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Editor’s Note: Allen Steck, a legendary Yosemite pioneer, passed away at his home in Bishop February 23 at the age of  97.  Steck led an illustrious career, establishing first ascents around the world. He began climbing in Yosemite in 1947 and went on to participate in the first major American mountaineering expedition to the Himalaya, on Makalu in 1954. He made the first ascent of Mount Logan’s Hummingbird Ridge, which is today unrepeated and considered one of the most challenging climbs in mountaineering history. Along with Steve Roper, he was the longtime editor of Ascent.

We have an obituary in the works, but in the meantime, here’s an article by Steck which first appeared in Ascent 2012.

A middle-aged man hung from the nylon webbing that connected his wrists to the ceiling beams of his living room. His arms gyrated and his feet barely skimmed the floor. Greek music blared as I entered the house, early for a dinner party. A folded wheelchair tilted against a far wall. Only a week earlier had doctors given permission for my close friend and climbing partner Allen Steck to tread gently on his two shattered ankles. This night was to celebrate his partial recovery. He hadn’t danced for months, but the time had come. It was February 1990.

Rachet back to 1949. Steck was a neophyte climber using hemp lines and steel carabiners. Imagine that not too many years later this man became one of the most accomplished mountaineers in American history, visiting dozens of countries, climbing with the stars of several generations, and learning the modern protection gadgets as well as anyone.

Today, come visit the Berkeley climbing gym. Yes, he’s still around. At age 85 he delicately works his way up 5.10s, arthritic joints creaking, impressed by the diabolical cleverness of the course setters.

Allen Steck’s name is often associated with Mount Logan’s Hummingbird Ridge. This epic of 1965 was his defining moment, and no one has yet repeated this preposterous route, though some have died trying. But long before, Steck had made his mark.

As a teenager in the early 1940s, Steck went often to California’s High Sierra with his dad. Languid days included fishing, exploring, and even a new route on Mount Maclure, Yosemite’s second-highest peak, with his brother, George. Soon came a rather extreme adventure, serving on a bobbing destroyer escort in the far-western Pacific. Below decks, fiddling with turbo-electric motors, Steck wondered if an unseen torpedo or a kamikaze would end his life. But this was early 1945 and the Japanese were scarce. Soon he was a civilian again.

Twenty years old and what to do? Take advantage of the Servicemen’s Re-adjustment Act, of course. Better known as the GI Bill, this grant meant money for education, subsidized housing, and incentives to travel abroad to study. Steck spent a few years at UC Berkeley, but wanderlust soon led him to the Old World in the spring of 1949. He was already a fledgling Yosemite climber, but this enterprise, described in the following piece, opened up a new world.

No other climber of Steck’s generation traveled to so many remote areas: to first ascents in the then-barely explored southern Sierra, and wild climbs in the interior of British Columbia. Gripping stories emerged constantly. In Peru’s Cordillera Blanca, in 1952, he accompanied back to civilization the body of a friend who had died of cerebral edema.  On New Year’s Day, 1955, he was dug out of an avalanche near Lake Tahoe with his face as blue as the winter sky. By happenstance, friends coming along minutes later had seen the avalanche track and a few trapped survivors gesturing to where Steck was buried. Another avalanche, in the Pamirs, nearly claimed him.

High on a snowfield on Aconcagua in 1973 he came across the thawing body of a deceased American woman. During the horrifying 1974 tragedy in the Soviet Pamirs, where eight Soviet women froze to death at 23,000 feet on Peak Lenin, Steck was first upon this sad scene and recalls the startling blue eyes of one corpse. In 1976, in the Karakoram, during the first ascent of “the world’s most beautiful mountain,” Payu, he let his Pakistani cohorts have the sole honor of the summit, stopping a few hundred feet short. A tiny fall in deepest Algeria in late 1989 resulted in the above-mentioned shattered ankles and an epic three-day journey back to the States for repair.

Steck’s decades of climbs include nine first ascents in Yosemite Valley, the most noteworthy of these being the somber north face of Sentinel Rock. This five-day effort, with the legendary blacksmith John Salathé, tests climbers even to this day. Although Steck wondered if it would ever be climbed again, he himself did it four more times, the last at 74.

Other notable achievements: a new route on Mount Waddington; a daring attempt on then unclimbed Makalu; the third ascent of the Salathé Wall. Steck was the first American to climb one of the six great north faces of the Alps. Closer to home, in 1963, was the first one-day ascent of the Grand Traverse in the Tetons. Of this venture he later wrote: “I saw the inevitability of a struggle, and a good struggle now and then is a tonic, for while it taxes the leg and arm muscles, it tends to relax those in the cranial cavity.” In 1982 Steck and his brother, after establishing food caches, traversed the entire length of the Grand Canyon, following the river below the north rim for 80 days without coming out to civilization.

Mountaineering was hardly Steck’s obsession. He was a family man, with a wife and two splendid kids, a businessman who co-founded Mountain Travel, one of the first adventure-travel companies, and a writer. “High Angles in the Eastern Alps,” his first real published piece, appearing  in the June 1950 Sierra Club Bulletin, described the wanderings Steck made with Karl Lugmayer in 1949. A year later came “Ordeal by Piton,” his stirring account of the Sentinel climb, which ended with these words: “The reason, the incentive, the motive for all this? It is an intangible, provocative concept that I shall leave to the reader to explain. Some think they know why; others despair of ever knowing. I’m not too sure myself.”

One of Steck’s finest articles appeared in the first issue of Ascent, the Sierra Club’s mountaineering journal, debuting in 1967, of which we were co-editors. The piece was a thoughtful and gripping account of climbing the Hummingbird Ridge. Steck was the inspiration behind Ascent, and together with a small cadre of fellow climbers, we kept the magazine (later in book form) going until 1999.

Steck also co-wrote (with Lito Tejada-Flores) a fine manual called Wilderness Skiing. He and I co-wrote Fifty Classic Climbs of North America, a project that demanded much typewriter time and tens of thousands of vertical feet, the vast majority of which was highly pleasant “research.”

My memories of Allen date back to the early 1960s, when he hired me to work winters at the Ski Hut, an old Berkeley institution where he was the manager. Before work, along with like-minded comrades, we would endure four-mile runs in the hills or frigid sessions at the local rocks. Later he and I climbed in Mexico, Turkey, Italy, England and many of the Western states. It was great fun, and Steck was safe, fast, a superb routefinder and strong. We climbed the North Face of the Grand Teton almost entirely unroped, leaving the valley floor at dawn and returning before sunset. This was 1977, and Allen was 51. I was 36.

But perhaps best of all the memories I treasure about Allen were the hundreds of lunches and dinners at his house, eating at a crafted table in his exquisite, self-designed kitchen-cum-dining room. Many of these occasions were supposedly “professional” meetings, as we worked on various projects. The business talk never lasted long, for soon it was time for more wine and outlandish climbing stories. Many famed climbers visited the house—I can think of Lionel Terray, Walter Bonatti, Barry Bishop and Galen Rowell, among others. I wish I’d been there the night that conversation turned to personal altitude records. Forgetful Allen, lulled by wine and perhaps thinking his own top elevation might trump every other guest, asked Willi Unsoeld his high point. The table went silent.

