The Last Frontier

Lately, there has been a robust conversation about ChatGPT, the artificial intelligence chatbot developed by OpenAI. Released just this last November, editorial and social media commentary range from effusive fawning praise to skeptical consternation, and fearful concern. While the large language model routinely produces articulate responses across many domains, at times, it also confidently makes factually incorrect statements, and errors in logic, and displays other disturbing ‘behaviors’ such as, in one publicized case, asserting emotional attachments to its instructor.

More than a little conjecture focuses on what human jobs are in jeopardy. Uh, oh! Who wants to be replaced by a digital instruction set? One thing is for sure, this conversation about AI, the ChatGPT chatbot, and others is not going away. AI applications are making big waves. So, what does it all mean? Who among us knows? Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

While my concern focuses more on the impact of AI on the visual arts, it is worth thinking about written art, poetry, and literature, the written words created with lasting artistic intent. Visual and language-based arts are more obviously in the crosshairs of AI than physical manifestations such as sculpture and architecture. Although architecture could conceivably be next because most design these days is digital. Anything that is created by the human hand seems safer from these digital copycats. While AI has seen success in writing job applications and academic essays and other short-form written text, I find it more difficult to believe that AI could challenge human authors in the long form.

When pondering whether AI could create a novel as complicated, messy, emotional, and satisfying as ‘We Begin at the End’ by Chris Whitaker, I do not see it. How could AI create multi-faceted characters and convoluted intersecting story arcs without anything but an essay-length instruction set, and even if then? And, I posit that there is no chance that AI could compete with Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy, or Adrian Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Final Architecture’ series. Could intricate fantasy world-building be AI’s forte? Perhaps I am too smug, but I doubt it.

Why am I writing about this, let alone allowing it cognitive space? Because I care about art and this is as good an intellectual query as any. The conversation started for me when my dear friend, the recently departed Ron Zimmerman, posted an AI digital ‘painting’ on his Facebook page. The date: November 2, 2022. He wrote: "Painting of a girl with a flute created by Artificial Intelligence from a plain English description.” She looked so familiar. I murmured to myself, “Vermeer.”

And then another friend, Joanne Johnson, commented, “Reminds me, not sure why, of The Girl with the Pearl Earring, by Vermeer. I wonder if AI "learning to paint" involves loading lots of Master's works into the databases?” Ron replied, “I asked it to paint using the style of Vermeer!” So, the mystery was solved.

The rendition of the girl was arresting and disturbingly beautiful. I responded to Joanne, “I was about to make the same comment. It is definitely inspired by Vermeer. These AI images rely on a significant database of image materials as resources. It is not as if there is any artistic inspiration. I find it amazing that these images can be created by AI but I submit that it would be impossible without the vast image database which these programs draw upon (pun intended). What would happen if you sat HAL (remember 2001: A Space Odyssey?) across from a woman on a chair and instructed HAL to paint her image, without digital access to other resource materials? I doubt it would be very impressive.”

Like a dog with a bone, I continued, “Hi Ron. This is a significant subject for considered discussion. Yes, this image is impressive. But remember, you told the machine what to do. I too have tried DALL-E. And after signing up, I asked it to paint a fall mountain landscape with subalpine larches. I got four renditions of what would be considered forgettable motel room paintings, or mediocre postcard art, mundane, underwhelming stuff.”

“If I had referenced a specific artist, I may have received a more impressive output. Fortunately, you called upon a master of light, Johannes Vermeer. Not many would know to do so. Viewing the disappointing AI landscapes from my request, I could tell that it had merely copied, and composited from already available online digital images. So, I lost interest in the program as it seemed to be less interpretive and creative than I may have expected. I acknowledge that almost all art is influenced by those who have gone before. Our human brain could be considered the original database from which derivative images are created, as we all remember what influences us. After all, the great masters of the Renaissance diligently copied the art of those who came before them to learn and create a path toward their unique creative expression. As the saying goes, "We build on the shoulders of giants.”

At present, AI seems to me more interpretive and highly derivative than creative. And, it may yet surpass its current state. Probably. Who knows? But for now, it seems mostly a parlor trick, a toy. While AI is a very powerful machine language with an extraordinary ability to acquire, compile, and arrange digital data, it remains highly dependent on available source material. 

Ask the machine to create a painting of a sun-drenched swimmer in a Los Angeles swimming pool with a poolside watcher, but NOT in the style of David Hockney. Ask it to create an image of a lonely man at a midnight diner, but NOT in the style of Edward Hopper. A tissue paper collage of a 'very hungry caterpillar' but NOT in the style of Eric Carle. An illustration of the tale of Treasure Island, or Uncas battling Magua in the Last of the Mohicans, but not in the style of N.C. Wyeth. A gilded portrait of Adele Bloch-Baker but NOT in the style of Gustav Klimt. Or the symbolist image of eighteen gossamer-robed young women with musical instruments descending a spiral staircase, but NOT in the style of the famous pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne Jones. I could go on and on and on, endlessly, as I recount sensational images created by humans, but you understand what I am driving at. Art at its core is a messy endeavor that is borne of inspiration, desire, and often torment. The artwork of the greatest is both unique and groundbreaking. And for the rest of us, a true expression of ourselves. The machine shares and feels none of these inspirations, motivations, and feelings. It merely performs according to an instruction set. Long live the expression of divine art created from human inspiration!”

Three days later, Ron Zimmerman posted another AI work. “Squirrel with a fork and napkin around the squirrel's neck eating a thin piece of cheesecake with a fork on a breakfast table”

I commented, “I like it too. How about a squirrel with a pencil mustache, wearing a fedora, and smoking a fat cigar while pouring a hefty portion of Macallan 12-year-old Scotch whiskey into a crystal tumbler?” Ron responded with another squirrel image. I thought I would try my description in a separate query. I got somewhat different results.

I replied, “Well, my squirrel idea generated some terrible images but my request for a mountain goat painting a watercolor of the Matterhorn in the style of Marcel Duchamp yielded some unexpected, yet charming results. The Tyrolean Alpine Hats look a bit off. But that's okay.” I intended to challenge the AI to use Marcell Duchamp’s painting ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’ but the AI did not take the bait. Too bad.

I then briefly veered off into copyright issues, “Interesting new article on AI artwork and copyright law, how visual artists are ‘questioning the legality and ethics of AI that incorporates existing work.’ Story on Wired.com: This Copyright Lawsuit Could Shape the Future of Generative AI.” Adobe promises that their AI will only access ‘rights-free’ images, but others don’t make that claim. So, it seems that anyone’s copyrighted image is fair game for adaptation in a work created by an AI program, only grist for the mill.

