Mountaineering doesn’t have the same metrics as basketball or football, but if it did, Spokane mountain climber Chris Kopczynski would definitely belong in the Hall of Fame. When he started climbing in the 1960s, many of the world’s tallest peaks had hardly been touched. However, throughout the 70s, 80s and 90s, Kopczynski traveled the globe and climbed several Himalayan peaks, as well as the highest point on every continent, also known as the Seven Summits.

Kopczynski recently published a memoir recounting many of his wildest adventures. The book is entirely original; although, his title, “Into Thin Hair,” clearly jests at one of the greatest Everest books of all time by Jon Krakauer. Let the record show that Kopczynski’s book is riveting; however, nothing testifies to the gravity of the adventures you’ll experience while turning the pages of his book quite like first-hand tales from a few of his local climbing partners and friends.

Frequent climbing companion John Roskelley recounts one particular climb in their earlier years. “We couldn’t have picked a dumber alpine route. Neither of us had waterproof pants or decent jackets for the deep snow, cold, and wind we encountered. We made it to the ridge crest just before dark without being swept by an avalanche, which to this day I don’t know how, and then bivouacked in a howling storm that night. In the morning, we were both like popsicles. It was so cold and windy, Chris decided to abandon his homemade two-man tent. That’s right—leave it on the ridge. Well, I needed a tent, but couldn’t afford one, so I said, ‘Chris, if you leave it and go down, I’m going to take it down myself and keep it.’” Ultimately, both climbers evolved into high-altitude climbing legends, but that doesn’t mean every climb was smooth.

Another friend, climbing partner, and longtime Spokesman Review outdoors editor Rich Landers offers another fond Kopczynski memory. “Sealed in our sleeping bags while wearing down parkas, Gore-Tex overalls, climbing boots, and gaiters to endure a storm, I learned that despite climbing on Everest and other frigid ascents, Kop had suffered frostbite only once—on a cold December morning in a goose-hunting blind. He boomed out, from memory, a fine performance of Hamlet’s soliloquy: “To be or not to be…” And he seized the ordeal to offer me words of mountaineering wisdom. ‘You don’t want to think about being scared in a situation like this. Get scared and it’s all over.’”

Mountain Gear founder Paul Fish also recalled Kopczynski’s wit and wisdom during a mountaineering storm. “On our Mount Fairweather attempt, Chris’s skills as a climber were appreciated, but not nearly as much as his storytelling. On storm days, he would cut the tension or boredom with a well-chosen tale from his past life and climbing experiences. Frequently humorous, but never cruel to anyone, and with the occasional learned word, his stories stay with me just like the memories of the climbing.” Fortunately you don’t need to freeze in a tent with him to hear Kopczynski’s stories. Pick up a copy of his new book, “Into Thin Hair,” at Auntie’s Bookstore in Spokane or at another local book shop.

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The picture accompanying this story is my grandmother, then Amanda Algaier, not yet Bleck. She is canoeing on Priest Lake, circa 1917. Or it could be Loon Lake, and probably is. Which lake is less important than my grandparents starting a family tradition of spending summers at Priest Lake and Hill’s Resort, beginning in the year of my birth, 1958. Each summer brought the Seattle Blecks and Tacoma Johnsons together. For all of us, it was always The Lake, a definite article and proper noun that needed no explaining.  

Unlike E. B. White, from whom I stole the title, watching my son Tobias at The Lake, whether in my mind’s eye or on the beach, my groin feels no chills of death. Rather, Priest Lake stories breathe their own life. He listens rapt as his uncle Rob and I tell of taking a boat with our cousin Marty, not even in our teens, to camp on Papoose Island, unsupervised.  

He is struck by the stories of feral children, now his aunts and uncles, rabidly chasing a sow and her cub through the resort, his grandmother chasing with a broom, swinging it wildly, perhaps thinking she might sweep some sense into us. He is wistful about being the youngest by too many years, never having slept on the beach with his cousins, never waking to the sound of breeze-blown waves lapping against the shore in the otherwise still dawn, taking the sounds, as I did, for footsteps—bear of course. He never ate pancakes loaded with huckleberries picked by his grandmother from along the shore trail on an early morning walk.  

Tobias never had a chance to creep into any of the many abandoned mines that were still exposed around the lake during our childhood, although we never went far when we did. He never made trips to the dump to watch the bears scavenge as dusk fell. We longed for them to rummage through the trash behind the cabin, the closer the better, the thrill immeasurable. No one said a fed bear is a dead bear. Our stories brought this and more alive for him and kept it alive for us. 

In 2008, we celebrated our 50th anniversary at The Lake with the whole family.  Everyone. A few years later my aunt passed and her ashes were scattered in Luby Bay, becoming one with The Lake. In 2017, following the death of my father, our visit occurred shortly after his funeral when we were still raw with the loss. Despite the beaches, the bay, the lake, and the extended family, those extended trips began to seem no longer worth it.  

Two weeks in the 1960s became a week in the 1970s became a few days for some, a long weekend for others, and finally a day trip from Spokane for me. One sister bought a cabin near Coolin. Another found a vacation rental. My siblings and cousins are the last direct links to that woman in the canoe. After five generations, will there be a sixth?

Bradley Bleck last wrote about keeping backyard chickens last summer for Out There. He’s longing for Phase 3 when he can join his Badlands Cycling Club mates out on the road again.  

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