“Well,” drawled Willi, “I guess Everest.”

And the food! Dungeness crab appeared routinely throughout the winter. Other menus featured open-faced roast-beef sandwiches with caramelized onions or perhaps deep-fried calamari rings with homemade mayonnaise. I give the place three stars. Long may I go there.­               —Steve Roper

I stepped off the Arlberg Express in the Vienna train station in early May, 1949, and met Karl Lugmayer. How was I to know that our adventures that summer would be so profound? We had only corresponded—he had written to the Sierra Club in San Francisco asking about climbing possibilities in California. In reply the Club mentioned that two members of the local Rock Climbing Section, Fletcher Hoyt and myself, were in Zürich, and that Karl should contact us. Fletcher and I had climbed together in Yosemite and had gone to Zürich to study German and Russian, which, as veterans, we were able to do under the G.I. Bill. It was our intention to climb some of the great routes in the Dolomites that summer. We were obviously excited to receive Karl’s letter introducing himself and suggesting that he would be interested in climbing with us in the Eastern Alps.

Tre Cime di Lavaredo, three huge freestanding limestone towers and emblem of the Italian Dolomites: Cima Piccola, Cima Grande and Cima Ovest. Steck climbed here after WWII, introducing nylon ropes to the world of recreational climbing—until then hemp or natural-fiber ropes had been the norm.(Photo: istockPhoto)

We stood at the station and looked each other over. Karl, a member of the Österreichischer Alpenklub, was a student of physics at the Technische Hochschule in Vienna. Climbing for him had been a passion for several years. He was a handsome fellow with an easy manner and a classic climber’s look, broad shoulders on a thin, wiry frame. We liked each other instantly and soon began to form a plan for the summer. He had an extensive knowledge of the classic routes in Austria and Italy. Some of these routes I was aware of, but the immense 3,600-foot northwest face of the Civetta, which would be one of our adventures in northern Italy, was unknown terrain for me. From my reading in Zürich I knew a bit about the history of European climbing, which surprised Karl, and of course I knew about the first ascent of the north face of the Eiger, in 1938. I was therefore pleased when we visited a climbing shop in Vienna owned by Fritz Kasparek, part of the team that had made the  ascent 11 years previously. Kasparek was an amiable fellow, we talked about climbing, and  he gave me a hammer that he had made.

Unfortunately, an accident during an Easter ski excursion would prevent Fletcher from joining in the upcoming tour. We managed an ascent of the Tödispitze, but were hit by an enormous storm and struggled through heavy snow to get back to a cart track that led downward. The slope above us was very steep and as we were skiing across a gully, a small avalanche came down upon us, quickly and quietly. My ski tips stuck under some ice blocks in the track and the snowy torrent swept over my back, but with enough power to drag Fletcher about 60 feet down the slope. He was unhurt until a second slide occurred, shattering his kneecap. Luckily he had a small squeeze tube of morphine, which lessened the pain during the eight-hour descent, over a distance that would normally take 45 minutes, to the village for help. He underwent surgery in a Zürich hospital, but his climbing days were over for several years owing to further surgery.

Karl’s studies would end on July 9 so he suggested that I stay at his parents’ home in Wolfern, near Steyr, in Upper Austria, during the period he was at the university. My German improved enormously during these weeks. Karl’s father was a teacher and my lodging actually was in the local school, so it was pretty noisy during the day. Karl’s parents were most gracious and hospitable to take care of me until Karl was free for our summer’s tour. His mother told me with great enthusiasm about how their village was liberated by American forces in 1945. The U.S. troops, all carrying rifles, shouted, “Raus, raus,” ordering all the townspeople out of their homes, with hands high, to be searched. It was not exactly pleasant, but certainly better than being under the Russians, whose line of control was a few miles to the east.

Lugmayer and steeds at rest in Sillian, Austria, just before entering Italy. Steck’s bicycle had defective brakes and he crashed with some regularity during his tour of the Alps by pedal power. (Photo: Allen Steck)

Karl had a free week in late May so we met in Wolfern and left for the Kaisergebirge, he by bicycle and I by train and bus. Our first stop was the Gaudeamushütte, the famous approach to the Kaiser from the south. A few training climbs gave us a chance to become a moderately skilled climbing team, though I had trouble convincing Karl to use the hip belay instead of his shoulder belay. We had two 120-foot nylon ropes, the type that were used by the U.S. mountain troops in the Italian campaign: I had brought one and the Sierra Club had sent him one earlier in exchange for some German climbing books. To my knowledge, this was the first time synthetic ropes were used for recreational climbing in Europe, certainly in the eastern Alps.

Eventually we hiked up to a pass and scrambled down a rocky gully to the Stripsenjochhaus, which was close to our first major objectives: the famous routes on the Fleischbank. Not many people were in the mountains in those days and, as we were the only guests of the hut, the hut keeper Peter Aschenbrenner welcomed us warmly. Peter was a surviving member of that tragic German expedition to Nanga Parbat in 1934 where nine climbers and Sherpas perished during a lengthy, fierce blizzard.  A lively discussion followed about the benefits of nylon ropes, the first he’d ever seen.

Steck’s partner, Karl Lugmayer. (Photo: Allen Steck)

The rock of the Kaiser, particularly on the Fleischbank, is good, well-featured, solid limestone with a blue-gray hue unlike much of the rock of the Italian Dolomites. After a few training climbs, we turned our attention to the southeast face of the Fleischbank. This now-classic climb, rated a grade VI, was first climbed by Fritz Wiessner and a companion in 1925. Once you complete a pendulum low on the face, an acrobatic move, you cannot descend from the climb. Only eight months earlier than our visit, a team of four, friends of Karl, were overtaken by a massive thunderstorm on the east face and forced to bivouac on tiny ledges. By the time help arrived, three had perished from hypothermia.

The lower third of the wall was relatively easy until we came to the pendulum. I lowered Karl some 20 feet from the pendulum piton, and he swung out and danced repeatedly across the wall attempting to reach some small holds across a smooth face. Finally he succeeded, set up his anchor, and called for me to follow. Once by his side, I untied and pulled the rope through the piton. As I retied my knot, we knew that this climb had become serious. There was no way off but upward.

Several aid pitches followed and we surmounted the famous Rossi overhang, where we pondered the final 400-foot nearly vertical wall above us. We knew exactly what was ahead: several difficult pitches up a chimney system and then the infamous traverse known as the Ausstiegsriss, the exit crack. This last problem, my lead, began in an overhanging chimney. By stepping on Karl’s shoulders and using direct aid I could barely see the beginning of the small crack, obviously a hand traverse, that led right some 30 feet across the smooth wall. I grabbed the lip and moved across, placing a few pitons on the way until I reached a good ledge for the belay. The climb was ours. On our return to the hut, we said goodbye to Aschenbrenner and trekked back to the roadhead, where Karl and I again parted ways.

