Reflections of a Middle-Aged Boulderer
By John Gill

I understand that the British in their thoughtful sense of fair play will allow a man to stand up and make a fool of himself. Having been assigned the rather modest title of today's talk by Dennis Gray (Master of Rock), I must say that I can do no less than take advantage of this splendid tradition.

Mastery of rock climbing has a number of components: most climbers would agree that a certain gymnastic skill is required, an ability to perform awkward and demanding individual moves. Hence strength, timing, a sense of balance and quickness are needed. Add to these the ability to power up dynamically over a short expanse of rock and you have the physical requirements of bouldering. Finger strength is of course especially critical on many boulder problems, as is the skill to choreograph a sequence of moves and suppress one's internal dialogue.

Now, if one adds to these bodily attributes, with the possible exception of dynamic power, a considerable endurance in the fingers and upper torso, one has the physical qualities desirable for free soloing. However, the ability to think under severe pressure and to feel the flow of a climb and react in anticipation of subsequent moves is vital to success in this unforgiving discipline.

Lead climbing requires a finely tuned skill in obtaining protection under marginal circumstances. Some climbers would include skill in aid climbing (admittedly a somewhat unfashionable activity at this time), knowledge of that sixth sense that predicts whether a "realized ultimate reality piton", a skyhook, or any number of more contemporary devices will hold for the brief and very cautious passage over a blank spot.

These are comments that concern the technical, very physical aspects of climbing, those features that can be discerned in the climbing profiles of most really competent rock climbers.

There are mental qualities that are quite important and go beyond the ability to choreograph a sequence of moves – the suppression of the fear of falling is of course extremely desirable. I have a pet hypothesis about this one fear that psychologists tell us we are born with.

I believe that the urge to climb is of primordial origins and is carried as a kind of instinct. We are genetically programmed to derive a very sensual satisfaction from the act of climbing if we can exorcise the fear of falling momentarily. The fear is there as a safeguard to protect us from the hazards of too much of a good thing.

What are other non-physical qualities that allow a more complete and uninhibited climbing experience? One of these must be the ability to resolve compulsion.

In America we feel compelled to climb more and more, but concede that after a time the freshness and spiritual vitality of climbing wanes in the process and gives way to the intensities of competition and goal-seeking. We become climbing addicts, in a sense victims of our own instincts as well as the competitive atmosphere that pervades our sport. Injuries begin to appear as we accelerate training in an effort to gain a critical edge. Stepping outside the mainstream and curbing athletic indulgence to a degree will clarify our vision, although sometimes at the unacceptable price of disrupting finely tuned technical skills.

A private lesson that I have learned in 33 years of climbing is the following: Ultimately it is best to make the effort to "get more out of less" – to seek the instinctual roots of the climbing experience and to separate these from the influence of external competition.

This does not necessarily preclude the attainment of athletic excellence. You simply have to be more organized and more independent, less of a follower and more of an architect of your own imagination. The vast relatively uninhabited area of the Rocky Mountains provides the kind of solitude necessary for this re-establishment of priorities. Cutting back on training (e.g. working on hard non-repetition moves only on alternate days and resting the upper body at other times), plus stretching at the end and not the beginning of a workout will reduce injuries. Some persistent and debilitating tendon problems respond to this more relaxed program.

What more can be said of the inner world of the climber? Unquestionably the rigours of severe climbing invoke the meditative quality of single-mindedness, particularly so when the climber is alone on the rock. There are, however, other meditative aspects of climbing that can be felt in less demanding and certainly less threatening circumstances.

If a climber polishes a short route to a significant degree he can begin to feel the artistic quality of his performance. I like to refer to this as kinesthetic awareness. Its most easily recognizable component is a remarkable feeling of lightness and detachment.

Long easy solo climbs done smoothly and continuously can arouse the sensation of weaving in and out of the rock. I’ve had this fascinating and drug-free experience on a number of occasions, and do not recall ever leaving a hand or foot embedded in the stony matrix.

