Body Disposal Form

It's May. People have already begun dying on Everest in the mad rush to summit this, the world's highest mountain, before the monsoon season begins. Historically, May is thee time to summit. So, as May nears its end, climbers who have wagered relationships, jobs and hard-earned cash will do anything - including die - for that last chance at getting to the top. The bodies of those who lost the battle can be found throughout the Death Zone on Everest.

It was seven years ago, but I can remember like yesterday the experience of signing our team's Body Disposal Form. At the tail end of March, we were in Kathmandu, packing up our loads of gear and free stuff, food and personal items, stuffing them into mule bags, stacking them all on top of each other in the hallway. Our hotel looked like a mix between a college frat house on Saturday morning and an overstocked storage unit that had been packed in haste.

That afternoon, while engrossed in the challenge of packing, the expedition leader walks in and tosses a sheet on my bed. "You gotta sign this before we leave for Base Camp. It's the Body Disposal Form."

Let me get this straight. A form, to be signed, that options on just what I want 'the guys' to do with my body if I should die up there...that is, if they can find me, or even get to me.

Suddenly, this little game becomes reality. On previous expeditions we'd discussed the issue of death. But, we never really allowed it to become real. Talking about death on the mountains, what it's like to see dead bodies, all that stuff, gets talked about alot more at home. Friends and acquaintences frequently request stories about seeing bodies. But, on the mountain, during the real expedition itself, there is always a respectful hush around actually talking about death. We see the dead bodies up high. And, we walk past them silently, in deep respect for them.

By signing this flimsy little sheet of paper I was admitting, understanding, signing-off, on the absolute possibility that I could actually die up there, somewhere on the cold flanks of Mother Everest.

If my body was accessible, and getting to it would not put my fellow climbers in danger of their own demise, how would I prefer my body to be handled? (Please check the box next to your choice!)

1) Be tossed into a crevasse
2) Left where it was
3) Brought to Base Camp and burned on a funeral pire
4) Repatriated to family in the US

The first sounds as bad as death itself: frozen forever far from the rays of the sun seems an awful way to spend eternity. And, in the fact of being frozen solid, the chances of my body being around for that long was a distinct possibility...maybe with the possibility of popping up at the bottom of a glacier in 10,000 years.

The second: better than the first. At least birds can come and peck at me, or I could stand as a ghostly reminder to those who pass me that they'd better be very, very careful.

The third: it was the natural choice for me. Burned in Base Camp accompaid by Buddhist monks chanting prayers at a Puja ceremony. Afterwards, the team could resort to Scotch and cases of cheap Chinese beer. Why not? Celebrate. Further, it's an easy decision, because;

The fourth: repatriation. Consider this: it costs about $15,000 to get a body home. My wife would already have been pissed at me for dying and then further insulting her by leaving her and my son with a staggering bill. It could possibly rank up there with about the worst last-act of anybody's life. "Hello, M'am, yes, your husband's body is here. It's C.O.D. You'll need to write us a check for $14,256.73. Yes, that's right $14,256.73. Where would you like me to put it?"


Already this year on Everest at least five human beings with friends and family at home have tragically lost their lives. The season is early. Deaths at this stage are typically unheard of. But, as the season heats up, and we approach early May, climbers will be clamoring to get into position for a summit bid.

Get ready, things are going to get worse. I'm sorry for any who inflict upon their families the possibility of giving their own life for a dream that carries no intrinsic value. Except that is, for the Sherpas who work and climb with the westerners in order to support their families. Climbing teams should be fully responsible to pay these families any support and financial obligations necessary to lessen the blow.

Be safe. Climb well.

Suffer The Pay-Off

Finally, after more than two months of a lay-off from running the trails, I'm back at it again. Coming back gets harder every year. A lay-off for a 22 year old is one thing. But, double that, and you have sufferfest written all over it.

Above is a picture taken sometime around the New Year, when I was fairly obsessed with seeing how quickly I could power up the three snow-filled miles to the top of Black Cap. At this stage of a come-back, I'm gunning for making it without stopping to walk the steep parts. As you can see, the views are spectacular, with Mount Washington, the highest mountain in the northeast US, in the background. Clear out a tree at the bottom of that picture and you could spot my house down there. Sometimes, I'd look down and wonder if I'd remembered to shut the stove down. The obsessive-compulsive element of me complells me to look if smoke might be billowing from our rooftop.