Karl’s studies were eventually over, and we assembled at the family home in Wolfern. We packed our rucksacks with all our gear, including light sleeping bags, a nylon bivouac sack I had made in California, and climbing equipment. Earlier, we had decided to travel by bicycle rather than by train, for this was not only cheaper but more flexible for choosing our destinations. Karl managed to find me a postal bike, which had only one gear and axle brakes. It was, he explained, the means for many climbers of Austria to get to the rocks before and just after the war. Small bags containing dry foodstuffs were suspended below the packs on the back of the bicycles. Each bike carried an extra 65 pounds of equipment.

I soon realized this trip was going to be troublesome. Even though hostilities in the German theater had ended four years before, travel restrictions still existed. Few cars traveled the roads owing to the shortage of gasoline, and the range of food was limited. Luckily, oatmeal and other grains, along with such delicacies as Speck (bacon fat) and sausages, were available. Karl was an expert in driving a loaded tour bike, but I was a total neophyte. After loading up, we bade farewell to his family and started down the road. I hadn’t gone 500 yards when I attempted to turn around a curve, lost control, and crashed into a hedge. With inadequate weight on the front wheel, accurate steering felt impossible. A bad start, but I learned how to deal with this problem, and we rode on to our destination at the foot of the Dachstein. Here we climbed a beautiful peak called the Däumling by the southeast buttress. The climbing was spectacular: The ridge was solid limestone and offered a variety of intricate problems. Not only did we climb the route in fine style, we pioneered a more direct line to the summit on the last pitch.

On returning to the valley we pedaled to the next town and sent our rucksacks by public transport to a roadhead near the foot of the Grossglockner, at 12,461 feet the highest and most spectacular peak in Austria. Here we would start up the Pasterze Glacier to the Oberwalderhütte across from the north face. But first we had to negotiate the Glocknerstrasse, crossing a high pass in a thunderstorm.

As we rested at the entrance of a tunnel, a roar of thunder and flash of lightning occurred simultaneously. Karl was on his bicycle, leaning on a metal rail at the side of the tunnel, and nearly thrown to the ground.  Fortunately no one was hurt. As we began the descent toward the hut, my overheated brakes failed and I landed in a ditch, a recurring problem during the next weeks.    

Karl had been interested in the north face of the Glockner for several years. The route was first climbed by Willo Welzenbach and Karl Wien in the fall of 1926, the year of Karl’s and my birth. They took 11 hours, including four hours for the approach. Willo had an inclinometer and measured the angle of the lower slopes at 53 degrees and the upper rock wall at around 70 degrees, a rather normal configuration for Alpine faces.

Lugmayer under the north face of Grossglockner, the highest peak in Austria. He and Steck made an early ascent of this formidable alpine wall despite never having previously worn crampons. (Photo: Allen Steck)

At 3:30 the following morning we were rudely awakened by our pocket alarm. A fresh breeze had come up during the night, sweeping the skies of the lingering clouds, and the moon shone down on the north face, accenting the ridges and buttresses with startling clarity.

Karl clasped my shoulder, saying, “This is our world.”

We tumbled down the stairs for a quick breakfast. Ice pitons, carabiners, crampons, warm clothes, bread, cheese and Speck went into our sacks along with a few other essentials, and soon we found our way down to the glacier. Once across and up the opposite slope, we stopped to put on our crampons and began to feel our way through the labyrinthine icefall that drained the snowfields under the north face. I was particularly cautious since, unlike Karl, I had never used crampons. We moved quickly through the shattered seracs and crevasses that formed this mysterious, unearthly crystalline world. The sun rose, and Karl’s axe sparkled in the light as he hammered methodically into the ice under the bergschrund. Chopping some steps and hammering in an ice piton, he surmounted the top and soon set up his belay. The sun shone fiercely and small avalanches began to slide past. We had spent too much time in the icefall and now it was imperative to climb as quickly as possible. The crunch of iron on snow, an occasional shout, and the hissing of the avalanches were the only sounds that penetrated the silence.

As we approached the rocky buttress that led up to the summit, threads of mist wove around the top and dark clouds swept the glacier below. Originally, we had planned to climb the couloir to the right of the buttress, but it was full of debris slides, so we chose the rock face. It was now 2 p.m., with the buttress still ahead. Thunder rumbled to the south, and snow began falling. But the rock was good and we managed to move up fairly quickly to reach a spot beneath the summit ridge. I had just passed Karl and was leading up a chimney when a  thunderous roar and blinding flash of fire lit up the air around us, and a jolt ran through our limbs. The sound died away and we stood, our ears ringing, listening to the buzzing of our axes.

“Schöne Musik,” said Karl, rather too philosophically.

The snow increased in intensity and we began to feel the bite of the cold. At the last rope-length below the summit, more lightning crashed onto the ridge, and the overwhelming precariousness of our situation forced a near-run past the enormous buzzing iron Gipfelkreuz  (summit cross) on top. As we passed the Kleinglockner sub peak on our way to safety, another blast shook our bodies. Luck was with us that evening, as we eventually reached shelter, our clothes dripping with water, in the Adlersruhehütte on the ridge a few hundred feet below the summit.

Reaching the valley again, we retrieved our bicycles, began pedaling, reached Lienz in a dismal rainstorm, and continued on to Sillian, where we bought supplies just before crossing into Italy. We paused here and cast a fond glance back over the mountains of our beloved Austria. I say “our” with feeling, for in the course of the few weeks that I was with Karl or with his family, Austria had become, it seemed, as much a part of me as it was of Karl.

It seemed amazing this wall had been climbed, but the pitons arched up before our eyes.

Finally, we turned our eyes southward to the towering cliffs and spires of the Sexten Dolomites. My papers for the bicycle were in order, but my visa for Austria had expired. Fortunately, the border guard did not press the issue and let me cross into Italy, where the whole aspect and tempo of life changed before our eyes. A new language fell on our ears amid gaiety, laughter and untiring activity. Soon we reached the Dolomitenhof, where Karl knew the owner-manager, the guide Sepp Innerkofler. A group of students from a Catholic school in Milan had rented the inn, and since it was completely full, we slept in a nearby hayloft. Karl was a master at finding us such lodgings throughout our travels.

The next day, after finding a place for our excess gear and the bikes, we hiked to the Drei Zinnenhütte in about two hours. Here at last we had our first view of the fantastic, internationally famous north face of the Cima Grande, first climbed by Emilio Comici and the brothers Dimai in 1933. Comici was the most gifted Italian climber of his time, and he made many first ascents,  classics still today, and was one of the first to develop technical climbing, including double-rope technique and slings for aid. His writings show a deep pleasure at simply being in the mountains, in close association with rock and sky, with sun, snow, cloud and storm. Sadly, Comici’s career ended with a fatal rappel accident on a favorite crag. He was only 39.

