What drives extreme athletes or, sometimes, any outdoor-oriented
person, to court the perilous edge? Why do some engage in potentially
self-cancelling acts of derring-do?
What ethical and moral obligations do people have to loved
ones, should they become survivors? How much pressure are sponsored athletes
under to keep pushing the envelope, and what kind of toll does it take on them
psychologically?
Why do we have such a weird voyeuristic fascination with desiring
to witness people doing extraordinary things and perhaps perishing right in
front of us?
The piece is written by former Bozeman resident Nick
Paumgarten. The story could just as well be featuring heroes and tragic figures
in any mountain community or town where extreme sports are venerated.
Paumgarten tracks the career of famed mountaineer Conrad
Anker and his pal, the local Bozeman psychotherapist Timothy Tate. Tate relates
to the world as a sort of modern mystic and he’s bestowed with a nickname by
Anker. The moniker is “Gandalf,” as in the fictional wizard from J. R. R.
Tokien’s “The Lord of the Rings.”
At least part of the background for Paumgarten’s
investigation began with a series of pieces Tate had written for Bozeman-based “Mountain
Journal” as part of his column, Community Psyche. Tate’s writings dealt with
the trauma of athletes being lost to the mountains, and the grief and search
for meaning that settles in hard.
Tate often invites readers to reflect on the ultimate
personal inquiry: for what purpose are we here? When we head into the
wilderness is it to lose ourselves or find ourselves?
Amid communities where the social persona is all about being
“forever young,” with steady perpetual streams of 20-somethings to sow their
wild oats, and with a higher percentage of middle-aged Peter Pans, public
discourse and introspection is often pushed aside.
Be the best, the fastest, the most death-defying performer
possible; do it for catharsis, for ego or death wish; do it because you think
it’s important or for legacy or for shattering limits and boundaries, or for an
impetus only you can understand and appreciate.
Paumgarten has not produced his long riff to judge. He
delves into the topes of adventure as seen or interpreted through the eyes of
globally-iconic alpinist Anker and friend Tate, whose writings in “Mountain
Journal” helped earn him a gig as a counselor to some of the most talented
people in outdoor sport sponsored by The North Face.
Anker’s feats are legendary, exhilarating and they’ve led
him to attend more memorials for fallen comrades than most could bear.
His story is the kind of stuff ready made for a Hollywood
biopic. And if I may acknowledge a bias here, Anker is fundamentally a good
caring person, a consummate introvert, a valued neighbor, a person who thinks
deep about the problems of the world. And, as a physical specimen, he’s taken
himself into the highest rafters of the planet.
Tate has been his confidante and blood brother. He’s had a
therapy practice in downtown Bozeman for decades and he admits to being a
“shamanistic seeker.” He is rapt with Carl Jungian’s theory of the archetype,
and tales of the quest to find the holy grail and ancient religions, be they
indigenous or druid. He is, in the truest sense, a character.
His columns in “Mountain Journal” are popular with readers. They
call attention to not only the bright lights of illumination that come with
living in outdoor-oriented towns where a premium is placed on spectacular
gestures of athletic hedonism, but there are the downsides, the dark side, the
shadows and the sometimes wailing pain of self-destruction.
I don’t want to give too much away about the Paumgarten
piece except to say his goal wasn’t to perpetuate a cult of hero worship. He
lays threadbare the human trajectory of soaring high and falling back again to
earth.
For some, it will be a hard and cursing read, viewed as an
attack on fun hog culture. For others, it’s an insightful glimpse into the
compulsions of outdoor rock stars who seem larger than life.
With Anker and friends, Paumgarten has protagonists who are
wrestling with the big questions, with the same ones we do—how do we confront
our own mortality, what’s the value of love and leaving behind more than we’ve
taken or squandered? Tate has his own interpretations. Is he really Bozeman’s
version of Gandalf?
Todd Wilkinson is the founder of Bozeman-based “Mountain Journal” and is a correspondent for “National Geographic.” He’s also the author of “Grizzlies of Pilgrim Creek” about famous Jackson Hole grizzly bear 399.