Springtime has melted winter away. I've unscrewed the sheet-metal screws from the bottom of my running shoes. It's just me, my rubber 'souls' and...two full grown puppies, Bud and Bodhi. Running was once a thing of solitude. I would sometimes encounter a coyote, moose, deer...and who knows what else awaited me? But, now the little boys tromp along beside me, nervous that I might take a turn without them knowing. Last fall, as little puppies, they took off like a shot after a lone deer grazing on the grass on more than one occasion. That really bothers me, and I can only hope they don't get into a scrap with something.

I prefer running alone, deep in the woods and mountain trails, my breath and stealth footsteps the only sound I make. However, as I sit here now those little energy bugs lay in the kitchen bored silly. So, I've begun to bring them with me, now that the snow is gone. When I lace up my running shoes in the pre-dawn morning they're at the ready. There was a time when they lagged behind. But, it seems they've gotten into shape far quicker than me. Now, they turn to watch as I hammer my way up the trail. They never stray far, a bit nervous they'd be left alone with the mean, mean monsters that live in the woods.

After two weeks of getting back at it, I've made significant progress. The challenge is to power right up Black Cap, sit atop it to enjoy the view, and back down before the kids wake up. Then, I'll take on Mt. Kearsarge, a bigger mountain off to the right of the picture above.

But, ooohhh, the struggle to regain my shape. Make a mental note not to take two full months off from running. Motivated by a hilly road race in Jackson this June, I have alot to work for, namely my ego. I don't like to race unless I can compete for finishing in the top ten. I'd like to say that First is all I could live with. But, top ten is about the level I stand in the ranks of running.

Either way, I suffer the pay-off. This is my muse.

A Funny Time To Remember

I was musing to a friend recently about almost being killed in an avalanche on The Moose's Tooth in Alaska some years back. It was such a powerful experience.

My Moose’s Tooth trip was in 2001. It was a fantastic trip, absolutely wonderful, except for that avalanche. I was in Alaska filming aerials for a documentary with a world reknowned photograper and cartographer. After a couple weeks we finally woke up to the perfect bluebird day to fly over McKinley's summit. I was free to join another climber for three short days for an attempt on The Moose's Tooth, pictured above.

This muse began when I'd expressed to my friend that it had been nearly seven years since I'd spoken with a climbing partner of ours from Everest in '99. After some incredible life-altering experiences that we'd spent together, we'd never once spoken on the telephone or even kept in touch. It's like we were two travelers who crossed paths for a short time, then went our separate ways.

But, something happened during that avalanche. The route I was attempting was called Ham & Eggs, a steep, 3,000 foot ice and rock climb that led up to a knife edge ridge. It’s a moderate to difficult route, mostly vertical, with objective hazards such as falling rocks and ice. It had been a goal of mine to give this route a shot for many years.

My climbing partner and I left at 5 am and were about 600 feet up above the glacier floor, just near the top of a very steep snow slope, of about 75 degrees. My partner was about to put in a piton and belay me up for the first vertical rock pitch. I was 150 feet below, on the other end of the rope, standing at a snow picket that we'd used for a sliding belay.

Just then a slab avalanche sounded off with its tell-tale crack and thud. Seconds later a rushing blanket of snow poured on top of me, smashing into my face as I looked straight up, sending me flying backwards, head downhill, with my face toward the slope. I was immediately buried, a snow plug began choking me, blackness further confused my bearings.

In the less-than ten seconds during the 600-foot drop to the bottom of the route, something remarkable happened. There was a confusing array of thoughts about dying, how my body would remain forever, buried deep under a slab of icy snow. It seemed rather pathetic that I wouldn't see my two boys again, lost beneath this obscure mountain. At the same time, I felt a sense of complete calm wash over me. Time was slowing down in order that I might make critical life-saving choices.

Attempting to create a pocket of air from which to breath, gagging on the snow plugging my throat, I suddently remembered a story that my not-forgotten climbing partner from Everest had told me. We were sitting early one morning at Base Camp, during morning coffee in the dining tent. He vividly described watching a friend descend an icefall near Base Camp on K2 back in the 1980's. An avalanche engulfed him and killed him. The other climbers watched, horrified, as their friend slid down in the avalanche. They knew exactly where he was, because his backpack was sticking just out of the snow the entire time. However, his body was completely buried, just under the snow. He says that all the guy had to do was a push-up, to get his face up above the snow, and he might’ve had a chance to live.

