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"Hare’s Cliff Hanger at Picacho del Diablo"
Climbing 10,000
foot Mount Picacho del Diablo in Baja was, for
some time, my personal badge of manhood,
but,….wait a minute… there are hundreds of women
rock and mountain climbers nowadays who rival
anything manhood has accomplished..
In fact, the most daring and skillful rock climber in the world is a woman who can hang onto a ledge by a finger and swing over in a transition move to another more secure hand hold, then swing again till she has both a hand and foot hold. Tarzan, compared to this Jane, was bungling in the jungle... My first role models for death defiance happened when I was in Acapulco, and marveled at those lion hearted men who stand poised on cliff’s edge, then dive outward past the jutting rock ledges below, and land in the water over a hundred feet below. They pray daily to the Virgin of Guadalupe to keep them safe. I understand this. There are two classifications of Mexican Cliff divers, Grand Champion and stuff on a rock. In 1970, I could have performed a safer death defying stunt for the Jerry Lewis Telethon, but too late, I found myself in what Picacho climbers call Campo Noche, the base camp. Getting there had taken all day from San Diego, a full day drive south in Baja to the trailhead leading to the peak, followed by a four hour walk through a golden aspen forest, then standing a few moments at a saddle or cliff edge, called Blue Bottle, to take in the splendor of Picacho across the canyon That three dimensional view was like you see at an Imax theater. The mountain appeared to land in my lap, it was so close. Marveling at this stunning vista, I heard the strident voice of our leader, Bud Bernhard, commanding us to begin the descent on a switchback trail 1500 steep feet down to the canyon floor at the base of the mountain where the climb would begin. Campo Noche had all of the accoutrements, especially the drinkable running stream water, and the Garden of Eden décor. The peak of Picacho had curved out of sight by now. Only a handful of climbers knew how to navigate this mountain and I was in the midst of most of them. My companions were the intrepid members of the San Diego Mountain Rescue Team: Bud Bernhard, Will Tapp, Wes Reynolds, Lois McCoy, and two sturdy young women, Kris and Linda, all capable of backing my play if I got into trouble. Bud Bernhard had opened up this mountain to the world. He was the final authority to decide which one of several paths to take each time we came to a divide, as we progressed up this dazzling maze in which many climbers had been lost. Choose the wrong path and you could wind up on the ledge of a dead end cliff psyched out by the prospect of a thousand foot fall. Try to retrace your footsteps and you were engulfed in even more false paths. Bud was in his sixties, but would prove to be a mountain goat on the climb. That was an appropriate analogy. That evening, twilight descended like a gossamer curtain, as we bedded down in our sleeping bags. Lying on my back gazing up at the pristine starry sky, I saw movement on the mountain. Panning up a granite wall to a cliff some 1000 feet up I saw the sculpturally curved horns, and sturdy body of a mountain goat, a large alpha ram, scoping us out, evaluating us as a possible threat. Regally dismissing us, he turned and walked away from my line of sight.. The other world tranquility of the night did its work. I was lulled into a dreamless sleep until just after sun-up, when I heard the manic voice of Will Tapp who could hardly contain his joy at the prospect of the climb. He ran by each sleeping bag reaching under it and dumping its occupants onto the granite deck.. “Get up! Get up! Time to climb!” he shouted, running the length of the prone bodies. Being a seasoned morning radio man, I rolled out of my bag, not needing his exuberant get-up call. Kris and Linda were new to me. They were both seasoned climbers, but had come with us to learn the mountain for later serious rescue work. Kris was a tall Nordic type with wheat golden hair. Linda was a Latina, who resembled Salma Hayek. They were half-sisters, cowgirls from a small town called Potrero, an old Mexican word meaning “a meadow where horses graze.”. You might have tabbed them as nice sweet young ladies who were out of place, but the giveaway was their arms, muscular and firm, the arms of cowhands who had ridden, and roped their entire lives. Arms and rough hands for serious climbing. Lois McCoy fed us a rich breakfast of oatmeal sweetened with brown sugar, and her homemade corned beef hash, chased with strong black coffee. I felt my heart begin to quicken as the moment arrived to take off. Bud Bernhard took over from cheerleader Will, and walked the line of climbers grimly inspecting the gear: the nylon line slung around their necks, pitons, karabiners-what they called “beeners”- hammers, and other tools that I did not recognize. He made sure our boots were tied, and that we had smeared sun screen on all of our exposed skin areas. He checked our canteens. There would be water on the mountain. Picacho was a gushing fountain of rich potable springs, but he made sure of the water, anyway. Finally he walked up to me, and inspected the lines which tied me to Will, and Kris. Grunting his approval, he turned without a word and began walking toward a clearing in the bushes, which led to a boulder, the starting point for the climb. Kris would climb ahead of me making sure I was secure by hammering a piton into a crevice above me, and looping it into a karabiner. That beener led to a beener attached to my waist by a rope, cinching me up. Will was at my side pointing out hand and foot holds, often wedging my boots into a crevice and giving me words of encouragement. My line also led to a beener secured to his waist. Kris was a strong climber, and we made brisk headway. Bud stationed himself on top of the pack. Linda, an effortless climber, was below Will, followed by Wes Reynolds, wearing a perennial smile, important on occasions like this.. Climbing Picacho turned out to be a matter of climbing a seemingly endless ladder. At times, there would be exposure and scant hand holds, but they were rare. It was not technically challenging for this gang, but exhausting to me, because of the relentless 12 hour devotion to the task. All went well, mainly