These are mind games that elicit qualities of climbing that are not immediately obvious in a competitive environment. They exist for climbers who wish to look beyond the unwavering vigour of mainstream perspective. They arise principally from a desire to seek more from less, which is not a bad idea for the ageing athlete!

Certainly there is a kind of mastery that reflects these subtle qualities of climbing, although it is unlikely to awaken the passions of the energetic achievers of any climbing generation. That’s okay though. We middle-aged climbers need metaphysical homes in which to rest our aching bones and comfort our sagging egos!

Now, having manipulated the idea of mastery of rock climbing in a way that circumvents the annoyance relating to declining physical abilities, I should like to move on to less threatening ground, and into the remainder of my presentation. In view of my 49 years what follows can be accurately entitled "Reflections of a Middle-aged Boulderer".

"I was enticed into climbing in 1953 by tales of Indian treasure, lost for centuries in the wooded and rolling mountains of northern Georgia. A high school classmate in Atlanta had worked briefly for a noted archaeologist and had learned of an ancient Indian legend describing a treasure cave on Fort Mountain, a sentinel on the southern flank of the Appalachian mountain range.

According to this intriguing tale, a cave whose entrance was decorated with a carved turkey claw lay dangerously situated midway up a set of limestone cliffs hidden in some dark forested fold of the mountain.

In the 1920s a small party had located these almost fictional rocks, brightly gleaming beneath vines and other brush. A member of the group was lowered from the top on a rope and reported to the others that he had found the cave. However, he failed in his attempt to enter for the weeds and bushes choking the small ledge upon which he stood were apparently alive with snakes. One would think that the potential rewards might have provoked a more determined effort, but according to reports, such was not the case.

Given this background you can easily imagine the spirit of adventure that electrified we three high school students over 30 years later as we gathered our manila ropes and sandwiches and set off to find the fabled cliffs.

We spent at least three weekends bushwhacking across the heavily wooded slopes of the mountain. The gently rounded summit was itself the site of an archaeological mystery – until recent times strangely barren of vegetation, it was enclosed by a rock wall of unknown origin. Local Indians spoke of ten-foot moon-eyed men who lived on the peak in prehistoric times and were responsible for this peculiar construction.

The time that we spent scrambling over small rock outcrops was, sad to say, not financially profitable – had it been you would see a more elaborate lifestyle herewith displayed! Indeed, we did discover a set of limestone cliffs concealed in a shadowed ravine, but the only treasure we uncovered was the spontaneous satisfaction of climbing over warm exposed rock, enveloped in the heady scent of mountain laurel and sun-heated manila fibres. We knew nothing of competitive rock climbing and grading systems – only the primordial appeal of climbing on steep rock, stimulated by exposure – an activity so astoundingly different from traditional southern pastimes that it was next to impossible to even discuss our experiences with parents and peers.

Later, after graduating from high school, a friend and I drove from Georgia to Colorado in an ancient Ford that had mechanical but not, as I learnt with dismay, hydraulic brakes. In Boulder I had my first taste of legitimate, categorized rock climbing as middle man in a three-man ascent of the standard route on the Maiden. I was fascinated and somewhat intimidated by the exposure of the magnificent free-rappel that graced the cover of Holubar’s first catalogue.

A few days later, my spirits bolstered by several climbs on the Flatirons, I soloed a route up the East Face of Long’s Peak, pausing at Broadway long enough to be overwhelmed by the sweeping and impenetrable verticality of the Diamond. At that time there was some controversy among climbers as to whether this magnificent wall would ever be scaled, except by profuse bolting with some pitons here and there, and, just perhaps, an occasional free move. I knew of no one who speculated on the possibility of freeing the whole face – soloing something of that magnitude without a rope was simply beyond conjecture. The soloing of even easy fifth class climbs was criticised by the leading mountaineering organizations in America during the early 50s. It was much later that solo climbing in the Tetons, for example, was even legalized.

During the fall of 1954 I enrolled at Georgia Tech and became a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech who drank my whisky clear, as the school song goes. I was irrevocably hooked on rock climbing and spent Saturdays scrambling and climbing on Stone Mountain, a 700-foot granite monolith peculiarly adorning the slightly rolling woodlands near Atlanta. Although privately owned there was more or less open access to the relatively few hikers and picnickers who enjoyed such steep solitude.