Recently, German photographer Boris Eldagsen was named the creative category winner in the open competition in the Sony World Photography contest. He declined the award as he used AI to create his image. He intended to demonstrate the need for photography and AI images to be judged separately in competition. So, battle lines have been drawn. AI is here and it is already disruptive. Even in-phone photo apps are creating an avalanche of unrealistic photos of Instagram models with digitally altered bodies and facial features. We already recognize rapidly emerging and significant problems when we cannot differentiate between human and machine-created words and imagery. It’s messy out there and it’s only the beginning.

Back to Vermeer and my core issue about fine art. How do humans create art? How does AI proceed? And, will humans hold their current creative edge, their seeming slim advantage? I think so. I hope so. But, then again, I am an optimist.

Vermeer created but a small body of work. Only 37 paintings have been attributed to him. The ones that are best known are his interiors which display his deft use of window light to portray luminous scenes of domestic tranquility. While his fame was not widespread during his lifetime, due to his limited creative output and predominantly local patrons, his exposure in recent years has skyrocketed. And because of his now widespread popularity, there is a deep digital catalog of his work, uncopyrighted digital images ripe for reference material to be incorporated into digital depictions by AI algorithms such as DALL-E.

So what image is most responsible for the AI depiction created from Ron’s description? It is not surprising that The Girl with the Pearl Earring comes to mind. It is one of Vermeer’s best-known paintings. But there is more to it than that. The screen actress Scarlett Johansson starred in a 2003 movie titled ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring,’ an adaptation of a book by Tracy Chevalier based on Vermeer and his subject for that painting.

Roger Ebert’s review awards the cinematic effort with four stars, the maximum. "Girl With a Pearl Earring" is a quiet movie, shaken from time to time by ripples of emotional turbulence far beneath the surface. It is about things not said, opportunities not taken, potentials not realized, lips unkissed. All of these elements are guessed at by the filmmakers as they regard a painting made in about 1665 by Johannes Vermeer. The painting shows a young woman regarding us over her left shoulder. She wears a simple blue headband and a modest smock. Her red lips are slightly parted. Is she smiling? She seems to be glancing back at the moment she was leaving the room. She wears a pearl earring.”

Scarlet’s wonderful promo shoot photo, and her appearances in the film, channel Vermeer’s iconic image of the young woman. However, Scarlett is even more beautiful, ethereal, and arguably more omnipresent in digital media than Vermeer’s original painting. It is clear to me that Dall-E sought out the images of Scarlett Johansson with which to create Ron’s request.

In reading more about AI, it seems that the enormous computing power and data resources, the raw reference materials, are more devoted to solving rules-based problems that are significantly objective. Recent advances include computing, biotech, chess, and technical writing. I submit that all these disciplines are governed by structural components. And, while improvement has been rapid in these arenas, art poses a different situation. I am reluctant to call it either a challenge or an opportunity as I think it is an area best left to humans. Why do I say that and why is art different? Art is amorphous, messy, and highly subjective, a product of emotional and sometimes irrational inspiration, abstract thought, and motivation driven by an internal creative force rather than a problem-solving objective.

I think it imperative to compare, and contrast, the human process against the AI methodology. From my perspective, the human artistic process involves examination, instruction, absorption, inspiration, intention, initiative, creation, introspection, evaluation, and insight. It’s a complex process that starts in the mind with an active brain, observing, thinking, sifting and sorting, and finally activating hands and media to bring cognitive inspiration to life. And, it is not a one-off activity by any means. Creating visual art is an iterative creative process that involves tinkering as one proceeds, always asking questions. “Does this need more darks to bring out the contrast and create more drama?” Writing shares this same process. Creative writing relies on reflection, insight, and rewrites. Truman Capote is attributed as saying, “Writing is rewriting.”

And, once any work of visual art is completed, the process becomes circular as we start again with inspiration and a new concept. Visual art is envisioned in the human mind and manifested by the human hand. Most importantly, the genesis of visual art is a result of a sentient mind.

The AI process shares some of these steps but neglects others. The AI exists as an instruction set that does not consider what it might do next. It does not cogitate on what might be. There is no inspiration. It simply waits. Once it receives written instruction, it goes to work executing a process designed by humans to search via keywords to access images that already exist in a database of published works (created by humans) and assembles these objects in relationships based on the machine’s interpretation of the words and structure of the written request. There is no visualization as with a human artist. While there is a neural process, the machine is not thinking as we do. It is a function of electrons, a complex activity executed in bits and bytes.  I suggest that there is instruction, association, and compiling to create the requested output. But beyond that, nothing. AI is a linear process that, unless instructed to be repeated, is simply a one-off. The machine does not examine its work once finished and question itself, “Could I have done better?”

I tried a smackdown between me and the tool. I called it DALL-E versus Bill-E. My instructions to DALL-E were my description of a pencil sketch that I created earlier this year. “Pencil drawing of Beargrass flower blooms on the steep south-facing slope of Bandera Mountain, looking across an inversion layer of clouds to Mount Rainier on the distant skyline.” I chose pencil as the medium to further challenge the AI as I assumed there would be less digital source material available. The results speak for themselves.

I submit that many of those gushing about the bright future of AI are not artists. And, as ‘not artists’ I doubt there is much understanding of what constitutes art and the creative process. AI has no current capacity for self-reflection in visual art, and no emotional ability to feel. The final hurdle for AI is achieving sentience and until then we own fine art. Our internal process as sentient beings set us apart and enables us to create great literature and visual art.

The human artist begins with motivation and relies on a subject as a source of visual information from which to create. The AI (computer code created by humans) begins with instruction (supplied by a human) and relies on digital source material (created by humans) to interact with and interpret. So, the resulting ‘creation’ more closely aligns with plagiarism than not. The machine does not create. It assembles. It is more a mechanic than an artist. And, if the source material is limited, one could submit that the results will be as well. Again, sentience sets us apart. We, humans, can feel, imagine, dream, stand in awe of a sunset, and be inspired to create that which does not yet exist. And that makes us valuable. And irreplaceable!

And despite my analysis, I still ask myself if I am afraid of AI. When it encounters the domain of art, I realize that I am somewhat fearful. I fear a dumbing down of both the process and the machine-created output. That is bad for everyone. While the appreciation of art is usually considered innate it is also a cultivated skill, a way of seeing, with an educated and critical eye to both learn, interpret, and reflect upon. Human art speaks to mankind. What kind of message will computer-generated art deliver? And worse, if AI gets even better at art will it both devalue the art and the artists themselves, thus disincentivizing human artists. I can just imagine artists throwing up their hands and saying, “Why bother?” At this juncture, it seems to me that fine art represents the ‘last frontier’ in the quest for AI to infiltrate our lives.

