Roper the mountain man, city shit

I woke up this morning thinking about a friend of years ago who died in 1998 by his own hand. In writing about him I always called him Roper Jobes, and that’s enough of a name for anyone else. In the wake of his passing I was rewarded with his books and written treasures. Among them was a Sierra Club weekly calendar from the 1970’s. Born in New Jersey, he fell in love with the outdoors at a young age, and with the West on a Sierra Club outing. He made his way to Montana at earliest opportunity.

The young man in that diary was lively and exuberant. He had hiked the Great Smokies that year, and some of the passages jumped off the page at me. He wrote about his mornings in camp, the joy of a camp fire. There were expressions like “caught a trout!” and “Black bear!” Sheer joy.

The above photo is of Roper, a picture that hangs here in my office. I was skiing behind him one day in Yellowstone Park, and he was headed up a hill barren of timber except for one lone tree. I thought it appropriate – the athletic youth and the stoic pine, each without company. Roper longed to be married, but could not find a mate. In his Sierra Club calendar that year is a tragic story of a young girl he had met in New Jersey. She had moved to Knoxville. He was in love, as was evident by the number of entries that concerned her. The Smokies, as much appeal as they had, were a mere ruse for visiting her. They met, he spent a couple of days with her, she drove him to his drop-off and was to pick him up after his week in the woods.

She did not show up to pick him up, and he made his way back to Knoxville. He must have called ahead, because when he stopped by to see her, she was not home. On her doorstep for him was a six-pack of beer.

I took trouble after his death to inform her of his passing, as he had her address among his belongings. Maybe she wanted to know, probably not. She made a life choice, and probably the right one.

Roper was a man of two personalities, as his friend Phil said. He was a congenial and pleasant mountain friend, and a shit in the city. My time with him was in the mountains, and he was indeed a delight. When we went on those trips he left his cigarettes and beer behind, and de-toxed. By the time we became friends, all of the others in the larger group had abandoned the rigors of the mountains for boats and beers and reservoirs. I was the only one left who still wanted to be up high.

He’s been gone for almost fourteen years now, and each time that I am on a mountain trail I think of him. I’m still here, enjoying life as my body and abilities allow. He took an early exit. At one time I looked at photos of him – he in the foreground and my son in the back climbing a frozen Tower Falls – it was obvious he was suffering depression. Yet I did not know it as we skied that day, only in retrospect. And anyway, what could I have done? Rescue him? A man has to be his own man, and Roper belonged to the beer and cigarettes. As his body declined from the abuse, he was losing what little of life he had managed to enjoy in full.

Our last outing was in 1997 – we made a trek around Yellowstone Lake with my son and a friend. He was in his element, the boys enjoyed his backwoods company. He delighted at seeing my bare butt in the chilly waters of Heart Lake, screaming to the boys “Oh god, it’s horrible. Look away!” I’ve thought about him a lot over the years – few have had such impact on me. But it is Mountain Roper Jobes, and not that city shit, that I pay tribute to on my wall.