Alpine Ethos #7: The Heroic Quotient
- Phil Wortmann
- 1 day ago
- 14 min read
Updated: 5 minutes ago
e·thos- noun. the characteristic spirit of a culture, era, or community as manifested in its beliefs and aspirations.
When the world blurs
At nineteen years old, Bryan Becker sat alone on a small ledge halfway up Colorado’s biggest wall with one rope and a rack of passive pro, but with no clear plan for the headwall above. Thin, fractured crack systems presented several options, but none looked any more promising than the next. Years earlier, the great Layton Kor had been at this spot and looked up at the tumultuous roofs and turned around. Bryan chose one that felt right and proceeded without hesitation. After another two days of climbing, he became the first and only person to top the Painted Wall solo. That was 1978, before cams revolutionized the game. Half a dozen years later, he would find himself on the storied south face of Denali, nervously rubbing blood into his frozen toes while storms raged and his partner unraveled. Seven days of food stretched over seventeen days. They grew lean, but each day Bryan tightened his boots and led out into the gargantuan terrain with a rack of pins. In his “retirement” years, Bryan’s good friend would be killed in an avalanche on Pikes Peak, and as rescue crews awaited good weather to make a retrieval, Bryan hiked ten miles through the stormy night and spent a cold morning with his friend before pulling him down the mountain.
Your heroes are much like you. They get frustrated in traffic and order unneeded gadgets online. On any given day, they might spend too much time on their phone and maybe have an extra drink when they shouldn’t. We all do that. But what makes a hero, a hero? What makes them different?
The contrast is revealed under stress. “Heroes” excel where others crumble. They tie into the sharp end, while most begin stacking excuses and planning out the rappels.
Twenty years ago, I read an article that hit me hard. Hard enough that I still think about it from time to time. It was about a young infantryman serving in Iraq. He was a goth kid, only 19 or 20. First deployment. He was the quiet type, and they said he wasn’t much of a student and seemed to join the Army more out of boredom than patriotism. But he made friendships out in that desert that were deeper than any he’d known before. Bonding in the heat of combat. It was his “normalness” that friends would reflect on later, as it gave no prediction of the extraordinary act of courage he would later perform.
One morning, as his squad hunched down in the back of a Bradley, an enemy grenade dropped in through the open turret. As that soviet era explosive rattled around the floor at his feet, he was the only one who clearly understood what it meant. His buddy’s panicked attempt to open the back hatch would be too late for any of them. They were all going to die. Without hesitation, he jumped on that grenade and vaporized himself to save his friends. They went home. The goth kid's parents received a medal to remember him by.
That story numbed me for days after reading it. It forced me to look at my own life, as well as our choices as a society, through a different lens. It reminded me that life is short and precious and that our actions are a million times more potent than our words.
Climbing lore, like war, is stacked with stories of heroism. They pull at our hearts and remind us of what it’s like to commit to something bigger than ourselves. Of course, there are plenty of differences between the experiences of war and climbing. We don’t have to worry about grenades in the mountains. Nor are we motivated to run it out by any feelings of patriotism. And, you definitely won’t find many of us fretting over the stock price of Halliburton or Raytheon. But whether we’re talking about climbing or the war on terror, common threads tie together all forms of heroism. Maybe it’s the lack of hesitation when something important needs doing. Or the ability to stay calm and rise above the moment. When danger arrives for our heroes, time and their pulse seem to slow. When the world blurs, they see clearly.
Bryan Becker–Local Legend
As I grew as a climber, I became more aware of the previous generations and their contributions. Some are known for their athletic gifts, their hard work ethic, or their bottomless spirit of adventure. Bryan’s exploits always stood out for their sheer audacity in the big mountains.
I first met Bryan at a local bar in Manitou Springs back in the mid-2000s. I was in my late twenties and a total climbing fanatic, especially entranced with the Black Canyon. I worked part-time at a gear shop and spent the quiet times behind the counter of the climbing department reading old copies of climbing magazines and the book “Climb!” so I knew of Bryan’s exploits, at least the better-known ones. I introduced myself and shamelessly fan-boyed him most of the night. I bought the beers while he supplied the stories. We closed down the bar and spilled out into the summer night and talked some more before we separated and stumbled home. A few weeks later, I saw him in town and opened up a conversation as if I knew him well, and awkwardly realized he had no memory of who I was. Just another dumb kid.
