Sorry, Your Summit Didn’t Matter: Here is Why

Mt. Kennedy. (All rights reserved)

After you reached the top of Denali, you tugged at your left mitten with your teeth and let the fingerless glove dangle on its tether. Your hand, covered in a blue fleece glove unzipped your chest pocket and reached in for your camera. You snapped shots of the view, with the ever-changing camouflage pattern of gleaming white and gray cast over the West Buttress by shifting clouds. Finally, you put your arm around your two partners and snap a selfie.

When you tell your story with your family or your Mountaineering Section of the Appalachian Mountain Club, that photo of the three of you always comes out. To you, it was the culmination of so much time, money, and above all, heart. The photo shows the three of you, with grey sky on the left and bright sunshine on the right and in between your heads is snow and indication of a valley, or maybe that’s just dark from a cloud’s shadow. In fact, your other photos, of the North Summit and the West Buttress, and possibly the one of not-so-distant Begguya, were better proof of your arrival on the summit.

The honor system is widely applied worldwide. Climbers generally accept other climbers claims so long as the climber claiming their first ascent or summit is of good character. For infrequently visited summits, if the story is doubted, a summit record is occasionally disputed in the record. Usually only the larger mountains, that are more competitively climbed where climbers doubt and dispute summits.

My favorite example is the dispute of Frederick Cook’s claim that he made it to the top of Denali in 1906, then referred to as Mount McKinley. Cook visited the range, retreated, and suddenly turned around with one lesser partner and returned with news that he had climbed the highest peak in North America. He even had a photo as proof. His story was dubious to knowledgeable climbers, yet Cook published a book and was generally regarded as the first ascentionist among the general public. The doubt spread by climbers incensed at his injustice, and in 1910 Belmore Browne and Herschel Parker, who Cook made the initial retreat with, returned to the Alaska Range and replicated Cook’s photo-of-proof and debunked the climb altogether. Cook went on denying any hoax.

Summit photos are evidence, particularly with landmarks, even at a distance. Narratives are evidence, and the timing and conditions must be reasonable. Maps or even a GPS-tracked route, are very helpful. All of which could be fabricated, but the honor system still holds generally speaking. As Ronald Reagan once famously said, “Trust, but verify.”

Eberhard Jurgalski of 8000ers.com has records, some of which aren’t widely known, of disputes around the summits of Annapurna, Dhaulagiri I, and Manaslu. To be more precise, there are questions of whether the climbers reached the actual summit. And if the actual summit wasn’t reached, has a custom or norm been created where the area surrounding the summit is considered a successful climb?

Over the last year, in between more pressing life things, I have been talking to established climbing researchers and perusing Jurgalski’s website and have been fascinated by the system he and others have developed using peak photos. Through some painstaking work, they have collected quality views from and of the summit, and labeled all of the notable features with letters, A, B, C, and so forth. The photos submitted as evidence of a climb can then be compared to these points. For example, if the rock covered in snow forming a knob, feature E is always in line with peak D in the distance with a certain amount of visibility from the lower peak in front of it, from a southwest camera angle, then you can clearly see where on the climber stood on the summit.

Of course, with so many instances of climbers reaching the top but not actually arriving on the summit, Jurgalski and others have suggested in 2019, for a point of discussion, introducing summit Tolerance Zones. This is essential for the work on 8000ers.com where counting climbers, by name and date, who reached the summit. When it was assumed everyone was reaching the true tippy top, tallying summiters was simple. The photographic evidence has shown the treatment of summits as a, well, slippery slope.

I believe the summit is the summit. We should be reaching the top, even if there is only room for one person at a time. I’ve done that on much less significant peaks. However, I would hate to have my “expedition” scrutinized like this. I like the self-reporting of the Alpine Journals everywhere, but while the Elizabeth Hawley-like verification prevents more Frederick Cooks, I just want to climb, I don’t want to write a book about how I was first. Of course, too many are speaking to corporate circles and giving Ted Talks (supposedly) about their perseverance and vision through their summit of an 8000-meter peak. Fine, go climb and tell. I’m going to find some better peaks that are under the radar and enjoy it for what it is, a summit. And I know there are others, that will find more impressive lines to go up than a summit to verify. Thanks, I hope I’ll stumble on your story.