By now Karl and I were very fit, but I still lacked experience in big-wall climbing, even though I had learned to climb in Yosemite three years previously. In those days it was unthinkable that Yosemite’s enormous walls would ever be climbed. This 1,800-foot north wall of the Cima Grande, glowing with its characteristic yellow-orange color, seemed more overwhelming than any Yosemite cliff, yet it had been climbed in 1933! Karl and I stood admiring this monstrosity, our minds in turmoil. Karl, of course, knew from reading about Kasparek’s earlier ascent what the climbing was like. The rock, like most of the Dolomites, was fractured, and well suited for pitons; in fact, many were in place.

After a couple of training climbs on nearby crags, we approached the first difficult lead early one morning. We stopped on a spacious ledge and looked up at the wall, the first 650 feet of which were overhanging. Icicles, falling from above, twisted and twirled in the air until they crashed into the talus a full 60 feet from the wall. It seemed amazing this wall had been climbed, but the pitons arched up before our eyes.

Ropes and shoes in a meadow on a rest day. (Photo: Allen Steck)

Karl tied in and started off. Using double-rope technique, he reached a piton some 15 feet above me and took tension while he surveyed the rock above. He called down in a rather surprised voice that he could see no more pitons for 25 feet and the wall was still quite steep. Then I saw him reach up and start to free climb with delicate balance on tiny holds.

Much higher, he clipped into the anchor pitons, and called down: “Al, I’ve got it.”

With difficulty he pulled up the slack and gave me tension. I swung out, snapped the ropes out of the carabiners, collected them, and was soon by his side. I belayed as he traversed out to the right toward a crack that led up to the next ledge.

But we never got to see the ledge that day. Karl had climbed far above me when he ran out of rope before reaching the ledge with the next anchor. He was out of sight but I heard his call asking for more rope. I left my anchors and climbed up some 15 feet to where I found a small ledge to stand on. But there were no pitons and I had to use one hand on a hold above to keep my balance. I called up to Karl that I had set up a stance and could belay with one hand.

I remember clearly on our departure one of the priests on his knees begging us not to go up on that wall again.

He was in a difficult spot just below a bulge but with the pitons in place. With a determined effort he raised himself high, but as he struggled to reach a good hold, a rusty piton suddenly pulled out. Karl flew headlong past my shoulder. The rope jerked out of my grasp and the whole length of it went buzzing through the carabiners until only my counterweight stopped him. I looked down after that frightening moment and saw Karl climbing up to the starting ledge, rubbing his head. I managed to get to some secure pitons and rappelled.

“Yes, Al, I had some luck there,” he said, with a somber look.

But he had suffered a sizeable cut on his head, so we hiked down to the Dolomitenhof. On the way we met three Swiss climbers who had witnessed Karl’s fall. They had intended to start the climb that morning but spotted us on the wall and decided to watch through binoculars. At the Dolomitenhof, one of the students patched up Karl’s wound and wrapped a bandage around his head. As the young woman put iodine on the wound, Karl went limp momentarily, but when Innerkofler produced a bottle of brandy he came around quickly enough.

The talk went on for hours until at 11:00 p.m. we realized that we had to get back to the hut in order to start the climb again the next morning. I remember clearly on our departure one of the priests on his knees begging us not to go up on that wall again.

By 10 the next morning we had reached the scene of the accident. Leading, I noticed that the rock was loose where the piton had pulled. I hammered the same piton back into a crack a little to the right and went up on tension to a tiny ledge, where I set up an anchor. Karl followed, still a bit dizzy, with a large bandage over the top of his head and tied under his chin. I  again took the lead and we went on for several hours until reaching the famous Escalator Crack. This lead was about 100 feet long, requiring 25 pitons for direct aid. It was the pitch that had defeated many of the early attempts.

Twelve hours after we started that day, we reached the Aschenbrenner bivouac ledge, named after the hut keeper we met at the Stripsenjochhaus, who had completed the second ascent of the wall. We spent a reasonable night in our nylon bivouac sack and continued climbing, with Karl back in the lead, at first light. The face was much less steep now and we were soon on the summit basking in the sunlight.

We often discussed the fall, which I guessed was about 65 feet. Karl was spared more serious injury because of the overhang and the fact that he not only tied in at the waist, but also threaded the rope up and over both shoulders, which meant that when the rope came tight he would be facing upward. The piton that pulled, stamped with the letters KF, became part of my collection.

Almost three weeks after leaving Wolfern, after a fine ascent of the Civetta, we continued our journey to the Rosengarten Group. Near Predazzo I had another brake failure—I was slowly getting used to the crashes—but we eventually made it to the trailhead at the base of the Vajolet Valley, took a cable railway up a steep section and hiked to the Vajolet Hut, just across from the incredible Vajolet Towers. Pia Piaz and her husband were the hut keepers and they welcomed us with great enthusiasm; on seeing Karl’s colorful head bandage they realized that he was the one who had taken the famous flight on the Zinne Nordwand.

The weather was excellent and our first tour went without incident, a traverse of the Vajolet Towers, starting with the unbelievably steep Delago Kante. Our stay at the hut was delightful, and when it came time to leave, the generosity of our hosts touched our hearts: Frau Piaz would not take a single lire from us for our lodging at the nearby unused Preuss Hut. The former hut keeper was her father, Tita Piaz, who had died just the year before in a bicycle accident. Soon we pedaled our way over a small pass to Bolzano, where we managed, in spite of the language difficulties, to send most of our gear to Aosta, close to Mont Blanc. We climbed on our bikes for the six-day ride.

Often we managed to sleep in small vicarages; one time, in a cornfield. Mostly we stayed in haylofts, which involved going up to a farmhouse and asking if we might lodge there. Once a bearded old man up in the barn behind the house screamed in French about the “Boche” and waved a pitchfork. The lady of the house probably would have let us stay, but he made it clear that German-speaking folks were not wanted. On the road we took our meals in small inns; sometimes a family might feed us. Often, usually at lunch, we would stop in villages at the local water fountain and eat a bowl of cereal.

We pushed our bikes over the highest pass in Europe, the 9,045-foot Stelvio Pass, and again I suffered brake failure on the descent. We slept in wood chips at a cabinet-maker’s shop near the Swiss border … cycled through Saint Moritz, then over some passes, then back into Italy, where we spent the night in a peasant’s hayloft … slept one night in a bicycle-repair shop while my brake was being fixed. One afternoon on our bicycles, Karl managed to catch the bumper of a slow-moving truck, but I was not quick enough and so didn’t see Karl for a whole day.

Finally we reached Aosta, where again with language difficulties, we sent my bike back to Wolfern by train. A great relief swept through my body as I rejoiced in the termination of my struggles with it. Karl left his bike in Aosta and we were able to ride on the roof of an autobus to Courmayeur, where we found our way to the cable railway for the ride up to the Torino hut on the crest just east of Mont Blanc.