But over the years I’ve taken the opportunity to get to know him a little better, chatting him up at local gatherings, as well as memorials for local climbers we’ve lost. When I reached out to him with the idea of writing this article, he was gracious enough to invite me to his home for several long conversations. I’m honored to have gotten to know him on a deeper level, and my intent is to share that with the local climbing community, as I think stories like his are fundamental to where we came from, and possibly, where we’re going.
Fade to Black
In October of 1978, Bryan shouldered his heavy haulbag as his friend Brian Teale loaded the car for his drive back to Colorado Springs after what was already a successful trip by most standards. What followed for Becker was what would be described in “Climb!” as the first major solo ascent done in the Black Canyon, and what I believe should be recognized as one of the greatest ascents in Colorado climbing history.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Teale, concerned for his friend’s safety. The two had been steady partners in the Black Canyon and elsewhere, and would be for many years. They would make the first one-day ascent of the Grand Central Couloir on Mt Kichener the following year.
Becker assured his friend he would be fine. This was the exact experience he sought. In today’s terms, he wanted that smoke. Bryan had heard plenty about the big, scary route up the biggest wall in Colorado. “The Dragon” was a 2000’ beast of a line snaking its way up discontinuous crack systems, broken ledges, and busting through a series of serpentine Jackson Pollock pegmatite streaks. He’d met Rusty Bailey and Scott Baxter, two of the first ascensionists, when hitchhiking through Arizona. Also, his good friend and roommate, Dean Tschapat, had repeated the line and spoke highly of it. He was curious and wanted to explore the wall on a more intimate level than a partnership allows.
Bryan had done his homework and was now ready for the test. The few years preceding had been a whirlwind of traveling and bold climbing. He’d taken his first trip to the black two years before and repeated “The Cruise” with Ed Webster. The pair returned in the spring and knocked down FFA’s of Diagonal Will and The Hooker in a single weekend. He then paired up with Earl Wiggins to establish The Nose on the impressively steep prow of North Chasm View. Outside of the Black Canyon, he also spent a summer in the Alps running solo missions as well as partnering up with the likes of Billy Westbay and hard-charging Brits, including Alex Macintyre (as in the Colton-Macintyre route on the Grande Jorasses).
Bryan felt confident in his knowledge of the route and in his own skill set to tackle such an objective. “I was intrigued by the story, and it was a place I wanted to get to know. Yeah, I want to see what this place is about.”
He spent four nights and five days alone on the painted wall. Sleeping in a hammock with the ever-present roar of the river below, which had become routine for Bryan. Overall, he estimates that he’s spent around three dozen nights sleeping on walls in the Black Canyon.
Bryan used a simple solo lead system to advance up the wall. He aided where he had to, and free climbed what he could. Of course, plenty of sections required mandatory free climbing, which is sketchy without the luxury of a partner belaying you. Before setting off on a free section, he simply spooled out the length of slack he thought he would need to get him to the next opportunity for gear. Of course, it’s very hard to be accurate with that kind of guesswork while onsighting in complex terrain.
“I didn’t carry any bolts with me. I decided, OK, it’s established so play fair.” He carried his favorite assortment of passive pro, pins, and copperheads. He did, however, benefit from the bolted anchors that were left by the first ascent party, when he could find them.
Bryan’s approach to bolting is old-school. He came of age in the Golden years of free climbing, when the community at large was shedding its reliance on the reckless use of pitons and buttonheads. Young men and women are impressionable. We tend to adapt to the customs and beliefs of the zeitgeist that we find ourselves in during those formative years of our teens and twenties. The goal of climbers of the 70s was to climb as hard as they could, on sight, without fixed or permanent placements. Stoppers and hexes were the tools of the day, and that made for some exciting climbing. It also had a limiting effect on the grades people were willing to push. A decade later, sport climbing changed the perspectives and put the focus on physically harder grades.