As I slid down the slope beneath the Moose's Tooth, I was amazed at how heavy the snow felt, how fast I seemed to be moving, the choking sensation, the darkness. This story about that guy dying on K2 came clearly into my head. It felt like I was a mile under the snow, as if people were standing on top of me to hold me down. But, the story...the one that my friend had told me: maybe, just maybe, I too was just under the snow, my backpack sticking up above it.

I knew that the avalanche was coming to a stop. I had a second or two before the snow would freeze as hard as concrete, as happens after avalanches. Then, with all my might, I did a push up, thrusting my arms downward. Wouldn’t you know it? My head popped up, just above the snow! Pain shot through my nearly broken arm, the rest of my body still lodged under the hard-packed avalanche debris. But, my head and chest were safe. I sucked in gulps of clean, cold air. I was alive. Soon after, we retreated to the tent for some blackberry brandy. The Moose's Tooth would have to wait for another day.

One of these days, I;ll get back in touch with that long-lost friend of mine from Everest, to thank him for his avalanche story. The loss of his friend on K2 just may have saved my life.

brainstorm

write as fast as you can and say what you will it just keeps filling your mind. there are no voids unfortunately and that's what vipassana meditation tries to do, to empty your mind, to find a natural state wherein we can hear just who we are. most people don't want to hear just who we are because it's too painful, too full of unwelcome misgivings and difficulties and pain. but, life brings good things in plain wrappings, bad things happen to us and good things develop. you never know what is in store for you but if you look at life as an opportunity to do something meaningful with what could be just one shot at life, then don't waste a minute.

my dogs are sweet, they look to me for everything. my two boys are four and eight and i yelled at them last night because they were screwing around while i was on the phone. for some reason it just set me off and they both cried. but about thirty minutes later we were cranking the stereo and i was filming them dance around the living room to Led Zeppelin. funny that i would hit shift to capitalize the name of the band but not the word "i" well it goes to show you that maybe somehow i've managed to step outside of the power of ego.

well ego or not i put on this shirt today over a red sox manny ramirez t-shrt and it has a faint odor of a shirt that was worn once and then left to hang in the closet for a long time, then when you wear it the faint odor is right under your nose. no one would even smell, i even asked my wife to see if she knew what i was talking about. well, just took the thing off and tossed it over a chair. so i'm sporting red and the number 24 with a pair of jeans.

get a goddamn life and make something of it. i keep thinking the people that i loved most in life that are gone now would give me the lottery numbers in a dream but they never seem to come. so, i'm thinking that one of my big lessons in this lifetime is to be self reliant, not to get an easy ride off winning the lottery...and besides i can never remember to buy a ticket anyway, and when i do it's quick pick! so, if i just let go of the ties i have to trying to make it through each month then maybe things will come easier.

that said, i got an email from a client today who says the video is possibly on hold or put on the shelf. can you believe it? that would make three videos in the last quarter that went away...three videos that could've been my income for about six months and they are gone gone gone.

holy shit time to start sending vibes to my dad and brother up there in heaven to see if they can impart their infinite wisdom of the netherworld to pop into my head the winning megabucks numbers for tonight...even if i have to share the couple million, a hundred 'grr' would do the trick.

well, that's my brainstorm for now. better get to the work that hasn't been shelved yet.

when you log into blogger and see the 'blogs updated at...' section it's impossible to see this one pop up there...people must have to update every minute to get a listing. tell you what though i just saw a blog listed as 'undress britney' and that opened my eyes. dharma bum what? fuck that dude undress britney trumps your sorry assed excuse for a blog. i'll have to do a search to see if that blog has any content worth seeing.

oh last thing, i couldn't sit with having that incredibly descriptive post about my brother's last day be sitting up there on top. so, thus this post. my wife says not to think too hard about the last moments of his last day. it's not who he was.

he was so much more, so very much more than that last impulsive act.

Suicide Is Painful - Happy Fucking Valentine's Day

I once lived.

Then I was sure I'd never feel happiness again.

Now, I'm beginning to live again.

Daily I've struggled about that last day of yours, my soul mate brother. You woke up for the very last time just this very morning, one year ago. You poured a cup of coffee. The mug was in your kitchen sink.

