From Rock and Ice Magazine

“Need a ride?”. He said “No” …and climbed in. He’d been standing in the snow by the roadside peering out with an expression not unlike a dog that had it’s food bowl moved. Yosemite Valley, 1976, the aroma of wine rendered introductions unnecessary. And besides, I had seen him earlier that night at the Mountain Room and knew who he was. The Mountain Room then was still a bar, small, dark, smoky and filled with small groups of noisy people. There was sort of a partitioning of the room, not so much along the lines of clique or class but more natural, like what hydrologists call “Like aggregation” , the tendency of particles of similar densities to settle in similar locations. The counter seemed reserved for company workers who would usually be shouting at the boxing match (the one on the TV). The climbers could be found at the fringe tables waving their arms in demonstration of their latest hair raising moves. Then as now the hardest moves were done at the bar. In the center were the jack-naturalists, (jack-naturalist: a naturalist who smokes, doesn’t drink carrot juice and used to know the names of more than three birds but made a point of forgetting them.) The park visitors could be found near the door, possibly because they were last to arrive, possibly because the air there was a little less mixed, but just as likely because it afforded the quickest exit. He could often be seen off in a corner, sometimes alone but mostly with others, his demonic visage, underlit by the candle on the table, roiling up like a luminescent ball of swamp gas to hover eerily above the proceedings. We drove on in silence. As we arrived at Curry Village he indicated that he actually was trying to get to Camp Four (of course). So we turned around. He mumbled “The Highway’s not for sissies – if you don’t drink- don’t drive!” Having been found out, I mumbled in agreement. We were going very slow but even so, it took only a couple of minutes to get back over to Camp Four. I pulled over to the side and as he began to get out he paused just at the point at which someone might say “Hey, Thanks for the ride” and as if slipping out of character but looking straight ahead, said with perfect clarity “Don’t behave yourself”. He then stumbled out and into the campsite. I watched on in fascination as he careened off several tents, and performed a strange circumnavigation of another before fumbling with the zipper and finally flopping into one.
Warren Harding, the great defier, has died. Maybe just in time as we now enter the age of timidity, correctness and authority. The age wherein those who used to sport bumper stickers saying “Question Authority”, having worked their way into “The System” now don’t think that’s such a great idea anymore. The proposition, always couched in the rhetoric of “the collective good” goes something like this: Everything you do can be rationalized as in some way affecting me, therefore I, We, the “society” has a say in everything you do. In effect everyone’s life becomes, at some level, public business and subject to public approval. Warren (This bolt’s for you) Harding, the great non-joiner, has died. And so the list of things for which you need permission, (as in permit) grows by the day – and it will NEVER retract. With each addition, individual liberty is reduced by exactly the same amount……slowly……..incrementally……… unnoticed. Warren (they can’t enforce it!) Harding has died. As individual liberties compress between the hammer of the Left and the anvil of the Right, climbing is not exempt. The day fast approaches when “the collective good” will require that you receive permission to climb. And of course permission will be contingent on your complying with the various rules designed to “help you, society and the environment”.
Warren (Go away, I didn’t ask for a rescue) Harding, has died. It is a certainty that, at some time in the future, in order to climb, you will be required to; obtain a certification from the government or some group who in concert with the government, make their money selling “certifications”, wear an approved helmet, use only approved equipment, climb only on approved routes and at approved times, climb in an approved style (and never solo!), sign in, sign out, carry approved insurance, carry an approved radio etc etc. There are large numbers of people who have no problem with this. They see no harm in the coils of the snake tightening as long as it happens very slowly, so as not to raise alarm. Warren (I need a permit to walk around in the forest?…!) Harding, indeed, has died.
And so there was this guy, Warren Harding, who lived in the second half of the twentieth century and who began climbing rocks in a time when climbing was an outcast activity instead of an organized “sport” …and all it implies. He was often accused of climbing in “bad style”. But he could tell style from fashion and I think he climbed in the best style ..his own. He was an actual independent before the time when independence became reduced to a kabuki fashion statement, practiced by the compliant, and known, for marketing purposes, as “Attitude”. Warren (drive too fast, drink too much) Harding, the great surmounter, careens off tents elsewhere now. In his wake we are left with the rusty bolts that connect the cracks that form the lines that start here and go all the way up to there where the wind always blows. Beneath the wind the routes mumble, but with perfect clarity, his simple question; “Folks, do you really want to be that well behaved?”.
The snow was blowing in and so I reached across, shut the door, and drove on, not appreciating until years later, the import of his parting injunctive. But I have always wondered just who the unsuspecting sleeper was, whose tent he flopped into that night.

Rob Kaspar
Yosemite, California