Some years before a Confederate memorial had been partially completed on the vertical north face, and there were still rusty cables and scaffolding swaying gently above our heads as we worked on short routes at the bottom of the wall. I remember being astounded to find a Holubar piton lying on a ledge below the huge silent granite soldiers. It was hard to imagine other climbers in Georgia in the mid-50s.

One or two evenings a week a friend and I would coil our army surplus nylon rope and stealthily crawl up various building walls and other structures on the quiet dark campus. On one occasion we climbed to the top of one of the slender overhanging light towers on the football stadium and dropped our rappel rope to the distant parking lot below. I was halfway down when the headlights of a campus patrol car illuminated the roadway below my feet. Quickly pulling up the rope, I sat silently turning in a soft breeze as the vehicle moved slowly by, directly beneath me.

As a freshman at Tech I was required to take three physical ed courses, the most formidable to my mind was the infamous swimming course. Swimming was an understatement; it was actually drownproofing. Fred Lanoue was the swimming coach at Tech and he had devised a method for drownproofing naval aviators during the Second World War. Regrettably this perversion of swimming became the physical standard by which several generations of engineers were to be judged. Imagine having your hands and feet bound and then jumping back into the deep end of a pool and swimming back and forth across the pool without touching the walls or the bottom. I knew of diplomas being withheld because of this aquatic nemesis.

Track was the second course, and gymnastics the third. I showed only modest talent in swimming and track, but gymnastics appealed to me because of my experience as a climber.

It was an ironic convolution of desire and aptitude that I had the body of a basketball player and the spirit of a gymnast. Nevertheless, I worked hard and did quite well, even though I had a flair only for certain pulling exercises, the most notable being the 20-foot rope drop.

In the 50s rope climbing was still part of the gymnastic repertoire of teams in the Deep South. Gymnasts skilled on the more artistic apparatus, however, frequently had trouble with an event that would have been more suitably conducted in a track and field meet.

As a matter of fact, it is my understanding that rope climbing was dropped from the Olympics in 1932 because of unbelievably poor performances by all-round gymnasts of that era.

I found rope climbing to be an excellent link between rock climbing and more exotic artistic gymnastics. The rope is, of course, thicker than rock climbing rope – actually about an inch and a half in diameter and made of manila. A small horizontal disk is located at the 20-foot level, and the climber must touch this in order to officially complete the climb. The acceptable way to climb the rope involved starting in a seated position on the floor with the legs extended and spread and the hands gripping the rope above the head. The initial pull is of paramount importance, for it establishes the momentum for the rest of the climb. The climber may use the legs only in a thrusting manner – one climbs with the arms alone.

I describe this activity for the following reason: I think it is time for rope climbing to re-emerge, and I think the rope climbing community should produce a new world record in this exciting competitive sport. Believe me, rock climbers who pursue rope climbing will find their dynamic ability on rock measurably enhanced and will develop a feeling of lightness that, after all, is the transcendent poetry of climbing.

Those of you who are willing to remove yourselves temporarily from the mainstream of rock climbing and are young and agile enough will have no easy time dealing with what is probably a 5.15 challenge, however. The existing record for the 20-foot rope climb was set in Champaign, Illinois in 1954 at an AAU meet by an athlete whose physical appearance was more like that of a modern elite rock climber than the typical muscular artistic gymnast. Don Perry set a record of 2.8 seconds. This is faster than most people can pull a loose rope on the floor between their legs. If you feel pretty good about your ability on difficult rock I challenge you to achieve the degree of climbing lightness that Perry did in the 1950s.

Incidentally, there is also a record of 4.7 seconds for the 25-foot rope climb, set by Garvin Smith in Los Angeles in 1947. I won’t speculate on which of these might require the least effort to break. I never climbed the 25-foot distance, and my unofficial time for the 20-foot climb was between 3 and 4 seconds.