UPDATE (Nov. 30, 2020): A few days after I posted this essay, the American Alpine Club published an extensive piece by Damien Gildea, Antarctic alpinist and author, about the dilemma of climbers claiming summits they have not stood upon. He goes in depth into the discovery and the challenge it presents to archival accomplishments as well as what we do going forward.

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Was Reading Your First Climbing Book as Impactful?

Dusk Descent, inspired by cover of Alpinist 69. (All rights reserved)

If you were fortunate to read a mountaineering history or one of David Roberts biographical tales for your first book on climbing, your appetite for more would be difficult to sate.

I got into climbing when I was 12. I was principally interested in peak bagging but walls fascinated me. I bought a copy of Face Climbing by John Long. I manged to learn how to smear and edge, and more fundamentally, to stand on my legs and feet. I climbed in my Timberland boots back then, since I was, still aiming for treeless summits. Saving up for La Sportivas then seemed like too big of a challenge.

I don’t know the date, but I remember the evening vividly. I was in my parents home during my freshman year in college reading in my bed. It was late, and my parents were downstairs watching television. The story was from July 1965, with Harvard Mountaineering Club Members, David Roberts, Don Jensen, Matt Hale, and Ed Bernd on Mount Huntington in the Alaska Range. Roberts included one of four article-length versions of the story in an anthology titled Moments of Doubt and Other Mountaineering Writings of David Roberts (1986). On the descent from the summit, having established a significant new route and the second ascent, the team split up, Jensen and Hale to one camp and Roberts and Bernd to the other. Bernd vanishes in the dark and Roberts spends days alone waiting out a storm running through the vagueness of Bernd’s disappearance. I had never read anything so remarkable, for the story, and the rawness of the story. It seemed fictional, yet I believed that this extraordinary and horrible experience truly happened. I felt as alive as Roberts had in his tent on Mount Huntington.

I returned to the bookstore and found another book with Roberts byline, this time shared by a name I was not yet familiar with, Conrad Anker. Together they wrote alternating chapters of The Lost Explorer: Finding Mallory on Mount Everest (1999). I read it only months later and finished, according to a Post-It-Note inside, on January 8, 2000. I wrote, “This book is an enjoyable read because it mixes the romantic era of climbing in wool and silk with reality and the reality of climbing today and its culture and the history of mountaineering.” I should have edited that better before leaving that note in there.

Although I hadn’t learned the breadth of various climbing styles and disciplines, yet, I now saw the alpine style on Mount Huntington, the siege-style expeditions to Everest, and the modern commercial-style expeditions to the 8,000ers. I think it was that spring that I discovered Ed Viesturs on MountainZone.com, who lead me to read the influential Annapurna by Maurice Herzog. From there I just kept reading climbing books and started subscribing to climbing magazines.

Amrita Dhar, an English professor at the University of Ohio Newark, originally from Calcutta, India, calls mountaineering the most literary of all sports. I think that is true, even compared to the expansive writing about baseball I have read and know there is more to be consumed. Part of this, Dhar explains in the Alpinist Podcast on November 21, 2019, mountaineers often start their journey with literature, climb, and then write about it afterwards. In her vein, I would argue that mountaineering and climbing proper doesn’t include spectator stands, but involves the experience inside the climber as well as the physical route, which is best told as a narrative. Words are powerful, and they blossom in amazing ways from our inner climbing journeys.

Whether I may have fallen just as in love with climbing literature with another author or different books, I can’t say. Even our adventure off the mountain, can have its own unpredictable surprises. But after the last 20 years of reading climbing narratives, I would still be where I am now. Climbing narratives are powerful and best told in words.

Was the first climbing book you read as impactful on you? And what book was it and how did you find it? Send me an email (address found here) or leave me a comment on social media. I would love to know your story.

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Climbing is a Therapy Not an Antidote: A Review of All that Glitters

Margo Talbot, an ice climber, a leader for women’s climbing, and an advocate for mental health published her autobiography in 2011. It was self published because Talbot is stubborn and refused to quit when the publisher’s warehouse burned down. The 2020 publication of All that Glitters: A Climber’s Journey through Addiction and Depression by Rocky Mountain Books was made possible because of Talbot’s stalwart attitude in 2011 and reader response to date, including being a 2011 Banff Mountain Literature Finalist. RMB knew, like I have realized, more people need to read this book.

