Larry-Like-the-Wind
Larry-Like-the-Wind
Larry Darkness in his prime was like the wind. No one could keep up with him, and he wouldn’t wait for anyone. This is a good characteristic of a solo climber, and Larry was often Larry-by-Himself, even when he was nominally with a group. To walk with Larry was to walk alone. Speed is safety, surely, but it can be argued that safety can also be found with a group, with enough people for someone to remain with an injured party, and someone to go for help. The true solo scrambler, such as Larry-by-Himself, doesn’t account for going for help.
Stories of him in the Larry-like-the-Wind mode were many. A favorite takes place in the red rock country. On the way down from the Anthill, a bristlecone-topped, two-hued sandstone peak just south of Thousand Lake Mountain, in Wayne County, Utah, Larry-by-Himself got ahead of the four of us, myself, Marie Midwah, Gen. Disaster and Tee Trundler. He didn’t wait for us. Nothing unusual on either count.
We followed his tracks that eventually led to the edge of a cliff. We looked all around the ledge, examined possibilities from all angles, and couldn’t figure out how he had gotten down it, unless he had sprouted wings, as there seemed no reasonable way. To be safe, we traversed wide right on the ledge, then dropped down on talus and found our way eventually to the sandy flat. It was pretty remote country, this route from Sunglow to Sand Creek, up on a middle layer you really can’t see from below.
We started heading northeast across the sandy flat, and soon we came upon his tracks. We looked back and were able to see that there was indeed a steep, narrow gully that would have led directly down the cliff from the ledge we had been on, a steep, straight and very-Larry gully, the way he must have gone. We cursed Larry-by-Himself, as we had lost half an hour in our safer detour.
As we continued walking, we soon noticed that right on top of Larry’s tracks, easily visible in the soft sand, were mountain lion tracks. Quite large and extremely fresh puma sign, the tracks of a mountain lion that was stalking Larry-by-Himself as he walked across the sandy flat not twenty minutes ahead of us.
Looking at the minutes-old tracks of a fully-grown, mature, adult, veteran, super-sized cougar, we imagined that he or she might be sampling the stringy Larry just now: ripping him open easily, gizzard to yin-yang, gnawing upon his rich internal organs and coating cat whiskers with fresh warm blood. We pictured the cougar as it soundlessly charged him on the reddish sand, and pounced, and pounced again, and brought him down, tossed him around like a puppy with a sock in his mouth, and then went for the arterial or tore Larry’s head clean off.
We began, at that moment of sudden recognition and clarity, to make much noise to discourage the lion from doubling back and investigating us. To let it know that we were around. To send it somewhere far, far away. Much noise as well as much tossing of rocks and tree limbs, as well as singing, and shouting about the ways of mountain lions. They shy away from such noise generally. You can count on it.
All the way across the half-mile flat we followed the tracks of the lion that stalked Larry, and we made much noise. We carried short stout limbs as cougar-handlers in case of feline trouble mano a mano.
We weren’t sure if we’d find Larry-by-Himself as Larry-Strewn-about-in-Pieces. We knew we didn’t want to meet this big cat as Cougar-Leaping-from-a-Tree. We scanned the trees of the pygmy forest. At the edge of the flat, we found bare-rock bulges, and we rolled a rock or two down the escarpment, hoping again to influence its behavior, just to be certain. Head for escape terrain, you hear! We got that clear between us now?
Hours later we finally caught up with Larry-by-Himself along Sand Creek. No, he hadn’t noticed the lion, hadn’t heard anything, really, or sensed that he was being watched and stalked, or about to be killed. He thought he might have heard some rock fall but had no idea that he had been tracked by one great big kitty.
