I’d like to share a somewhat long story that you might appreciate and I hope you’ll take the time to read. I’m a guy who otherwise tends to keep my head down, my mouth shut, and avoid attention but after years of encouragement I am finally working up what it takes to share my story in hopes that others can benefit from my point of view or some of the things I have learned. I have spoken with some members of the forum regarding PTSD and I’m sure there are other lurkers who might glean something from this. So here goes.
Growing up (Utah, non-Mormon), I was smaller than even all the girls until I was about 17; usually a full head smaller than all the boys my age. You learn pretty quick how to keep out of games, entertain yourself minding your own business, or braiding grass and jumping rope with the girls. All I remember about stupid team games is elbows slamming me in the top of the head, everybody yelling “Jason was offsides again!” (whatever that means), and the collective groan after the second-to-last guy got picked and they knew got stuck with me. Then some douche would sometimes get in my face and tell me I should just sit out. I’ll never forget my 7th grade locker combination (30-4-36) because I had to yell it from the inside so often (“thirty four, thirty six, then what?” “No. Thirty, then four….”). That same year, some asswipe called Shane Kojima used to punch me in the kidneys all the time so for the rest of school I sat on the bench with the gigantic fat kid. I grew nothing but disdain for at least half of the male populace and for so-called team sports.
When I was fourteen or so, my parents started letting me go to the mountains by myself which may have saved my life as I was pretty down on society. I finally found something physical that I was good at, was in complete control, and could do all by myself at my own pace. I went pretty crazy for it as hiking and backpacking turned quickly into scrambling and peak bagging and from there onto technical rock climbing. When I got to of high school, I move straight to Yosemite to pursue what we call big wall climbing: spending multiple days or even weeks on faces like El Capitan. In this activity as well, I chose to solo some of my hardest climbs and quickly made a name for myself as a talented and obviously marginal individual. In 1998, when I was 20, I went alone on a 6 week expedition to the Canadian Arctic where I became the first person to climb alone the notorious West Face of Mt. Thor after spending two weeks on the wall.
I had landed a job in the RD&D department at The North Face (I’m called “Singer” because I sew) and had an amazing gig going between building gear, going climbing, giving slide shows, and being a rock star. I at that time started doing a lot of what climbers call free soloing; climbing with just shoes and a chalk bag and no ropes or gear. It was an extension of the skills and propensity I had demonstrated big wall climbing for having firm mental control in dicey situations. Free soloing also attracts a lot of attention and respect in climbing circles because most people simply don’t have what it takes, even at skill levels far below their limit. Anyway, the point is that I was on top of my game; somewhat akin to after Eddie tapped Royler.
Then a lot of stuff happened. Between 1996 and 2000 a couple of dozen of my friends managed to get themselves killed one way or another climbing, skiing, kayaking, base jumping, car crashes, etc. At least a dozen people I knew really well; so that was kind of starting to weigh on my head as I did lead a pretty dangerous lifestyle. But, truthfully, I never had any plans to live past 30 so I don’t think it really got to me too much other than maybe making me a little crazier.
Here we go. In August of 2000 I was on a expedition with three friends (Beth, Tommy, and John) in the remote mountains of Kyrgyzstan (80 miles north of Afghanistan) when we awoke on the side of a cliff one morning to some guys shooting at us and waving for us to come down which, under the circumstances, seemed like a reasonable request. They wanted to go down to our base camp (90 minutes), have something to eat, and have a discussion. We didn’t want to. They really wanted us to. They had the guns and the firm expressions. We went.
They were an interesting bunch, the four of them. The one in clearly in charge, Abdul, was pretty scary somehow and emotionless in general. The other three were like any goofy 18-year-old kids you’d pick up at a skate park or an arcade; two, Abduallah and Obert, were super friendly and just wanted to make friends and the other, Su, was very shy and didn’t do anything Abdul hadn’t told him. When we came into base camp there was another guy there, Turat, who looked frightfully angry and whose clothes were mostly saturated in blood. Abdul told us to sit with him and as I approached him he glowered into my soul, held up three fingers, and then ran his hand across his throat. I interpreted that as bad news for Tommy, John, and myself and started processing the notion that I was about to die in such an idyllic spot on a perfect day. Couldn’t have been better weather for dying. Over the next few hushed minutes we figured out that Turat was a Kyrgyz army soldier and that his three friends had been killed by these four yesterday. Then Abdul came out of our tent, got John and I, and escorted us inside where we assumed we were about to be shot. Instead, he started asking us what all our different foodstuffs were and getting us to change clothes, load pack with supplies, and get our passports. John looked at me and said what no one had wanted to believe for the last four hours or so, “We’re hostages.”
