Tony Swan was a rock. He was someone you could always lean on. You could depend on him. If he said you could do it, you could do it, despite your own doubts.
Tony exuded confidence. On the trail, I never doubted his judgment. He got me places I’d have never gotten to without him.
He was a man for the mountains he loved. I trudged after him, slogging uphill through decomposed granite toward Mount Langley. Two steps forward, one back. “How does he do it?” I wondered. “Doesn’t he ever slow down?” He knew that the only way to get somewhere was just to keep going. And so he did. When he finally stopped, it was to literally drag me up and over the last boulders to the summit. But there, we were on top of the world. He got me there.
Then he got me down again. Our packs and water were nearly a thousand feet below us. When we stopped for a much needed break I found a nook and went to sleep. I thought I’d just stay there—for eternity. After a few quiet minutes he rousted me with the “We need to get down to our water.”
And so we did, Tony leading the way as always. We finished our water, shouldered our packs, and started a long descent to camp. We needed water. After passing several dry meadows, it was beginning to look grim. Our throats were parched. It was the only time I ever saw Tony genuinely concerned. He announced that if the next meadow didn’t have water, we were going to have to dig for it. It had come to that.
The next meadow was brown just like the others. But like a miracle of the mountains there was a small patch of green. We headed for it and found a small dark pool only a few inches deep. We quenched our thirst, filled our bottles, and just lay there in the meadow savoring the moment to be alive.
Tony once took me over Bishop Pass on a hike to Ladder Lake. There was only one way to get there: down Dusy Basin, up LeConte Canyon on the John Muir Trail, to some un-named drainage and head uphill from there. It looked easy enough on the topo. Tony had studied the route and warned that “There is some talus.” Indeed, there was, miles of it, talus the size of Ford F-150s and bigger. It seemed never ending. Tony just continued leaping from boulder to boulder; occasionally looking back to make sure I was keeping up. If Tony hadn’t kept assuring me the end was in sight I would have bailed. He kept on, and so did I.
It did—eventually—end. We dragged ourselves to the first tarn we came to, bundled up—it’s cold at 11,000 feet–set up our tents, ate our dinner, and crawled into our bags. Neither of us got out of our bags until dawn. Even Tony was tired.
The next morning we looked over the edge of the cirque into the next basin. How were we going to get down that? I asked. Tony laid out a route, reassured me it was doable, and off we went.
The next day we stared at an even steeper descent from Ladder Lake back to Le Conte Canyon. That looked deadly for sure. Tony went ahead to scout a route. He came back and said, “It’s doable.” I had my doubts and did spend a fair amount of time falling and sliding part way down that slope, but as Tony said, it was doable and we did it. Tony got me down—safe and sound and with all my parts still attached.
Every spring I relied on Tony to lead the windmill-wildflower hike. He led it for decades. I could always count on him to be there—even when I couldn’t. He led it in every kind of weather imaginable, heat, cold, snow, rain, and always the wind. We never lost anyone, though once the wind was so strong he came to me and said, “Grab the kids’ packs and take their hands, we’ll have to hold onto them on the way down.” That’s the kind of man Tony was, a leader you could count on.
When we hike the PCT across Cameron Ridge this May we’ll think of Tony leading the way—as we always will in the years to come.
We’ll miss you, Tony, but you’ll be with us in spirit.
