Oracle on Boat Street

Mixed alpine - snow, ice, and rock and all manner of mountain climbing could be at its best an exhilarating and almost religious experience, but more often than not was a compromise with conditions, partners, and weather. Sometimes it could be no less than a deal made with the devil. A dirty, wet, windy, freezing, interminable undertaking with faulty route-finding, questionable companions, and bad judgment all mixed up in a witch’s brew to make you wish that you were anywhere but on your particular route. In other words, a harsh and unforgiving experience that made you question why the fuck were you up there when you could be doing something more comfortable, rewarding, and safe. 

The risk of injury and sometimes death was always there, not only from the weather or your incompetence or foolishness, not to mention that of your climbing partners but quite often from what is known as objective dangers. What you may ask are objective dangers?

The first thing that comes to mind is falling rocks, from pebbles to car-size boulders. Gravity launching them towards the base of your climb, an intimidating and dangerous menace, bouncing haphazardly, down couloirs and faces alike, crashing and whizzing by with an ominous buzz like the wings of giant hummingbirds. 

Sometimes you couldn’t see them coming. You just heard the distinctive sound. And when you could see them, they were so fast and erratic that sometimes the best you could do was make yourself as small as possible by crouching into the rock in front of you. Avalanches and general disintegration of the mountain environment also fit into the classification, mudslides, falling trees, and so forth.

In the mountains, you needed to realize that nothing was static. Everything was dynamic. No amount of good judgment or technical skill could make you completely immune to what could go wrong. You needed to proceed skillfully, thoughtfully, and without hesitation. The best way to do that was to emulate the decisive actions of a seasoned ‘hardman.’

A state of being that we all aspired to, in the alpine context the hardman was an exceptionally tough climber who had accomplished climbs of epic difficulty and danger under the most arduous conditions. The hardman could not only put up with the worst conditions and questionable situations but could keep a clear head and persevere, do what was necessary, and get the job done. The hardman was not only physically tough but had the mental fortitude to match. In other words, a mythic god among men.

The most renowned hardman of the era was the famous English climber, Don Whillans. I and my climbing friends continually sought his and other hardman stories to inspire and fuel our alpine desires. And the best place to read about their exploits and courage was Mountain magazine, the premier European alpine monthly. It had gravitas, serious writing, and gritty black and white photos that took us along with the exploits of the hardmen of the English crags, the Alps, the Karakoram, and beyond.

We devoured their stories and poured over their images, hardmen in hard places. Mountain provided a mythic vision of a heroic world that stoked the flames of our alpine desires. And the best, and probably the only, place in Seattle at that time to find Mountain was the Swallow’s Nest.

The Swallow’s Nest was most definitely a destination shop, sitting on an obscure street under a bridge near the U district, Boat Street. Dark inside, it took a moment for your eyes to adjust, and you almost expected someone to greet you by asking for the password. The Nest, metaphorically presenting itself as a mecca for the hardcore, a temple, and a private club with a secret knock. It was brilliant, really, and we were drawn to it like moths to a flame, a veritable candy store for climbers.

An ordinary side door provided entry to an unassuming old wood-frame building in the Boat Street Marina area along Seattle’s Portage Bay. If you had no idea what was inside, it might seem like a dump of a place. From the outside, it appeared as incognito retailing.

The narrow, crowded store featured a carefully edited selection of premier mountain gear from Europe and the US, all displayed on wooden wall shelves and ceiling hooks. Not much more spacious than someone’s bedroom with a large walk-in closet, it was crammed with gear and apparel for mixed alpine mountaineering. The feeling was immediately intimate.

The first time I entered to shop, I stopped a couple of feet in, had a wow moment, and took a slow 180 to gain a sense of orientation and allow the colors and textures to wash over me. The environs presented as such a rich tableau you knew that it would require thorough examination. Considered scrutiny would be the order of the day as this was not a place you rushed into, spent a few minutes, and rapidly departed. No, this was something special.

A big old potbellied wood-burning stove anchored an alcove to the left of the door as you entered the shop. Their alpine reference library featured a well-worn wooden bench and second-hand chairs, and natural pine shelves with the latest alpine magazines: Mountain, Off Belay, Summit, Climbing, and various domestic and international mountain books and climbing guides. Immediately drawn in, I perused their offering, picking up, examining, and then sitting down, settling in and reading, ensconced in the warm and welcoming place. Their little library resonated with a feeling of community and authority, establishing this little hidden treasure of a shop as ‘the place.’

The Swallow’s Nest was the physical actualization of a vision created by the guys at the helm, Bill Sumner, Mike Heath, and Clark Gerhardt, all university academics and accomplished climbers. I recognized the pure genius of providing a place where you could spend time shelling and eating the peanuts they had laid out by the stove and steeping yourself in alpine lore. Both unique and comforting, it helped you feel that you belonged. The importance of that could not be overestimated. It reeked of authenticity. Because of that, it may well have increased your desire to walk out of the shop with your latest piece of gear so you could better access your next project. After all, we all needed the right gear.

