Remembering Aaron Livingston
It’s been over a year since I first met my friend, Aaron Livingston. A little less since we first climbed together. Nine months since I watched him soar through the air, skis hovering at eye-level and completely perpendicular to the ground in an impressively (however unintentionally) wide spread eagle. Ten weeks since he shoved relentlessly until all the buy-ins at the poker table were his. Seven weeks since I took them back, and I was lucky that night—despite a trademark smirk familiar to everyone who knew him, his poker face was sufficiently stony so that none of us could ever really guess what cards he was hiding.
In the final minutes of darkness just before dawn on September 5, I learned that Aaron had fallen to his death the day prior, free soloing on Donner Summit’s Black Wall. As I watched first light pour over the east shore of Lake Tahoe that morning, I wondered how the sun could still rise without him. Later, as it set, four of his friends gathered on my porch to burn through hand rolled spliffs and cigarettes, flooding our lungs between breaths spent on stories, remembrance, laughs, tears, and sighs amid moments of silent reflection.
It’s been three hours since I woke up this morning, and had to again face the fact that Aaron isn’t with us anymore. It’s been just a few minutes since tears last flooded my eyes, and I wept for my friend.
***
Aaron was one of the first people I connected with since moving to Tahoe. I was following a job offer without knowing a soul in the area, and we clicked during our first few days together working for Alpenglow Expeditions. He’d just wrapped a season guiding ice in Ouray, and though I quickly learned that he was a far stronger and more experienced climber than me, this knowledge only came to me over time through others who knew him.
In his early 20s, Aaron discovered climbing somewhat haphazardly at the Fit Stop Health Club in his native Heber City, UT. Intending to use his newly purchased gym membership to spend time in the weight room with his friends, the group quickly ditched barbells in favor of plastic climbing holds and the freedom of vertical movement.
Aaron was a quick study. In a little more than a decade, he graduated from a 40-foot climbing wall at a health club in rural Utah to a stunning range of accomplishments: multiple free ascents of El Cap, including Freerider (5.12d) and Golden Gate (5.13a); an in-a-day solo ascent of the Salathé Wall (5.9 C2); first ascents of big walls in Zion National Park and the Wind River Range; guided ice climbing trips in Ouray, CO; expeditions to Alaska’s Ruth Gorge; and AMGA Rock Guide certification. But Aaron’s proudest achievement was most likely the first ascent of The Optimist (5.12), aka The Nolan Smythe Memorial Route, on Mount Hooker in the Wind River Range. In his brief but brilliant career, Aaron’s achievements represent a lifetime’s worth of climbing at an elite level.
The only time Aaron ever told me to look him up online was to search for a video of him climbing a hard gear route in the desert. He wanted me to hear the embarrassingly high-pitched yelp he’d let out as he fell, blowing two pieces of protection before the third finally caught him. Self-deprecation was one of Aaron’s ways of reminding the rest of us that he was human.
Though Aaron wasn’t famous with the general public, you’d be hard pressed to find a well-known American climber he hadn’t shared a rope with, or a beer at the very least. He’d often refer to them in conversation by their first names, not because he was averse to name-dropping (though he was), but because, to him, they were just his friends. At times it would become something of a game trying to silently determine which of the accomplished mountain athletes in his broader community he was referring to.
I believe that Aaron could have been much more famous if he’d wanted to be, but that wasn’t what he was in it for. Aaron was a climber because he loved climbing, and he was a guide because he loved opening the door and sharing his passion and knowledge with others. He was the first person who helped me prepare for my Single Pitch Instructor exam. He’d offered before I was even scheduled to take it.
***
In the year I knew him, Aaron and I shared only one big day in the mountains: an attempt to climb and ski Mt. Shasta (14,179ft) in a day.
As he cruised the 6,000-odd vertical feet to the top of Avalanche Gulch, I struggled immensely. I’d forgotten ski crampons, felt miserably out of shape while battling high fever and a respiratory infection, had slept barely two hours, and stomached only a few sips of water and half an apple for breakfast. The altitude hit me as low as 10,000 feet, and the distance between Aaron and I grew quickly while I spat out green-brown chunks of phlegm, clawing my way up the gulch.
“Dude, did you just frontpoint the entire way up here?” Aaron asked incredulously, when I finally reached the Red Banks and found him sitting cross legged on a rock, casual as ever.
“Yeah, I did,” I replied between ragged breaths. “This is like the third time I’ve worn crampons. What was I supposed to do?”
“You haven’t heard of the French step?,” he asked, before the realization hit him. “Wait…did you frontpoint the whole time on Cotopaxi? And Orizaba?”
I nodded, too exhausted to be embarrassed. His look of surprise quickly turned to a grin, and he laughed while I laid on the ground next to him, sucking at lungfuls of thin air.
The next few hundred feet passed quickly thanks to Aaron’s guidance, though we ultimately bailed on the summit and skied down. After a spicy entry chute and an unnecessary jump-turn I added solely for the sake of one-upping my friend, the pain of the ascent washed away as we carved 6,000 feet back to base in near-perfect conditions. If Aaron was disappointed about our failed summit attempt, he never let on.
***
In his absence, I suspect that Aaron will rarely be far from my mind each time I go to the mountains. The experience of losing a friend and mentor like Aaron is much like driving toward a glass window: I didn’t know it was there until it shattered. All those who knew and loved him are left now to pick up the pieces.
A hardman on the outside with a sharp wit and cowboy persona, Aaron was kind-hearted, gentle, sweet, sincere, loyal, and as powerful in both body and spirit as anyone I have ever known. He loved hard, and in return was loved with equal intensity.
It’s been over a year since I first met my friend, Aaron Livingston. In that time, I witnessed him attract a circle of partners and friends held together by a shared love of showing up and trying hard. Though I will forever carry the weight of Aaron’s death and questions of what more I could have done to prevent it, I will continue to look to him as a beacon in times when I wonder why I’ve pursued this lifestyle. Aaron served as an indisputable example of how the unique combination of passion and presence of mind can fuel a life worth living.
Today, though the sun shines dimmer without him, the warm glow of Aaron’s memory leaves the world a brighter place. I will miss him.
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