Fantastic thoughts surged through my mind as we entered this new granitic world. The view from the hut in the soft evening light was of a stupendous array of icy peaks, ridges and glaciers. What were we going to climb? The Walker Spur on the north face of the Grandes Jorasses was of great interest, but such an idea reeked of hubris because the difficulty and danger were far greater than anything we had yet experienced. We put it off, deciding on the traverse of the Aiguilles du Diable, five pinnacles on a ridge leading down from the summit of Mont Blanc du Tacul. The traverse went quite well, but I injured an ankle on the descent, so it took us extra time to get down the Mer de Glace and ultimately Chamonix. On the way, we looked up with great longing toward the Walker Spur, now only a dream.

Karl later recalled our first visit to a restaurant in weeks: “We were eating the slices of bread situated on the tables in baskets and put on mustard which also was to find on the tables. When all the baskets were empty, we discovered the place where the bread was ready for cutting into slices, we did this by ourselves. The owner of the restaurant watched us and he chased us away.”

We went our different ways here: With Karl’s pack I took the train to Zürich (he would pass through Zürich on his way back to Austria) to pick up my luggage and arrange transport to Genoa for my return to America. Karl returned to Aosta, where he would start a three-day bike ride to meet me in Genoa. While passing through Entrèves, just above Courmayeur, Karl met Hermann Buhl, the Austrian mountaineer who would in four years make the first ascent of Nanga Parbat, who urged Karl to join him for a second ascent of the Aiguille Noire de Peuterey, a major peak on the south ridge of Mont Blanc. It was a challenge, but Karl declined, as he had promised to meet me in Genoa.

We met at the American Express office and took lodging in a small hotel overlooking the harbor. Sadness marked our last hours together. We talked of many things and of course the intense moments of the past six weeks. A subject we hadn’t touched on much was our war experiences. I told him about being aboard a destroyer escort in the South Pacific; at the same time he had been a prisoner of war in England. He now told me the riveting story of his surrender to the British. At the age of 16 he made his first flight in a glider, eventually becoming a skilled glider pilot. But when things deteriorated for the Third Reich in 1944 he was reassigned to the infantry and sent to the front in northern Holland. The train in which he was traveling was savaged by a Spitfire attack and many were killed. The remainder of his unit was then sent close to the border of Belgium, where a British force was on the attack. In fierce fighting, he hid in a foxhole in a large marshy field as artillery shells and rifle fire crashed about. His unit realized its position had been given to the British by a local Flemish resident, and the order was given to relocate. Karl took off his helmet while digging his new foxhole and on picking it up discovered that a bullet had gone right through it. In the pre-dawn light he spotted a light vehicle loaded with soldiers coming his way, and the split-second after it passed he leapt up and jumped into the vehicle, parting the rifle barrels quickly to avoid being shot. The British soldiers were as surprised as Karl at this bold maneuver. He was 18. He spent the next two years as a POW in England and was glad that he had never fired a shot at the British.

Karl came down with me the following day to the dock and we said our farewells. We knew we would see each other again. Karl’s last comment in his brief diary was: “Ich bin Allein.”

Before meeting again 10 years later, we both married and started our families. I named my son Lee Karl Steck and he named his son Karl Allen Lugmayer. After Karl completed his studies, he took a position with Swissair at the Vienna airport and thus traveled at reduced cost to various parts of the world. He continued climbing; two of his more important ventures were the ninth ascent of the Eiger’s north face and an expedition to the mountains of Peru. He would often come to California to visit. Karl and I celebrated our 80th birthdays at a lavish, festive party in Berkeley in May of 2006. My gift to him was the KF piton. 

Allen Steck lives in Berkeley. The above story has never before been told in its entirety. In the photo below, Steck (left) and Lugmayer share a joint 80th birthday party in Berkeley, May 2006. This article first appeared in Ascent 2012.

(Photo: Sara Steck)

The post Ordeal By Alps With Allen Steck, Father of American Climbing appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

A pint-sized Edmonton Oilers fan from Sarnia, Ont. might just have the coolest Halloween costume around.

5-year-old Easton Oetting, who has special needs, is dressed up as an Oilers’ Zamboni. That’s right, the youngster is actually dressed up as an Edmonton Oilers-themed ice-resurfacing machine, thanks to his handyman father, DJ Oetting.

“We were just trying to figure out how we could incorporate the Oilers into his costume and we wanted to still do the stroller, so obviously a vehicle,” explains Oetting. “The only thing we could think of was a Zamboni.”

Easton has a rare genetic disorder which affects his development, including his heart, speech and mobility.

But his dad wasn’t about to let that stop the wee Oilers fanatic from enjoying Halloween.

He put the Zamboni together in a few hours using foam insulation, glue and screws.

“I have it set up so that it goes over the top of his stroller, and it actually sits perfectly on his stroller, and then we just wheel the stroller with him in it,” says Oetting.

Easton and his Zamboni’s ride to fame came quickly after his mom posted a video to social media of him in the Zamboni on Friday.

It caught the attention of Oilers’ Nation, then the NHL and TSN, who reposted adorable video, with the NHL even calling it the “costume of the year.”

“Everybody seems to love it,” says Oetting. “Even people that aren’t Oilers’ fans, I think they just, they see Easton in it and how happy he is, and they love it.”

The post Handyman father builds Oilers Zamboni costume for particular wants son appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

A Dutch court on Tuesday jailed an Austrian handyman for helping a cult leader to isolate his own children on a farm for a decade, in a case that shocked the Netherlands.

The man, identified only as 61-year-old Joseph B. due to Dutch privacy rules, played an ‘essential role’ in depriving the six children of their liberty in the remote northeastern village of Ruinerwold, the court ruled, jailing him for three years.

The Austrian was a ‘disciple’ of the children’s father Gerrit Jan van Dorsten, buying groceries and renting the farm where van Dorsten believed he was readying his children for a new world called Eden.

‘The defendant played an essential role, and without his contribution it would not have been possible for the father to allow the children to live isolated from society for such a long period,’ the court in the northern city of Assen said.

Judges acquitted Joseph B. of detaining three older children, and of abusing any of van Dorsten’s children.

But he was also convicted of detaining another Austrian man who was a follower of the father and hanging him up in a shack for several weeks in 2009.

The father, who was accused of detaining, assaulting and abusing his children, was ruled unfit to stand trial last year after suffering a debilitating stroke.

The Austrian was a ‘disciple’ of the children’s father Gerrit Jan van Dorsten, buying groceries and renting the farm (pictured) where van Dorsten believed he was readying his children for a new world called Eden

The ‘space’ had daylight coming into it and the children were occasionally allowed outside, but never further than the farm’s perimeter fence

Gerrit Jan van Dorsten is pictured in the farmhouse grounds, 60 miles north of Amsterdam. He was arrested on suspicion of deprivation of liberty among other charges, but suffered a stroke and had the court case against him dropped

Six adult children – four women and two men, including Jan Zon van Dorsten (pictured) – were held prisoner at a Dutch farm for nine years

Pictured: Cafe De Kastelein in Ruinerwold where Jan Zon van Dorsten raised the alarm

Police arrested van Dorsten and Joseph B. in October 2019 after the eldest child walked into a local bar in a confused state and raised the alarm.

