The four hours and twenty seven minutes it took to get out to the North Cascades from Seattle was pleasant compared to the lumpy, divot scattered “drive way” that led to the one roomed cozy cabin. I was surprised at how well kept the house was as compared to the rest of the property. A perfectly triangular cedar pile with a blue tarp draped over top was arranged very close to the front door. It seemed to be placed in such a way that would dissuade visitors–I felt as though I should have been more nervous—Here live a man with the reputation of tearing people apart on first glance. I was going to take him by surprise, a random drifter who overheard of his whereabouts while at a bar. 

I was already at knock number five, still nothing… The windows were open, without screens, allowing me to see inside. I heard a dog, subtly panting, coming from the backyard. I told myself that I would only knock two more times and if nothing came of it then it was an omen. He just did not want to talk, no visitors, no disturbance. I cannot say that this was surprising. 

Why would a man that lived his entire life out in the backcountry be at home on a flawless fall morning?

The sound of bottles and cans clanging in a plastic bag was getting louder. I stood at the door, silent, hoping that it was him taking a trip out to the maroon recycling bin. The door’s raspy hinges made a groaning sound as it opened. Standing there was a man—a dirty, plaid cap set upon a full head of grey hair, kind of man. Green flannel shirt half tucked into a pair of elastic waisted light-washed jeans. Boots that I was extremely envious of–dirtied with the soil of a thousand climbs. He was a shorter than me, but dwarfed me.  

(Fred Beckey is a legend in the climbing world. He has 325 first ascents, which overshadows any other North American climber by more than twice. He and his family migrated to Seattle from Germany in the 1920s. Beckey is the prototypical “dirtbag” climber. He left a cushy job with a printing company because it was interfering with his climbing goals. His tent became his home and the mountains his backyard. When Beckey began climbing in his early teens it was a primitive, undeveloped sport attempted by only the most reckless mountaineers. Beckey’s reputation and legend grew as he grew older and the sport of climbing became more mainstream. The spike in popularity that began in the early 1970s presented Beckey with a platform in which to embrace the modern, safer, technology as well as ridicule those who were not there during the primordial stage. Beckey would out climb everybody wearing old, worn sneakers and no harness. A writer at Rock and Ice once wrote, “Watch out for Beckey: He will steal your women, steal your route.”)

A snarky scowl became his face. He knew that someone was knocking, waiting eagerly at the door but he was not about to let it stop him from carrying out his routine. I mistakenly introduced myself as a “traveler” looking for some “advice” on climbs and scrambles in the area. While I felt like I was doing something monumental, it was just another day in his life. After going on his adventure to the recycling bin, we exchanged introductions. I introduced myself very casually and referred to him only as “Mr. Beckey”—he did not imply that I could call him anything else. We went around to his backyard, cracking open two bottles of Sessions on the battered forest green Subaru that sat on cinder blocks. I asked question upon question, being overly cautious not to linger on one route for too long out of fear that I would rehash a pesky crag*. The answers he gave me were less than reluctant. He was speaking to me as if what he was quoting a guide book, one that he obviously wrote. 

I was in searching for Fred “Fucking” Beckey, the one that used to pay for gas money by charging to be a lead belayer to clueless newbies. The guy who hitchhiked around the entire continent, stopping every time he glanced upon a metamorphic marvel. 

This all seemed so recited, as if every day a stranger straggled up to his residence in search of some historic beta and the opportunity to share a beer with a legend. It took me a while to admit to myself that that was the case indeed. Mr. Beckey had become a celebrity whose claim to fame had long dissipated, leaving only rehearsed stories that play like a broken record.

-Climber-

*A steep, rugged cliff or rock face