Climbing cats

I was never a dirtbag climber. Dirtbag is a specific sub-genre of the species rock climber. There may be females of the sub-species but I am yet to come across any. This probably explains why so many dirtbags remain single. There’s something about the dirtbag lifestyle that, I suspect, is less attractive to the female gender. Maybe it’s the word ‘dirt’?

After all, who wants to move into a van that smells of young male sweat, to pee in public toilets or behind trees, to cook on a small gas stove, and spend every evening talking about the beta of the next climb they are singularly focused on red-pointing, on-sighting or flashing. Like any sub-culture, climbing has developed its own language.

Dropping into sentences words that only the cognoscenti know is like apes picking fleas off other apes’ fur. It builds relationships, indicates knowledge and acceptance, enhances kinship, defines position within the hierarchy.

Did I mention that farts take a long time to dissipate inside a small van?

Anyway, Brad was a dirtbag climber. He washed every few days, his hair as often as once a week, and didn’t own deodorant. I mean, two deodorants cost as much as a carabiner! Why would you even ask?

Brad lived for climbing. Every single day of his life was either climbing or doing whatever work he could find to enable him to go climbing. He didn’t stay long at any job. He was proud of the fact that he had never been fired though. He worked hard, was smart and even washed daily if the job was in an office. But as soon as he had a few hundred bucks he was off to Yosemite, Zion, Joshua Tree, Squamish, sleeping in his van. He climbed 5.12s, a fairly high grade of difficulty, and his life’s goal was to get into the 5.13s. He wasn’t a super-athlete and he was happy with that. He didn’t feel the need to push his limits every day to reach 5.14s and beyond. He could live without that pressure. He wanted to enjoy his climbing and his life. He had another income sideline, but we’ll get to that.

I was living in a shared house in Marpole, Vancouver. There was a cat stuck up a tree on the roadside and an anxious old lady wittering to whoever would listen that ‘he’d never done this before’. People had called the fire brigade, but it was 5.30pm on a Friday and the fire truck was struggling with the peak hour traffic that jams the whole suburb with people desperate to get out of town.

Someone had a ladder but the cat was way higher. Brad was walking by. He laughed, ran up the ladder and then swung from branch to slender branch up to the highest point where he talked the ginger kitty into his hand, tucked it inside his shirt, and swung back down like it was a walk down a mall. The old lady cooed and thanked him, and people drifted away.

“Climber?” I said. He nodded. Looked at me, like his eyes had locked onto a prize in a sideshow shooting range.

“You too?”

I nodded.

“What do you climb?” he asked.

“You mean what grade?”

He nodded.

“Struggling to flash my first 5.12c. A couple of 5.12ds after working the betas.”

He nodded and smiled. “About the same.” His eyes half-closed. “You got a partner in crime now?”

He meant a climbing partner, of course. I said I was unattached.

So we headed to Squamish and mixed it up for a few days, climbing on that lovely grey granite. I fell off the crux of the classic route Brothers in Arms but Brad’s belay was solid and I aced the hard moves on my second attempt. We drove up in his old Toyota Hi-Ace van but I slept in my tent. I prefer fresh air when I’m sleeping. He had duct-taped foil to the windows for privacy. Classy, effective. I ended up buying a few of our meals because he was low on cash. Typical dirtbag.

I had to get back to work in central Vancouver but he was heading to Vancouver Island to climb at Mount Work with someone he had met at Squamish. He drove us to Marpole and took advantage of the shower at the house before he headed off. Harvey the dull but well-heeled actuary nodded hello. He had put up with other climbers passing through and probably assumed he’d never see Brad again.

“You have a driveway and a back yard!” Brad commented.

Yep, that’s unusual in Marpole which has plenty of houses but few driveways and most people park on the street so the roads are always choked and the drivers forever disgruntled. I got lucky with the room rental. Harvey had enough money but always liked to have more, and he preferred not to live alone.

The next time I saw Brad he drove down the driveway and parked round the back of the house, pulled a grab-all from the back seat and ran up the back steps and let himself inside without even knocking first. Presumption at its best. Harvey was a little taken aback and suggested he should leave but Brad talked him down and said he’d pay.

Pay for what? Still, it calmed Harvey right down.

But, Brad, who has no money, will pay? I stared at him. He waved me down.