The children eventually revealed that their father had isolated them at the farmhouse from birth and beaten them from a young age to drive out ‘bad spirits’.

The father saw himself as a new Messiah and ‘saw it as his task to found a new society called Eden according to the rules of God,’ the court ruling said.

Joseph B. had found the farm in Ruinerwold, rented it in his name and renovated it with van Dorsten so that the family could live there in isolation, the court said.

He also ensured that money transferred from Austria went to the father and took care of daily groceries, even after van Dorsten’s stroke in 2016.

He had a ‘different role’ to the father but there was ‘sufficiently close and conscious cooperation’ between them to show that he was also guilty, the court ruled.

The case of the so-called Ruinerwold Children stunned the Netherlands and sparked an award-winning documentary.

The six children who were kept on the farm are now all young adults.

But relatives of van Dorsten in 2019 revealed three older siblings had already fled left the family’s isolated life before the father bought the farm and held the remaining six children captive.

Their statement added that van Dorsten told his family to ‘not make any attempt to find his place of residence’ when the relative parted ways decades ago.

According to the NL Times, the family said: ‘The family has taken notice of the events in Ruinerwold with dismay. In the past few days a family member informed us of the identity of the family found.

‘Gerrit Jan van Dorsten broke all ties with his immediate family in the 1980s. He told us not to make any attempt to find his place of residence.

‘Eight years ago, three children of Gerrit Jan van Dorsten fled the family in Hasselt and contacted their brother from a previous marriage, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. The family has since remained unaware of the existence of other children.’

Janny Knol, chief of the north Netherlands police, said in 2019 that the children were kept as an ‘enclosed space’ within the farm building which was divided ‘into small compartments.’

Ms Knol said the siblings – four women and two men – were largely kept inside the space but were occasionally allowed out into the yard, though no further than the farm’s perimeter fence.

Dutch police probing the case of a family who were locked away on an isolated farm for nine years. Prosecutors said the three oldest children were not allowed to talk about the existence of their brothers and sisters

Van Dorsten (pictured) posted videos on Facebook showing him working out in the garden

She said they appeared to be aged between 18 and 25, though that is not certain because they were not registered with authorities. They had not received any formal schooling, but were able to read and write Dutch.

In 2021, a court ruled that a 2016 stroke had so badly affected the father’s ability to communicate and comprehend that continuing with the case would breach his fair trial rights.

Corinne Jeekel, a lawyer representing the eldest four children, told Dutch broadcaster NOS that they were disappointed with the decision.

‘It is a great shame for the clients that there will be no criminal judgment’, Jeekel told national broadcaster NOS in March 2021.

The rest of the family, however, stood by their father.

‘The youngest five children are very happy,’ defense lawyer Robert Snorn told local broadcaster RTV Drenthe.

Prosecutors said at the time that the children are free to choose their own futures, even if that means returning to a life of isolation.

‘In the past 18 months, the children have got to know our society, have been able to participate in it and have received spiritual and medical care,’ prosecutors said in a statement.

‘If, now that they have been able to taste the alternative, they nevertheless choose to want to live in seclusion with their father again, to exercise their faith… that is their choice.’

The post Austrian handyman who helped Dutch cult father to cover youngsters on a farm is jailed for 3 years  appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

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In the wake of a sexual harassment scandal, it was Cuomo’s last day in office, a time when outgoing governors typically grant commutations. Boudin continually refreshed the governor’s press page, hoping for news.

But the news did not come from the governor’s website. At about 2:30 pm in San Francisco, he received a text from his mother, Kathy Boudin, who had also served prison time in the same incident.

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“David was commuted!” she wrote. “Eligible for parole.”

Boudin excused himself from a Zoom meeting, yelled with joy, found his wife and held her in the hallway.

“We just couldn’t talk,” Boudin recalled in an interview with The Washington Post. “We couldn’t make words come out.”

In his last hours as New York governor, Cuomo commuted the sentences of Gilbert and four others who “demonstrated substantial evidence of rehabilitation and a commitment to their communities,” according to a news release from the governor’s office.

“These clemencies make clear the power of redemption, encourage those who have made mistakes to engage in meaningful rehabilitation, and show New Yorkers that we can work toward a better future,” Cuomo said in a statement.

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Gilbert will now be referred to the New York State Board of Parole, which will consider his release, according to the governor’s office. It added that Gilbert made contributions to AIDS education and prevention programs. He also worked as “a student tutor, law library clerk, paralegal assistant [and] a teacher’s aide,” the statement adds.

Boudin, who is right now facing a recall campaign, was elected as San Francisco’s top prosecutor in 2019 after running on a platform of decarcerating jails, moving away from a cash bail system, and holding police officers accountable for misconduct. He is among a class of so-called progressive prosecutors, including Larry Krasner in Philadelphia and Kim Foxx in Chicago, who were elected in recent years after pledging to enact criminal justice reforms.

During his ascension to San Francisco district attorney — a position formerly occupied by Vice President Harris — Boudin invoked his father’s incarceration as a reason he assumed the role of prosecutor, and his relationship with his father has been intertwined in his political narrative.

“Growing up, I had to go through a metal detector and steel gates just to give my parents a hug,” Boudin said in a 2019 campaign video.

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Boudin, 41, was a baby when the robbery took place. David Gilbert and Kathy Boudin, who were members of the Weather Underground, a radical left-wing militant group, were both convicted of felony murder for their role in the 1981 armed robbery of a Brink’s armored car that left two Nyack, NY, police officers and a security guard dead. Although they did not carry out the murders themselves, Gilbert and Boudin were in the getaway vehicle.

Kathy Boudin was released from prison in 2003 and went on to become a professor at the Columbia University School of Social Work.

Chesa Boudin told The Post that he had been trying to have his father’s sentence commuted for years. He and his family applied when former governor David Paterson left office in 2010, and again in 2020 during the pandemic. They reapplied for clemency again this year.

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“We felt like the governor’s people were paying attention,” Boudin said. “But one never really knows with these things.”

While Boudin said he was grateful his father had finally been granted clemency, he acknowledged on Twitter that “his crime devastated many families.” News of the clemency decision invited criticism from some of those victims on Monday.

“It’s absurd,” Arthur Keenan Jr., a retired detective with the Nyack Police Department who was wounded in the shootout, told the New York Times.

Keenan added that Cuomo “is stabbing all of law enforcement in the back, and when I say all, I’m talking about federal, state, local — all across the whole country — because he’s a traitor.”

