53 Encounters with my elders
When I was a beginning graduate student, my academic heroes were all older than I was. This is hardly surprising, as existing books and papers were written by people who were established scientists.
Perhaps “hero” is the wrong word, but I will use it here to describe people who somehow inspired me to do more in my own life. “Role model” would be an alternative choice, but I like “heroes.” In any case, heroes are in the minds of beholders.
As I progressed through my graduate career, I discovered that some fellow students were conducing remarkable research. This ‘discovery’ continued through my years as postdoc and as novice professor. I still admired older researchers, but now I increasingly added some of my contemporaries to my growing list of academic heroes.
But as I grew even older, I began to read papers (or hear talks at meetings) by people who were much younger (or being honest, I should write “were less old”) than I was. Some were amazing researchers, especially with computers. How did they learn how to do these things? They seemed born with innate skills. I realized that would have to try harder to keep pace with these upstarts.
Skip to the mid-1990s. I was in my 50s. If I had drawn a graph of the age of my heroes (that is, when their age when they became my heroes) on the y-axis versus my own age on the x-axis, the plot would have shown a declining trend. In other words, when I was young, most of my heroes were old; but as I became older, many of these initial heroes were retired or had died, and most of my new heroes were my age or younger – sometimes much younger.
In my early 50s, my view of heroes started to change. I met Dr. Tom Hornbein. Tom was born in 1930 and was ~ 65 when we met, and 65 seemed ancient to me. Tom was famous in mountaineering circles: in 1963 he and Willy Unsoeld had made the first difficult ascent and the first traverse of Mt. Everest. Tom was also an exceptional wordsmith, and his book Everest: The West Ridge is widely and justifiably regarded as one of the best mountaineering books ever written. Tom was also a skilled anesthesiologist, teacher, and Chair of the Department of Anesthesiology at the University of Washington for 20 years. Tom was admired and loved by many people around the world. He died in 2023.
How did we meet? Around 1994 or 1995, Reinhold Messner came to Seattle and gave a lecture at the University of Washington (Chapter 46). Messner is often considered the greatest mountaineer of his generation, if not all time. Seattle is home to many famous mountaineers, but Messner chose Tom to introduce him. That was the first time I saw Tom in person. [I of course knew about his 1963 climb and about his book, but I had never sought him out.]
Messner’s lecture was exciting. He described his climb and exploration history, but also discussed his philosophy of climbing. I was intrigued by his advocacy of alpine-style climbing (that is, climbing light and fast) and his refusal to use supplemental oxygen on Everest.
Messner’s lecture prompted me to think about high-altitude physiology, something I knew little about. I quickly became fascinated with this topic and decided to end my upcoming senior-level physiology course by giving a lecture on high-altitude physiology. I thought it would be a great last lecture as it tied together prior lectures on respiration, thermal biology, exercise physiology, stress, etc. Moreover, I guessed many students would be interested.
I started reading about high-altitude physiology, much of which revolved around respiratory physiology – something I’d never studied. I did not understand some aspects of gas exchange, and so sent an email to Dr. Hornbein, introducing myself and asking if he would be willing to clarify these issues. I knew that he co-taught the Respiratory Course to first-year medical students at the UW, and – given that he was also an experienced mountaineer – he seemed like the ideal person to help.
He invited me to his office. He soon clarified the physiological issues, and then we started talking about the mountaineering analyses I was planning. I brought along some preliminary analyses and graphs, but I was unsure whether a real mountaineer like Tom would think that my attempts were merely naïve, or perhaps be even “beyond stupid.” I was a total outsider.
Tom knew I wasn’t a mountaineer, but he encouraged my work and offered to help in any way he could. His positive feedback helped me move forward with this off-the-wall project. Periodically I would drive over to his home near Lake Sammamish or visit his lab at the University, show him the latest graphs or tables, and absorb his feedback and questions. Tom’s enthusiasm was contagious.
Thus, began an enduring friendship. I can say a lot about Tom – all positive. For one thing he was a gifted writer. Read Everest: The West Ridge! His prose is poetry. But whenever we met or talked by phone, I came away inspired to work a little harder and to take more risks in my own life and work.
