The basic premise of mountaineering, according to Galen Rowell, is the trust that builds up in a team of climbers. “It’s really what it’s all about, an incredible bond and a real closeness involving tremendous respect,” Rowell says. “I’ve always had that kind of trust for Warren from our climbing together, and he’s never broken it. He’s a real renegade, and no one could ever rein him in, but you could always trust him.”

Well, you could damn well trust him to be entertaining, I’d learned that over the course of our marathon drinking day. By now it was late in Poker Flat, and they were starting to stack the chairs on the tables, but Batso wasn’t quite ready to close down the party. He ordered yet another nightcap, bringing a disapproving frown from Ms. Fromp. For a little guy, his capacity was astounding. Rowell had told me that once his wife had had the temerity to suggest to Harding that, all things considered, it might not be a bad idea for him to stop drinking. “Stop drinking?” he’d said incredulously. “Why would I want to do that? I love to drink!”

Even so, he was clearly beginning to fade. “I feel weak and old and wiped out,” he whispered, his voice having nearly deserted him. “But I’m damn sure not ready to lapse into fuddy-duddyism!”

I asked if he ever thought about climbing again. “I haven’t climbed seriously in a while,” he said ruefully. “A failed attempt to re-create the Nose climb on El Cap a few years ago was probably the last time. I’ve had soooo many failures to go along with my few successes. But then, everything I do is rather farcical. I still go to Yosemite, of course. I feel happier and healthier at high altitudes. Looking back, I don’t think of my ascents as any great works of art; they were more scratching and clawing your way upward, like a bug in a toilet bowl. And I never had any big revelations climbing either. I was just always wondering why it was going so slow.”

Harding’s head was nodding nearly to his chest by now, and he let out a deep sigh. “It was a game, all a game, you know, and nobody worries about it anymore.” Oh, no, I thought, now he’s going to turn maudlin and ruin everything. But the lantern light of his indomitable spirit flickered to life again. “We did some pretty good stuff up there, though, and that’s all that matters,” he said, thumping his fist on the table. “We got our fair share.”

That you did, Batso. And then some. 

(Warren Harding died peacefully at his home in Anderson, California on February 27, 2002, at the age of 77. Galen Rowell was killed in a light plane crash near Bishop, California on August 11, 2002.)