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Ed Day, the elected leader of Rockland County, where Nyack is located, said that Cuomo had “debased himself,” according to the Times.

“As if victimizing 11 women, including members of his own staff, was not despicable enough, his commutation of the 75-years-to-life sentence of David Gilbert is a further assault on the people of Rockland and New York State,” Day said in a statement, the Times reported. “Andrew Cuomo continues to focus on the well-being of murderers rather than the victims of these horrible offenses.”

Despite those criticisms, Boudin said the news felt “like a weight I’ve been carrying my whole had been lifted.”

He thought about the prospect of sharing “basic daily joy” with his father, and of being able to introduce him to his yet-to-be-born child.

“Not having to take my child through metal detectors and steel gates to meet their grandfather was just one of the most amazing gifts I could have imagined,” he said. “It also made me think about those other families and how nothing will ever make them whole again, and how they will continue to live with the pain and loss that was caused by my parents’ crime.”

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In an 1857 photograph so epic and populous that it resembles a history painting, Oscar Rejlander presents an allegory of the tension between virtue and debauchery. On display at the Getty Center in Los Angeles, a bearded sage escorts two young men onto the stage of life. An eager youth crouches to the right, toward an abundance of temptations: drinking, gambling, and a swarm of dreamy nudes. The other marches, eyes closed with delightful sobriety, towards a future of study and good works. There, patients are cured and penitents are acquitted, workers work with hammers and saws, and a scholar stabs a globe with his compass.

Your choice, the old man suggests: satisfy the body or uplift the soul?

As a bit of a sophisticated Victorian moral code, Rejlander’s “Two Ways of Life” is ambiguous. Yes, the path of devotion is its own reward and all that, but the tableau makes the voluptuous side appear much more appealing. If the sin has disadvantages, the photographer does not respond to it. Even the grizzled prophet in the center seems undecided; he tends to lust in one version and to light in another.

Rejlander, who began as a painter in his native Sweden and then settled in England as a photographer in the mid-19th century, was one of the forgotten pioneers of this art form. A trickster, darkroom virtuoso, and technological convertor, he had never had a retrospective until the Getty Center released 150 prints with insightful insights into his techniques. For example, “Two Ways of Life” is a composite of more than 30 negatives that were seamlessly joined together more than a century before Photoshop first shone in the eyes of a programmer.

The debut of the work provoked allegations of impropriety and humiliation. One critic praised Rejlander’s technical ability, but claimed that “such a photo has neither art nor decency”. It was one thing to idealize a bare Venus, as painters had done for centuries, and quite another to “see the public realistically and in great detail photographs of naked prostitutes in flesh and blood.”

‘The Juggler’ (around 1865) © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

‘Mourning’ (1864) © Museum of Fine Arts of San Francisco

Some saw the picture as an attack by industrial production on the realm of the handmade. “Works of high art cannot be carried out by a mechanical device,” snorted one critic.

Prince Albert loved the epic tableau, and Queen Victoria bought a print for each of the royal residences: Windsor, Osborne House, and Balmoral, where it was intended for the Prince’s wardrobe. Rejlander’s most famous work often appears in the history of photography as a vulgar copy of Victorian kitsch. In the 20th century, sober modernists evaded a path they found bathing. Compound narratives fell into disrepute, and artists endorsed Alfred Stieglitz’s definition of “linear photography” – “brutally direct, without flicker; free of tricks and any ‘ism’. “

This retrospective offers a counter-narrative that suddenly appears contemporary. Postmodern practitioners with little interest in authenticity – such as Gregory Crewdson or Cindy Sherman – have taken up the theater model. And digital tinkering has finally shattered any remaining belief that the camera is telling the unvarnished truth. The Getty celebrates a sensitivity that undermines strong realism with sentimentality, but that is also heartbreaking, hilarious, and tech-savvy.

‘Non Angeli sed Angli’ (1854–56) © Emile Askey

Rejlander was at his best taking pictures. He approached the subjects the way a director treats actors and persuaded them to project emotions as if they were on stage. He was so effective that Darwin recruited him to document the full spectrum of human facial expressions.

For his part, Rejlander pushed children, friends, neighbors and passers-by into his studio and dressed them from his well-stocked costume box. There he could control the lighting and take his time – and later, if necessary, exchange a background from the Scottish Highlands or a charming stream. His favorite subjects were the most available: his wife, his dog, and himself. The three appear with reassuring regularity. “Happy Days (Returning from the Fair)”, for example, shows Oscar and Mary arm in arm in matching hats.

‘Ah!’ (1865) © The J. Paul Getty Museum

‘Mental Distress’ (1871) © Victoria and Albert Museum

This picture suggests that even the most brazen forgery can have a real streak: an expression of marital affection binds the two spouses together. As Thespian-Manqué, Rejlander assumes a variety of comical poses, inexplicably sits at the table with a handkerchief on his head or stares at his desk, while a parrot seems to mock his profession as nothing but stupid facial expressions.

Rejlander adored Garibaldi, the Italian nationalist and revolutionary, with whom he bore an uncanny resemblance. He posed as the wounded Patriot more than once, comforted and encouraged by Hope (his wife again). In a quasi-religious image, St. Peter’s Basilica hovers in a balloon over his head, a vision of the liberator’s dream of wresting Rome from the Pope.

‘Hard Times’ (1860) © George Eastman Museum

Like Garibaldi, Rejlander thought he was a man of the people and went out into the streets to find subjects among the poor. His chimney sweeps, organ grinder and laundresses are marked by cliché and condescension, similar to Dickens or Doré in their most kitschy form. But his depictions of children almost always hit the right note. The boys in their ragged clothes and bare feet maintain dignity, beauty and grace despite their circumstances – or, to be more precise, despite the circumstances Rejlander created for them. We see “Poor Joe”, folded in his rags to seek protection from a brutal London night that is only visible through the photographer’s affectionate sympathy for elegant society. The same boy appears in another picture during the day and rages in undisguised exuberance.

‘Night in Town (Poor Jo, Homeless)’, (before 1862; printed after 1879) © National Gallery of Canada

Self-portrait with a parrot (c1865) © NPG

Rejlander was one of the earliest advocates of photography to realize it could rival painting, and he made his strongest case in an 1866 portrait of Mary Constable and her brother. The young couple crouch thoughtfully, temple to temple gazing at a fireplace backstage and faces lit by the embers. Actually, Rejlander probably used a more reliable source – sunlight streaming through a window – but the resulting double portrait has a kind of romantic glamor that the film studios would eventually perfect all over again.

Had he lived a few generations later, Rejlander would surely have made it straight to Los Angeles. It’s good to know that it has finally arrived.

“Mary Constable and Her Brother” (1866)

Until June 9th getty.edu

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The post Oscar Rejlander, the daddy of artwork pictures appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

Now he’s doing more than just sharing his story. He and his family took a proactive approach to security for their entire neighborhood.