Somehow, you couldn't see through to the trail of sadness and despair that would pour down the bathtub drain along with your blood. You were righthanded, but used your left to work with a knife. You kicked lefty. Shot a hockey puck lefty. You drew your illustrations righty. The utility knife they found between your knees on Saint Valentine's Day was in your left hand.

You stopped by the office, received a FedEx package, left an incoming FAX on the machine, full of papers finalizing the sale of your land in Montana. Your land that looked lazily over to the Yellowstone River where you fly-fished so many times.

You didn't bump into Mitch or Meg. Things must have felt so quiet. Too quiet. Maybe bumping into someone would've changed things. You didn't return emails. Sometime late in the morning or early afternoon, you came home. Then, before you went for a run, you folded your faded jeans neatly in half, lengthwise, and placed them carefully on the bed. The belt was still on them.

Your apartment was immaculate, as things always were for you. A perfectionist: neat and particular about styles, the way you arranged things. You hated messy cars, messy kitchens, messy hair. Oh, if only you had had kids...

That evening, you pulled some boneless-skinless chicken breasts from the 'fridge, a head of broccoli, then started cutting them up for a stir-fry. You'd just finished a glass of wine. I wonder if it brought you any satisfaction.

Your stereo had three CD's in it: "Ballads" by the John Coltrane Quartet; "Monkey Jungle" by Duke Ellington; and Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane. The cops and the bio-hazard clean-up crew never told us if the stereo was on when they found you. Kris says she wishes she could've cleaned the tub. That's the way she could love you, clean you up and take care of you. We could've held you like a baby. Let you cry all night.

Maybe the image of the sharp knife cutting through the flesh of the chicken was too powerful. So, you left everything right there on the kitchen counter, lit a bunch of candles and placed them around the bathroom, and on the edge of the tub. Then, you stepped into the tub and sat, facing the drain. Did you sit and think it over for a few minutes? No one can ever really know those precious moments before you took your last breath.

I once had a mental image of how someone cuts themselves with the intention of dying. After I heard the police report on your death I threw that image away. Your's was no cry for help, no little slit on the wrists. You went for the pulsing vein on the inside of your elbow, the genetic characteristic we both shared. Low body fat, veins on the arms. Remember way back, lifting weights at the gym and seeing the veins pop out? I can almost picture you driving down the road not long before this happened, feeling the veins on your arm and thinking "If I do it, that's the place to cut."

That's what you did.

You cut. Over and over as hard as you could. To the bone.

The day you died you took me along with you.

As if out of your very own mouth I can hear it now:

"Happy Fucking Valentine's Day".

I've broken down every interaction, read your every email, every credit card bill, poured through your apartment, now all packed up neatly in boxes at our house. Sometimes when I need to feel you I open up a note you sent me, or an email, or look up at the photo of you and me before we climbed Carrigain that winter.

It drove Mom nuts, but, you didn't have to leave a note: because I know. Soul mates know...

Something has to give if you live a lifetime stuffing anger inside. Somewhere, sometime, somehow a boiling pot of water under pressure will blow. You couldn't be angry at Adrienne after she cheated on you. You couldn't be mad at Dad for what happened when he was still drinking (33 years ago). Mom made us feel like anger was poison. That robbed us all of our ability to deal anger, process our emotions.

Then, Dad died only three months before you decided to go. Losing him was like untying a shoelace. Things sort of fell apart, lost their meaning. No glue. Mom began to lean on you because you were alone, too. I'm sure that's what happened.

I miss my best friend.

You were beautiful. Everything about you: the way you drew, your laughter, you made a room light up, girls swooned for you, whatever was yours was mine, you guided me, inspired me, challenged me...pissed me off a few times.

You helped define me. Now, losing you forces me to redefine myself all on my own.

In some sick and metaphysical way, I thank you for this absolutely painful and dramatic, ugly challenge that you've left in my lap.

I won't let you down.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FOR MY BROTHER:

Can you hear me?
Are you out there somewhere?
Can you lay a flower on the snow
And let me know you hear?

Are you out there
Somewhere in the wind?