Talbot was born in Frederickton, New Brunswick in the 1960s to her disconnected parents. Her father was an un-involved father, which was typical of the era but compounded by being an orphan and claiming he doesn’t know how to raise children. Her mother was neglectful with her girls and showered attention on her boy. The girls, except Margo Talbot, all got pregnant early. Talbot left on a journey the was an Odyssey with characters and the 1980s and 1990s twist with alcohol and drugs.

One of my favorite lines came after she spent time as a sugar-baby to a wealthy, married, addict, drug dealer named Jay. She challenged him to tell his wife about her, which he does, and the situation explodes sending her back to Jasper, Alberta where they had originally met. She wrote, “Whenever I went to the post office or to do my banking, women would stop me and tell me how great I looked, how thin I was. I wanted to tell them that my secret was an eight-month diet of cocaine followed by betrayal and intense emotional upheaval.”

Talbot discovered climbing through one of her lovers and another addict. She continued to struggle, and things were dark, but she explains how the effort of climbing matched the intensity of her depression. While she climbed, she felt better. That’s not to say that there weren’t pressures from climbing that crept into her life; it did. When she started climbing in competitions, the stress often prompted bouts and periods of deep, darkness.

I like to believe that climbing is a cure or at least a therapy for many things, as climbing helps me deal with stress and centering myself. But Talbot’s story made it very clear to me that climbing is not an antidote to depression. Getting out of depression as deep as Talbot’s still requires exorcising demons, which is a hard, long process — possibly years long. Talbot does show that ice climbing is a helpful tool during the process of alleviating the pressures and triggers of depression, but does not necessarily mean the condition was healed.

While I think there is a valid case that this book is about climbing, I do not call this a climbing book, if that is what you are explicitly seeking. In fact, this is the second climber biography that was distinctly not about the climbs as well as the climber. (The other being Sixty Meters to Anywhere by Brendan Leonard in 2016 which had a greater focus on climbing than All that Glitters.) There is a trend these days of climbers and adventurers writing their book involving a mountaineering goal but using it as a Trojan horse to convey a message or illustrate a point about the fragility of the planet or mental health.

As a reader, I genuinely enjoy getting to know the climber as a whole, but I enjoy it most when the story is about human achievement in the mountains, and how they succeed or fail in life as a secondary theme. For instance, I am currently reading tennis champion Maria Sharapova’s autobiography and I want to know about her early life in Sochi, but if the book rarely addressed how it helped her compete against Serena Williams I would say she misunderstood her audience. For Talbot, however, I suspect that more people are drawn to her because of her nonprofit work and her Ted Talk on mental health. I am the rare climber-reader looking for more climbers’ stories.

Of course, Talbot is a climber and her love for climbing is woven through the book in subtle ways. She identifies as a climber, as the book’s subtitle points out, and the chapter titles are taken from names of ice climbing routes (my favorite being Polar Circus for obvious reasons.)

Talbot found ice climbing and mountaineering before she overcame depression, and yet, her climbing life blossomed after her battle.

It is a very quick read and a page turner but this book was not what I was expecting. There were far fewer climbing stories and anecdotes, proportionate to the pages, than I anticipated. Yet it reminds us, as an audience passionate about the mountains, that life is more than our interests. Talbot concludes that relationships are the most valuable things we have in life. The power of relationships over us can be precarious, with the potential to cause lasting damage if repressed, or empower us to thrive and climb to the heights.

I recommend that you read All that Glitters because I learned things I may not have been exposed to elsewhere and I needed to know, and Talbot does it all with a hopeful and sensitive tone. You will be a better climber and person for reading her book.

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Climbing Publications Merge but Will the Core Hold?

Rock & Ice Issue 102 from August/September 2000.

After a few days camping and being off the grid, I resurfaced to learn Rock & Ice Magazine will be “merged” into Climbing Magazine, while Gym Climber Magazine will remain a distinct product.

If you’re a subscriber less in the know than me, here is the background: On October 9th, Pocket Outdoor Media, which owns Climbing, announced that it acquired Big Stone Publishing, which owned Rock & Ice and Gym Climber. Pocket Outdoor Media’s CEO Robin Thurston said, “By merging Rock & Ice into Climbing, we’ll be better positioned to deliver exceptional content and cover all of the sport’s disciplines—trad, sport, gym, and alpine climbing—in ways not possible before.”

