Winter Crucifixion

12/15/74 

Sometime in the early to mid-70’s I was skiing on a pair of 170 cm Kneissl Short Comps with Besser bindings.  It was during the market-driven short ski craze when short skis and freestyle encouraged bad technique.  If you were a type III skier you could either ski correctly (because you had a racing background or were from the East Coast) or you could try to emulate the latest freestyle weirdness.  I’m sure that there were things in-between but I wasn’t interested in them.  I was self-taught and too dumb to not be proud of that fact.  I had never raced and wasn’t good enough to overcome or accommodate the design-imposed limitations of conventional skis.  Consequently, I was drawn to the darkside.  The Siren's call included:

Royal Flying Christy

Back Scratcher

Daffy

Space Walk

Jet Turn

Slow Dog Noodle………..bad technique.  

One night at Ski Acres I came face-to-face with the co-mingling of bad gear and bad technique and lived to tell about it. 

What is a Best Friend?

 

Maybe it changes as you age?  Maybe it is the friend that you spend the most time with?  Maybe it’s the friend who makes you feel the best about yourself?  Maybe it’s the friend who you have the most in common with?  Maybe it’s……..What?  

Mine left on February 1st.  We had been together for 60 years.  We hadn’t spent as much time together as some other friends we but always knew where each other were and got in touch as needed.  Sometimes it was me and sometimes it was him.  He was the guy who I could always count on to help me sort something out or let me know that I was so off base as to be totally fucked and he would say it.  “Dude.  You are so totally wrong.  You are fucked.  Think about it”.  Something that you don’t accept or tolerate from normal friends.  Hopefully, he felt the same. 

Most of us have a few key figures in our lives to grieve when they leave this Earth.  Our Parents.  Our Siblings.  Our Spouses.  Our Children.  Our Friends and Acquaintances and our Best Friends.  

 

 

RIP Mel……..

The Government Stairs

 1/13/2006

In 1930 the city of Seattle put in a waterline that came down from Capitol Hill, through Interlaken Park, ran north under 22^nd Street to East Blaine and then up a steep 65’ ridge to the high point of the Montlake Neighborhood.  From there it continued north to serve communities beyond the ship canal.  Once the waterline was completed one of the city’s charming sets of public stairs was thoughtfully installed on that right-of-way. 

As a kid I had never heard them referred to as anything other than the Government Stairs though I guess their official name is the “Howe Street Stairs”  I still return to them and recall a cycling adventure that took place over a half a century prior. 

Kasie and I were out for a Father/Daughter bike ride sometime back when we found ourselves in the Montlake neighborhood.  She had heard most of my “Glory Days” tales before but this was the first time that we had visited this particular site where I had made my bones as a fairly major cycling stud to be reckoned with.  As we stood over our bikes looking down the Government Stairs I proudly related something that happened there about 60 years ago. 

Montlake - The Real Birthplace of REI

Most of us know something about REI.  Some of us may know a bit of the history, or think that we do.  Some of us have heard about how it all started with an ice axe, etc. 

Some of us have been members for years, can recite our membership number (203xxx), bought our first backpack and hiking boots from Jim Whittaker above the Green Apple Pie and delight in regaling the cashiers who ring us up about our long association with the Co-op.  Some of us have been employees (#14xx).  Some of us may complain about the changes over the years or high prices, or Yuppie-gear, blah, blah, blah.  This post isn’t about any of that so no need to go there. 

It is about a critical bit of REI history that I bet you don’t know.  It’s about how the Co-op almost never came to be.  It’s about how 85 years ago a Montlake business deal-gone-bad set everything in motion so that today, in spite of Covid-19, REI is serving 5.5 million active members and how those members and guests open the doors to the stores by grasping handles made of ice axes.    

That’s right.  It all started with an ice axe in Montlake.

Symbolic Door Handles

What is well-known and undisputed is that Lloyd Anderson and his wife, Mary, were members of “The Climbers Group”, an offshoot of the “Mountaineers”.  In 1938 they founded Recreational Equipment Cooperative using the Rochdale Principles.  The purpose of the co-op was to provide a source of quality outdoor gear for their friends and fellow climbers.   

Mary and Lloyd Anderson 

Celebrating My Big 0-7

 Me and My Crew at My 7th Birthday

Well, mostly crew.  I’ll let you figure out which two didn’t qualify as “Crew” but who my Mom made me invite.  If you haven’t figured it out, I’ll just say that they are the only guys in the photo who were shorter than me and I’m the guy in the middle doing the Gangster Lean.  I bet that right now they are still wearing the same outfits while playing Bingo in a Florida retirement community, but I digress.

Little did I know at the time that a health crisis was unfolding in one of their homes and that my birthday party was providing a much-needed respite from worry.  You see, the non-crew attendee’s older brother was suffering from an affliction and the ultimate outcome was in the balance. 