Why take risks? Mountaineers do this all the time, but in many ways, so do academics, doctors, business people, firefighters, etc. Why does risk appeal to some folks?
Tom once discussed this in a plenary lecture and argued that “risk is a key dietary element.” His idea was that if we do not know in advance whether we will succeed at some task or activity, then we will push ourselves harder than we would otherwise. In other words, uncertainty is motivating. [Note: when presented by uncertainty, some people will choose to walk or run away! I avoid such people, whenever possible.]
There is wisdom in Tom’s advice. However, as Bertrand Russell once wrote,
“A life without adventure is likely to be unsatisfying, but a life in which adventure is allowed to take whatever form it will is sure to be short.”
Ah, yes, The Golden Mean.
Also, Tom never quit. He had arthritic knees and ankles, both his hips had been replaced, but he always proposed a hike whenever he was back in Seattle. These walks were obviously challenging and painful for him, but he kept pushing. I hope I be able to do the same if I reach his age.
Tom remained active in medical communities, especially in developing programs for doctors that were addicted to drugs (apparently common among anesthesiologists).
Tom was always networking; he seemingly knew everyone and was deeply admired by all. I wish we had met decades earlier, but I might not have been mature enough to learn from him.
Tom quickly became a hero, but he was an outlier in my regression plot of the age of my hero versus my age. Tom was decidedly older, not younger. I of course respected his mountaineering achievements, but I respected him even more for his subsequent ones. I’ll have more to say about that below.
A few months or perhaps a year after meeting Tom, I decided to attend the Banff Mountain Book and Film Festival, which is held in November in Banff, Canada. I had been analyzing mountaineering data on K2 (the second highest peak on Earth) and wanted feedback from K2 climbers. I knew that Dr. Charles Houston would be attending. He was born in 1913, led expeditions to K2 in 1938 and 1953, and was also a pioneer of high-altitude medical physiology. Although he seemed like the perfect person to provide feedback on K2 analyses., he had a reputation for being a crotchety old curmudgeon.
About a week before the Festival, I phoned Dr. Houston at his home in Burlington, Vermont. When he answered the phone, I introduced myself as a Professor of Zoology, told him that I was doing statistical analyses of rates of success and death of Himalayan mountaineers, and hoped we could talk about K2 at Banff.
Dr. Houston immediately cut me off and demanded,
“How do you measure success?”
I answered that I used two metrics. I could use the expedition as the unit of analysis and thus compute the probability that at least one member of the expedition reached the summit, or I could use the individual climber as the unit of analysis, and thus compute the probability that an individual reached the summit.
Dr. Houston barked back,
“That’s not a successful expedition. A successful expedition is when you get a group together, you share an adventure on the mountain, and you all come home as friends. If you reach the summit, that’s something extra. Can you quantify that?”
I suddenly appreciated why he was called a “crotchety old curmudgeon!” He was a respected medical researcher, and of course he knew full well that I could never quantify whether everyone on an expedition came home as friends! His question was absurd, and he surely knew that it was. Was he just being argumentative, as his reputation forewarned? Or was he testing me? I couldn’t tell.
He agree to meet in Banff. Our phone conversation had been brusque and mercifully lasted three minutes, if that.
Dr. Houston was easy to spot in Banff. I walked up and introduced myself, and we went to a room to chat, sitting next to each other along a table.
I pulled out some figures and tables summarizing death rates on K2. In my first sentence or two, I said that most deaths on Himalayan peaks were caused by avalanches or rockfall.
Dr. Houston immediately interrupted me and said scornfully:
“No they’re not. Most deaths due to high-altitude illnesses.”
OK. I had spent five cumulative minutes (at most) talking with this man, and twice he’d been aggressive and dismissive. He quickly set the upper bound for rudeness, at least in my experience.
I remember thinking that this guy is indeed a total jerk, as widely advertised. I started to look for an opportunity to end our ‘discussion’ and leave. However, his aggressive and scornful attitude was too irritating, and I challenged him back. Rather calmly but assuredly, I said:
“No, you’re wrong.”
He immediately replied,
“What’s your evidence?”