Publishing companies have been simplifying through acquisitions and mergers and paying less for content (meaning paying writers less and less) for years. It’s not a new trend, which is why combining Rock & Ice and Climbing into one publication does not surprise me. After all, several climbing publications have come and gone over the years and Urban Climber is my favorite example for my generation’s lost magazines. The space for the nontraditional climbing magazine has since been filled, in a way, by Gym Climber. I still haven’t read Gym Climber beyond it’s website, but it does effectively speak to the namesake audience without bothering with helmet and ice axe reviews, when the latest comp format and training protocol is spot-on relevant.

The two merging magazines could be confused by some readers. They both covered rock climbing, in all of its forms, ice and alpine, bouldering, and even indoor climbing. However, on the newsstand Climbing is mere dollars while Rock & Ice was twice that. Why? Because Climbing publishes 10 issues annually and shares news, profiles, skills, and hacks. They also share an advocacy update from the Access Fund regularly, which as a monthly donor, I enjoy reading. Rock & Ice had more features, investigative stories, and tales for the more seasoned climber. Also, Rock & Ice was printed on heavier grade paper and glossier, if that’s a suitable description; I don’t mean to be negative on that facet if it sounded that way. Climbing is the magazine I read to catch up on the latest, and Rock & Ice was the publication I bought to be immersed. What the new Climbing will look like, as well as its price-point no one I have asked knows.

Climbing, you readers and subscribers know, was changing a bit earlier this year. They moved to a digital subscription model for premium content and training programs. (By the way, the training programs are effective.) This will likely be how Rock & Ice content — features, long form, and photography — will be made available.

Also, you may recall that the publishers and editors of Rock & Ice adopted the annual long-form publication Ascent, which predates the existence of Rock & Ice. I like to think it will endure the consolidations. Is it valuable enough to Pocket Outdoor Media to put limited staff bandwidth and marketing, among so many brands, for climbers’ benefit?

Climbers, however, all like climbing their way. And there are different flavors, greater than just sport, trad, alpine, and so forth. Some of us are more athletically focused, and others emphasize the natural and even the metaphysical benefits. Merging a publication, in theory, is fine. But what gets emphasized comes at a cost. I think there is room for many different climbing magazines because climbers have a variety of things they prefer and seek them out. The best thing is to tell Climbing and Rock & Ice what you like about them; they need your guidance now so the new Climbing can meet our expectations.

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The War Between Climbing and Golf

Baffin Island Sledge. (All rights reserved)

During my 15 years in Washington, DC I would measure my recreation by being a climbing year or a golf year. If I climbed more days than I golfed, it was a climbing year. I haven’t been back to my climbing gym since March 11th, due to the pandemic, and since working lunches have been replaced by nine holes of golf with some colleagues and partners, I am already calling this a golf year.

In DC, I only had two solid climbing years, actually, and that was all thanks to Sportrock Alexandria near my home. Of course, if I count all summits on a family hike, then every year might be a climbing year. But I am mainly referring to roping up on technical terrain and bouldering.

Why did I measure my years as climbing or golf years anyway? Because you, or most of you, have a distaste for golf. Golf’s stuffiness and elitist ways are everything golf is not, and climbing is humbler, more in tune with nature, a greater physical challenge that leads to great enlightenment, right? This has been a silent war, especially for climbers that actually enjoy golf. And, as a golfer, they enjoy it for things you enjoy too.

Golf has a bad reputation among most climbers. To climbers, golf is for rich people without enough responsibility, traveling around the world with expensive hardware and fancy clothes, chasing a white ball along manicured landscapes. And they think golfers are snobs.

Of course, the two generally don’t get along. To golfers, climbing is for grungy people without enough responsibility, traveling around the world with expensive hardware, and fancy clothes, going up mountains the hard way unnecessarily in dangerous landscapes. And they think climbers are crude.

Although, culturally, golfing and climbing are distinct, there are some uncanny similarities when you look at what a climber and a golfer wants that is serious about pursuing it. Both require an investment in expensive, technical gear. Improving at both often becomes an obsession. Both are intrinsically connected to the natural environment, and is a common attraction for climbers and golfers.