Harvey had to go out. He wasn’t going to miss Lucia Cesaroni singing Mimi at the Vancouver Opera. “He’s your responsibility!” he said to me and was out the front door. Brad ran after him though and they had a quiet conversation on the front porch. Harvey left and Dirtbag Brad came back in with a sly smile.

“What was that about?” I said.

“We talked about…money and stuff.”

“Money? You don’t have money.”

“No, I don’t usually have money.”

“Let me guess. Your Mount Work buddy paid handsomely for you to guide him up climbs he would otherwise never have got up?”

“No, in fact he was unbelievably good. Fingers like iron and he does yoga so…”

“No! I don’t care about him. Where did you get money? Your grandfather sold the family business? Aunt Fanny died and left you a squillion?”

He shared a conspiratorial grin. Hold on, I thought…

“But then why park out of sight of the road?”

“Ah, now you’re onto something.” He looked a little sheepish. I glared at him.

“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. Apart from you and the very venal Harvey.”

“What do you have to hide?”

He reached into the sack he had brought inside and pulled out a velvet bag tied with string. Opened it, tipped out some VERY expensive-looking jewellery. A diamond necklace with a large sapphire drop surrounded by diamonds, similar styled earrings, a gold broach, a gold bracelet. I mean, I just stared. A thief? He was a thief?

“No, I never take assets from people who can’t afford to lose them. This, my friend, is asset re-allocation.”

“But…how…?”

“I climb.”

“You climb?”

“Cat burglar baby. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get into some apartments on high floors where rich people think their assets are safe. They leave the balcony doors open for the fresh air ­­­— and for little old me.”

“But—but—how can you turn these into cash and not be caught? Also I’m an accessory as of now.”

“No mate, you are a rope partner and there’s no greater basis of trust. I held your fall off Brothers in Arms. Now you catch me.”

“Well, harboring a criminal isn’t quite the same thing as holding a rope.”

“Saving a life versus re-balancing society’s inherent inequalities. Seems like a good trade to me.”

Like, I’m supposed to understand what he said. It made no sense to me but, what the heck, that wasn’t my main concern.

“How can you turn…that…into cash?”

There was a knock on the door.

“What!” I blurted out. The police?!

“No worries. Hold on.” He picked up the small bag, went to the front door and opened it. There was a muffled conversation, then: “See you later!” The door shut and he came back into the sitting room, with a wad of cash in his hand and no bag.

“Don’t tell me. Home delivery fencing?”

He laughed and waved the wad.

“Harvey will love that his house can now be fingered by a fence,” I said.

“Harvey will love the cash I drop into his chubby little hands. How about a beer?”

I shook my head, hardly believing what had happened, and pulled two Molson bottles from the fridge. We sat on the lounge, clicked the necks, and I had a long draught. He sipped his and smiled. We chatted about climbing. Some lucky girl he’d met at Mount Work was going to meet him in Yosemite in a few days’ time to attempt the classic Nose route on El Capitan. For a moment I was envious of the dirtbag lifestyle, the ability to just go and climb what you wanted when you wanted. Not the dirt though. A minimum of three-star accommodation for me.

Gradually I became used to the thought that I was under the same roof as a casual criminal with the ability to scale high walls at night and extract valuable items from people who wouldn’t miss them. Who couldn’t imagine how someone might have got into their private enclave a hundred feet above the poor folks below.

We chatted a while. I might have dropped off to sleep. Beers always do that to me.

When I woke Brad was still there, watching TV. Some ridiculous game show hosted by people I hoped never to see again in this lifetime.

“You dropped off mate.”

“Mmmm.” I rubbed my eyes.

We heard keys in the front door. Harvey came in with a big smile. Opera always puts him in a good mood. It has the same effect on me as beer, which Harvey finds amusing but also disappointing.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Brad said as if they were old friends.

“Did he drop by?” Harvey said.

“No problem.” Brad pulled out the wad, counted out a small sheaf of notes and handed them to Harvey.

“What the…” I stuttered.

Brad winked at me and handed me a small selection from the envelope.

“That’s for the catch on Brothers in Arms.”

“I don’t take money for belaying.”

“All right then give it to the old lady for cat food. Tell her it’s from the guy who saved her climbing kitty.”