Conversely, I have several friends who grew up as climbers in the 80s and 90s who are not at all impressed with running it out on 5.11. They don’t see the point. I mean, why not just climb harder on safer gear? I discovered the climbing world in the late 90s and early 2000s when the two worlds had somewhat reconciled. I’ve always appreciated boldness, while also understanding the value of projecting sport climbs. Because of this, I tend to straddle between the two dogmatic extremes. However, I have to admit having always been more impressed with stories of boldness than of hard sends.
On his second day on the wall, Bryan was lost. Cracks sprouted and ended. Lines went all directions, with none appearing more certain than the others. In the middle of a pitch, he found a ledge to sit on and gaze down at the river. He rested and centered himself, then chose a line that “felt” right, and it led him to anchors. The following day he suffered a chopped rope when his haulbag swung out from a traverse. He simply tied a bite at the core shot and continued on. He became lost again near the exit cracks, but backtracked and fought his way to the rim.
Once on top, Bryan joined his friends Jimmy Newberry and Jenny Goldberg for congratulatory drinks. “I remember feeling pretty relaxed and a bird landed on my shoulder for a moment as if to join our little gathering. After being on the wall several days, he probably thought I was just another part of the canyon.”
The Hallucinogen Wall (Grade IV) has become one of the premier hard free routes in the country, but it started as an aid climbing masterpiece. In 1981, Ed Webster and Bryan Becker pushed the line over multiple trips, eventually teaming up with Bruce Lella and Jim Newberry to take it to the top. Becker led many of the hardest sections, spending up to eight hours on a single pitch. His high degree of skill, low body weight, and ability to push into the danger zone were invaluable to the team’s success.
Subarctic Hunger
The quest for the edge is addicting. Success on a big goal is proof we can handle more. Each plan grows more audacious than the last. Upon returning from an ascent of the south face of Aconcagua, which Bryan found too easy, he wished for something more challenging.
In 1983, Rolf Graage made Bryan an offer he couldn’t refuse. Rolf would pay for Bryan to travel to Alaska if he’d partner up for a big new route on the implausible south face. Bryan accepted, not letting the fact that he barely knew Rolf get in the way. They shared the same goal– to test themselves on a big mountain in virgin terrain.
Red flags screamed for caution from the start of the expedition like traffic cones in a construction zone, but the pair blazed past every one of them. They arrived in Anchorage with only one 9mm tag line, Rolf having forgotten the lead rope, and no ice screws, which Bryan forgot. They scrounged together a few bucks and bought two ice screws in Talkeetna before catching their flight onto the glacier.
Wanting to make a splash on their first trip to the Range, they chose a steep line on the 3,500-foot wall to the left of the Cassin Ridge, followed by another 4,500 feet of snow slogging to the summit.
The rangers at Denali basecamp questioned their intentions and tried to talk the boys out of their ambitious plans, telling them they had no chance of being successful. Undeterred, they made the arduous approach up the “Valley of Death” to the base of the massive wall and started climbing. To pile onto their run of bad luck, they were hit by multiple storms. Of the 17 days they would spend on the route, they climbed 9 and spent the other 8 huddled in their tent rubbing their feet and trying to stay warm with their meager kit. Rolf had brought a warm sleeping bag, but lost his sleeping pad. Bryan braved the subarctic rage in a foot bag that rose only to his hips and a puffy jacket.
Rolf took a 65-foot lead fall, and his feet froze quickly after. This left Becker to lead nearly the entire 37 ½ pitches. They braved torrential spindrift, which Bryan says almost drowned them. Bryan spent three days aiding the crux 25-foot roof, which Becker called the hardest lead of his life. At their fourth Bivouac near the top of the wall, a fierce wind gust blew their tent off the platform and left it dangling over the 3,000-foot drop by one tent stake. Bryan had been out of the tent at the time, but Rolf was in his sleeping bag, untethered from any anchor, and was now balled up in the bottom of the tent like change in a sock. Bryan, thankfully still tied in, rushed over and pulled the tent, with Rolf in it, back onto the platform.
It’s hard not to put yourself into Bryan’s shoes when hearing of his experiences and ask yourself what you would do if you yourself were pinned down by monstrous storms on one of the deadliest mountains in the world with scant equipment. I asked him if there was ever a time on Denali when he thought he might not make it out. That he’d finally, after all he’d been through, managed to bite off more than he could chew.