because of Bud Bernhard. Had he not been there to lead us away from the false paths, we probably never would have made it. Avoiding future confusion, Will marked each good trail on the way up. Things were going too smoothly. Around 8000 feet up, we heard terrified screams echoing off to the right. At first, I couldn’t tell if it was a man, woman, or an animal, but the Rescue Team reacted immediately. “There’s a guy over there hanging on the edge of that mantle,” said Will, pointing. “See him?” At first I didn’t, but soon picked him up in my line of sight. He was a couple of hundred yards away, clutching the edge of an overhanging rock formation. Kris said, “He must have been traversing the top of that mantle and slipped down to the edge,” The edge was a good fifteen feet down a steep slope. Below him was at least a thousand feet of free fall. Bud reacted in a flash. Linda was the only climber available. “Linda” he ordered tersely, “You and Wes get over there, and belay him out of there.” That meant, get to the top of the mantle and throw a rope down to him hoping that he could grasp it. Then, they would pull him up to safety.. Linda was all arms and legs, traversing across the rocks like Spiderwoman, followed closely by Wes. Once there, he would put a bite on a rock at the top of mantle and belay her while she roped the man in.. Bud had obviously seen her rope rambunctious steers, and figured she was the one for the job. It took mere moments for her to get to the narrow top of the mantle. Wes arrived in time to take a bite with his line around a vertical rock and hand her the bitter end of the line.. The man’s ear-puncturing screams never stropped. Linda took the rope from Wes and hollered for him to grab it when she threw it. He shook his head, still screaming, too terrified to let go of the edge of the mantle from which he has hanging literally by his fingernails. Linda wasted no time. She friction-walked down to the man, looped the line around him, half-hitched it, and told Wes to hold him taut till she could make her way back up to the top, and help haul him in. She then gave him another in-your-face lesson in upright friction-walking to the top of the mantle. It was the bravest act I have ever witnessed. By now, Will had tied me in and left to go help Kris and Wes. Will was the best talker-downer of the party. He sat with the man, persuading him that he was safe, pumping confidence back into him. The parade was stopped. The Mountain Rescue Team was mountain rescuing. That was their gig. Bud Bernhard was livid. The show was being held up by a mindless idiot who had no reason to be on the mountain alone. Minutes before, Bud had been all concern.. Finally, Will charmed the man into standing, then Linda and Wes tenderly helped him back toward us... The man arrived at our ledge and, by now, was manic. “God almighty!” he cried, ”Did you see that? Wasn’t that the damndest thing you ever saw.? That was the biggest rush I’ve ever felt.” Bud almost throttled him.. ”You stupid bastard! You were scared shitless, and I could shove you off this cliff right now and not think a damned thing about it” He pointed at Linda. “This woman risked her life for you and…you..” Bud was now sputtering with rage. “But, aren’t you going to take me down to the canyon?” asked the man, seemingly incredulous. “Hell no, you moron!” bellowed Bud. “You just sit here and we’ll go to the top and then pick you up on the way back down.” Linda sighed with relief, She thought Bud was going to order her down with him. The top of Picacho del Diablo was all it was supposed to be. We friction-walked the last 1000 feet up a steep granite wall, and reached the summit from which one can take in both the Gulf of California on the east, and the Pacific Ocean on the west. The old cliché that we climbed the mountain because it was there rang hollow. We climbed it, because it was more than there. We sat silent, mesmerized by the panorama, as-one with all the elements. Baja is under-rated. The reputation of Baja is that of desert and cactus. Truth is that Baja has a spine of towering mountains and trees rivaling the lush scenery around Lake Tahoe. California has the Lake. Baja has both oceans. It has occurred to me that Nicholas Trist who negotiated the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo should have grabbed not just the western United States, but Baja, California. Back down at the base camp, Bud made sure the “moron” was basically okay, then took him by the arm and led him forcefully to the place where he would make his way alone up to Blue Bottle. Our festive group celebrated the climb with a lot of hugging and back slaps, then gathered up our gear and hiked back to the trailhead, then finally, to nearby Meling Ranch which has a landing strip. Bud Bernhard and I boarded the plane and flew back to San Diego in time for me to be on Jerry Lewis’s Telethon. Bud went with me to the studio, but refused to go on-camera. Show biz was not his life. The man we rescued? .He proudly told us that he belonged to an extreme right wing enclave in Idaho. This solo climb was to be his test of valor for final induction into the clan. He. begged us not to tell everyone that he was rescued by a Mexican woman. Ironically, Linda’s father was a sturdy blonde Aryan who would have made Hitler proud, except he had no racial hang-ups. His first wife was Kris’ mother. When she died, he married a warm, loving Mexican woman who bore Linda, a world class beauty with a drop dead body, butterscotch colored skin, and lavender colored eyes.,. Linda married a powerful Mexican industrialist who owns thousands of acres in Baja with a large herd of thoroughbred horses. She also has homes in Mexico City and Monaco, but the horse ranch-estancia-is her favorite hangout. Kris didn’t do as well. She became a Paris model, and later married a French banker with a chateau, but no horses and cattle. I have never stopped publicly thanking all of those generous-and superior-people by name who helped me accomplish things I could never could have done on my own. Only the names of the women have been changed. I talked to Linda shortly before chronicling this. She begged me not to tell you that she had rescued a racist.
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hare@happyhareonline.com
Hare's Biography |
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