A Lotta Milk for $0.03

  It began as a typical lunch period at Montlake Elementary School.  We filed into the lunchroom and lined up to buy milk from the Milk Lady at her little table situated at the north end of the building in the aisle that ran the length of the room and separated the girls from the boys.  Rows of long tables extended out from both walls.  An 8 ounce carton of milk cost $.03.  I sat down with the rest of the guys on the west side of the room.  Dave Sadick was across the table from me.  He was eating his usual salami with mustard sandwich.  Pip Meyerson and Lester Rosenthal sat next to us. 

I think it started when a little pudding accidentally flipped from someone’s cup and landed on their neighbor’s sleeve.  A witness commented and a minor form of retaliation was enacted.  Laughter!  I took a sip of milk. 

Marcel Speaks

 

On my second day of skiing I participated in a series of bad decisions that nearly cost me and my friends our lives.  Being in high school at the time when bad ideas and bad decisions were a way of life the only thing that is surprising is that we survived.  Without belaboring details let me just say that we had gotten lost and were suffering from hypothermia.  We were rescued by three remarkable men, two of whom told me years later that when they found us, we had maybe 2 hours to live.  Two of those men were very kind but the third was a beast. 

 

The beast was a German expat named Marcel Schuster who had served on the Russian Front in WWII as a Nazi Mountain Trooper.  He was captured and spent three years in a POW camp which didn’t make him a nicer person.  He was entirely unpleasant and totally unsympathetic to our situation.  During our rescue the only six words he uttered to us were “You Stoopid Boyzzz” and “Learn or Die” followed by another “You Stoopid Boyzzz”.  After eight years I was reunited with the three men who I owed my life to and Marcel didn’t smile and wouldn’t shake my hand.  All he said while looking at me with a cold and bitter stare was “You Stoopid Boyzzz”. 

 

I’m going to get to the kayaking part in a minute but before I do I want to mention what a strong influence Marcel’s message has had on my life choices.  Though I have met no one who knew him who would describe him as a nice guy he spoke to me in a way that got my attention and that I understood. 

 

I think that many of us choose our activities, boating or otherwise, where we accommodate objective risks and plan for what subjective risk / rewards we may or may not be willing to consider.  Since that cold Winter night in my 17^th year when I had 2 hours to live but was snatched from death by two nice men and one acerbic ex-Nazi with a short temper and no tolerance for the dumb-assery of youth I have heard Marcel speak to me a number of times.  When he speaks I listen. 

 

 

I was 2 days into a 2 week solo kayaking trip on the BC coast when my weather radio told me that an intense ridge was setting up over Haida Gwaii and that it would bring 40 kt winds to the area.  That made my intended route and my current location untenable.  I had two days to seek a sheltered route, which was doable, but I didn’t want to go where the easy and safe routes would take me.  There was a 6 mile stretch of coastline on Athlone Island that I wanted to see and if I hurried, I could paddle it and get into the lee of the Bardswell Group before the winds arrived, but just barely.  Once sheltered by the Bardswells I could scurry from here to there like a mouse evading a hungry cat, safe as long as I didn’t get caught in the open.  So, for 2 days I monitored weather and hustled towards safety. 

 

On my last “safe” day I left Dallas Island around 8:30 AM.  I knew I that I was cutting things pretty tight and that I really should have gotten out of camp an hour earlier but I wanted a second cup of coffee.  My bad.  Conditions were smooth until I reached Blair Inlet near Ivory Island and things started to change.  The wind had increased to W @ 10 kt countering the building ebb at Blair.  Friendly swell became more evident as I started across Seaforth Channel.  Textured patches began to show the effects of mixing currents and from mid-channel to Cape Swaine the ebb was on with swell being bent and disturbed, gaining height as windwaves were tickled to attention by interaction with the opposing current.  I ducked into the gap behind the island that terminates Cape Swaine for a brief rest.  Looking at conditions to the south they appeared to be somewhat sporting and it was clear that there would be no place to take another break until I made the cover of Wurtele Island so I took the opportunity to fuel on a ProBar, checked my chart and tried to interpret the sea bottom profile that my GPS displayed on its magnificent 1.5” x 2.25” big-screen.  Maybe I could have seen it better if I had covered one eye and taken out my contacts.

 

Those 3 miles to Wurtele Island presented intensifying conditions that were ragged and snotty but still manageable.  Achieving Rage Reef at the north end of the island I sheltered in the lee of the boomers to reassess conditions.   Looking south and then scanning back north the way I had come the thin layer of haze clinging to the water told of frothy wave tops torn from breaking waves.  I really wanted that next 3 miles.  The outside of the island would be rough and probably getting more so but it would only be another hour to Cape Mark.  I can do that. 

Moderate Seas

Image by April Benzce

And then Marcel spoke to me as loudly and as clearly as he ever has since that cold night in the snow and he said “You stoopid boyz!

 

That was all it took and I ducked behind Wertele island without further discussion.