A Connoisseur of Complexity; A Lover of Simplicity. by Todd Hesse, Dec. 10, 1999.

A Connoisseur of Complexity; A Lover of Simplicity. by Todd Hesse, Dec. 10, 1999. For S.A.L.

        I have a story that must be written. As with many of my stories, this is one of a special person that has led me on many journeys. These are guided expeditions of soul, heart, and the basic fundamentals of being a participant in life. I like to surround myself with people who make me think. Perhaps they see things differently than I, or perhaps  because of the similarities. Scott Alan Lewis has wandered into my life and proven to be both.  

     
        Upon meeting this man, a hasty judgement may bring you to see a middle-aged man who has done nothing with his life. A lost soul that wanders the planet in search of instant gratification. One of many who will die and disintegrate as anonymously as he entered this world. But, as with many judgments, this is wrong. You must bear your soul to even get a glimpse at his, and in this vulnerability you will never be the same.

        On the floor of my first Idahoan home sat a man of unrivaled odor. He had a bushy beard and wild, uncut, unclean hair. He donned just poly-pro long underwear and shorts on his lower half and over a grisly, chiseled torso was draped the torn remnants of a poly-pro top, classic blue of course. Near him was an obviously hand-knit turtleneck sweater of hidden meaning and a Swiss carpenters hat. He sat not on the furniture but amongst it. Before him was a pair of well worn but state-of-the-art mountaineering boots, encrusted with mud from his latest journey. He bares a gift, a gift of story and adventure. However, in a clash of modern technology and old school practicality, this story is not told by mouth around a campfire, but as we huddle around the television and a very expensive video camera.

       This was my first meeting of this prodigal son. It was brief and memorable, just long enough for him to empty our refrigerator and fill our hearts with a passion for the mountains. He had just returned from climbing a peak that was unknown to me, Gunsight Peak of the Idaho Selkirks. He had made many visits to the Selkirk Crest area, and it was obvious in his eyes that this land he was describing was the playground of his youth. He had just climbed the Bergman-Miller route on the north face of Gunsight. There were, however, two more  established routes on that face; Oka-Bates and the scary Roskelley-Castle.

       I would have the opportunity to get to know Scott over the next few months. He would frequent the house and take my already soul-mate, Ken, climbing. Ken would come home after their adventures and tell me of the things he learned and places they had gone.

       Soon, on a cold October morning, we were to go on my first traditional, multi-pitch climb. I woke early only to find that Scott was already up and making something that resembled pancakes, but they had things in them. I was new to the west; in my childhood it was something special to put blueberries or apples in our pancakes, but nothing more. Scott had already included huckleberries and bananas and granola and vanilla and cinnamon and, this one really got me worried, cream cheese! He instructed me to open a can of peaches and find some honey. I was just being polite, but was rather disgusted. I learned that this was unusual, even for him, but his pancakes were famous so I should let him be.

       The day brought some exciting climbing and lots of learning. It was Kens' first time leading and, proving to be quite cautious (slow), this provided some good bonding time between Scott and I. You never really get to know someone until you spend a couple hours sharing a six inch ledge two hundred feet off the ground. I experienced the exposure to not-so-subtle renditions of Jimmy Hendrix. We spoke of jobs, women, money, and of course, climbing. He is really an excellent teacher that is willing to teach at any level of competence at any time. He shares mistakes and triumphs and is always interjecting with the little wisdoms of seniority and yet will still allow his students silence to make their own mistakes. Soon we were on top and I shared my first summit with two timeless friends that had somehow grown closer in our latest endeavor. The day brought my first lesson on the human aspect of climbing and I found the recipe for the worlds best pancakes.

       Scott would soon take from me all that I had in Idaho. He was making his annual pilgrimage to work in Japan and had invited Ken to join him. They left for Japan and this was the time I realized how much Ken meant to me. So I remembered them the best way I knew how; I went climbing. I took with me the new tools I had acquired and the thought of my friends in a land far away. I honed my skills so that I may continue to play with them when they returned.

       Upon their arrival I had a list of climbs to do. Scott took me to the Selkirks and Ken took me to McCall. Ken and I had moved to a little house on 3rd street. After a couple months Ken and I realized Scott had been sleeping on our couch for a very long time. This was the first time that I knew Scott to have a real job. "Taxi by Hall" was ringing throughout the house on a regular basis and the vagrant climber had moved in. That summer was one of hard work for the entire house of five bachelors. We shared in everything and ate dinner together most evenings. We were a family.

       Scott had erected a wall made of cardboard in the living room and now had some degree of privacy. That wall became the outlet for our emotions and artistic expression for the next two months. We wrote inspirational quotes and pinned pictures of goals and drew sketches of our thoughts all over it. This was a lesson of Scott's artistic intelligence.