I told him that in 1986 John Town had tabulated the causes of all deaths of British mountaineers in the Himalayas. Town determined that 48% of all deaths were attributable to avalanche or rock fall, and that only 24% were attributable to medical issues.
Dr. Houston was silent for a minute or so. I could see that he was surprised by and grappling with these unexpected numbers. Recall that he was a leading and pioneering high-altitude medical physiologist; and he was firmly convinced that most deaths at extreme altitudes were consequences of health issues. Town’s numbers challenged his very long-held “world view.”
After some moments of silence, he said softly but sincerely:
“Tell me more.”
I did, and we spent perhaps an hour talking. Throughout he was positive, constructive, and thoughtful. He’d undergone a personality metamorphosis, from an antagonist to a supporter.
Later at Banff he came up and told me that the research I was doing was important. For me, that was a deep compliment.
I was of course delighted to be encouraged by and to learn from his insights, but what really impressed me about Charlie (he soon became ‘Charlie’ rather than ‘Dr. Houston’) was this. Here was someone who had spent much of his life conducting studies of high-altitude physiology and medicine. He was a pioneering figure in this field. He had believed – probably for most of his career – that medical issues were the major cause of death at high altitude. I’d just showed him evidence that he was wrong.
When our long-standing and cherished beliefs are opposed by data, most of us have a hard time changing our minds, if we can change at all. That is human nature. We will fight back, dispute the data, challenge the “messenger” – or sometimes just ignore the evidence.
Charlie was an exception – he could change his mind when confronted by data. In Banff, he did so in less than a minute or two. I was immediately and still am deeply impressed.
Thus, early in my explorations of mountaineering statistics, I’d found two new heroes, both of whom were much older than I was. Neither fell on the trend line on my graph of age of my hero versus age of Ray. Tom and Charlier were outliers.
Both Charlie (who died at age 96 in 2009) and Tom (who died at 92 in 2023) will remain heroes for the rest of my life. They were great mountaineers and physicians, and they shared a critical personality trait. Neither quit. They were always pushing themselves. Chronologically old they might have been, but they were always out there, challenging themselves and staying active.
Charlie eventually developed macular degeneration and was unable to read. He hired students from the University of Vermont to come to his home and read to him. When I would visit or talk on the phone, he would invariably ask my opinion about a new book he’d read (which I had not), what I thought about spindle cells (which I’d never heard of!), or a diversity of novel topics that he found interesting. He was remarkably informed and well-read until the end. Charlie was infectiously curious.
Those who knew and loved Charlie also knew that he complained a lot, especially about his own ‘failing’ brain. When he tried to learn Photoshop in his early 90s, he complained that this program was difficult and he must be becoming senile. I told him, “Charlie – everyone has trouble with Photoshop. That is one hard and complex program.” Unfortunately, he still kept complaining about his declining brain power. I have often wondered whether he fully appreciated who he was, what he had accomplished, and how much he had helped others. I hope so.
Over the years I have met many people who knew Tom and Charlie. Their experiences with these two men were remarkably similar to mine. Everyone has the deepest respect and admiration for them. Most would call Charlie a “curmudgeon,” if a lovable one. [One exception might be Bill Moyers, who interviewed Charlie for PBS. He deeply respected Charlie.]
I can’t imagine anyone calling Tom a curmudgeon! In any case, Tom and Charlie were opposites in many ways, but they shared a love of challenges, mountains, and medicine. They respected each other.
What I learned from them – and am still learning from them – is this: try to grow older without growing old. That is one of the most important lessons in life.
I appreciate that we do not have full control over how our bodies and brains age or what happens around us, but we can still try to influence how we age and deal with aging. Tom and Charlie taught me that by being real-life exemplars, never by lecturing to me. They were exemplary teachers.
I am still impressed by the abilities of my own contemporaries (at least those who are still alive and kicking), as well as by my younger or increasingly much younger colleagues who keep finding ways to revolutionize biology; but I (now in my late 70s) remain impressed by a few people who are much older than I am and still active. What sets them aside is that they are still growing and pushing themselves to do more.
Learning how to grow older is Continuing Education. My advice (if only to myself) is to seek out and spend time with heroes and role models – it does not matter whether they are young or old – who help light and inspire the way.