Shortly after my gymnastics class was done I saw a newsreel film at a local theatre of the great Russian gymnast Albert Azaryan doing a still ring routine in the superbly controlled and muscular manner that distinguished his performances. I was so impressed it bordered on shock – if man could do such incredible things on a flimsy set of rings, imagine what might be possible on rock.

At that time 5.9 represented the top of the climbing scale, and from what I had seen of 5.9 moves there was a lot of open territory above that level for those who wished to treat climbing as a rigorous athletic activity. One could expect only modest encouragement from the more influential members of the climbing community, though. For instance, climbing literature condescendingly referred to any sort of dynamic move as a lunge. There were cryptic comments, however, about something very desirable called rhythm. Unfortunately, only the best climbers seemed to comprehend this concept and were strangely tongue-tied when asked to describe it. I puzzled over the image of a climber moving to the beat of a bongo drum.

I learned later that the word rhythm actually meant a graceful and economical pacing, without which there can be very little artistry in rock climbing.

I began to think of climbing on rock as a gymnast would think of performing a routine on formal gymnastic apparatus. Most competitive routines contain about ten individual stunts, several of which should be of superior difficulty. Consequently, concentrating on one short pitch containing several taxing moves would seem to be reasonable. This led me to the European pastime of bouldering, and also to the use of gymnastic chalk in climbing.

From what I could learn by watching climbers such as Dick Pownall and Dick Emerson on the Jenny Lake boulders in the Tetons and talking with European friends, bouldering appeared to be a game designed to prepare climbers for more exposed and dangerous adventures. It seemed to have a certain modest individuality but, taken in a larger context, was relatively insignificant. To this day, bouldering retains this standing if one perceives it merely as micro-climbing. Unfortunately, the currently popular on-sight criterion enforces this view.

My perception of bouldering involved a more innovative and dynamic activity than the rock climbing of that time. While climbing clearly requires thinking on your toes and fingertips, bouldering should entail programming oneself beforehand and concentrating on one’s performance. Bouldering moves should be of sufficiently demanding character as to require practice, as difficult gymnastic moves do. A single short section of rock might yield several distinct bouldering climbs, similar to different routines on the parallel bars, for example.

There are several boulder problem-clusters of this kind near Pueblo, and on Flagstaff Mountain in Boulder, Colorado, there is a well-known route that bears two names: Synchromesh (when done statically) and Dynamcsh (when done dynamically).

In marked contrast to generally accepted feelings about rock climbing, efficiency and economy should probably not be cornerstones of bouldering. Thus, games such as minimal contact, silent climbing, and no-hands climbing might properly lie in the sphere of bouldering.

"Now that I have presented certain principles that I feel are important for a dynamic and rather distinct area of activity, let me take you around to the other side of the boulder and provide a glimpse of the discomfiting interior machinery that shapes these concepts.

The following mostly fictional and brief tale is based upon a recent bouldering session with a depressingly talented younger friend of mine..."

The Illusion of Flight

"My friend Bob’s dark adhesive soles flit restlessly from one tiny crystal to another, lightly disturbing the residue of chalk that gives visible form to this subtle and challenging route. I begin to offer words of encouragement, but the first syllables are scarcely out before becoming obsolete. Congratulations merely drift with the speed of sound in the direction Bob has moved, in a sort of focused frenzy, to begin another foreboding microclimb.

Left momentarily to my own devices, I summon up an elegiac composure suitable for middle age, and relax in silent contemplation of the flashy and overly productive skills that mar this new generation of climbers. How is it possible for them to attain the serenity of defeat when the quest for failure is so difficult? Clearly, all is not as it should be in the house of climbing.

In the days of my youth uncertainty was as vital to bouldering as it was to physics. Hard climbs were savoured and pondered over periods of time ranging from scant hours to many days. It was assumed that nothing done quickly was worthy of attention; had the expression "on sight" existed it would have been perceived as contradicting a fundamental premise of the sport.