“No, not at all,” Bryan shook his head like the thought had never entered his mind. “I knew the storm would end eventually and we’d get up it.”
The snow did eventually die down enough for them to resume climbing to the summit, but the winds remained fierce. After another night camping near the summit, Bryan topped out, and they headed down the West Buttress route to 17,000 camp, where Bryan alerted rangers to his partner’s condition and helped lower Rolf to 14,000 camp, where he was flown out and taken to the Anchorage hospital. Bryan walked down to basecamp by himself and ate every bit of food that was offered. He lost his toenails but escaped permanent damage to his feet. He started the slow recovery process after spending a few weeks in a wheelchair.
In a 2007 article in The Alpinist, Christian Beckwith argues that the Denali Diamond was becoming the “new Cassin.” The route had a moment after the turn of the century as high-profile teams repeated the line and commented on the aesthetic quality of the climbing. However, every team has bypassed Becker’s crux roof, choosing an easier corner to the left. The roof that Bryan spent three days under before conquering remains unrepeated.
Disaster in the Backyard
Life resembles a novel in the way it steers us in directions often unplanned and introduces characters that fit our circumstances. Bryan lived the vagabond climber lifestyle from the late seventies to the mid-80s and accomplished more in that time than most would in several decades. He participated in the first ascent of Supercrack of the Desert with Earl Wiggins and Ed Webster, explored the Kichatnas, and took several trips to Canada, to name a few.
But things changed when his boys were born in 1986 and 1987. In the conversations I’ve had with Bryan over the years, his dedication to his family is always evident, and is something I highly respect as a father myself.
“You start feeling more averse to risk when you have kids. It’s not just you anymore.”
Bryan still got out when he could. He explored rock climbs and ski lines that would go unrepeated for years, and took a few trips, including one to Patagonia. He had a few trips to the Himalaya that fizzled out when funding fell through. And, when he did get out in difficult terrain, it wasn’t always the same as before.
“I got sort of rusty, and the courage wasn’t there in some instances.”
As with all of us, he and his friends fought to maintain that nearly impossible balance between climbing and real life. Over the years, he’s lost more than one climbing partner to mental health problems and addiction.
Bryan was vacationing with family in Florida in late April of 1995 when he got the news that four of his friends were caught in a large avalanche on the east face of Pikes Peak. The news was bleak. Nate Porter had been miraculously unharmed in the incident, but Dan Crossey suffered a broken hip, and Mike Houston a broken femur. Most devastating of all was the news that his good friend Bill Blair had been killed, and the ensuing SAR mission had been unable to retrieve his body, though they were able to get the injured skiers to medical help.
Bryan bought a plane ticket to Colorado Springs on the next flight available. Once home, he packed up immediately and set off on the hike to retrieve his friend, over 6,000 feet above. He arrived at his friend’s side at dawn and drank a beer beside him before starting the long and difficult process of carrying his friend off the mountain alone. Bryan pushed, pulled, and at times even rode his friend down to Barr Camp at 10,000 feet, where locals had gathered to assist the rest of the way.
Warrior in the garden
Every town has legends. Men and women whose highlight reels become guideposts for younger generations. I know it’s common these days to drag our heroes and expose their limitations. We need to cut them down until they’re no taller than the rest of us. But it’s important to remember that we don’t look up to them because they were perfect; we look up to them because when the moment arrived, they became more than their imperfections.
As I sit with Bryan in his backyard trading stories on an early summer morning, he pauses to carefully scoop a ladybug off his arm and kindly release it among some flowers. I’ve come to realize that his true gift was never fearlessness; it was clarity. And I don’t believe it was danger he chased in the mountains. He simply yearned for a deeper level of experience and the challenge of finding a path through uncertainty.
I asked Bryan about what he thought his years of adventure in the mountains had taught him, and he had a hard time putting it into words. That makes sense to me, because the deepest lessons rarely fit neatly into language. Bryan walked as close to the edge as any man I’ve met, yet always came home. In this tranquil setting of his backyard, I can’t help feeling grateful that he chose to explore the limits of human endurance and returned to pass on those stories. I suspect his secret to longevity, he's approaching 70 years, may lie in conquering the dangers within, as much as those around him.
The mountains didn’t shape Bryan at all. They revealed him.