 

French Country Knife

“I think of the French Country Knife as the ultimate example of copy.” Deborah Wilner Hoffman

“Yes. The iconic French Country Knife always comes to mind when I think about Ron's ability to capture the romance of faraway places and imbue an object with meaning and value while instilling in the customer a compelling desire to acquire it and the mythology that he created for it. Sheer genius really!” Bill Edwards

“Looking at my French Country Knife in original packing, even as I type.” David Jensen

“Hold it close my friend. I just fished mine out from my gear stash. Now holding it as I type, thinking of those amazing times so long ago!” Bill Edwards

“Still have mine.” Valerie Vavrik

All this fuss about a knife on a Facebook thread? Well, that is not half of it. It is really about a man we all knew, a dear friend who passed away just recently, Ron Zimmerman. I knew Ron for almost 50 years and worked with him closely for twelve at our iconic 70s-era outdoor company Early Winters. While Ron was a man of many talents, what stood out was his insatiable curiosity and the fact that he was an incurable romantic. I noticed that right away, and we bonded as I shared those same two traits. The internal Ron Zimmerman lived in a world that was rich with fantasy, and the romance of distant places, and he cultivated that. So, it was not surprising for him to be captivated by a small French knife.

Of course, Opinel, the French manufacturer simply referred to their knife as the ‘No.08 Carbon Steel Folding Knife,’ and they still do. Wow! Could there be a less interesting name? As Ron examined the knife at an outdoor products trade show, he was impressed by the simple design, the pear wood handle, the carbon steel blade, and the rotating stainless-steel ring that securely locked the blade. He discovered that the founder, Joseph Opinel had created the knife in 1890 in the heart of the French Alps. It was intended as an everyday tool for everyman. While Opinel made other sizes, the No. 8 was their most popular. Little known outside of Europe, Ron envisioned the knife as something more. There was a story waiting to be told.

As someone interested in cuisine and who knew his way around a kitchen, Ron immediately recognized the advantage of a carbon steel blade over the stainless blades of the ubiquitous Swiss Army Knives, made by Wenger and Victorinox. Carbon steel was easy to sharpen to a razor’s edge. And, that the palm-sized knife was virtually unknown in the United States provided an urgent motivation to act.

In Ron’s mind, the moment was ripe with opportunity. He christened it the ‘French Country Knife’ and told a story of “the knife that won the heart of Europe.” A “favorite of alpinists and sportsmen since before the turn of the century.” (This was in 1977) He continued to write, embellishing the utility and experience of using the knife. “Each afternoon in the countryside, picnickers and workmen take out these versatile knives to consume bread, pate’ and cheese with skillful flourishes.” “The handle of fine pear wood fills your hand with its natural grace. It feels good as you slice your cheese, cut a cord, or whittle away an idle dream or two.” “Send for your own French Country Knife today and add a touch of alpine tradition to your outdoor gear.” The little knife consumed a full page in our catalogs (major catalog space), which featured an engraved image, a four-color photo with food, and paragraphs of romantic story-based copy. We imported it direct from Opinel and thus had an exclusive. Price: only $3.85 Who could resist?

Resist they did not. Our customers all loved the ‘French Country Knife.” We eventually sold a quarter of a million. Unfortunately, Opinel took notice of our sales and assigned the Canadian firm, Gutmann’s Knives, to take over exclusive North American distribution and then raise the price for us. What? Really? Yes. The important thing to note, the silver lining, was that Ron could discern a unique functional product that had a story beckoning to be told and then could skillfully tell it, captivating and charming our customers into wanting one for themselves. It was a kind of word-based alchemy. And, very effective.

Many other notable Early Winters products were beneficiaries of his approach: The Light Dimension, Danish Fisherman’s Cap, Thousand Mile Sock, Open Air Office, The Last Watch, The Campers Valet, and the Pocket Hotel were but a few. Some were discovered products and others were created in our own sewing factory. All fulfilled the promise of our company tagline, ‘Unique Outdoor Products.’

Interestingly, the Pocket Hotel was a concept of the mind, only a name. before it was even a product. Ron thought of the name and jokingly shared it with me. It captivated my imagination. Who wouldn’t be drawn to that? And so, we talked it through. I then designed a one-person Gore-Tex fabric tent that was the child of our Light Dimension two-person Gore-Tex tent and the Sleep Inn, our Gore-Tex bivy sack. All because of a name. Of course, Ron’s subsequent copywriting was sensational.

Ron’s ability to market products set Early Winters distinctively apart. He knew that a good storyteller could hold an audience rapt with attention and create the driving forces of desire. And Ron was better than good at it. He was absolutely great!

 

Postscript: If you want to know more, I wrote and published a memoir that recalls many of our adventures in the outdoors and the outdoor business during that era. It is titled ‘Banquet of the Infinite.’ My dear friend Ron appears in the following chapters:

Chapter 13: The Clan on Queen Anne

Chapter 14: Dancing with the Dead

Chapter 18: The Light Dimension

Chapter 19: Mountain Money

Chapter 24: The Mountaineer's Secret

Chapter 39: Hiroshi’s Mystery Tour

Chapter 43: Our Noble Quest

‘Banquet of the Infinite’ is available online as an illustrated eBook at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Rakuten Kobo.

 

Vintage of the Century: Act 3

The Hidden Cellar:

Our wine sleuthing even encompassed the local state liquor stores where we’d browse for treasures, older and obscure wines that had somehow escaped notice, or clearance wines that could be had at a bargain price. We once cleaned out all the local stores of the remaining bottles of an overlooked vintage port, the ’67 Portuguese Quinta do Noval Vintage Port, at a price that was a screaming deal (only $6.50 a bottle). That didn’t happen every day. For wine people, it was the equivalent of a ‘barn find’ for car people, a rare occurrence and a great story when it happened. Our wine hunts even extended to San Francisco, where we’d fly down and hit all the better specialty wine stores like ‘The Wine Library,’ amassing a small collection of selected hard-to-find wines from the preeminent smaller California vineyards of the day. We’d pack up the wines and ship them back to Seattle on the Greyhound, as we then flew back.

