January 25, 2021: Dude Peak

Lost my hat on the up, found it on the down.

Pyramid Peak, January 29, 2021

Trail up the ridge from North Canyon.

OK, it’s really Cave Peak, but I’ve only known it as Pyramid. In the late 1970’s and early 1980’s, I skied that cliffy face a number of times, one time setting off a wet slide that I rode about 50 feet to the bottom.

Proof: Skiing in jeans on Pyramid Peak, early 1980’s. Note the presence of hair, and ski leashes (if you have to ask, you’re too young).

The Chute, steeper than it looks here, but good to get the heart pumping.

It's a suggestion not a rule. At least I haven’t been arrested, so far. The private property crossing is short, extending from the gate to where the ridge disappears in the upper right of the photo.

What happens if you get caught.

Dude Peak, February 8, 2021

My Dad’s 98th Birthday today. He’s been gone now for almost 17 years, but I still miss him and wish I could ask him the meaning of life.

Grant M. Reeder (left), Sidney Australia harbor in 1945, on the deck of the USS Blower, a submarine on which my Dad was the Electrician’s Mate or “Sparky” in Naval slang. My Dad’s Navy service while in Australia resulted in finding an Australian wife, my mother, and hence my Dad’s military service, and World War II, are strangely reasons for my existence.

The submariners in the South Pacific during World War II had a casualty rate of greater than 50%, their necks always on the chopping block, preserving with their lives the freedoms Americans take for granted today.

The depraved, ignorant, reprobate, assholes who stormed the U.S. Capital on January 6th were - and are - shitting on the face of real patriots like my Dad.

Dad, standing, middle.

Grant M. Reeder, February 8, 1923 - February 25, 2004.

He was healthy until almost the day he died. He climbed the Grand Teton with me at age 76, using his 30-year-old army surplus pack, wearing Levi’s and, for warmth, a $2-dollar windbreaker purchased at Penny’s. At the trail-head while loading up, a couple of young, smart-ass climbers with sparkling new gear were making fun of his ancient gear, then they started up the trail at a feverish rate. We started up about 20 minutes later. Two miles up the trail my Dad passed those smart-asses as they were bent over puking. They weren’t laughing now. My 76-year old Dad motored by, relaxed and fluid in his stride, at a moderate but sustainable pace. The idea of intelligent pacing was lost on those young, smart-ass climbers. Later, in his late 70’s, while serving an LDS mission with my Mom in Boliva, on a day off they took a bus up into the Andes to the highest ski area on earth, its base at 17,000 feet. It was summer so there was little snow even at 17,000 feet. My Dad could see the upper-terminal of the ski lift, another 1,000 vertical feet higher, so he set off hiking up the mountain, only so he could to stand on top of an 18,000 foot peak. Later that day he wrote me an email, a novelty to him, and told me something was wrong with his heart and lungs, “I couldn’t get enough air and I felt dizzy.” Me, “Dad, you’re 78 years old and you’re hiking to 18,000 feet.” My Dad was a smart man, he never stopped studying the mysteries of life, and, a physician, he knew the human body. Sometimes though, he was absolutely clueless!

Shortly after returning from their mission he forgot the way home from the local grocery, a drive he had done a million times over the 45 years they lived there. A short time later he was diagnosed with an aggressive, terminal brain tumor (Glioblastoma) which he chose not to treat, and he died three months later.

The day of his funeral there was an intense, cold blizzard and by the time we went to the cemetery for internment, there was 12-inches of fresh snow on the ground, and it was still snowing hard. He would have loved it. If he had lived he would have been hiking up the mountain above his home wearing that $2-dollar, Penny’s windbreaker. He left on his terms.