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The Angry Beaver
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John Long: Channel Surfing
As far back as I could remember I’d wondered which of mankind’s faiths and illusions I could choose as my sustaining light, and I’d chosen the greatest existential pathology of them all: that if I worked hard enough, and smartly enough, my greatest challenges would someday flow effortlessly under my hands like glassy Malibu swells.
Open Water Treading in Paradise
Climbing in Thailand
John Bachar and the Cosmic Surfboard
Someone once told me a story about an old-school surfer, a Hawaiian guy who rode the giant waves on a heavy longboard back in the days before jet skis and spotters, when a bad wipeout could render you unconscious, roll you under the sea and kill you deader than a hammer.
An Encounter with Fred
Joe Josephson phoned with an interesting proposal: Fred Beckey had come to town for a reunion of Montana's Dirty Sox Club, a guild of Montana climbers from the 1960s through the 1980s.

If anyone has earned an honorary membership in a group named Dirty Sox it is Washington's Fred Beckey, sovereign of American DirtBag Climbers.
Bubble, Bubble
When I was living in New England and, as a mountaineer, was greener than the hills of Vermont, I asked a British climber what he ate at high altitude. The Brit, who had climbed in the Alps, Andes and Himalaya, said, Don't worry, lad, if you go hungry it's good for the soul.

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