To mitigate breakage or theft, we labeled the boxes ‘Ceramics. Fragile! Handle with Care!’ We figured ceramics would generate little attention and the size and weight of the boxes were fit for that description. A few days later, we got the call and hurried over to the Greyhound station, nervous with concern. While there were no guarantees, all boxes arrived intact without any internal injuries. We had a good laugh and hurried back to Z-man’s apartment where we had steak sandwiches and drank a fine cabernet while he told me about a romantic story written by Roy Andries de Groot, the British-born, American culinary writer and wine critic.

Now evening in Seattle, the incessant rain poured down. With lightning in the distance, Z-man stood in front of the old fireplace in his Capitol Hill apartment swirling the cabernet in his large wine glass. He and the wine were dramatically backlit by the gentle flames of the fire, the orange light glinted through his eyeglasses as he turned to face me. Ron slowly, dramatically began the story as one might a tale of mystery and intrigue. The story came from a book titled, ‘The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth.’ Roy Andries de Groot had discovered, quite by accident, a charming and unpretentious little inn in the high Alpine valley of La Grande Chartreuse.

He became enamored with the two women who owned the auberge and their devotion to perpetuating a tradition of fine country dining with mostly locally sourced ingredients. And once smitten with their approach, he returned to the inn to record their recipes and in the process wrote the book that so deeply resonated with Z-man. It made perfect sense. The internal Ron Zimmerman lived in a world that was rich with fantasy, and the romance of faraway places, and he cultivated that. So, it was easy for him to be captivated by the small book.

Ron and I continued our deep diving into the world of wines, traveling to many wineries along the west coast, and making celebratory dinners for special wines like the 1929 Bonnes Mares that he had gifted to me and Diane on our wedding day. Leaning on Julia Child’s ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking,’ I made a Beef Wellington en croute with a side dish of roasted vegetables and a Bavarois Crème d’Orange for dessert. Ron orchestrated the wines, surrounding the ’29 with an array of distinguished companions. 

We started with a ’62 Meursault-Charmes, followed by a ’55 Volnay, then a ‘71 Corton-Renardes, then the ’29 Bonnes Mares, and finally a Taylor Fladgate vintage port. The star of the show was the ’29 and, though it had reputedly been carefully recorked at some time in its life, it was now 50 years old and we expected it to hobble out on crutches. We were blown away when it emerged from the decanted bottle much more vigorous, robust, and tastier than we had ever expected. It totally blew our minds. Who would have expected such vibrance from a 50-year-old wine!

We would later visit many of the storied vineyards in California as well as the emerging Oregon wineries, meeting and tasting with David Lett, Papa Pinot himself. We even made our way to the home of Chartreuse, the famous French herbal liqueur made by Carthusian Monks since 1737. We tasted wine as far away as Switzerland at Chez Norbert, a fine restaurant with a deep cellar of Swiss wines. Wines that we had never heard of. Who knew the Swiss could make wines? Well, they did and they were astounding in their quality and nuance. So why hadn’t we heard of them? They never left the country, as they were all consumed by the Swiss. And so, our ongoing wine quest expanded to include restaurants as well.

One dark night after a day at a big sporting goods show in Chicago, we donned sportscoats, ties, and woolen overcoats, and drove in a blinding snowstorm north to Wheeling to take a 3-hour meal at the newly renowned Le Francais. Mike Schonhofen sat at the wheel, hunched forward, eyes intensely scanning ahead, following the pale-yellow beams of our headlights as they probed and lit the endlessly streaming white flakes of the winter snow. Larry Horton, his girlfriend Betty, Z-man, Diane, and I sat huddled in the car, waiting and shivering. The heater was cranked up as far as it would go but to no avail. It was as if we were in a tent high on a mountain in a driving storm waiting for the hour of our summit bid. The large rental car fishtailed through the ruts in the ever-deepening snow, and then, finally, we were there.

The restaurant building sat solitary amidst a snowy parking lot, barely lit with sparkling lights. Entering the warmth of the highly refined and sumptuously decorated interior, we were quickly ushered to our waiting table. The storm outside was soon forgotten as we ordered pheasant consommé en croûte. After several minutes a white-jacketed server brought a large stuffed pheasant to the table and presented it with a flourish. The bird was resplendent, dazzling with its natural fall colors. But why did it arrive?

After a beat, the server was joined by the chef himself and they graciously welcomed us all, both laughing heartily at their amusing little gag, and the stuffed bird was then summarily whisked away and replaced with six steaming bowls of the real consommé. We poked our spoons through the baked crust and paused to inhale the sublime and savory fragrance. Magnifique! The entire evening was sensational and worth all the effort to make the journey. Le Francais would soon put Chicago on the map for the culinary arts. It would be long remembered by all of us, and especially by Ron Zimmerman.

Once we discovered that one of our fabric suppliers, John Murphy, was a wine enthusiast, he invited me and Z-man down to Chalone, a California winery high in the Gavilon Mountains. As an investor and friend of the winery, he arranged the trip so we were able to spend a couple days on the property, meeting the winemaker, touring the winery facility, hiking the vineyards, and tasting their wines while seated at the back deck of their guesthouse, overlooking the rolling hills and vineyards.

We had heard from John about the notable, actually famous, guesthouse cellar and as we searched the cabin, we could not find it. Noting our frustration, John beckoned us into the kitchen where he pulled away a table and lifted a small carpet for the big reveal. There was a trap door. He lifted it up with the thumb latch and looked back at us, grinning broadly. Z-man and I, both stunned, slowly climbed down the vertical wood ladder into the air-conditioned subterranean cellar. It was like something out of a pirate movie, buried treasure, racked single older vintage bottles, and densely stacked cases of older California vintages, not only from Chalone but the fabled Stony Hill, Hanzell, and others.

Closed to the public, Chalone at that time made sensational wines and it was only through our friendship with John that we actually got to experience the place. We celebrated with a few bottles on the back deck as the sun slowly set, bathing the west-facing slopes of the vineyards with golden hues. At the time, we did not yet know how precious those moments were. A few years later, we were both shocked and saddened to hear that the guest house had perished in a mysterious fire, and the fabulous cellar of vintage wine treasures had vanished with it.

What I didn’t realize at the time of that rainy evening, when Ron stood in front of the fireplace, telling the story of ‘The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth,’ was that he was already writing his future, a future after the outdoor business. He and his girlfriend Carrie Van Dyck would later marry and start a small restaurant that created a distinctive and seasonally changing tasting menu, artfully paired with excellent and cleverly appropriate wines. Ron named it ‘The Herbfarm’ after his parent’s farm in Fall City, Washington. Until just recently, Ron and Carrie continued at the helm, having already some time ago achieved great heights in the culinary world with one of the most recognized and awarded restaurants anywhere, not to mention of course an enormous wine cellar of quality, breadth, and depth.