It appears now, in the clarity of analytical hindsight, that a certain amount of physical ineptitude was concealed by this decorous leisure. The subtle glow of satisfaction earned by barely failing on a tough new route was, in all probability, merely psychic camouflage for athletic inadequacies.

I suppose the many tries normally required to establish one of my better climbs can be rationalized away by citing the absence of a large community of competitors at the time. Nevertheless, what delicate reputation I retain would be measurably weakened were climbers of today to learn of the hours of unrelenting effort I expended on individual problems.

These melancholy thoughts evoke a protective response from my weathered ego; I resolve to exert the power of positive thinking and to protect what was probably never rightly mine with all the strength and cunning at my disposal.

In order to save face on the field of combat my strategy will be to smugly nod my head when a climb that took prolonged repetitive exertion is on-sighted in a matter of seconds by some cocky young climber in Captain Marvel shoes. Surely this faintly condescending gesture will convey an understanding between equals.

How I shall cope with new challenges is not so apparent. Perhaps the best tactic is simply to rely upon an inventive mind and play the cards that are dealt. In terminal desperation I can always feign a stroke, or, at the very least, a pulled tendon.

My reverie comes to an end as Bob calls down from the top of a rock that resembles an inverted squash. Curious how that image should appear – thirty years ago I should have thought of some Wagnerian appellation, like "Odin’s Hammer".

With an inner quiver that resonates at the existential level, I trudge over to Bob's rock vegetable and take a look at the unappealing line of holds that barely disturbs the nothingness of its overhanging face. This inspection involves bending my arthritic back, removing my distance glasses, and painfully squinting at crystals roughly the size of Planck’s constant.

The thought seizes me that I could weasel out of this distasteful challenge by complaining that I have forgotten my reading glasses. A quick moment's reflection voids this strategy, however, since Bob saw me studying the contents of a can of pop earlier, sans spectacles. I must use my wits more in the future and prepare for these awkward and potentially embarrassing moments.

I straighten up, flex my hands and will strength and energy into all ten faithful digits. After chalking, an environmentally evil practice that, over the past thirty years, has perverted generation after generation of spiritually pure but naïve young climbers, I indicate my intention to grapple with this menacing problem.

Actually, grapple does not quite describe my first tentative efforts, for I can’t seem to get more than an eighth of an inch of finger on any hold that Bob used. I fight to retain poise while intensely studying the stony cipher, like an archaeologist attempting to piece together the passage of an entire culture by examining a few microscopic hieroglyphics. How, in the name of sanity, is it possible for today’s climbers to get up something like this? Although inwardly bewildered, I manage to muster up a confident demeanour, and surreptitiously begin to look for a way to cheat.

Now, it is important to establish that cheating need not run counter to virtue. A step in athletic progress that links one gently sloping plateau with another higher plateau is not infrequently built of cheating blocks. Eighteen-foot pole vaults were predicated on new and superior technology that was sanctioned by the governing committees of the sport. In a less formal manner sticky shoes were readily adopted by an overwhelming majority of climbers and represent the most recent stage of our sport's evolution.

What of taping, however? Herein lies the potential for a veritable feast of controversy. I can recall taping a finger "to avoid a cut", and pulling over a critical section by snagging the tape on a small, sharp hold. Prickly crystals in jam cracks lock a taped hand securely in position. When will some innovative but morally depraved climber develop "snuglets" for the finger that simply improve the job done by taping?

Why is it considered clever and acceptable to clothe the feet in a variety of delightful accessories, but not use a skyhook, for instance, on small intimidating handholds? The mainstream of climbing is indeed fluid, and meanders in peculiar directions.

On a more personal and embarrassing level the dynamic technique that I introduced in the late fifties was developed out of frustration at not being able to find anything intermediate between widely separated holds. At times the rock really was bare, but in other instances what was there was simply too small for me to use – I would have been stopped cold were it not for a little cheating.

Forced, in defence, to become a peddler of this dubious and non-traditional style, I cloaked it in the muscular aura of gymnastics and proceeded with no slight amount of showmanship to display its credibility. As a result of this deception the dynamic swing achieved a hesitant acceptance among artistically inclined climbers; a consensus of acknowledgement to which the lowly lunge could never aspire.

