and paddle the rest of the way in. I’d like to meet her some day, and thank her again. We may have told someone when we got back, I can’t remember. At that point it mattered little; I was just happy to be alive.

Note: With a bit of research, I’ve discovered the Dead Mans Hang is called Drownproofing and, I was doing it wrong. Apparently, you should strive to keep as much of your head as possible under water as you take a breath. Lesson learned. This happened approx. 1974/75. We attended Grace Bible church in Hayden although I believe other churches were invited. Anyone with info please contact me.

scottlewismail@gmail.com