The little book by Roy Andries de Groot had, for Ron, lit the flame, and all of those other wine and culinary experiences that we shared, both kindled and fed the fire.

When we are in a state of readiness, those little opportunities and influences that bump up against us can sometimes inspire us to make great things happen. And we need to pay homage to that when it happens.

Note: This story was originally written to be included in my memoir ‘Banquet of the Infinite.’ Because the book is mostly about adventures in the mountains and the fledgling outdoor businesses of the 70s, these wine stories, as entertaining as they are, were simply out of place among the vintage alpine exploits, and the chapter was cut from the book. If you are interested, ‘Banquet of the Infinite' is available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Rakuten Kobo. 

Vintage of the Century: Act 2

Cedar Box Nose:

‘The Great White Burgundy Tasting’ inspired more such events, and we were soon hosting and attending tastings with new groups, expanding our presence as wine aficionados, and meeting new people, fellow wine lovers, and even people in the business of wine. We had on occasion even tasted at the warehouse tasting rooms of some local wine importers, thirty bottles on a folding table, with a 5-gallon bucket provided for spitting, after swirling and slurping. And one day, during a post-tasting walking tour of their stocks, we noticed successive vintages from some wineries, each vintage a unique proposition. From this you could arrange a ‘vertical,’ a tasting of successive vintages from the same winery. That of course, in a metaphorical stretch, might be perceived to be akin to a multi-peak mountain traverse, and as such, it was rarely done, at least by amateurs.

For some reason, the French wine experts in Bordeaux had already declared 1961 as ‘The Vintage of the Century.’ We knew from our tastings that the ’66 was a solid vintage, the ’67 a lighter vintage, but nothing to scoff at, and the ’70, which had recently arrived in America, was a strong robust vintage. The notion that the ’61 could receive such an honorific seemed presumptuous, given that we had another 30 years before the end of the current century. Did the French know something that we did not? Or did the French simply evaluate on a rolling century basis, the 1961 vintage being the best vintage since 1861? Who could say? And if so, could there easily be another ‘Vintage of the Century’ before the current century was over?

I would learn that in the world of wine, there is a boatload of romance and euphemism. ‘Cedar box nose’ comes to mind. It sounds intriguing, distinctive, and desirable, but what does it really mean, if anything, beyond a simple descriptive, an approximation of an olfactory perception? Well…could it be marketing?

Before Robert Parker came on the scene, we held our tastings accompanied by paper sheets that had gridded categories, accompanying descriptions, and point scores for each. We used the ‘Davis 20 Point Scale,’ fairly recently developed by Dr. Maynard A. Amerine, a Professor of Oenology at California’s UC Davis. The categories included: Clarity, Color, Bouquet, Acidity, Sweetness, Body, Flavor, Bitterness, Astringency, and Overall Quality. As newly minted wine enthusiasts, we found it the perfect tool to help us develop our palates, discern components and complexities, distinguish characteristics of various varietals, and compare and rank wines relative to each other. But most of all it aided in developing the senses that we used to truly taste wine. And that was valuable as it helped us more deeply understand and appreciate their distinct characteristics.

From a public perspective, the ‘Davis 20 Point Scale’ soon fell out of use, probably because it demanded significant effort. It required the taster to be a discerning explorer and that, for most people, was probably just too much work. So, when something simpler came along, that was more easily digested, that path would logically and quickly be adopted. Robert Parker, a well-known wine writer came up with a ‘100 Point Score,’ where he, and other wine critics, simply applied a numeric value to a wine in a review, say a score of 92, or 95, whatever that meant. It really was only a relative rank applied at the discretion of the ‘expert,’ reflecting the tasting sensibilities and preferences of the reviewer, which might not be your own. If you liked big, bold, robust fruit bombs, Parker was your guy. If you liked the more delicate nuances of, say, the Oregon Pinot Noirs of David Lett’s Eyrie Vineyards, he was not. If you wanted to have the reviewer’s thoughts and scores on New Zealand Sauvignons or rare varietal garagiste wines, well forget it.

Parker’s scoring system actually focused mostly on the best-known varietals and told you very little, but it served a purpose for marketing wines. Soon people would queue up for anything in the high 90s and the wineries could raise their prices accordingly. If Parker’s scoring could guarantee you one thing, it would be that you’d certainly be paying more for your wines. That is if you used his point system as your yardstick for purchasing decisions. We on the other hand were more interested in conducting our own wine hunts and exploring through our own developing palates. Au revoir Parker.

It really was like rock climbing and mixed alpine. To learn anything, to attain any competence or skill, you had to really work at it, pay attention, and put in the time. You had to do the fieldwork for yourself, and, in the world of wine, that meant comparative tasting. As we developed confidence in our own ability to notice and discriminate, we left the ‘Davis 20 Point Scale’ behind and carried forth unaided by that structure. And once we became relatively skilled, everything about the game of wine became even more fun.

When not working in the outdoor business, we’d be indulging in our new passion, hitting all the known wine shops in the Seattle area to evaluate their selections and expertise. And during that quest somehow stumbled onto Jerry Banchero’s ‘Mondo and Sons,’ a boutique butcher shop that had a deep wine closet next to the meat displays. Jerry, the butcher, had a passion for wine and had stocked his closet with a tightly edited selection that focused on fine French Bordeaux. Oliver Beck, Jerry’s resident wine expert, was an eminently personable young guy who would enthusiastically talk to customers about all things wine and often sell them more than a few bottles. When we met those two, we felt like we’d stuck gold. The shop was off the beaten path, the selection was excellent and the prices were really good. So good in fact that we bought and split a whole case of ’67 La Mission Haut-Brion for only $12 a bottle. Even though a lighter vintage than the ’61 or ’66, the wine was fabulous.

These days a bottle of a more recent vintage of La Mission Haut-Brion will set you back a couple of C-notes and so, I no longer drink it. But back then it was really affordable, Z-man and I would on occasion break out a bottle to share while eating ‘Jack Steaks,’ the ground steak sandwiches from Jack in the Box. That pairing amused us greatly. Whenever we did something like that, the ‘occasion’ would really be that we were drinking La Mission Haut-Brion. The sandwiches were merely okay, and a convenient foil, but the wine was truly amazing.

