Coaxing a gentle smile out of this guy was like trying to make a dead man chuckle. Becoming his friend was another story. Interestingly enough, our American frivolity and general disregard for any and all indifference prevailed over time. This is a story about an intriguing man I met during my time climbing in Spain; a man who has served as one of the most influential catalysts in the development of an area that has recently gained world-wide acclamation.

We landed in Barcelona at midnight. After hours of recklessly cutting and weaving around cars at 110 mph on highways that seemed hardly fit for a scooter, no less a full-sized automobile, we had arrived at our refugio in Siurana: a series of tent-sites and a few bungalows for the privileged few who brought more than a hundred dollars for the month (not us).

With tents set up, we decided to go up the road and check out the refugios main cabin; a place to eat, drink, and converse.

We entered the place joking and laughing obnoxiously, bragging about how many bottles of Vino we would destroy and exactly how many routes we would crush; however, our spirits were quickly stifled with pensive glares. The chirping and chattering of beta-spray silenced, wine glasses settled, and the air grew a bit thicker. All around European climbers stared at us the way you would if you saw an elephant try to blend in with a pack of wolves. Not goin' happen pal.

And then we met him.

He could not have been taller than 5'6, no more than one hundred and thirty pounds, but you could tell the guy was wrought from iron and steal. Must have been at least forty years old, judging by his weathered face and grayish, brown hair. His knuckles swelled to the size of grapes, forearms displayed an impressive map of veins, and he moved with the characteristic climber's slouch; shoulders forward, back slightly bent, neck out, like a sullen vulture scrapping in the desert. Best of all, he sported a brilliant Spanish mullet: long party dreads in the back, short messy hair for business in the front. As he slowly strolled over to us, I noticed a subtle sparkle in his gray eyes, suggesting years of experience and mystery concealed within.

He spoke his first magical word.

"Que?"

We stood silent, unmoving.

"What?" he quickly blurted with razor-sharp irritation and his head tilted to the side as if he might die if he were forced to say it again.

We answered in a cacophonous unison.

"Hey, we just came by to check the place out!"

"Wanted to see what's goin' on"

"Should we pay you now, or what?"

"How ya doin?"

He quickly nodded his head with an equal amount of irritation, snapped around, and sat back down to join a group of climbers who were eating bread and sipping wine. As days passed we came to learn that this man was a legend, the big cheese, the primary developer who had bolted and climbed just about every route in Siurana over the past twenty years, not too mention various trips around the world, including one of the first and fastest ascents of Venezuala's Angel Fall, a 3,000 foot stone giant.

And he wanted nothing to do with another group of loud, ignorant Americans looking to flash his latest test-pieces.