RELATED: San Franciscans Are Concerned About Public Safety, 70% Say Quality of Life has deteriorated

It was a typical Friday night for the man in his forties who asked not to reveal his name as he washed his car at his house near McLaren Park.

A surveillance video from across the street shows a vehicle lapping the block at least four times before the incident happened. A gun is seen in the suspect’s hand as he approaches the victim, who drops his bucket and is forced into the garage.

“They took me to my house, where my family took us all to the bathroom,” says the man behind the sunglasses and face mask.

EXCLUSIVE: San Francisco couple forcibly robbed after being chased home

When two suspects made their demands, “They said where is the money, where is the money?” and stole thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry, and the husband’s wife and two daughters endured what they believed to be a bleak end.

“I thought either someone would be shot or someone would call the police, like our neighbors, and it would be a hostage situation,” said her 11-year-old daughter.

The man took off his glasses to reveal the deep bruises around his eye and stated, “They just pressed my face against the wall to let me know this was a real situation.”

The rest of the family was not physically injured.

Even so, this husband and father are aware that the emotional burden is much higher and burst into tears for a moment.

This story doesn’t stop there.

RELATED: Frustration Over “No Impact” For Organized Crime In SF

The father and 11-year-old daughter went out the next day and met with every single neighbor and left letters describing what happened to them.

“When you see a neighbor and a child tell them what happened … there is more heart. They take it to heart immediately,” says the man, who believes that a police officer who heeded the same warning Intimidates neighbors.

The family believes the immediate abandonment of their property kept them alive, and for that they are grateful.

“If they want your belongings, don’t let them harm you or your family or anything that is irreplaceable,” the daughter said.

The San Francisco man speaks out to show how neighborly love, like sharing a warning or surveillance video, can make a difference.

“I love the city, but the city is changing. Be careful. Be vigilant, if you have to wash your cars, do it with a neighbor.”

The SFPD continues to search for the suspects.

Copyright © 2021 KGO-TV. All rights reserved.

The post EXCLUSIVE: San Francisco household held at gunpoint in personal rest room and robbed after father is ambushed whereas washing automobile appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

ROCK HILL, SC (WSOC) – Five people were killed in a mass shooting Wednesday night, including a prominent York County doctor, his wife, two of their grandchildren and an HVAC technician from Gastonia.

The York County Coroner’s Office said Dr. Robert Lesslie (70) and his wife Barbara Lesslie (69) were declared dead at the scene of the crime together with their grandchildren Adah Lesslie (9) and Noah Lesslie (5).

A fifth victim, James Lewis, 38, from Gastonia, was found dead outside the home. Authorities said he was working at the Lesslie’s house when he was shot.

A sixth victim, Robert Shook, 38, of Cherryville, North Carolina, was flown to a Charlotte hospital where he was in critical condition and “fought hard for his life,” said a cousin, Heather Smith Thompson.

Read more here.

The post HVAC tech, father of three killed in SC mass capturing appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

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“I keep expecting to wake up”: HVAC Tech, father of three children killed in mass shootings in SC

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The post HVAC tech, father of three killed in SC mass taking pictures – WSOC TV appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

ROCK HILL, SC – Six people were killed in a mass shooting Wednesday night, including a prominent York County doctor, his wife, two of their grandchildren and two HVAC technicians.

The York County coroner’s office said Dr. Robert Lesslie (70) and his wife Barbara Lesslie (69) were declared dead at the scene together with their grandchildren Adah Lesslie (9) and Noah Lesslie (5).

“He was my best friend”
I’m talking to Tom Lewis, the father of the Gastonia technician, who was killed in a mass shooting in a house outside Rock Hill. James Lewis was there working on the air conditioning when a gunman killed the family at home and Lewis and then seriously injured Lewis’ staff pic.twitter.com/NkleSRPA7R

– Ken (@ kenlemonWSOC9) April 8, 2021

A fifth victim, James Lewis, 38, from Gastonia, was found dead in front of the house. Authorities said he was working for Lesslie when he was shot.

A sixth victim, Robert Shook, 38, of Cherryville, North Carolina, was also working at home when he was shot. He was flown to a Charlotte hospital in critical condition but died days later, according to the York County Medical Department.

On Thursday morning, Channel 9 reporter Ken Lemon confirmed that Lewis and Shook were working at Gaston Sheet Metal Services in Gastonia.

[ RELATED: South Carolina mass shooting: Former NFL pro killed 5, then himself, officials say ]

When Channel 9 visited GSM Services on Thursday morning, there was a notice on the front door informing customers that the store was closed.

The team was said to have been broken by the shooting and described both men as “beloved members of our family at GSM”.

GSM Services asks the community for prayers A sign in front of the GSM services in Gastonia tells the community to keep them in their thoughts and prayers. James Lewis, a company employee, died in a mass shooting in York County, South Carolina on Wednesday. (WSOC)

__________

GASTON SHEET METAL SERVICES STATEMENT:

“As you can imagine, our team at GSM Services was broken from what happened last night in York, SC. Both of the men involved in this incident have been long-time beloved members of our family at GSM. These men embody the values ​​we aim to achieve at GSM and are family-oriented, excited and wonderful team members who care for all of the people they have encountered. In the days ahead, our focus will be on helping these families and our team members deal with this tragedy.

We’d like to thank the Law Enforcement and Emergency Management staff for being as helpful with their communication, empathy and professionalism as we did yesterday and overnight. We’d also like to thank our community for supporting our team and these families. Our community has helped us build this company through all of our good times, and we are blessed to know that support will continue through the bad times.

Please keep our families in your thoughts and prayers in the coming days. “

__________

Channel 9 learned that James Lewis and Shook were working as HVAC technicians when filming was taking place.

Lewis died from his injuries. Shook survived and called her employer, who immediately called 911.

“We are a heating and air conditioning company and my two technicians are there. Somebody just called me. He can’t speak. He yells, “I was shot. I was shot. ‘And I asked him where the other one is and he said, “He’s lying there and doesn’t react” and he was shot too, “you heard your employer say on the emergency call.

Reporter Ken Lemon spoke to Lewis’ parents Thursday morning, who said he was their only child and that he was a single father of three.

James Lewis James Lewis with his three children

Tom Lewis and Linda Tucker said their son went to school to become an HVAC technician and make a better living for his children. They said they can’t believe he was killed doing the job he loved and making a living for the family he adored.

“I keep expecting to wake up, ‘Oh, it was just a bad dream,’ but it isn’t. It’s real, ”said Tom Lewis. “I would like to find out why this guy did what he did. Sometimes I would have a lot more than that. “

[ ALSO READ: Community shares memories of doctor killed in South Carolina mass shooting ]

“He helped everyone, he was a kind guy, a great father. It’s just so stupid, ”said Tucker.

She said the hardest thing she ever had to do was tell her grandchildren that their father was dead.

Shook’s family said he had three children and could call his employer, who called 911 after the shooting.

The post HVAC tech, father of three killed in SC mass capturing – WSOC TV appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.