Wait, is golf natural? Hitting a ball with a stick is ages old and seems like intrinsic child’s play. But what about the course, doesn’t it use valuable resources excessively? It depends on the value you give it. Golf alone, maybe not. There is new research demonstrating the value of public and private land used for golf for the surrounding community, being lead by the Brian Horgon, PhD of the University of Minnesota. The national golf association is working with him and course owners and public mangers to expand the perspective of the current land use and enhance its value. These plots of of land are green spaces (best when tree lined,) rain gardens and recharge ground water, support darker night skies from light pollution, and, if arranged properly, can support foraging for pollinators. Like a nonprofit, there is a double bottom line here.

For that matter, is climbing natural? I don’t mean the act of climbing, as it is also very much intrinsic child’s play at least in some format, such as climbing a tree. But what about our impact on the crag, base, and route? Some of us are better than others at leaving no trace. But the impact of pitons, cams, and bolts are a little subjective. In fact, there is a new study on climber’s negative impact on some ferns and mosses. Elevated build-up of climbing chalk can be significant even if it’s not visible to our eye. I think we will all be better, as a starting point, if we all sign and follow the Climber’s Pact; I have.

There is, of course, no need for a peace accord or even a detente. There haven’t been any attacks either way, so far as I am aware. But golf, below the tour professionals, and the exclusive American country clubs, golf is a game played among friends and strangers made into playing partners with a common bond and purpose, trying to do the silliest thing with a bunch of sticks and a little plastic ball.

My gear is humble, old, and often acquired on a discount. My golf balls were purchased on a Black Friday special 10 years ago, so when I lose one in the pond, it doesn’t hurt so bad. I play inexpensive courses, or on someone else’s charity. I play as often as possible and enjoy it whenever I do. Yeah, golf has it’s humbler qualities too.

I met a couple of avid climbers that take golf seriously, or at least as seriously as I do. As seriously as I do means they care about how they play and practice, though they don’t play as often as folks with a golf club membership. Interestingly, they all look at climbing as a thread of a saga in their lives. They work to improve, progress, or just see what new challenge or destination their journey might take them to. I’ve got a tee time for work tomorrow, but I am looking forward to visiting Mount Gretna again too.

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David Smart on the Remarkable Rock Climbs of Emilio Comici

Emilio Comici: Angel of the Dolomites by David Smart and published by Rocky Mountain Books in 2020.

I wish I would be permitted to simply say that fall is upon us. Normally thats when my outdoor playtime dwindles, I drink more coffee and beer, and enjoy longer evening reading sessions. Yet, there is a cloud of circumstances that make things so unsettled, doesn’t it? Perhaps all the more reason to read fiction and biographies. And I have a biography for you that was, quite seriously, more engrossing and enjoyable than I expected.

As an American, I still have this myth in my head that Americans created rock climbing in Yosemite. Now that I have been tinkering with climbing and it’s books for nearly 30 years, I know that this is not true, but there are still subtle undertones in stories of legends that indicate that to be so. Last weekend I finished David Smart’s latest book, a finalist at the 2020 Banff Mountain Film & Book Competition, Emilio Comici: Angel of the Dolomites from Rocky Mountain Books (2020), which includes the first desert rock climb, years before Shiprock’s ascent, and free soloing big walls. No, it didn’t start in Yosemite.

The book is a climber’s biography, not the story of one gallant ascent, which means it’s about facing one challenge at a time while rebelling or going with the times. For Emilio Comici, that means overcoming his urban impoverished life through spelunking initially and later rock climbing, to the societal trappings of Italian fascism in the 1920s and 1930s. Emilio Comici handled life the way you and I do, which is he made it up as he went along, learning and making adjustments, and hoping for a big break.

In 1920s Europe, rock climbing had been established separately from mountain climbing. The rock climbers were living in the legacy of Paul Preuss, the greatest rock climber and free soloist of the day. Preuss climbed by strict edicts: Climb only what you can climb down and the use of climbing aids invalidates a climb, except under special circumstances. His legacy were climbers opposed to the use of pitons and other aids. Preuss was gone before Comici ever started climbing, having fallen to his death while climbing. Smart wrote what amounts, in the context of Emilio Comici: Angel of the Dolomites, a prequel in Paul Preuss: Lord of the Abyss (2019), which I reviewed last year. However, because of the Great War, and the environmental abuse from the war in the Dolomites, leaving pitons in the rock seemed negligible and petty. In fact, the rock climbers of Eastern Europe adopted piton use much earlier than Western Europe, and Comici was the person who demonstrated what was possible.

