Empty Chairs
Steve Mascioli bathed in evening light at a bivouac five pitches up the Moonflower Buttress route on Mount Hunter’s north buttress. He was killed 72 hours later by a dislodged snow mushroom as he belayed Alan Kearney on the route’s 17th pitch. ALAN KEARNEY
Bellingham, Washington: July 1, 1997
THE TIRE OF THE OLD TRUCK bounces against the curb as I park hard against the steep side street. I double-check the address, and look out at a low, brown wooden building. I’m relieved not to be going to a church, knowing that Steve Mascioli wouldn’t have wanted his memorial in a house of religion. I get out under the heavy rain-soaked boughs of an evergreen tree.
Inside the double doors, I pause and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I am early and, as my sight returns, I realize that the people here are family. I see a woman in a black, knee-length dress at the center of the room. That must be Lisa, I think.
We’ve spoken on the phone many times, but met just once when I approached her front door to help Steve with his rucksack one dark morning before we headed east to climb an ice couloir in the North Cascades. Steve played the band Morphine on the stereo while we were driving. I had never heard them before, but the heavy bass lines would underpin the rhythm of our climbing together.
I start towards her and as I near she turns, puts her hand on the shoulder of a child and kneels to speak to him. I swerve away, into a row of folding chairs, cross the small aisle, and sit down on the far end.
“Steve.” I turn around, awkward in the fact that I share a name with the deceased. “You’re here.” Alan’s eyes are edged red and sunken into sadness.
Alan Kearney had been leading a pitch on the north buttress of Mount Hunter when a huge chunk of snow unexpectedly broke off and killed his partner, Steve Mascioli. Leaving Steve, Alan rappelled the buttress alone and met two climbers skiing on the glacier who safely escorted Alan back to base camp. Coincidently, Steve Swenson and I had been there for a resupply.
“Looks like Lisa didn’t want to talk to you.” He speaks to the back of the chair, sitting down behind me.
“No. She never was too fond of us climbers to begin with.”
“Please be seated!” I am cut off by a strong, loud voice and look across the room to see a tall, commanding man in a dark sports coat.
In front of me the chairs are empty. Alan sits in his spot. I turn and notice that a dozen men and women have filed in and are sitting behind me: climbers, wearing plaid button down shirts, tattered brown sweaters, and faded green and blue nylon parkas. With unruly beards and long double-braids, they sit perched on the front edges of their folding chairs in the last two rows of chairs. The family sits across the aisle. They all wear formal black. They have lost a son, their only husband, their only father.
A second tall man, maybe Steve’s brother, approaches the podium. “Please. If any of you would like to say a few words about Steve.” A few climbers fidget with a slide projector in the corner. The man waits, looking expectantly across the room.
Steve Swenson and I comforted Alan for two days, trying to prepare him for his return to the world of Steve’s family, reporters, his own grief. We made him pancakes, poured whisky in his hot chocolate, and packed Steve Mascioli’s climbing gear. I kept his plastic coffee cone. Mascioli loved a good cup of hand-brewed coffee.
Someone places a tottering projection screen behind the podium as the man waits. A climber stands up from behind me and walks to the front of the room. With relief Steve Mascioli’s brother steps aside.
“I climbed with Steve many times over many years,” he says upon turning. “And I wanted to stand here and say that Steve was a great man. I loved him dearly. And I mourn with all of you.”
“Thanks, Scott.” Lisa says.
Another climber walks up. “Steve was one of those guys who read all of the books you wished you’d read. And he understood them. And could discuss them.” She turns towards the family. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Lisa again, “Thank you, Lydia.”
“Hey, can you dim the lights over there?” I turn and see the man at the projector straighten himself over the machine. An image of Steve flashes into the room. Half turned, I see some of the family wince and look away. A few start crying. I smile, recognizing Steve on a well-known climb he did.
“Steve was my great friend,” starts the curly-haired man at the projector, “besides being a devoted son, husband, and father.” A chair screeches against the floor and Lisa stands up and walks out carrying her young son. The speaker pauses for a moment, and then continues. “This is Steve on Mount Combatant a couple years ago. I didn’t know him much before this expedition, but we had a fantastic time together.”
Click. Another picture of Steve, this time sitting at a bivouac at sunset or dawn, tucked into a sleeping bag, clinging to a steaming mug. It has to be coffee, I think. Instantly I am reminded of Steve in similar places at different times. I look behind me. The climbers are leaning back in their chairs now. Each transported to their own moments in the mountains with Mascioli.
I turn at a great gasping sob from the family side of the room. Steve’s mother is nearly hysterical. I notice that Lisa’s sister has also left the room and that his brother Paul has also gone.
“How can you do this?” the mother blubbers, nearly unintelligibly. “Climbing took him away. How can you sit there and celebrate it with these, these horrible pictures?” Before she finishes, a new image appears on the screen.
Steve Swenson and I had gone back to our advanced camp after Alan flew out with Steve Mascioli’s body. The next morning I brewed coffee with Mascioli’s coffee-cone, and we ascended an unclimbed 4,000-foot rock pillar. We named it Mascioli’s Pillar.
Click. The next image is of Steve climbing a steep granite wall, arms relaxed, expression focused, toes pushing into tiny footholds. He wears a slight grin. He is grinning at all of us. I lean back, comfortable, at home with this. I eagerly await the next slide as one of Steve’s favorite Morphine songs plays in my head:
Listen young people I’m seventy-four
And I plan to live sixty or seventy more
Yeah, I’ve been all around,
I’ve done a few things,
And I spent a few nights on the floor.
Did everything wrong,
But I never got caught,
So of course I would do it all over again.
I surprised many people who’d written me off years ago,
Now they’re way underground.
Nobody asked me,
But here’s my advice,
To a young man or woman, who’s living this life.
In a world gone to hell, where nobody’s safe,
Do not go quietly unto your grave.
Do not go quietly unto your grave.