Honed. Rich Slater
outside world as a result of the Great Trigonometric Survey of India in 1856, an ambitious plan to accurately map all British possessions on the Indian subcontinent. From a vantage point 140 miles away, Captain T.G. Montgomery spotted a group of high peaks which he measured and logged in his survey book as K1, K2, K3, and so forth, for Karakoram Range.The other peaks were originally named K1, K3, K4 and K5, but, intent upon using native names, were eventually renamed Masherbrum, Broad Peak, Gasherbrum II andGasherbrum I, respectively. While the superintendant of the survey, Sir George Everest, had the world’s highest peak named after him, no consensus was reached for the second highest and, consequently, no official name was ever approved so it simply retained its designation as K2.
It was not until 31 years later that the great mountain fully revealed itself, at least to Westerners, when Colonel Francis Younghusband crossed the Old Mustagh Pass and the towering pyramid came completely into view.
“It seemed to emerge like a perfect cone, incredibly high,” the Colonel wrote. “I was astounded.”
In many ways, Robbie and I were like any other brothers our age. Whenever one of us tried something new, the other always wanted to follow. Our brother Paul was one year behind us and Tommy, the youngest, two years behind Paul. Inevitably, we ended up trying just about everything. For the usual stuff like football, baseball and basketball, we formed into teams. I was usually with Tommy, because I was oldest and he was youngest. It wasn’t enough just to play-we always had to organize it into some kind of tournament, Super Bowl or World Series. We played to win, mostly for short-term bragging rights, but the victory celebrations were never enough to create grudges or prevent a rematch. We also ended up pushing each other into far less traditional-and dangerous- endeavors such as bike jumping ala Evel Knievel and, later, cliff jumping. Sibling rivalry and competition among the Slater boys always led to the envelope being pushed. In many ways this competition was stronger than peer pressure. It meant more to outdo or impress a brother than it did an outsider. It was usually harder, too. This was especially true for Robbie and me.
Like all brothers, we occasionally fought. Sometimes the combat was with fists, but mostly just bickering words. One time when we were preschool age, Robbie and I got into a fight in our backyard sandbox over possession of an old army shovel, the kind used by soldiers to dig fox holes. As we wrestled for the shovel, I accidently smacked my twin brother in the head with it, which required a couple of stitches to close. For years afterwards, when we got into it, I would joke: “I’ll kick your ass just like I did in the sandbox.” Robbie would always reply, “Yeah, but you had to use a shovel, you pussy.” But that day in the Tetons, unspoken, we were together. That day there was no conflict.
We had been to the Tetons before. We were a “normal” family in many respects, but we were also lucky in the sense we not only had each other but parents, Dad in particular, who always made time to do things with his boys. Dad had a medical meeting at the Jackson Lake Lodge each summer and he brought the family. Full family participation in everything eventually gave way to each of us pursuing a more narrow range of activities, but throughout our childhoods there were some things we all liked and continued to do together such as camping, skiing and hiking.
There were many hikes and our own versions of mountaineering expeditions. This summer, Dad had stopped by the famous Teton Climbers’ Ranch, home of the Exum climbing school, located at the base of the Grand Teton. Informed the minimum age for participation was 16, Dad simply asked if he could bring his sons anyway. Asked, almost rhetorically, who would be responsible for the boys, Dad replied, “I will, of course.” With that, Robbie, Paul and I were allowed to enroll. For Paul and me it was something definitely cool. After all, not many kids got to climb with ropes and real climbing equipment-in the Tetons, no less. Dad hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it; he just thought it would be fun. Dad never dreamed it would lead to a lifelong obsession for one of his sons. From the start, however, it was something more than fun with Robbie.
That morning, there was a slight yet recognizable bite in the air. Looking back, it was a subtle reminder of who is in control any time you go to the mountains. Racing across the Jenny Lake boat dock and beating his brothers to the best seat on the 25-foot launch made Robbie smirk with satisfaction. Being able to attend the famous climbing school, though technically four years too young to enroll, was a kind of unspoken recognition of his yet unproven abilities. But more than anything, I somehow knew the awesome grandeur of where we were made Robbie feel so incredibly alive and, for some reason, indestructible.
After a couple of multiple-pitch climbs, it was time for lunch. The baloney and lettuce sandwiches slathered in mayonnaise fell far short of our expectations. Robbie examined his with a look of incredulous disappointment but said nothing. We agreed something as cool as climbing warranted decent food to go with it.
Following lunch, the focus of the class shifted. “Making the top is one thing, but getting off and making it home is what ultimately counts,” began the instructor. There was a previously absent edge to his voice. It was kind of like the change that occurred in Dad’s voice when he talked to us about something important – like “values,” as he called them. Of course coming back down is important, but it also seemed to be the fun and easy part. I noticed Robbie’s eyes immediately focus up the canyon to where we would make the big free rappel. But the edge in the instructor’s voice made us both look at Dad, whose slightly squinted eyes and pursed lips demonstrated he knew the importance of these words – and that he wanted to make sure we did too. They would become prophetic.
The afternoon agenda consisted of rappelling, which, in its finest form, allows a climber to literally fly down the face of the rock. Robbie wanted to go straight to the 60-foot free rappel over a large overhang that he’d watched all morning. I’d noticed as he sat on the belay ledges, watching intently as the “advanced” class members, one by one, inched to the edge of the precipe, most with great trepidation, hesitant to lean back and launch themselves into space. Disappointingly, we were led to the top of a rather gentle friction pitch just slightly steeper than something we would feel comfortable down climbing unprotected. It certainly wasn’t steep enough to bounce off of the rock in long smooth arcs like we’d seen on television. No harnesses were used – just the rope snaked between the legs, across the chest, over the right shoulder and down to the left hand, which controlled movement down the rock. Given the rope’s serpentine path around the body, it was impossible to descend with any speed, much less bounce off the wall and catch some air. But it’s a safe and efficient way to descend a tricky section – and a valuable tool when trying to get off a mountain during a late afternoon storm so common in the high country.
Our group gathered on the ledge above the wall. Rigged up, one by one we backed to the edge. “Just lean back, nice and easy,” the instructor encouraged, “let the rope slide - let friction do the work.”
This was easier said than done as the natural inclination was to keep a death grip on the rope. Nevertheless, it didn’t take Robbie long to make it look easy. For all the other students, it was a question of facing and overcoming fear. For Robbie and me, the question was more like “who’s going to go for it more?” We obviously felt no need to gingerly approach the edge. Height and exposure caused no concern. We both loved it.
Several summers earlier, when Robbie and I were about eight, we went to West Virginia to visit Grandma and Grandpa Slater. Dad took us to a place called Oglebay Park that had a huge pool with three diving boards. The first two were similar to many we had seen before. The “low board,” as we called it, was a standard one-meter board, about three feet above the pool deck. The “high board” was a three-meter board, or about ten feet tall. Towering above was a third board, at least twice the height of the three-meter. The diving board itself was sawed off a couple of feet past the hand railing. It was obviously cut short to keep people from bouncing-which apparently was considered too dangerous from that height. People were jumping off- all older guys. We asked Dad if we could jump off and he said “sure.” We went right up-neither one of us was ever afraid of heights. Afterwards, Robbie and I agreed it would have been cool if the whole board was there and we could have bounced even higher.
After our climbing day in the Tetons, Paul and I proudly recounted the accomplishments of the day over pizza, but Robbie