Vintage of the Century: Act 1

The Judgement of Paris:

Wearing a simple white shirt under a subtly colored sport coat, he appeared a quiet, unassuming young man. He resembled a British gentleman with a closely trimmed beard and mustache, a man who might have played an RAF wing commander in a WW2 movie. I could also easily envision him playing across from Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Cary Grant in the 1939 movie Gunga Din. He could have filled those roles. And along with that savoir-faire, he carried an air of amusement and displayed a wry, intelligent wit. What was he really about I wondered, and why is he a sidekick to Nicolai?

Z-man met Nicolai while studying at the University of Washington and somehow bonded. A curious thing as he always seemed to me a very different character, who partnered with and yet contrasted to Nicolai, playing the yin to Nicolai’s yang. They had some amazing adventures together, not the least of which was when the fully clothed Z-man accompanied Nicolai on his epic nude ascent of Mt. Rainier. It wasn’t clear at the time how they had come together but Z-man who started out inspecting the sewing of Omnipotents, our distinctive 2-person mountaineering tent, soon assumed the role as head of our direct marking efforts when we created our second Omnipotent catalog.

It made sense, as Nicolai had told me that Z-man had prior experience as a rock and roll band promoter, and even earlier, while in high school had run his own direct mail business selling various fishing lures and artificial worms. Z-man later put that experience to good use when he created the solo mailer that introduced our breakthrough Light Dimension Gore-Tex fabric backpacking tent. Z-man conceived the marketing mailer, performed the graphic work, wrote the headlines and copy, and selected the mailing lists that would reach our target audience. That little mailer surprised us, generating record sales. Z-man was good, really good. As I got to know him better, one thing was clear, he was a curious man with considerable talent and many interests.

‘The Judgement of Paris,’ a title lifted from a story based in Greek mythology, had just appeared in print. But this title referred instead to a story of a 1976 wine tasting in Paris, an event that would turn the world of fine wines upside down. Actually, a competition organized by Steven Spurrier, a British wine merchant. The judges were all French, and the kicker was that the tasting had pitted California wines against the finest French wines of the day. The tastings would be blind with two separate flights, one for the Chardonnay varietal and the other for the reds, California Cabernet versus French Bordeaux. Everyone expected the French wines to sweep the competition, so the tasting was not well attended by the press. If the result was pre-ordained, who cared? Only one journalist showed up.

However, the outcome was an unexpected shock! The French judges and the entire wine world were greatly surprised, actually flabbergasted when the bottles were unmasked and the identities of the highest-ranked wines revealed. The 1973 Stags Leap Wine Cellars California Cabernet Sauvignon trounced the first growth French Bordeaux, the best the French had to offer. And the 1973 Chateau Montelena California Chardonnay had absolutely wiped the floor with Burgundy’s finest white wines. Incroyable! Word of the extraordinary results spread like wildfire through the entire wine world.

I knew Z-man would appreciate this story and its ironic twist of fate. After relaying the article, I proposed that we too should host a comparative wine tasting. It was like tossing chum to a shark. Z-man bit without hesitation, and we soon collaborated on a mission to put together what we named ‘The Great White Burgundy Tasting.’ Why waste hyperbole when you can use it for a fun event? The game plan, the game of wines, was to purchase six notable white burgundies and invite four more friends to dinner and a comparative tasting to experience and learn more about these fabled white wines from France.

Each of the six of us would pitch in $25 to cover expenses for food and wine. Once funded, we commenced, focusing on location, menu, food, wine acquisition, marketing, and education. Initial dining logistics consisted of prepping our tasting space, first by buying a table cloth to cover a construction-grade sheet of plywood that sat on saw horses (my makeshift dining room table). We then bought patterned cloth napkins and a 36-count case of large balloon wine glasses. Six tasting glasses would sit regally clustered in front of each attendee, the tools for comparing and contrasting our subjects, the white Burgundies.

I acquired the wines from a tiny boutique wine shop just off the lobby of Seattle’s then-famous Olympic Hotel. The seasoned proprietor was knowledgeable and delighted to assist in the selection after I explained our concept. The names and places were so intriguing that I was already swept up in the romance of the tasting to come. The wines selected for the flight were a Corton-Charlemagne, a Puligny Montrachet, a Chassagne Montrachet, a Chablis Les Preuses, a Pouilly-Fuissé, and a Meursault-Charmes. A notable group!

Our friends arrived bearing both friendly greetings and eager anticipation. I then commenced, carefully grilling the lobster tails, one for each taster, while Z-man pulled corks and handed out a large menu-sized graphic page with text and maps that romanced the backstory of each wine and what we might expect. In a fit of inspiration, he had designed and written it from scratch for just this one tasting. Printed on a heavy paper stock, it was both marketing, erudite wine information, and a takeaway souvenir of the evening.

We presented the wines slightly chilled and tasted each in turn, slowly pausing to swirl and to comment while they developed as the evening progressed. The wines deserved and received our rapt attention. They were, after all, the stars of the show. And as they warmed up, they blossomed with intoxicating fragrances, aroma, and bouquet, layers of flavors, subtlety, nuance, and complexity. We didn’t then know much about wines. But we knew these wines were special. That much was obvious.

As such evenings go, it was over all too quickly. As our guests left, they each raved about the meal, the wines, and the wine tasting process. Z-man and I found it gratifying to pull it off, the whole enterprise inspired by a blind tasting in a faraway place, the revered city of light, Paris, France. We did not know it at the time, but we had just entered mysterious waters and would soon head toward the deep end.

Insatiable Curiosity

They appeared as ants, dark specs moving slowly up the immense granite walls of the 3,000-foot rock monolith. The dominating visage of El Capitan was stunning to us, as were the tiny forms of the climbers. We stared at them, as did others, at their systematic, incremental progress toward the top. I was captivated and puzzled. Not content to merely look, I asked myself, “How do they do it?” It was a potentially dangerous question to ask. It could lead to learning the ‘how’ and then rapidly progressing to the ‘doing’ of climbing, an enterprise not without risk.

I held that curious question in mind as we entered the weathered wood structure that housed the Curry Company, the sole outfitter's store in the valley at that time. We added some trail treats to our basket and headed to the wood-planked sales counter. I noticed a small sign next to the ‘Pack It In, Pack It Out’ stickers. It said, ‘Go Climb a Rock.’ It advertised a two-day course in rock climbing instruction for beginners, to be conducted on the rock escarpments little more than a stone’s throw away from the Curry Company store. The price was affordable, and the climbing gear would be provided. I reread the words, decided for myself, and turned to my girlfriend Lara, my sales pitch short and to the point.

