Postcards from the Ledge: Collected Mountaineering Writings of Greg Child
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Selections of the best writing from elite mountaineer Greg Child.
simultaneously in Great Britain by Cordee, 3a DeMontfort Street, Leicester, England, LE1 7HD Manufactured in the United States of America Edited by Linda Gunnarson All photographs by Greg Child except those on pages 32 (Randall Leavitt), 43 (Simon Carter), and 170 (Leo Dickinson). Cover design by Helen Cherullo Book design by Alice C. Merrill Cover photograph of Greg Child: Michael Kennedy Frontispiece: Woodcut � Randy Rackliff Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Child, Greg.
and for trapping bugs, birds, and rock rodents would be in order. Judicious cannabilism of one’s partners might be tempting, too. Clothing would eventually wear out, so one would have to evolve skin as tough and hairy as goat hide, along with leathery, high-friction footpads. Gear would wear out also. Stone implements might suffice for a time, but eventually the specially adapted climber-to-forever would have to go for it solo, perhaps having developed suction-padded digits or prehensile
sleep, but kept watch on Luke all night, at least till sunrise, when we dozed off and Luke disappeared up his ropes to do battle with Tis-sa-sack and the bees. When we entered the bug zone that day, we found that the humming wasn’t made by bees but by some harmless, lethargic, dronelike flies that had hatched in the millions, all of which were now looking for a home and a purpose, at an altitude a thousand feet above the base of Half Dome. We watched swallows and yellow jackets intercept the
Yeah, Bob is a nice guy, which is why I find it upsetting when he slips on the skating-rink-hard slope, pivots upside down and then slides forty feet to disappear over the 10,000-foot North Face. It happens lightning quick, a blur to the eyes and the imagination. Aside from my lame shout of “Stop!” he is gone without a sound. I turn toward Karsang, partly to gauge from his expression whether I have hallucinated all this, but he, too, gapes toward the claw marks of Bob’s slide to oblivion. I
North Col at 21,500 feet, watching snow plumes stream over the ice-blue crest 2,000 feet above, I met The Man With An Attitude. All around me, climbers were setting out and then abandoning their journeys to Camp One on the col, driven back by the gale and signs of impending storm. Wind swirled about in a vortex, occasionally sweeping breathable air away and leaving a momentary vacuum that left one with an awful suffocating feeling. While I zipped up my windsuit to keep spindrift out, I noticed