The Flames.

Foothills pine; historically, called digger, Sabine, bull, gray or grayleaf pine. It has widely been named digger pine due to its wide use by Native American tribes collectively and colloquially referred to as "diggers." However, that term has fallen into disgrace. As explained by Hunter (1991): "many Native Americans find the term digger offensive. A spokesman, who requests anonymity, for the California State Native American Heritage Commission says, "The word `digger' is very derogatory and insulting to California Indian people." A historical interpreter, who also requests anonymity, for the California State Indian Museum in Sacramento agrees: "To call a California Indian a `digger' means you are either ignorant or you are purposely trying to insult him. It is a very derisive word."

Happy Cowboy

Social climber
Boz MT

Apr 1, 2016 - 12:21pm PT
Aya, this cracks a can of very squirmy worms for me. Since seeing Alpinist awhile back I've written and wadded a 100 pages of thought on J. I'm the tall one Johnny's leaning into the morning I got flown out by legendary pilot Don Sheldon. Johnny, Dave and Dean had the chance to cram into his Cessna the previous afternoon, leaving me alone with the last of our gear and a fresh reminder of Johnny's madness. A big lump on the side of my skull where he had thrown a can of frozen Cambell's Tomato. Lucky I had my thick wool Touck on....and not my only memory of Johnny hurling something at me. And permit me to add that I was quite close to J at the time, talk about counter culture of the era. I was the youngest on that 73' Hunter South face/ridge trip at 19 yrs, and Dean's efforts had assembled a postcard expedition. I was from the backwash of Utah's Watach, stuck between Californicate and Cockarado in my mind. I picked Carmen up in Jackson at his brother's Pete, already a good friend of mine and godsend as far as I was concerned. A Harvard Mountaineer's influential presence in my playground, the Tetons. Dave hopped in my little green Datsun PU and we drove to Seattle for Johnny. We instantly hit it off as the 2 youngest, J a year older than I. We both wore glasses as awkward school kids not to mention the trouble it presented to aspiring alpinists, and both veterans of Denali. I was a bit rebel, proud of my rank earned during the Teton Cold War, Field Marshall of the ALA (Alpine Liberation Army, little known guerrilla movement ) the venerable Col. Reefer.
I think the first glimpse I got of J's madness was when at a shop Swallow where we were having some mitten covers sewn. A stately father figure happened in who J an I both knew, Warren Blesser(sp?). He asked about our intentions, wished the best, then after a moment looked his good friend J in the eyes and spit out "you need to call Niels (Andeson) now, before you leave" sternly spoken. That evening Johnny got my parents phone# in SLC so he could call collect to Niels in Canada. J was squirming during the call, he'd been "care taking" Niels BC apartment the previous 6 weeks. Niels had retuned to a throughly trashed place and no Johnny. J was solemn when he passed the phone to me to say hi to my friend Niels. He lamented the standard, jezyouluckyjerks, have a great time, make it home safe. The next pierced my amour (an aspiring Conquestadore of the Useless, not the first, but I could feel the pain, "I mean you, I' d be better off not seeing J again" then hung up.
Believe me this is the feeling of worms in my veins to this day....did we give up on Johnny or he on us (us, sadly is humanity in my mind). I believe Johnny had a habit of irresponsibly abusing his closest friends, my side swiped Datsun w' J behind the wheel, the only new vehicle I've ever owned (72' bought for $2099.00 off the lot) was my early taste, and if so inclined to even bring it up, he'd hurl a pot full of cocoa at you and precious down gear, stuck in a snow cave at 11'000'. He was volatile, but a great friend between outbursts. The real problems didn't hit home till you realized he was nearly as irresponsible in climbing w' partners as that with simple possessions. I remember J an I facing what would be the crux on Hunter's South face. My lead, beautifull yellow Alaskan granite, parallel 1-2" ice-filled cracks a few feet apart. I slowly worked my way up the nearest, often just getting 1 frontpoint of my black 1st generation Chouinard cramps in the iron hard ice. A couple aid moves and 25' up I pick out a hole then whale in an angle pin to it's hilt, and start a delicate traverse left to the next crack which my axe pick can barely reach. Left foot finds a nubbin to shift onto from from which I can now slam an arrow home. I clip then during the tricky foot swap, snap, a point promptly breaks off...crampon point dangling but connected by strap. Short whip now over to the 2nd crack. "Damn Johnny, cramps broke, you gotta take over". We swap and he completes the pitch with more of the same, in the building wind and spindrift, then stuffs himself in a corner he calls a belay. By now I'm frozen, anxious to move and equally agreeable to a little T when removing gear. Pretty hard for us then we thought 5.8-9 A2. I reach J, now used to feel of a dangling point, an look above at slightly easier ground leading to what looks to be the best ledge yet in the near 20 pitches up to this point (we fixed lines, it's own saga using 1/4" blue waterski rope. Johnny hands me the rack and I contemplate the next moves. Then my gut remembers, "hey, you got an anchor, right". "No, but I'm good", but which I was not. I look around not much and ask him to shift. Behind his butt a clean 1/4" crack that eats an arrow. As I later read in the Alpinist article (43 years later)a god, Henry B mentioned how he an J would climb past pro in the Gunks, impressive. My own mentor from Salt Lick City, GDL, had impressed in me, "pros pro, but anchors are about living", thanks George.
I'll post a pic of this pitch I speak of as soon as I scan from Kodak, also a boat load of memories from the upper corniced ridge.......I am the Happy Cowboy. Best