David Smart discovered some of the origins of Comici’s chosen routes. He started spelunking, and after a daring rescue, he started climbing rock walls. He applied his spelunking skills with ropes and aids to the mountains. On the mountain walls, not just any line would do, it had to be a direct line from the base to the summit, or as he described it, as following the water drop from the top. Comici claimed that an English climber first used the water drop description, though he did not know any Englishmen or Englishwomen, and the reference hasn’t been found anywhere else.

Before reading this book, I was less familiar with the Eastern Alps and the Dolomites, and I appreciate Smart for not talking down to me; I enjoyed looking up maps and images of the routes. And I have to hand it to Rocky Mountain Books for knowing their audience so as including a map with the collection of unique, relevant photos, was not critical for the book’s success. The book documents Comici’s progression on rock from the North Faces of Sorella di Messo, Dito di Dio, the West Face of Croda dei Toni, the Northwest Face of Civetta, and the peaks of Tre Cime di Lavaredo, which was Comici’s nemesis. Cima Grande, it’s central summit, now stands symbolic of Comici’s vision, boldness, and his lifelong journey with rock.

Emilio Comici’s Cima Grande. (All Rights Reserved)

Cima Grande was the biggest wall yet climbed. And it was all about the rock wall, rather than the mountaineering ascent with a single piolet per climber. Comici made the top of the overhanging wall as he had learned on the previous climbs with pitons. It was criticized by the older climbers, and ignored as an ascent altogether by others. Yet, it was merely another milestone in Comici’s progression. He would return to climb it’s neighboring peaks, and one day, free solo his water-drop line in the style of Paul Preuss.

David Smart’s research provides a depth of context for what made Comici’s life challenges in many ways just like our own and in others very different. Comici grew up in Trieste and worked in the shipyards. His climbing trips were limited to reaching Val Rosandra, a few hours away on his motorcycle. He wanted to climb more and the only way he felt he could was to move to the mountains and guide. After his elders tried dissuading him, Comici moved to the Dolomites, though he contrasted with the guides with steady work. The local guides were local farmers, rigidly Catholic, and were more than a good rock or mountain climb, they were an authentic piece of the Dolomites. Despite Comici’s accomplishments on rock, his local in-authenticity, and his reputation for daring climbs, prompted Dolomite visitors to ask for his autograph rather than his services.

Comici was also smitten by the stereotypical roles of a fascist hero, popular of the day. Such heroes were awarded and paraded for their rescues, accomplishments, bravado, and immature wanderings such as Comici’s forays from Trieste to Val Rosandra. Of course, Comici had some challenges to overcome; he still received funds from his mother and lived at her home in Trieste when injured or retreated, and as one romantic partner complained, he wouldn’t be an adult with this climbing. As Smart’s research points out, Comici did grow in his self image and his affection for Mussolini’s fascism was all an attempt to fit in and be recognized as a masculine hero. Comici had Jewish and ethnic friends, and Smart presents evidence that he did not believe the fascist racist statements would ever be taken seriously or that a concentration camp would be in his home town. Among other changes, Smart points out, after Comici saw Mussolini speak in person for himself, he may have been disappointed and even disturbed because he never mentioned the Duce in his journal again.

One of the traits of a fascist hero Mussolini projected was the awarded man that could be paraded as an example for all particularly children to aspire. Comici wanted this validation of his being for most of his life. Yet, Comici was passed over at various opportunities through his life, including a rescue while spelunking and his proud first ascents, by anyone not just an Italian, of Cima Grande. It wasn’t until after his early death from a fall during a climb done in haste, that he was awarded a title posthumously, and for a lesser climb. Still, as Smart points out, Comici clearly understood that Preuss’ achievements survived his death. Comici’s accomplishments survive his own.

Having read extensively about Cesare Maestri’s Compressor route on Cerro Torre in Patagonia, where Maestri irresponsibly bolted a line up Cerro Torre with a compressor drill, David Smart surprised me with a reason Comici’s climbs were brought up after Maestri’s infamous route-making. Smart explained that some critics looked for precedent and connected Maestri to Comici. Smart draws a clear distinction why this isn’t fair, but you’ll have to read the book to learn why. As well as the earliest form of dirt baggers I’ve found (they were German,) and how Comici was haunted and saved by spirits on his climbs. I highly encourage you to read Emilio Comici to see what climbing was before you even thought there was real rock climbing in the world, because there was and it was serious, committing, and intense. I loved it. I know you will too.

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