I mention all of this because a way to the summit of the squash is now evident. Off to the right of Bob’s intimate chalk marks is a small vertical hold that can be pinched, and is conveniently situated for an acrobatic swing. I find a minute critical edge for my right foot and, after several tentative efforts, soar over Bob’s vexing enigma to larger holds near the top.

Assuming a nonchalance that barely conceals the jackhammer thud of middle-aged arteries, I scramble down as Bob walks over to the vanquished overhang, slowly shaking his head and muttering "how did you do that?" With great sensitivity for my young friend’s feelings, I refrain from delivering an impeccably reasoned diatribe against three-point suspension and, instead, turn the conversation to a less controversial climb, an overhanging groove a few feet away.

Moments pass before I realize I have inadvertently neglected to reveal to Bob that it took me three hours to ascend this latest object of his furious attention, but by then I have begun to smugly nod my head as he scrambles to the top.

"I have now a very short essay that provides insight into the philosophical upheavals wrought by the intrusion of middle age into the domain of rock climbing. This queasy work is entitled "Mirror".

Mirror

"The mirror in the bathroom of my new home has a distressful peculiarity. When I turn on the lights above the vanity and peer into the half acre of brilliant image there can be no doubt; residing in that luminous clarity is an enigmatic agent of omission.

The humiliating evidence draws substance from the gaunt form that returns my stare. For the past two weeks I have exercised unsparingly on the still rings, and can now feel rock-hard muscle straining at the skin of my shoulders and chest. Yet, the pathetic figure encased in this flat coffin of glass remains slight.

Over the years I have become accustomed to renewing my strength, vigour, and proportions by pulling and pressing myself from the gentle relaxation of ageing into the dynamic mould of youth. When I have sensed the quiet slide of flesh from chest to stomach I have turned to the rings and have recognized in their silent sternness the disciplined path to physical restoration.

Why should the geometric perfection of reflected symmetry fail me now, when I need it the most? Always before I have relished the visual culmination of my ritual, the leisurely acknowledgement that form is not a function of time.

Now, my traditional physical supplications fail to elicit what I have assumed to be one of the few constant blessings that I most richly deserve.

Whereas before there was physical balance and environmental harmony, now there is personal entropy.

Is it possible that this unpleasant experience signals deeper, metaphysical changes? Does it herald a new spiritual stage in my physical devoutness, one that requires an act of faith to reconcile inner form and exterior semblance?

It distresses me to conjecture that should faith be required to dissolve the disparities of mere bodily form, its hallucinogenic vapours might be needed elsewhere. Will my future climbing be more successful in the spiritual dimension than in the normal three? Will it take an act of faith to believe that I have accomplished a climb? By painful extrapolation, my climbing may ultimately be reduced to nothing beyond an act of faith.

Such repulsive metaphysics always gives me a headache, and I recall the philosophical epigram, "I think, therefore I am confused". Perhaps I should merely look on the upside of this unsettling revelation and cast off the anchors of provincialism.

There actually may be much to be gained by pulling away from consensus reality with its droll attachment to appearance. As I wander the corridors of will power, discovering the principles of internal physics, my spirits will likely rise in anticipation of new skills, new strength.

I tremble at the thought of seducing reality. What a stir I shall make when asked if I have climbed the great unsolved problem on the Milton boulder in Eldorado Canyon, for my reply will be "yes – I climbed it last fall and found it to be a truly mystical experience".

Perhaps I have come upon the solution of one of climbing’s most provocative problems: why do some climbers exaggerate their performances? It now seems clear that there is virtue in relating to others what one transcendentally knows to be true, regardless of superficial physical data.

"I shall conclude my presentation today with an assortment of images that drift in on the ocean of time and have absolutely no bearing on any sort of accomplishment, great or small. These recollections are among the memories of what we are mistakenly prone to think of as insignificant events.

During the 1950s and early 60s I spent many delightful days in Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. What began for me as strictly a climbing environment became over the years an idyllic arena for bouldering, hiking, reading, contemplation, romance, and fellowship.

