THE COMPASS

"...my big brother David was an athlete and explorer."

In addition to being a doctor, my big brother David was an athlete and explorer. As a kid growing up in Houston, swimming, water skiing and walking in the woods were his ideal escapes. As an adult, running through a desert or mountain-biking in steep terrain made him happier than almost anything. Summiting a mountain and getting a bird’s-eye view of the world gave him a unique sense of accomplishment and a singular perspective.

Not that he would ever put it that way. He’d just say, “Cool place!”—but I knew he’d been somewhere spectacular and had pushed himself to the limit to get there. He seemed equally delighted to be in a jungle or on a glacier. He traveled for triathlons, ultramarathons, cyclo-cross races and especially adventure racing—a sport in which teams navigate unfamiliar landscapes over days or weeks to reach their destination: Moab, The Badlands, Tasmania. Anywhere in the great outdoors was his bliss.

When David was 47, he took on a new quest: to climb all 54 of Colorado’s 14,000-foot mountains, or 14ers, ascending through aspen trees, sage and scrub brush on his own. He was excited about a solo challenge after so much competition with others—I think it made him feel nimbler not having to worry about teammates. I imagine he relied on some of the same orienteering techniques he used in adventure racing. 

Little Bear was his fortieth 14er. I know he made it to the top because he signed the register there, but what happened after that is a mystery. He was hiking alone, so there’s no one to say whether he became disoriented after reaching the summit or deliberately decided to take an odd route. His excellent sense of direction combined with his practiced skills make it extra surprising that he’d veer off course and end up on a dangerous downclimb. But he did. And he fell, nearly 200 feet, dying instantly. Instantly, except for those few seconds of falling. Which must have felt so long. For almost 15 years I’ve wondered what went through his mind as he fell.

When I went to David's alarmingly quiet house a week later, I grabbed this compass—not for its inherent value, but for its connection to him as an adventure racer. I didn’t know exactly how it worked, but I recognized its compass-ness: the opposite-pointing arrows floating in a round casing surrounded by cardinal and ordinal directions. I guessed that the measurement markers were for analyzing distance, the open holes in its acrylic housing for overlaying on maps.

The website of the compass’s brand, Suunto, poetically described the version I held in my hands as featuring “a luminous bezel in case the sun sets before you make camp,” and indeed, the rotatable rim glows a soft green in the dark. The site also noted that the compass can be set to either true north or magnetic north. Magnetic north, it turns out, is always moving. True north is what it is. I had always considered David my North Star. Maybe he was both magnetic and true. 

As I’m merely an armchair explorer, I’ll never really figure out how to use my brother’s compass. When I visited Little Bear, on the tenth anniversary of David’s death, I hiked only the obvious path from the main road in order to release a parcel of his ashes. I’ve held onto the compass all this time simply because it reminds me of his many joyful exploits and his sense of adventure. But it’s bittersweet too, since on David’s final trek, he wasn't carrying the compass, he didn't make camp, he didn’t find his way.

—Anne Pinkerton

---

Anne Pinkerton is the author of Were You Close? A Sister’s Quest to Know the Brother She Lost (Vine Leaves Press).