My head was spinning and I was trying to hold my breath so nobody could tell I was about to hyperventilate. I walked out of the tent and was commanded to start taking it down with John and Turat. Two rebels stood across the meadow cradling their rifles and watching us. Turat pulled a tent stake out of the ground that was perhaps 10 inches long, clutched it tightly to his chest, and started sneaking glances over his shoulder at our guards and trying to elicit my attention. As he caught my eyes, his opened wide and the look of pure ferocity and killer instinct that was all over his face. The message he telegraphed was crystal clear: “It is me and you. It is these tent stakes. It is right now.” My stomach dropped and I dared to sneak a glance at our guards and back to Turat to whom I shook my head no. That was the moment he died inside and the way his face changed as he looked at me is seared on my brain never to be forgotten.
Helicopters were heard in the distance coming up the valley and we were all commanded to run and hide in the trees. This was the most direct and firm I ever saw Abdul, the commander, get: “When these fly over, you hide or I shoot you,” was very, very clearly put out there. We started to make tracks down the valley and across the plains to the adjacent valley to the east. In the stress of dodging soldiers, running tree-to-tree at altitude with two packs on (I took Beth’s) both of my nostrils started gushing blood with the worst nose bleed I’ve ever had. I stripped my T-shirt and tried to hold it on my face as I ran uphill and away from the firefight we miraculously dodged.
We stopped at the crest above the other valley so I could rest and Abdul could assess the situation. Turat sat down next to me, put his hand on my knee, squeezed hard, stared into my face and started talking. “They’re going to kill me over there,” he pointed. “No. We’re all in this together,” I lied. “No, I’m going to die and that’s how it is. You, on the other hand, need to grow a pair of balls and save your friend’s lives. Listen to me: this is your responsibility. In particular, you need to get that girl out of here or you’re all going to a bad place with these guys.” Abdul saw us talking, grunted, stood, and got us all moving down to the bridge and across the river where we hunkered down in some trees and I fell asleep for perhaps a couple of hours.
To be continued...
Growing up (Utah, non-Mormon), I was smaller than even all the girls until I was about 17; usually a full head smaller than all the boys my age. You learn pretty quick how to keep out of games, entertain yourself minding your own business, or braiding grass and jumping rope with the girls. All I remember about stupid team games is elbows slamming me in the top of the head, everybody yelling “Jason was offsides again!” (whatever that means), and the collective groan after the second-to-last guy got picked and they knew got stuck with me. Then some douche would sometimes get in my face and tell me I should just sit out. I’ll never forget my 7th grade locker combination (30-4-36) because I had to yell it from the inside so often (“thirty four, thirty six, then what?” “No. Thirty, then four….”). That same year, some asswipe called Shane Kojima used to punch me in the kidneys all the time so for the rest of school I sat on the bench with the gigantic fat kid. I grew nothing but disdain for at least half of the male populace and for so-called team sports.
When I was fourteen or so, my parents started letting me go to the mountains by myself which may have saved my life as I was pretty down on society. I finally found something physical that I was good at, was in complete control, and could do all by myself at my own pace. I went pretty crazy for it as hiking and backpacking turned quickly into scrambling and peak bagging and from there onto technical rock climbing. When I got to of high school, I move straight to Yosemite to pursue what we call big wall climbing: spending multiple days or even weeks on faces like El Capitan. In this activity as well, I chose to solo some of my hardest climbs and quickly made a name for myself as a talented and obviously marginal individual. In 1998, when I was 20, I went alone on a 6 week expedition to the Canadian Arctic where I became the first person to climb alone the notorious West Face of Mt. Thor after spending two weeks on the wall.
I had landed a job in the RD&D department at The North Face (I’m called “Singer” because I sew) and had an amazing gig going between building gear, going climbing, giving slide shows, and being a rock star. I at that time started doing a lot of what climbers call free soloing; climbing with just shoes and a chalk bag and no ropes or gear. It was an extension of the skills and propensity I had demonstrated big wall climbing for having firm mental control in dicey situations. Free soloing also attracts a lot of attention and respect in climbing circles because most people simply don’t have what it takes, even at skill levels far below their limit. Anyway, the point is that I was on top of my game; somewhat akin to after Eddie tapped Royler.
