Big Steve

It used to be, if you wanted to climb Pooh, a classic 5.7 on Cathedral Ledge in New Hampshire, you went first to Yesterday's restaurant and talked to Willie Zeliff about borrowing Big Steve. Big Steve was a camming unit, like the one at the right in the picture, that fit perfectly in the roof of the overhang and would hold the rope, and keep you alive and happy, if you fell trying to get on top of that chunk of rock that sticks out, an awkward move infamously known throughout the Mount Washing Valley climbing community as, "Mounting the Horse." Big Steve was far too big and far too expensive for most people to have on their racks, but Willie had it, and he was a kind and generous man and happy to lend it out.

I climbed Pooh twice. Once, when I was first learning to climb, with my then-boyfriend, Pete, who was the human equivalent of a squirrel. He was small, agile, and moved quickly, from place to place, rock to rock, and subject to subject. That wasn't really much following him, but I tried for a while, and Pooh was one of the places I followed him. Pete didn't believe in doing things the easy way (like filtering giardia-infected water when backpacking, staking out the tent when high winds were forecast, or opening a beer with anything other than his teeth) and borrowing Big Steve was as unthinkable as owning an umbrella. It made no difference to me, though, because I was just following up the rope and if I fell I wasn't going anywhere. Pete was not going to fall on a 5.7 climb unless God Himself peeled him off, so we climbed Steveless without issue.

The second time I climbed Pooh, I climbed with a woman friend. Let's call her Maggie. Maggie had this great idea that we would do this Great Feminist Thing and climb Pooh together. I think she thought maybe we would have some notable adventure and go to the bar afterward and talk about it like we'd red-pointed Liquid Sky or something. As it turned out, Maggie was a bit of a dub, freaking out at the hard parts, using unethical (and bad-for-my-rope) techniques to inch her way up, and then proclaiming proudly at the top, "See. We didn't need men for that!" Well, perhaps not, but we did need Big Steve, who had made my own overhang scramble much safer, though not quite as safe as if I'd had a partner who understood the gravity of the situation. In her Go-Sister enthusiasm, I thought I heard her clapping in encouragement, which cheered me not at all. (Belaying your rock climbing partner is absolutely a two-handed job.) I was happy to return Big Steve to Willie, thank him, and spend the rest of the summer climbing with my real sister and the occasional self-absorbed man.

I don't know how Big Steve got its name, but when you're looking at it, the name, and the need for it to have a name, are obvious. Big Steve is anything that is disproportionately bigger than its usual form.

Since then, Big Steve has become the commercial mixer that I bought a few years ago, looking just like the good-sized countertop model I already had, only three times the size. Big Steve is the fly swatter my mom found for me at Ben Franklin that has a 10 x 6 head and a two-foot handle. Big Steve is Earl's sledge hammer, my biggest whisk, and the metal salad bowl.

When the 1000 rpm tractor was broken a few years ago when the power was out and we needed to rent a tractor to run the generator at the creamery, the only one that would fit the bill was pretty big, with eight-foot rear wheels. Earl called from the road to let me know that we had a solution to the problem and added, "I am driving Big Steve."

The boys have picked up on this and Big Steve has also been a strawberry, a cucumber, and a corn flake.

Sometimes we are looking for Big Steve when we don't have him, as in, holding up an adjustable wrench, and asking "Do we have a Big Steve one of these?"

I don't know if Willie still has Big Steve, or even if he still has Yesterday's restaurant. I'd like to think, though, that it's still there, behind the counter, waiting to climb Pooh, over and over again, with Willie's friends and acquaintances. Someday, when I swap out Big Steve, my climbing duffel for Big Steve, the diaper bag which lives in my back seat, I may just go make the inquiry myself.