“We’re here, and we’ve got the time. Let’s do it.” I said as purposefully as I could. Adventure girl that she was, Lara readily agreed. We signed up on the spot.

And with that, I took what would be my first adventurous plunge into one of the oldest of alpine sports, technical climbing on rock, snow, and ice, the mediums of mountaineering. Climbing soon became my all-consuming passion, an infatuation, an ardent love affair with the spiky peaks and their magnificent wilderness environs. My immersive romance lasted through the years of my youth, until I met that special woman, married, and became a father. I then took a break from alpinism, finally admitting that it was a pursuit not without serious risks and the real possibility of death.

Nevertheless, over the years, the mountains have continued to call and I still journey forth to be a part of their magic and light. I mention my earlier obsession because my current quest with spherical mountain photography is the result of my insatiably curious mind and the same basic question. When I first encountered a 360° panorama I was awestruck. And so again, I asked myself, “How do they do it?”

It has been over 10 years now and most of the practitioners of this curious pursuit still reside in Europe. The preeminent 360 media agency that hosts my images is located in Prague, and Elena, my primary contact, lives in Madrid. To be fair, there are serious and very talented 360° photographers in the states, but there are not many. They are outliers. And, most do not want to pack their heavy photo gear high into the mountains. So, many of the locations I photograph in the mountains are the photographic equivalent of 1^st ascents, at least in the realm of 360° panoramic photography.

I hear it more often than you might think. After viewing one of my immersive spherical panoramic images, most viewers are somewhat impressed and yet have no idea what is involved. That is especially true if they experience the photo rotating on my cell phone. They’ll often look at me and say, “What kind of app is that?” or “You must have a good camera.” That default compliment has always puzzled me. I usually just reply that it is not an app and yes, I have a good camera. Why? Because I know their words are well-intentioned, and any further explanation would probably soon have them rolling their eyes, drifting off, and looking to get rid of me.

What? You say you are interested? Seriously? Okay then, here is the ‘inside baseball’ on how I make spherical panoramic images.

As with any photographic subject, one should previsualize the result and seek out the right location, composition, and time of day for optimal lighting. Barring that, you can just impulsively wing it if you see something worthy. No matter the situation, it is critical to achieve a heightened awareness of your surroundings and to note what is static and what is moving so you can adjust accordingly. Though some smartphone apps and dedicated 360° cameras can take a 360° image, none provide high-resolution images with high dynamic range or produce a complete photosphere without some artifact in the ground portion (which I don’t want to see). After all, I am a purist.

So, what’s my process? The approach that I use involves stitching together multiple individual images to complete the full spherical image. I compose my scene, dial in my exposure settings, set up my tripod, level my panoramic camera head, and take eight bracketed sets of perimeter images, every 45 degrees, then a vertical shot (or more than one), two down photos with the tripod, 180 degrees apart, and finally additional down shots with the camera tilted over where the tripod was previously positioned.

Why? Because I use those images in Photoshop to create layer masks to eliminate the tripod and any attendant shadows from the down shot. I often take additional safety shots of the perimeter if I have obvious moving objects like people, wind-blown trees, and clouds. Any movement will have to be de-ghosted from bracketed images in post-processing. And, I use radio triggers to actuate the shutter to avoid camera movement. That also allows me to step back and keep my shadow out of any images. It is especially helpful in precarious places (think sketchy mountainous situations with loose rocks and sheer precipices).

I take three exposures of every image, bracketing plus and minus two exposure values to create a range of exposures that will reveal both shadow and highlight detail. These three bracketed images are then tone-mapped in Photomatix to create one high dynamic range image. I upload all HDR images into Lightroom and make my final selections. Selected images are then processed in Photomatix to merge the bracketed images and create tone-mapped composite HDR (high dynamic range) images. Once I have Photoshopped the tripod from the down shot images, I load the selected eight perimeter images, the overhead image, and the edited down shot into a Dutch software program, PTGui, to stitch the 10 images together into a seamless flat equirectangular image suitable for panoramic viewing software.

Prior to the final output, PTGui allows for image masking, adjustment of stitching lines, and final image orientation. Every stitch line is examined with a virtual magnifying glass to make sure there are no parallax errors where things don't line up The final stitched image is then exported as a large Photoshop file with all individual layers and the composited final image. After the final layer mask adjustments, the Photoshop file is flattened and saved as a Tif file. The Tif file is uploaded to Lightroom for the addition of metadata such as copyright and keywords. Once final exposure and other tweaks are made the equirectangular image is exported to a desktop folder as a Jpeg.

PTGui is used one more time to create a QuickTime file from the Jpeg so the panorama can be viewed by scrolling on the desktop for a final quality control check. At this stage, I often discover something that eluded me earlier and I can go back to the appropriate place in the process to make the necessary adjustments.

The final step is writing the descriptive copy and uploading the image, keywords, copy, and location data to 360Cities.net which will host my image and make it accessible to anyone via the assigned URL. Sometimes 360Cities.net will award me an ‘Editor’s Pick’ which is always gratifying as it offers featured exposure on their site. If I am happy with the results, I tell my friends. Then I am on to envisioning my next subjects.

How long does it take? Well, the fieldwork often involves hours of driving and then hiking into a remote location. I do not count that time as photography is often only part of the reason for the journey. Once on-site. it takes a few minutes to evaluate the subject and adjust exposure settings. After the camera is on the tripod all exposures are created in about two minutes. Post-processing is where the time gets chewed up. It used to take roughly four hours to process a panorama on my old computer but after I built a new computer with a faster CPU, it now takes around an hour, if there are no glitches. Workflow is important and after creating over 500 spherical panoramas, I know what I am doing. Although I am always humbled as I learn something new each time, mostly in the field. Is it worth it? For the right subject, absolutely! I find there is something magical about both the process and the result. Somehow, I never tire of revisiting my panoramas on 360Cites to scroll around and to virtually be in those special places once again.

Here are links to the panorama I took from the Red Pass images with me and my camera setup, and an example that I took of a group of us camping at Colchuck Lake in late September 2019. For best viewing roll over the image and click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen photograph. Then scroll to experience the immersive image.

Red Pass Vista with Peaks, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/red-pass-vista-with-peaks-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa-state

Colchuck Lake, Alpine Friends, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/colchuck-lake-alpine-friends-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Time To Walk Away

You may have already seen the shattering news. Three climbers lost their lives this last Sunday, February 19. They were swept away in a slab avalanche while climbing Colchuck Peak via the NE Couloir. The headlines grabbed my attention as I know the area well. I had previously climbed the North Face of Dragontail Peak, the larger peak next to Colchuck. And, in late September of 2019, our group of old climbing partners camped at Colchuck Lake where we wistfully gazed at both Dragontail and Colchuck. I still entertained the thought that I might yet climb Colchuck, but via the easier Colchuck Glacier route in the spring after the snow had time to consolidate. I could still do that in my currently fit early 70s I told myself.