I began bouldering with Yvon Chouinard and others on the three miniscule Jenny Lake boulders in the late 50s. Yvon and I even co-authored a guide to the boulders, satirically contrived to resemble Leigh Ortenberger’s guide to Teton climbs. I remember the opening words of Chouinard’s discussions of the geology of the boulders: "The boulders are composed of stone ..." This set the tone of the entire document, which, I understand, is still around park headquarters somewhere.

The three boulders were eventually obscured by a plethora of routes, many of which required the elimination of holds and/or human limbs. At times it was difficult to see the rock through the chalk.

I remember my first bouldering session with Layton Kor. Layton had been doing some good climbs in Colorado and was just beginning to broaden his perspectives. He was so energetic, so enthusiastic, that he kept up a continuous, sometimes solitary conversation as he stretched across yards of rock dressed in corduroy lederhosen, colourful Argyle hose and a jaunty beret.

Another acquaintance of mine at about that time was a member of the elite special forces of the United States army. He delighted in relating gory tales of people pulverized by .45 automatics and the like, and yet was a fairly talented poet. We made a deal one summer – I would teach him the peculiar art of bouldering and while so engaged, he would criticize my first attempts at poetry. This, it turned out, was a mistake, for he kept laughing himself off the rock as I seriously recited nonsense.

In the early 1960s park officials designated a remote and obscure area as the official climbers’ campground. This was done in an effort to protect the sensibilities of normal tourists who were by this time becoming vociferous in their objections to sharing the Jenny Lake campground with disreputable-looking rock bandits. Notable among the more scurrilous of these creatures were the Vulgarians from New York.

It’s interesting that at about this time the rangers began wearing sidearms.

As it turned out the Park Service made a serious error in isolating such clever and iconoclastic park visitors.

Things were not too bad at first. Orrin Bonney, an ex-president of the American Alpine Club, made an annual trek to the Tetons and invariably erected his authentic Indian tepee. On certain evenings he would hold Teton tea parties, cramming as many bodies into his tent as possible and heating up a mixture of frozen fruit, wine and incidental ingredients; also, heating up the interior of the tent to such a degree that one would desperately try to uncoil one’s yoga-entwined limbs and stumble outside to fall gasping on the cold moonlit ground.

The tea parties caught on and soon there were roaring campfires almost every evening, with stronger and more exotic ingredients sometimes replacing the gentle wine. A community spirit developed, and climbers found the excuses for which they had been searching for avoiding climbing.

The quaint and subtle participation of the Vulgarians in these nightly festivities was enjoyed by all present; their lively antics, such as midnight road races in their automobiles, added just that element of risk and terror that kept spirits high.

Things were usually quiet the following morning – until about noon. If one rose early there were interesting things to see, however. On one occasion I watched a simple bird flutter and writhe on the ground after taking a sip of Chouinard’s dish water. I'll always remember the morning that Ken Weeks discovered two dead mice floating in his nocturnal drinking water jug.

Romance was not to be neglected in these dusty environs. One morning I watched as two young lovers gaily skipped across the decimated alpine grass and disappeared, giggling into a double-seated outhouse.

Then there was the time we found Piltdown, an unusual looking maths major from Reed College curled up in the cooling remains of a campfire, wearing only shorts. He apparently had been there all night. Piltdown a short time later had an unhappy skirmish with park rangers. A woman camping in the Jenny Lake campground complained of waking in the early morning hours to find a strange "gnome-like" person softly removing some canned goods from her table. The rangers instantly apprehended our furry and pixieish friend. I have no idea what became of Piltdown. He is probably a bureaucrat in the National Park Service now.

A couple of years later the fate of this delectable refuge was sealed in an orgiastic night of rollicking fun terminating in a campfire in which whole ponderosa pines were consumed. The flames seemed to lick the belly of the pale moon and were certainly visible 15 miles away at Park Headquarters. The campground was closed at the end of the season, and to be sure that nature's Frankenstein did not rear up again, was ploughed under.