BLAKE HERRINGTON: HOME TOWN HEROES
I started climbing about 10 years ago, living in the northwest. I was graduating high school and already obsessed with the mountains From reading the American Alpine Journal and seeing flyers for slideshows and new routes, it appeared there was this cadre of seemingly inauspicious Northwest "Supermen" who all knew each other, climbed together on routes I couldn't imagine, and generally made casual training days out of the biggest climbs in the Cascades. They weren't famous and they weren't flashy, but they were climbing relentlessly. Who were these guys? I don't know if it was a connection through UW, working on Rainier, or simply being better, stronger, smarter, and more dedicated that anyone else, but it seems like this group was a "generation" of NW alpinists with an unparalleled list of accomplishments. Without knowing any of them I got a sense that they were simply operating on a different level. Chad was, without a doubt, part of this group.
I learned of most of these folks through little more than reputation-turned-hero-worship. I knew Colin was about my age, but he'd been climbing with some of them for years and had already done the classic Cascades "intro" climbs and was on to the big time. To the rest of my contemporaries bumbling our way through our first big epics, it was only through chance meetings and slide shows that we would bump into Mark Westman, Chad, Joe Puryear, and the rest of the Washington hard man crew. I remember my first year at WWU, living in the dorm without a car, but determined to bum a ride to down to Feathered Friends to see Joe and Chad present a slide show about climbing in the Kichatnas. Their images of the Black Crystal Arete are still etched in my mind. I was 19 years old.
Another summer or two passed, and my first time up at Colchuck Balanced Rock involved a very intimidated attempt to climb the West Face. Who should literally run past myself and my partner (still in our sleeping bags after bivying) but Dan and Chad. One or both of these guys wore track spike/sandals/invent-a-shoes and I am 100% certain that they could have lapped us on the route, climbing it twice in the time it took us to thrutch our way up.
Over time I got to tag along and climb with (or get nearly rescued by) Mark, Colin, Joe, Chad, Jesse, and Dylan. I never had a crash-back-to-reality moment, as these guys really were indubitably good people and good climbers, not merely good heroes to idealize. When Alpinist Magazine closed down, the story of Chad and Dylan on Siguniang sat atop the magazine's website for months and I read it a half-dozen times. It seemed more Piolet-worthy than whatever else was nominated that year. I felt like these Seattle Supermen were our home-town heroes, less hyped and more blue-collar than the Cali and Colo based "rock stars" I'd see in movies and magazines.
A few weeks ago I was having dinner with Chad in Patagonia, and he told me about his immediate plans to try the Supercanaleta on Fitz Roy with Jens. During the same day of "ok" weather, I climbed on a (much) smaller peak with Steve Swenson and our friend Scott Bennett, spending the day staring at Fitz and admiring Chad's enthusiasm to tackle (and likely fail on) a much more impressive peak. Once back in town, we heard an Argentine team describe witnessing two "American Supermen" speeding up the lower part of the route. We had no doubt who it had been. At the time we didn't know the result of their attempt. Steve, Scott, and I each had bus tickets out of town within a day or two of returning from our climb and I wouldn't get to see Chad again. I will not forget the image Jens and Chad left on the Argentine team as they sped up the route on a entirely different plane of experience from everyone else present.
My only climbing memory with Chad also happened this winter. It was a gray Washington December day, and we were tromping around looking for frozen cascades that had survived the end of our week-long "ice season". Chad, Jens and I had just climbed the two wettest pitches any one of us had done. I lead the easy first pitch, a slurpee beneath a waterfall to a cave with water pouring all around us and puddled at our feet. Chad probably pulled out both screws by just wiggly them out from the slush. Chad then stepped out of the cave on lead and we could hear the 33-degree water pounding onto his head from hundreds of feet above. We thought he would be able to step out from beneath the shower, but it covered the entire width of the ice flow so he just clawed his way up the pouring slush, never shouting back into the cave or whining. And I don't think he was trying to stifle his complaints either. I think he was actually enjoying it (Although if he had opened his mouth it would have filled with ice water from above.) Whenever he'd raise a tool, water would run down his arms inside his jacket, soaking him from the inside-out.
Shivering in the cave, Jens even admitted that he could at least "understand why some people don't like ice climbing."
When Jens and I reached a soaking-wet Chad after he'd been standing immobile at the belay for the past 10 minutes, he handed me a dry jacket from within his backpack and his smile was ear-to-ear. There was nowhere you could imagine him rather being.