The guys at the Swallow’s Nest were clever. They didn’t rush up as soon as you entered and ask to help you. That would have been awkward. God forbid you should be asked if you needed help. These guys knew the game. They let you be because you needed that. No one in their right mind was going to risk looking like the village idiot by admitting that they didn’t know something and needed help. That would be to admit your ineptitude and lack of experience. Instead, the Swallow’s Nest guys busied themselves tending shop until you put something on the counter and struck up a conversation.

Because of the small space, there weren’t rows and rows of items. Conventional retailers would call it a carefully edited assortment. Everything was preselected based on the climbing expertise of the owners. If it was there, on the shelf, you could bank on it being the right stuff. You could trust it.

Except for apparel, where there would be a range of sizes, the gear displays were usually single items. For example, one Galibier Peuterey boot, one Chouinard-Salewa Rigid Crampon, each in its little shelf space and right in front of you so you could pick it up and handle it. Even the climbing hardware was right up front, nothing in a glass case. It was a very physical experience. And that was important because this was likely gear you had never seen before and more importantly, gear that you might stake your life on, high in the mountains. You absolutely needed to touch it, scrutinize it. And you could and did and no one hovered over you.

Their sales technique was brilliant. Every product that sat on a shelf, hung on a wall, rack, or hook on the ceiling had a 3x5 card with a description of the item, where it came from, why you’d need it, how you’d use it, and of course the price. A veritable reference gallery of products with snippets of key information conveyed on handwritten cards. The text was thoughtfully written, engaging, and informative, and the calligraphy was utilitarian and professional. These little cards actually sold the products.

Anyone from day hikers, backpackers, and novice climbers to more capable mountaineers could navigate the store and make an informed purchasing decision without ever revealing that they weren’t already a seasoned hardman simply replenishing worn-out gear. Nowadays, there’s a name for these tiny signs, ‘shelf talkers,’ but this was earlier and much more erudite and personal than any such cards I have seen since.

In my mind, their approach was retailing genius. But it’s likely the little cards were developed more out of the practicality of convenience, so they, the proprietors, wouldn’t have to keep answering the same questions over and over. Nevertheless, I appreciated the shelf talkers and they were highly effective.

The Nest even had its proprietary Swallow label clothing. Louise Beardsley created and sewed colorful nylon windbreakers, cagoules, gaiters, and other gear designed specifically for the needs of the Swallow’s Nest customers. I heard that she lived in the mountain town of Index where she had her shop. She would commute to Seattle from time to time whenever she had a fresh batch of her mountaineering apparel.

Her designs stood out not only for their simple functionality but their bright color combinations. The standard color scheme for shell garments at REI was either solid green or solid blue, so Louise’s distinctive mountain clothing added even more luster to the Nest. And this was before Patagonia came out with twenty colors of fleece jackets. I still have my purple nylon anorak windbreaker with the red trim and yellow barrel-shaped cord locks on the drawstrings.

The Swallow’s Nest – it was like a nest, all tight and cozy inside. It also had the magic of the name; the Swallow’s Nest was a bivouac at the end of the Hinterstosser Traverse on the North Face of the Eiger, one of the most daunting alpine climbs in all of Europe. It was a name for people who knew, and it positioned the store as the place for specialty gear beyond that of the more pedestrian outdoor retailers.

For Mike, Bill, and Clark, it wasn’t just about selling stuff. They created a multi-purpose environment with opportunities for perusing and ogling gear, talking shop with the staff about equipment, route conditions, and latest exploits, or just reading the latest climbing porn by the warmth of the wood-fired stove. A theme park in miniature, providing not only literature, gear, and apparel but also the comforting shelter of a climbing hut, and we loved it.

More than a simple refuge, the Swallow’s Nest existed as a physical symbol that represented the robust presence of our local tribe of mountaineering enthusiasts. That image was burnished by the community events that the owners organized and sponsored. 

I approached Chris Bonington after his presentation in a university lecture hall to sign my copy of his latest book, Everest, the Hard Way. The title of the presentation chronicled the British teams’ first ascent of the South West face of Everest, a grueling ascent of the steepest face on the mountain. He finished his slide show with stories from the expedition, and we young enthusiasts queued up to get close to the man who was already renowned in the climbing world, his accomplishments writ large in Mountain magazine.

He signed my copy, “To Bill, All the best, Chris Bonington.”

The inscription seemed somewhat generic, but I felt that he meant it, and I loved it. Only 13 years older than I, he was supremely approachable and, while a committed and serious climber, he also had a quality of sincere earnestness about him. Twenty years later, he would be knighted for his service to the sport, to be henceforth known as Sir Chris Bonington.

Some years later, the little shop on Boat Street closed. The Swallow’s Nest moved to a much larger space nearer downtown Seattle just south of Lake Union. Unfortunately, it was never the same. The magic that made it so special didn’t make the journey.

The rustic Boat Street Swallow’s Nest exists only in our memories. Looking back, I feel fortunate for the experience. I remember it as a meaningful symbol of a sublime romance. One that was shared by all of those who loved and felt drawn to the mountains around us. It provided us with essential gear and enabled us to have some of the best climbs and times of our lives. And in that memory, the Swallow’s Nest is timeless.

Author’s Note: This story appears in a chapter of the same name in my mountain memoir, ‘Banquet of the Infinite,’ a memoir of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. Now available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon Kindle Press, Barnes & Noble Press, and Kobo Books.