Charles Altvater:  

Celebrating Danny Late August, 1973 Eastern Sierras (June Lake Loop): Bob Hastings had done it the day before, and didn't get back to camp until just before dusk. 'He went for a walk', Peter Lowe explained, 'at least, that's what he told me'. 'Peter, he's been gone six hours! Did he say where he was walking?' I was trying with all my might not to sound like anybody's mom. Peter was trying to calm me down. By early afternoon I had replayed the scenario in my head a dozen times. I could already see the headline, Southern Californian Flatlander Lost In The Loop. Friends say he 'went for a walk'. 'He'll show up', Danny said. 'He'll show up as soon as he gets hungry.' 'Well if he doesn't you guys can call his folks and tell 'em how we lost their kid. As a matter of fact, you can call his folks even if he does show . . .' The two of them looked at each other then at me. 'Why?' They both said it at the same time. 'Because', I said through clenched teeth, 'I'm gonna kill him'. Danny laughed. Peter went to see if there was any beer left. Bob showed up a few hours later. The first words out of his mouth? 'I'm starved', I think they were. A snort came from Danny's direction and he assumed his most nonchalant pose while giving me the finger. 'Shut up, man,' I said to him then turned toward Bob, 'An eight hour walk, Bob? Really? Too much of a bother to tell anybody? Where were you?' Pointing to the southwest he told me, 'There.' 'There where?' I barked. 'There' he insisted. It finally dawns on me he is pointing beyond the other side of the campground to a massive steel gray peak that juts like a tremendous tooth into the clear blue mouth of sky. Suddenly I was glad I didn't know where he had hiked to. If I had I really would have freaked. 'I'll let it live, Danny,' I say while I point at Bob, 'I just ain't gonna feed it.' He laughed. 'You worry too much, Cork'. It would be twenty five years before I realized he was right. I do worry too much. Back then I thought everybody did. I don't remember how it happened, but by next morning we had decided it would be cool if all four of us climbed that mountain. So, on the day we were heading home, we began our trek into the southwest . . . not a canteen or a candy bar among us . . . and, of course, we told no one of our intentions.  This is not a eulogy. This is no funeral, nor is it a testament to a life. This is my celebration of the person we knew as Danny Ray. This is how he lives on for me, in the haunted house of my memory. I can't recall how he and I met, it just seemed he was always there. Now it was a given that he'd be mowing the lawn or pulling weeds and pissed about it, but yep, there he'd be, swearing under his breath. My friend. My brother. One of the great landmarks on the map of my life. He was likeable and funny and better yet, he thought I was funny and as if that wasn't enough to cement our friendship, the first time I saw his sister that cement became six sack mix with a hard trowel finish. He walked the tightrope between being Deborah's brother and being my friend like he was a Flying Wallenda.  The climb began with an endless plain of gray granitite boulders that had in some past cataclysm calved off of the monolith we intended to conquer. From a ways off it looked like the rip-rap rock used for erosion control. But the closer we got, the bigger the rocks got. Some were house size all the way down to about Volkswagen size. The climb in altitude at this point was probably at most two hundred feet; but the jumping from rock to rock and the uneven surfaces of the boulders were killing my ankles and legs. 'I don't know if this is such a good idea. I'm startin' to hurt and we are nowhere near the mountain yet,' I'm talking to everyone but I'm looking at Danny. I know I'll need his vote to turn this mad expedition around. 'I say we keep going,' Danny says to me. I hear a bit of distress in his voice and that somehow encourages me to push harder. Peter is panting like the Hound of the Baskervilles behind Danny Ray and me while Bob jackrabbits maybe two hundred yards ahead. He is waiting for us when we reach the edge of the boulder field. 'What's takin' you guys so long? I been here fifteen minutes!' He sounds like he's talking about his Congressional Medal of Honor. Cocky. 'Lotta empty holes in the mountains, ain't that right, Danny?' I'm looking straight at Bob. 'Fer sure, fer sure! Body of Southern Californian Teen found in hole on mountainside. Friends still claim he 'went for a walk.' 'Hey, forget you guys. I'll see you up there!' Bob bolts off like a mountain goat. A fast smart-assed mountain goat. Danny and I waited for Peter to catch up and then the three of us began the climb; loose rock and sand to near vertical rock face. Up above the tree line now, we were headed to where the thin air lives. 'Man, if I had known what this hike was gonna be like, I'd be fishin' down at the lake,' I griped to both of them. 'I hear ya,' Danny replied, 'but it ain't that much further.' 'It's a ways all right . . . like, straight up a ways,’ I grumbled mostly to myself. I thought about the six hour drive home I would have this afternoon and got so mad at myself I wanted to break something. 'There's not even anything to break up here,' I was getting whiny. 'Oh, sure there is,' Danny replied. 'Like?' I asked him. 'Like your leg. Like your back. Neck. Arm,' he rattles off and then busts out laughing. He was proud of that one I could tell. 'Well, head on HomeSqueeze,' I wheeze in his direction. 'Think there'll be any water up there?' Peter asks. 'Dude, I'm not sure there is even air up there. No water, no way. Unless we find snow ...Expand for more