Two weeks after 9.11, 2001, I am on a plane to Yosemite with my boss to guide him up some multipitch trad. We dirtbagged in camp four, got our ranger warning violation for food in the back seat, slid up Manure Pile Buttress, cranked in Tuolomme. Before that it was , according to John, the most amazing pancakes ever in Nederland, Colorado before watching Andy Sweet solo the Third Flatiron. We wore three sets of tires out on Johns van roadtripping to SoIll to sweat away the summers, laughing and carrying on in the pine grove or Chris Schmicks rat hole trailer. We have dug fingers deep into our crevices to find that dastardly tick still hangin on our TCU (tick collecting unit as we lovingly called it). Weve laughed so hard at ourselves until the tears were running. This same man gave me my career start in Accounting, offering to send me back to university for a second bachelors while I learned the ropes at his CPA firm. There is no doubt in my mind that his belief in me is single handedly the reason I am not dumpster diving to this day. Today on my front porch sat a box with the remnants of Johns climbing career. He has decided that family, retirement and gardening will bring him more joy than tying into a rope with a bunch of strangers. And with that single postal delivery I was passed the torch of a man who has stood head and shoulders above the rest. The tears welling up as I write are those of gratitude and joy, having had the privilege of sharing more ropes and stinky tents than I can recount. John Hamilton, your infectious joy, your generosity to a fault to our band of ragmuffin bums, and your guidance to me personally will resonate for decades to come. May the second half of your life be a blessing to others as it has been to me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the memories.
Posted on: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 01:15:08 +0000
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