In Milwaukie, Oregon, an article appeared in the Saturday Evening Post that described someone climbing Mount Washington, a major volcanic peak in the nearby central Cascade range. The article read, “To an expert like Boeschen, in the lead, this is routine work.” That was June 9th, 1949. The “Boeschen” named was my great-grandfather, Art, and he climbed mountains. So did my grandfather. And my father. And so do I. 

The mountains of the western United States call out to people of a certain character, a character that is defined better, perhaps, by actions rather than adjectives. Rising before the sun. Hiking miles in broken boots, tread filled with mud. Leaving layers behind to minimize weight, but bringing beers for your friends. Trusting them with your life. Trusting yourself with your life. 

These people gravitate to the challenge of the mountains of the west. There they find each other, and they are found in photos. Art Boeschen with two friends, leaning on snow axes looking down on Mount Jefferson. Dann Boeschen pinning a “Where the hell is Walla Walla?” sign to the back of an unknowing climbing partner from Whitman, on the way up Mount Rainier. Doug Boeschen reading a book next to the van he and my mother lived in, red rock spires calling in the background. 

Now my friends and I are the ones with sunsets on our faces and dirt between our toes. We’re the ones looking up.

Dirty Soles