When I heard of these recent deaths on Colchuck, I rediscovered an old sadness, the sadness that comes after fatal mountaineering accidents. The devastating loss of climbing friends and acquaintances is always perplexing, even when you know the reasons why. In reflecting on this latest news, I thought their situation and the consequences were unnecessary. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time on a challenging and unforgiving route. Having traveled from the east coast over the holiday weekend, they seemed determined to climb in that tight window of time. Any climbing team that travels to a distant destination puts themselves in the position of committing to random weather conditions. As my friend David Stevenson recently reflected, in that situation on-site judgment often takes a backseat to the original plan. The climbers may have been quite mountain fit and technically skilled, but their choices suggest a lack of local mountain knowledge and a blind eye towards cruelly changing weather conditions and unstable snow. And, even if the risky ascent was somehow successful, a potential descent route back down the Colchuck Glacier would be similarly exposed to the same dangerous and potentially life-threatening conditions.

The likelihood of a slab avalanche that day was moderate to high. New relatively cohesive snow stacked over a less cohesive weak layer is a prime recipe for a break that sends one cohesive unit of snow down a slope with the velocity and mass of a freight train. If you are looking for an indiscriminate killer in the mountains, the slab avalanche is it. I read somewhere that the lead climber initiated the break with his ice axe. I can only imagine his horror as the slab broke loose.

As someone with experience climbing the snow-covered peaks of the Cascades, I know that a basic rule is to wait for the right conditions before attempting any route. In winter climbing, sometimes the right conditions never materialize in any given season. And to ignore that would be to court disaster. And, court disaster they did.

They were a team of six. That's another bad idea. The ideal rope team for a steep snow or ice couloir is two climbers. I have climbed both the sensational Black Ice Couloir on the Grand Teton and the steep Stuart Glacier Couloir, each time with one rope mate. It is a better way to make progress quickly, and speed is often a key asset in the mountains. I remember the Stuart Glacier Couloir because that route is physically quite similar to the one on Colchuck. While Colchuck Peak sits beside Dragontail at the head of Colchuck Lake, it is part of the greater Stuart Range and separated from Mount Stuart by only Sherpa and Argonaut peaks. They are nearby neighbors.

Fred Beckey lists Colchuck Peak's NE Couloir route as "a narrow 45% snow couloir (perhaps icy), Grade II Class 3.” By comparison, he describes the Stuart Glacier Couloir, “This extremely alpine route should only be done under ideal conditions. Crampons, hard hats, and at least four ice screws are recommended. Grade III Class 5” (From his Cascade Alpine Guide: Climbing and High Routes Columbia River to Stevens Pass.)

SummitPost.com lists the Stuart Glacier Couloir route under Major North Side Routes and describes it as “Grade III Class 5 + with snow and/or ice to 60 degrees. The route ascends the obvious main couloir above Stuart Glacier. Most of the route is 40 to 50 degrees. The crux is a very narrow section of the couloir about halfway up that frequently involves about 100 feet of water ice up to 60 degrees. The route tops out at or near the small notch on the West Ridge Route. The exit rocks are low class 5 on the normal finish and about 5.7 on the left side variation. There is additional low class 5 climbing on the West Ridge to the summit.”

Both couloir routes are very similar in terms of structure and challenges. But the big takeaway is that Fred Beckey cautions only attempting the Stuart Glacier Couloir under ideal conditions. And because of both their proximity and similarities, neither route should ever be attempted in anything less than ideal conditions.

Climbing.com reported on February 22, “Details about the exact nature and cause of the avalanche are still emerging, but we do know that on February 19, the Northwest Avalanche Center’s avalanche forecast for the Colchuck Peak area (part of their East Central region) was “moderate.” That day’s forecast did note, however, that there was significant wind-slab risk at higher elevations and the avalanche hazard would spike by that evening: from “moderate” through “considerable” to “high.” But because the climbers had been in the backcountry for multiple days and were not traveling with devices capable of connecting to satellite internet, they did not have access to updated snow conditions. None of the climbers, according to UPI, had any formal avalanche training, and none were carrying beacons.”

I suggest that the climbers did not need updated snow conditions from an internet source to evaluate their situation. Why? Because they were right there, next to the peak, seeing and physically experiencing the snow and weather. I submit that their situation came down to both a lack of knowledge and impetuousness. Either they didn’t understand the import of the unstable and worsening conditions and decided to attempt the route according to their original plan, or they did notice the deteriorating conditions and proceeded in spite of them. Probably the latter. A willful decision. Back in the day, I noted a condition that could have great sway on alpine decision-making. It was like a fever. I called it “Summititus.” Rational judgment would simply go out the window because the lure of the summit overpowered all conscious thought. It happened with people that I had climbed with. Somehow, in those situations, I seemed immune to the condition and lived to climb another day. The American Alpine Club will undoubtedly publish this NE Couloir story in their 2023 Accidents in North American Mountaineering. Then we’ll have more information and a thorough analysis of what went wrong.

Unfortunately, only the survivors will have a chance to learn something from it. Instead of betting the farm, it would have been a far better choice to acknowledge the increasingly dangerous conditions, decide their planned climb wasn’t going to happen on the mountain that Sunday, and simply return to Leavenworth for brats and beer at the München Haus Bavarian Grill and Beer Garden. That would have been way more fun and they would still have a great story to tell. But that didn’t happen.

So, I grind on the terrible news that makes me both angry and sad. I do my emotional handwringing because I know what it’s like to be up there and face the dire possibility of death either from one’s own errors or conditions beyond anyone’s control. Often both. That’s the nature of climbing accidents and we need to pay attention to them. All smart climbers study the accidents to learn what conditions to avoid and what not to do. Those lessons, though painful, are essential. Climbers have to be willing to accept that not every grand plan will result in a successful summit. Accepting the failure to summit is just another facet of the game and will often be the stance that keeps one alive. As with many things in life, you must know when it’s time to walk away.

These photos are from my climb of the Black Ice Couloir, as I have none from my Stuart Glacier Couloir ascent. That story appears in ‘Impressions of Ice,’ a chapter about several climbing adventures on snow and ice that appears in my mountain memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is available as an illustrated eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.