       Climbers don't tend to keep jobs very long and the restlessness was beginning to show. We planned it out. I would quit my job and go home to a family reunion. When I returned, Scott would have quit his job as well. We would then climb the Roskelley-Castle route on Gunsight Peak. Next we would hike in and do the unclimbed north face of Hunt Peak. Then we would travel to the North Cascades to climb the finale of our month, Liberty Crack on Liberty Bell. The first of the climbs began our epic: Roskelley-Castle, III 5.9 A1 R. This route was an inspiration for Scott. He talked of the climb with respect and enthusiasm. He had first attempted it in '96 with Joe Lind but had been thwarted. It was originally climbed in '69 and has never been repeated. Scott had even begun writing a litany of just what an R rating consists of. Soon the preparations had ended and it was time to climb.

       I had much trepidation regarding this route. I recognize a difference between fear and anxiety. I have been anxious about climbs before but it was nothing more than "butterflies". This level of stress is productive and increases your level of awareness. This was, however, the first route to scare me, to induce a fear response. Fear is bad. It means the level of stress is so great that it impacts efficiency and limits your awareness. I had seen the fear building in restless nights and in growing anticipation.

       We packed our bags entailing a gargantuan rack and two ropes ready for anything, and we were on our way. The approach was through the Hunt lake watershed and up the west slope of the Gunsight-Roothaan ridge. Just before dark we arrived at one of the best campsites in the Selkirks, high on the ridge overlooking the Pack river drainage on one side, and Priest lake on the other. The apparition of Gunsight peak loomed above us and continually distracted our attention while we prepared for the night. I caught Scott at the edge of camp, peering up at the north face. As he turned to me I could see he had no idea what tomorrow may bring. In all actuality his thoughts would turn out to be nowhere as horrifying as what reality would present.

       We woke early and proceeded across a snowfield to the base of the cliff. I started leading up the first pitch. Finding the climbing to be greater than my abilities, I aided a good portion of the pitch. I came to the high point of Scotts' first attempt, marked by a #8 Chouinard stopper, and traversed right to flank the overhang that was suspended above me. The cracks were incipient and ill-located, not offering good protection. So, believing I was in over my head, I set an anchor and Scott came up to join me. Upon inspection of the blank bulge above us, Scott thought that with a few thin aid moves he would be able to reach a crack providing good protection. He went for it.

       The aid was slow and I was not watching him. But it is a very distinct sound that gear makes as it rips out from rock. I realized that Scott was falling. From this point the story gets a little blurry. I know that he hit me as he went past. I know that I could hear the sound of the rope accelerating. I knew that I was not stopping his fall.

       I could see him falling head first below me. Once, I tried to obtain the brake line, but to no avail. I did not have much time. In a matter of seconds, if Scott continued to fall, he would impact the snowfield in a fatal crater. I grabbed the moving lead line with my left hand and squeezed. Even if I had time to think about it I would have realized that I had no choice. After a few burning seconds he slowed and came to a stop.

       With wide eyes Scott yelled to check if all was okay. Without looking at my hand I told him to anchor himself as I did not have him well. He placed a piece of gear as I tied him off with my right hand. He began to ascend the rope.

       I peeled my hand off the rope. The charred remains of my fingers resembled nylon webbing after a rope has been pulled through it. Deep burns and large blisters were present. There was no pain yet, but I knew it would come.

       Scott approached and we assessed the situation. His calm demeanor was contagious. We discussed what had happened and he began setting up an anchor for our descent. He performed with genius even though he had just taken a major whipper and I was now dependent on him. He lowered me down and soon joined me safely on the snow. We reached camp shortly and Scott cleaned and dressed my wound for the long hike out. We broke camp and left with a new vendetta to return and finish this delectable route.

      Nine hours later we reached the hospital where the doctors scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Scott, always supportive and very curious, stood behind me with one hand on my shoulder and a camera in the other. I was released and knew that I had a long time without climbing ahead of me.

       It was two months before I grabbed at rock again. Even then my newly formed skin and scars were easily ripped and I had to be careful. There was a lesson burned into my mind as well. As I climb, Scott is no longer in the back of my mind but is always in the forefront. I am a safer climber now. Climbing is a sport that offers few nonfatal mistakes. I am one up now and I don't want to press my luck.

       Scott is as good of a friend as they come. He knows when his advice is not needed and when it is, he gives it freely. Questions are considered and answered thoughtfully and honestly. He is loyal and trustworthy. From him, I have learned as much about life as I have about climbing...if there is any difference.

       So as I write this, I realize that Scott Alan Lewis will possibly be the only one that reads it. So, to those two lonely eyes that bare down on these words, thank you. Thank you for being my Sidhartha, my Galileo, my Votek. I may not aspire to be your mirror, but your reflection will always be present in my image.