We will gather at Seneca on November 10 to remember Pete, Howard Doyle, and
Greg Smith, all of whom died suddenly this year. If you can’t make it, send
pictures or stories to gregoryj@mindspring.com. We will try to read them at
the event and hope to put together collections for the families.
My wife, Sally, and I spent Labor Day climbing in the Tetons. Our goal was the Complete Exum. I was supposed to be off work mid-day on Friday: we would enjoy the drive from Boise, pull into the valley as the sun was setting. We ended up leaving on Saturday, and eventually we found ourselves at the moraine, which was surprisingly uncrowded. The Ranger told us that only one or two parties had come in for a permit wanting to do the Exum. This was shaping up to be a great weekend.
Just finished unloading the mini van after 8,000 miles of driving. Sorting through all our dirty camping gear, unpaid bills, scraps of paper with e-mail addresses of new friends–and all the DVDs I smuggled across the border–has been a good reflection on the Higher Ground experience.
Artist and climber Emilie Lee recently held an exhibition of her art journals for the premier opening of the Rostel Gallery in Dunsmuir, CA. Some of her rich collages were first published in Issue 6 (Spring 2004) as “The Dumpster Diaries,” a colorful slice of Lee’s climbing adventures and the “dirtbag culture.” In Lee’s words: “These journals are an intimate portrait of my life, which not only captures a pivotal era in my development as an artist, but also a passing season which has shaped a generation of climbers.”
Last night, I had that cliche dream. I sat meekly in a large class on a subject I knew nothing about. But there at the front of the room stood Sam Findley, my college Latin professor. Prancing before us in the same worn purple corduroys, he drilled his victims on obscure declensions. Be educated, or be embarrassed. Endless rows of ethereal students dutifully raised their hands and spoke in tongues, their selfsame, bland faces repeated ad infinitum as if reflected in two mirrors. His glee fueled by our mundane failures, Findley was hastily scribbling “um, us, urum, utus, utilius” and other such nonsense on the blackboard.
So, I have this journal. OK, it’s more like a diary, containing all the things that a little girl’s diary might have: romances and crushes, heartaches, and the occasional “I hate that bitch!” I’ve filled it with days of shopping for shoes and the latest fashion trends. I’ve described dream vacations I wanted to take to places like France and Argentina. Heck, I even described my first time, and how beautiful it was.
