Honed. Rich Slater
of BD’s 44 that came a few months later. In so doing, Rob and RSL raised the bar for hard-core climber-adventurers everywhere. After Rob earned his BASE number, many of his BASE jumping cohorts, who were also climbers and had thought the numbers were silly, suddenly decided they wanted theirs as well.
Rob wasn’t quite ready to retire from BASE jumping, though, and his leap off the City Center crane wouldn’t be the only time an unidentified maniac would be spotted flying off a skyscraper in the heart of the Mile High City. On a crisp winter weekday, he climbed the stairs of a still-under-construction One United Bank Building, another Denver 700-footer with a distinctive “cash register” top, with fellow BASE jumper and movie stuntman Brian Veatch. Ironically, unbeknownst to Rob, he would work in that same building years later.
The two jumpers arrived at the 50th floor, dressed in work clothes and hard hats to avoid arousing suspicion among the numerous construction crews at the site. Reaching their launch point without detection, they geared up on the building’s southeast corner. Rob would jump from a window on the south side and Brian from an adjacent window on the east side. Far below on a bus stop bench, Black Death Heid waited with his camera.
As they climbed into their respective windows, the outside-the-building construction elevator stopped and opened on their floor. When the workers stepped out and saw them poised to jump, one of them blurted out: “Don’t jump! It’s not worth it!”
Brian laughed and said, “It’s okay; we have parachutes!”
Rob grinned his trademark grin and gestured for the workers to join them. “You can watch if you want to!”
Rob and Brian then turned to the business at hand, counted “Three… two… one… see ya!” and out the windows they went.
The jumps were perfect. Both landed without mishap in an adjacent parking lot and, barely a minute after launch, Rob and Brian were whisked away into traffic. The event barely caused a ripple in the ebb and flow of the city’s normal business.
BD’s photo of the jump appeared soon after in a back cover advertisement in Skydiving Magazine, world’s most important parachuting journal. In the photo of Brian and Rob under open parachutes, in the windows from which they jumped several hard hats can be seen.
Eventually Rob did retire from BASE jumping, after a career which defied convention, law enforcement and death. To show for it, his name appears in the annals of the sport, he got some great pictures and was even mentioned on TV, albeit as “an unidentified maniac.” Vivid memories remained of the purest experiences of exhilaration and freedom. For years afterward, Rob kept a packed parachute at the foot of his bed, just in case the urge struck.
“That’s what it all boils down to; committing suicide and living through it,” Rob concluded. But what did he really mean by that and why would he say such a thing? Was it just another of his colorful, outrageous statements or did he really feel that way? Did Rob have a death wish or was there something more? Do I have one too? Why did Rob need so much to continually return to that special state and place? To figure out the answers to these questions and the reasoning behind them requires us to go back to the beginning…
Into the Royal Gorge
BD Heid on the Royal Gorge Bridge
On the City Center crane
Chapter II
Robbie on casual belay
“Only those are fit to live who do not fear to die; and none are fit to die who have shrunk from the joy of life and the duty of life. Both life and death are parts of the same Great Adventure.” -Theodore Roosevelt
No one is sure who first “discovered” K2, for no written history is kept by the Balti herdsmen who inhabit the Karakoram Range between China and Pakistan. They rely on memory and lore to pass knowledge along to succeeding generations and live today as they always have, in a world detached by time and space from the creature comforts of modern civilization. In fact, debate remains surrounding the issue of what, if any, native name exists for the peak now known as K2. My twin brother always subscribed to the school of thought accepting Chogori, meaning “Great Mountain,” though to him it was his Dream Mountain.
It was the first week in August, 1973. Robbie and I were 12. We stood at the base of the cliff, ready to begin our first climb. A series of cracks, broken into pitches by intermittent ledges, ran up the wall of Cascade Canyon flanking the Grand Teton in Jackson, Wyoming, where they met the sky. As Robbie surveyed the route above, his eyes tightened. I could see the picture he had of himself on the rope, high on the wall, higher than we had ever climbed with the clothesline on the rock formations of Vedauwoo outside our Cheyenne home. I had the picture too.
It was clear from the start that some of our fellow students of the Exum climbing school would never come to grips with the height and exposure of clinging to these massive cliffs. They were just tourists and rightfully scared, but Robbie and I were not, for even at our young age, mountain cliffs and rock faces were not new to us. During our many weekends clambering about the Vedauwoo rocks, we had climbed everything we could, in our cowboy boots and often with the aid of a clothesline. We had sat on many ledges peering into space and looked down from the edge of many precipices. We both loved heights. For us, this was a natural progression-the next step.
The instructor led the way, placing a series of small aluminum blocks called “chocks” into the crack. The chocks were attached to a loop of nylon strap onto which a carabiner, an aluminum device which resembled a large safety pin, was clipped. The rope ran easily through the “biners,” and if he slipped, the rope would be held taut from below, causing the top chock to catch his fall. This was called protection, or “pro.”
At top of the first pitch the instructor anchored himself and set up the belay. The belayer reels in the rope as his climbing partner ascends. If the climber below falls, the rope, which is pulled up around the belayer’s back, is immediately drawn across the belayer’s waist. Friction prevents the rope from paying out and holds the climber below. There was clearly a special responsibility and mutual trust inherent in the relationship between a climber and his belay. If they’re not like brothers they’re at least a team.
Robbie’s turn came and he started up. He was finally on the rope doing some real climbing. As the instructor offered praise and encouragement, I knew Robbie was just humoring him. It was way too easy. Robbie quickly worked his way up, pausing to remove the chocks and clip the ‘biners to the rope around his waist. He moved like a cat, surefooted and in perfect balance on the rock. I followed, also finding it pretty easy, disappointed I didn’t get to remove the pro and clip it to my waist. As we sat on the belay ledge waiting for the others, I saw Robbie’s eyes dilate staring up at the magnificence of the Grand Teton range, above the massive cliffs to the far-off summits in the sky. A wide, determined grin spread across his face, giving a glimpse of a razor-sharp focus which belied his tender age and which I had never before seen.
The blueness above the peaks boiled, almost imperceptively, like an immense, infinite cauldron forming an overarching canopy above us. I could see his nostrils flare and mouth quiver slightly in an unconscious attempt to smell and taste the icy winds blasting across the highest ridges and hear their distant roar. I sensed in his grin a feeling of total isolation and complete security. I also sensed his recognition of a subtle yet pervasive force. I felt it too. It was the spirit of the wild places. It was a powerful combination of inspiration and reverence. We were in the midst of the mountain gods. It caused a change to come over us both, but it would play itself out differently for each of us in the years to come. Momentarily, our eyes met. Nothing was said,