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Master and Student "Once you were the master and I was the
student. I am the master now." Every climber has a hero. Gavin's was mighty Layton Kor; both large and a bit irrational, they were a good match. Mine was closer to home. Although seemingly handicapped by a serious ice climbing accident, his high-standard climbing days a thing of the past, Clint's natural generosity, wise counsel, and genuine love for the sport were immediately helpful to me as a young climber. I ate up Clint stories as eagerly as Gavin devoured those of Kor. The bold leads on ice and rock, the wild solos, the occasional long plunges, perhaps embellished by the passage of time, added to the legend. If I could only climb like that... He was there in 1979 when I took my first quivering steps on the polished granite of the Quincy Quarries. After a couple of successful jaunts in the way-less-than-vertical realm, I heard for the first time that seductive voice, "So, do you want to try something a little harder?" The slightly overhanging 5.7 jug line was plenty challenging for my first rock climbing day. Clint talked me up, and I had my first taste of climbing at the limit. That night at my dorm dinner, fumbling with the silverware with trembling hands, I knew there was no looking back. Indeed, I began to live the passion that I have to this day. I remember my spring break apprenticeship with Clint and Ken Nichols, pioneering obscure new lines on Connecticut Traprock. I remember also a Saturday in May, watching Creature Double Feature with Clint and leafing through the old green Meyers topo guide to Yosemite, wall by wall, classic line by classic line. And I remember my first view of El Cap, standing straight up in the bed of a moving pickup truck, my eyes overflowing with granite, screaming in the wind. It was almost one year to the day after that first evening in the Quarries that I walked into Camp 4 armed with a rack of hexes and old Chouinard stoppers borrowed, of course, from Clint. I climbed in the Valley all that fall and the next spring, upping my leading standard to 5.10, and slowly learning to master the myriad techniques of crack and friction climbing. I returned to school the next year with a new hone which I was eager to try out on the East Coast rock. At that time I even got to climb a little bit with the master, but I could see it just wasn't the same game for him. I saw the smooth effortless style that they had all told me about as he walked up an Echo Bridge arch in his tennies. It seemed a bit of a tragedy, as the man was clearly still honed but his injuries were keeping him from the sharp end. I moved to Boulder, wishing him my best. It was later that year that the characteristic USPS generic postcards started to arrive. Clint follows Unconquerable Crack in his tennies. Clint buys a Datsun 280-Z. Clint abandons graduate school to move to the Bay Area. I was especially impressed when, armed with Fires and a rack of new-fangled Friends, he started to lead some climbs in Tuolumne. Was the master back? We made plans to meet in the Tree. I trained hard, traversing the walls of the CU Engineering center with frozen fingers and rehearsing my best Darth Vader voice. No dice. I climbed well, but the man was clearly even better than those old stories. I particularly remember his lead of EBGBs (5.10c). After managing the initial mantle by somehow sliding his boney hindquarters onto the sloping shelf, he disappeared around the corner to deal with 50 feet of steep and insecure face climbing. At that time, Clint was strictly applying the "leader-must-not-fall" ethic, understandably concerned that a big dive might injure his fragile spine. Still, despite the slim pro (only three bolts), he styled the pitch without a whimper. I aided the mantle and barely made it up the slab, marveling. The master remained the master. Maybe don't think about that master and student business much anymore. Clint's one of my best climbing partners and we've shared some fine climbs now. It was only appropriate that I my first grade VI with him: Half Dome. I was amazed when he stoically managed the long approach march and high altitude bivy so we could do the Diamond, which I had eyed with manifest desire for four years from Boulder. Maybe a couple of times now I've even had the upper hand, usually when he's out of shape. Still, sometimes there's a hint of those old memories. Last spring I flew east from my temporary Yosemite home to see Paul Milde's wedding. By car, plane, bus, and Bob Palais' car, there I was, eyeing steep Gunks lines, all alone. I had glimpsed the route when I climbed M.F with Paul the previous fall and had mentally committed myself to someday solo it. In top form from five months on the road, the time had come. Below the crux bulge I briefly paused before placing my left hand into a flared finger jam. In a motion remembered from the previous day's ascent of Mr. Natural, I carefully torqued, pulled up, and grasped the buckets. It was as perfect an unroped moment as I've ever had, the air below lightly tugging the backs of my legs, the amply jugged headwall above gently drawing me up. Later that month, I reported my feat to Clint. He had, of course, also third classed Something Interesting in the early days. And the crucial finger jam? Too gripping. He went for the buckets directly with a "controlled lunge," a move I still cannot envision. I will always be the student. |