In the dark of night
When I lay awake
I wonder if you're there
Looking over me

I can hear you say my name
Like it was yesterday
Then I feel the fear
Wash over my soul

Fear is dark and cold
You can't pull the covers up far enough
Laying awake before the dawn
No one to answer your call

I see you in the light
I know you're out there
I feel you every day
And hope you'll look over us

When I do see you again someday
Have a six-pack ready
Let's take a drive down to Old Saybrook
Pick up some cigarettes on the way
I'll walk in the house naked
And tell Adrienne that it's time for bed

Don't worry
I've heard you calling
I do know you're out there:
I heard the owl hooting at us near the porch this summer

High and Wild

This high and wild stuff is what attracted me to northern New England in the first place. It was 1987 or so, I was a distracted television reporter hating all the egomaniacal ramifications of climbing the small-city journalist ladder, when my brother took me ice climbing near North Conway, New Hampshire. I was hooked from the moment my crampons hit the ice. It was a moment of epiphany that would catalyze a change in my career path, how I spent my spare time, and ultimately, where I lived.


I moved to North Conway in '91, then moved away a couple years later to take a job editing for a small television program. In the short time living here I met my wife, and also consolidated my plans to meld adventure and exploration into my career path as a documentary producer. I also practiced long and hard at being adequate on steep ice and rock.

Twelve years later, married with two boys, my wife and I made the decision to move back up here in '04. It's a good place to raise kids. Gym class for my boys is skiing at Attitash every Thursday. They shut the school down and every kid skis, like it or not. That is a cool way to grow up.

My regret is that kids, a career, a mortgage and so on, keep me from my appointed rounds on the ice. It's been awhile, to say the least. But, every day I drive by pinnacles of ice hanging from the cliffs and can sense the thrill of air under my feet.

Last Friday I asked a couple of friends to join me up in Lake Willoughby, Vermont for some climbing and filming. We chose the New England Ice Grade 5+ route called Promenade. Hanging icicles, rock moves, vertical ice and a mossy finish over wet slab are some of the features we expected to encounter. It was a spectacular day.

All I know from the experience is that I need to get out more. Follow your dreams, live where you want to live, investigate your inner workings...and CLIMB!

Waiting In The Myst

It's all a mystery...the whole damn thing. I took this picture
in 1988 on Mt. Katahdin in Maine. It was one of the best days of
my life, ascending the remote peak in the austere extremes of winter,
along with my brother and five other friends. On this particular day
a handful of us ascended a steep trail to the summit ridge that
spans Pamola Peak with Katahdin's main summit, called The Knife Edge.
If I could only have known then that it would be the way I best remember
my brother, now that nearly a year has passed since losing him.

The sun hanged sharply, low to the horizon in the north. A strong breeze
blew from the south, blasting a haze of snow particles up into our faces,
then angling over our heads into the deep blue sky. We walked literally on
the edge of a vertical horizon between clear blue sky on our right, and
sparkling shroud of myst and snow to our left.

Jeff walked up ahead of me as we neared the sharpest section of the knife
edge. He looked back at me with this confident grin on his face, the way he
often did, as if to signal our common bond and brotherhood. I couldn't let
this moment go, and snapped a shot with the instant camera stashed in my
front pocket. It captured the moment, and the meaning of that day,
perfectly.

A few minutes later, five of us stood on the two-foot wide knife edge,
looking down into the abyss in front of us. Peering south, into the blush
and nothingness of glistening snow particles, we could see our long shadows,
cast into the haze by the bright sun behind us. I suddenly became aware of a
circular rainbow around my shadow, but could not see it around the shadows
of the others. Each of us had his own individual rainbow, fading like a
ghost into the swirling myst of snow and haze. I later came to understand
this phenomena as a brochen spectre. It made us laugh like children. We
waved our arms and jumped up and down.

The rainbow revealed to me the mystery of life within each of us. I stood at
once jubilant and silent, marveling at the wonder of experience, impressed
by nothing but my own infinitesimal insignificance to the cold, indifferent
sky. The rainbow we individually witnessed signified the Grace of existence
itself, the uniqueness of our personal journey, and of the mystery that will be revealed to us at the end of our journey.

Often, when I think of my brother, I remember this day. I gaze back into the
photograph, and imagine him somewhere up in the heavens, waiting, shrouded in a similar myst of rapture and beauty. When I see him again perhaps he'll be waiting for me again, smiling, as he did when I snapped this picture. Then, he'll step beside me on the knife edge, look down with me into the abyss of glistening snow, place his hand on my shoulder, and reveal to me the wonders of the mystery.