by Marty Lewis

WHILE BOULDERING IS NOW A SPORT IN ITS OWN RIGHT and the Buttermilks a destination, a generation ago both were practice for bigger climbing pursuits. Back in the early 1980s, I desperately wanted to become a rock climber. I soon got in with a group of Yosemite transplants who were wintering on the Eastside. With these mentors, I spent sun-drenched winter days on the coarse granite of the Buttermilk Boulders. We would scramble the labyrinths between the grainy towers on the hill above the main boulders until dark. Around evening campfires I’d hear stories of the old timers who climbed the mysterious routes on those foreboding towers. Most notable of these was Smoke Blanchard and his rock course.

Smoke arrived in Bishop in the 1940s. The quintessential mountain rambler, he explored the High Sierra and the big ranges of the world. He settled in Bishop and, like many climbers of today, wanted a fun, less-committing place to practice his sport. Located only 20 minutes from his home base on Willow Street, the Buttermilk Country’s big towers were ideal. He attained most of the summits by the 1950s, and a decade later had developed a maze-like route through them.

While doing some research, I recently came upon a passage by Smoke Blanchard about this route: “There is no way that I know of to pass on by paper the feeling that permeates the person who steps out of the shower with epidermis cleaned and tingling from crystal scrapes, muscles pleasantly tired, joints well-oiled, and mind and spirit glowing from a day of Buttermilking.”

Reading this, I felt compelled to do the course. And, twenty-five years after first hearing about it, by a stroke of luck, I met someone who still knew the rock course intimately—legendary Eastside climber John Fischer. He’d been around here since the early 1960s, and owned and operated the Palisade School of Mountaineering. He agreed with enthusiasm to guide me on this adventure.

On a sunny spring morning our intrepid team assembled. Photographer Kevin Calder, his brother Steve (who has a knack for being around when an adventure is about to go down), myself and John, who arrived via dirt bike. Hearing it might be an all-day outing, we showed up wearing daypacks filled with essential items. John advised us to ditch everything because of the many narrow tunnels we were about to negotiate. He carried a thirty-foot rope over his shoulder, classic mountaineer style.

Now I, being a modern rock climber, was taught if a route is difficult enough to require a rope, one must also carry harnesses, belay devices and technical gear. I wasn’t sure about just a rope. I asked, “John, what are you going to with that?”

“I promised my kids I’d use it,” he replied.

We started with a short hike. Soon we were up an easy, fun corner, kinda what I expected. Then we came to an impasse: the Flying Squirrel (Smoke’s names), a seven-foot leap across a chasm. We jumped it and continued to the top of the Porcupine, a beautiful summit. Down that, across a slot to the base of the Faucet, which was immediately recognizable to all of us as the scene of a Galen Rowell image of Smoke: in a wide groove, he was wearing wool knickers with heavy leather boots and a flat, white Royal Robbins-style cap, with a short coiled rope over his shoulder and neck. It was deja vu all over again when John climbed it.

Next we entered the Charcoal Chimney, the scene, John told us, of a two-month bat guano fire ignited by a lightning strike. We tunneled straight up, scraping knees and elbows. Those of us in shorts now knew why John wore Levi’s. We emerged on the pointy summit of the Skin Diver (named for a diver’s knife found at the base). I looked down the sheer face and saw bolts that protect a modern route. John still wore his rope over his shoulder.

On an exposed, four-foot wide chimney descent, John slung the rope over a rock horn and threw it down. I figured I could bridge my feet across the chasm. I made it, but it felt spooky. The rope was not that comforting.
We headed over to the Owl and up an amazing corner for 100 feet to a ledge not quite big enough for us all. A vertical, thirty-foot flaring crack loomed above us. On this perch, John handed Kevin an end of the rope: “Would you lead this one?”

Twenty-five years of “modern” climbing and I’d just time-warped back to the 1950s. We were actually climbing the way most non-climbers imagine it would be from the movies they’ve watched. The classic mountaineering line reverberated in my head: “The leader must not fall!” Kevin climbed the exposed flare. John held the other end of the rope in his bare hands. If Kevin were to fall, he would sail by, pulling John down. Then Steve and I, like dominoes, would go down too—four crumpled bodies smashed on the rocks! This was a blast, but it made me realize how serious climbing was back in the day. Kevin made it to the top with aplomb and soon we all shared the Owl’s view of a gorgeous day. One scary move guarded the descent—Smoke used to have a piton here to pass the rope through and help belay. It was stolen a long time ago, so we made do.

We crossed Picnic Valley, the halfway point, where John painted a compelling picture of lunch and wine and bikini-clad foxes in the sixties. No one was there to greet us, though, so we continued the route. John handed me the rope end: “It’s your lead.” I tied the rope around my waist and traversed a narrow ledge, Sharp’s Scenic Stroll. Instantly, I was a hundred feet off the ground going straight up big plates and a crack. On top, I wedged myself into a crevice to belay. More scrambling to a very exciting mantle and we summited the Slab. This was cool. Miles of tunneling and chimneying and we were down the Lizard Run and safely on the ground.
John rode off into the sunset; and three more souls had been cleansed on the rock course.