Hero or Dope?

I first heard of Colorado mountain climber Aron Ralston’s daring self-rescue on the radio. I thought: “Wow! What an adventurer!” I stood daydreaming in the kitchen, up to my elbows in dishwater, and let my imagination fly. It was the fifth day… pinned to the north face of a brutal cliff… my water—gone. My hopes that someone might happen along, someone within earshot even—dashed. Listed among my assets: rope, the clothes on my back, and perhaps the most important ingredient of all—steely resolve.

I never got to the part where I sawed off my arm with a jackknife and rappelled down the cliff only to walk five miles before finding help, because I know myself too well. I’d never have made it. Once pinned by the 800-pound boulder, I’d have faced a toss up—how to expel fluids fast enough to pass out from dehydration and welcome sweet death? Crying or wetting my pants? Could I do both at the same time? Probably, yes.

As for the DIY surgery, forget it. I can’t even cut my own bangs. Even mall-walking is too risky for me. I’m smack dab in my mid-30s, and I’ll tell you—I’ve got my limitations pretty well categorized. What’s intriguing to me about this hike gone wrong are the other little bits of the story that get lost in the shuffle. Time magazine headlined their chronicle of his ordeal, “Survival of the Fittest.” I’d call it “Lucky Fool Cheats Death—Again!”

Here’s the timeline. In the late 90s, Ralston saw the movie Everest, the one about the climb gone fatally wrong. It spurred him on to quit his day job and devote his life to exploration and following the jam bands Phish and String Cheese Incident. (After reading this, I could give Ralston the benefit of the doubt and assume he is not also a fan of illegal herb, but I won’t. I mean, come on.)

So, for me, the next part makes total sense—the part where he forgets/neglects to leave an itinerary. (Do you think Ashton Kutcher will star in the movie version of Ralston’s hike? Dude! Where’s My Arm?) The more you know about it, the more the story degenerates into a Super Dave Osborne fiasco. Ralston’s made a habit of climbing with nothing more than water, candy bars, and an ice axe. No cell phone, no global positioning system, no rope. When I’m walking on the treadmill at the Y, I’ve got a 20-oz. Cherry Gatorade, the latest Jackie Collins potboiler on tape, and if I didn’t think people would look sideways at me, I’d bring caramel corn.

I know I shouldn’t blame all of this guy’s irresponsible behavior on the demon weed. Scientists say there’s an internal chemical reason folks like Ralston skate the edge. They call it the thrill-seeking gene. Boy, when you hear it described that way, don’t you just get visions of handsome Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier? Plane disintegrating around him? His broad rugged shoulders seared by his flaming jumpsuit as he plummets to Earth? But the same gene must then include Houdini. And Evel Knievel. The guys on Jackass (who have, incidentally, elevated that word to an entirely new level of disrepute). And that goofy kid I knew in third grade who thought he’d be able to jump off his garage roof, Wile E. Coyote-style, and scare the skittles out of us girls. (Sure, we felt bad, but it didn’t stop us from laughing before we ran to get help.)

So when thrill seekers are out for information or money, the rewards seem pretty well explained. But how about those rambunctious few who venture outside the fence of science or show business? Are they merely threats to themselves and others, or could they be valuable research subjects? Could we harness their brain chemistry to create an elite force of rodeo clowns? Should we have volunteers from the Raptor Center ear-tag them like other endangered species? Or should we do what we’ve always done—let these guys roam free to inflate our rates on life, health, and casualty insurance? I’m glad to hear that Ralston is on the mend, but I still worry about him. He doesn’t strike me as a quitter. And there’s a lot of mountains left out there.