Then a lot of stuff happened. Between 1996 and 2000 a couple of dozen of my friends managed to get themselves killed one way or another climbing, skiing, kayaking, base jumping, car crashes, etc. At least a dozen people I knew really well; so that was kind of starting to weigh on my head as I did lead a pretty dangerous lifestyle. But, truthfully, I never had any plans to live past 30 so I don’t think it really got to me too much other than maybe making me a little crazier.
Here we go. In August of 2000 I was on a expedition with three friends (Beth, Tommy, and John) in the remote mountains of Kyrgyzstan (80 miles north of Afghanistan) when we awoke on the side of a cliff one morning to some guys shooting at us and waving for us to come down which, under the circumstances, seemed like a reasonable request. They wanted to go down to our base camp (90 minutes), have something to eat, and have a discussion. We didn’t want to. They really wanted us to. They had the guns and the firm expressions. We went.
They were an interesting bunch, the four of them. The one in clearly in charge, Abdul, was pretty scary somehow and emotionless in general. The other three were like any goofy 18-year-old kids you’d pick up at a skate park or an arcade; two, Abduallah and Obert, were super friendly and just wanted to make friends and the other, Su, was very shy and didn’t do anything Abdul hadn’t told him. When we came into base camp there was another guy there, Turat, who looked frightfully angry and whose clothes were mostly saturated in blood. Abdul told us to sit with him and as I approached him he glowered into my soul, held up three fingers, and then ran his hand across his throat. I interpreted that as bad news for Tommy, John, and myself and started processing the notion that I was about to die in such an idyllic spot on a perfect day. Couldn’t have been better weather for dying. Over the next few hushed minutes we figured out that Turat was a Kyrgyz army soldier and that his three friends had been killed by these four yesterday. Then Abdul came out of our tent, got John and I, and escorted us inside where we assumed we were about to be shot. Instead, he started asking us what all our different foodstuffs were and getting us to change clothes, load pack with supplies, and get our passports. John looked at me and said what no one had wanted to believe for the last four hours or so, “We’re hostages.”
My head was spinning and I was trying to hold my breath so nobody could tell I was about to hyperventilate. I walked out of the tent and was commanded to start taking it down with John and Turat. Two rebels stood across the meadow cradling their rifles and watching us. Turat pulled a tent stake out of the ground that was perhaps 10 inches long, clutched it tightly to his chest, and started sneaking glances over his shoulder at our guards and trying to elicit my attention. As he caught my eyes, his opened wide and the look of pure ferocity and killer instinct that was all over his face. The message he telegraphed was crystal clear: “It is me and you. It is these tent stakes. It is right now.” My stomach dropped and I dared to sneak a glance at our guards and back to Turat to whom I shook my head no. That was the moment he died inside and the way his face changed as he looked at me is seared on my brain never to be forgotten.
Helicopters were heard in the distance coming up the valley and we were all commanded to run and hide in the trees. This was the most direct and firm I ever saw Abdul, the commander, get: “When these fly over, you hide or I shoot you,” was very, very clearly put out there. We started to make tracks down the valley and across the plains to the adjacent valley to the east. In the stress of dodging soldiers, running tree-to-tree at altitude with two packs on (I took Beth’s) both of my nostrils started gushing blood with the worst nose bleed I’ve ever had. I stripped my T-shirt and tried to hold it on my face as I ran uphill and away from the firefight we miraculously dodged.
We stopped at the crest above the other valley so I could rest and Abdul could assess the situation. Turat sat down next to me, put his hand on my knee, squeezed hard, stared into my face and started talking. “They’re going to kill me over there,” he pointed. “No. We’re all in this together,” I lied. “No, I’m going to die and that’s how it is. You, on the other hand, need to grow a pair of balls and save your friend’s lives. Listen to me: this is your responsibility. In particular, you need to get that girl out of here or you’re all going to a bad place with these guys.” Abdul saw us talking, grunted, stood, and got us all moving down to the bridge and across the river where we hunkered down in some trees and I fell asleep for perhaps a couple of hours.
To be continued...
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