1983, did my first roped climb, Studl Grat on Gross Glockner, Austria's highest peak. It was long, exposed and about 5.3. I was 20 and on vacation with my dad when he hired a guide to take me on that climb. Amazing day and pivotal in my life.

Promptly after returning to Denmark I thumbed through the phonebook searching for a climbing related organization, where I might find like minded people. My hopes weren't high since Denmark is flat, devoid of cliffs, with barely any hills and no known history of breeding high altitude mountaineers. Much to my amazement, there in the white pages was an entry called The Danish Mountain Club. A hesitant phone call to the president, then the intimidating, slightly aloof John Andersen, confirmed the existence of an elite group of about 400 danish climbers.

Next Thursday evening I hesitantly showed up at an apartment in a prestigious part of inner Copenhagen where the weekly gathering of these vertically inclined men and women took place. The tiny rooms were filled with smoke, empty beer bottles and lots of people, all looking like they just had returned from toil and hardship in far away ranges. I was off course completely ignored besides a brief grunt that sounded like a greeting from a short, stout man in a thick woolen sweater and glacier glasses hanging on his chest. The conversations I overheard were a strange mix of climbing jargon and intense intellectual ramblings. As a dimwitted college dropout with one climb under my belt, I felt utterly out of place and was about to sneak back out in the streets, when I noticed another young guy that nobody spoke to. I learned that this was his third and probably last attempt to gain a social foothold in this tight knit group. His name was Henrik Ljunggren, and today he is treasurer and webmaster for the Club. Appalled, we left for a nearby drinking hole and made plans for the weekend. He had heard of a place in Sweden where these elusive climbers went to practice for the big mountains, and then suggested I'd buy some gear tomorrow to supplement his new rope, and head up there.

This and many subsequent weekend trips were barely survived before we got a reasonable grasp on the intricacies of roped climbing, all without any formal training or classes or instruction.

Our biggest feat though, was finally to be acknowledged at the Thursday night meetings, so we would stand a chance securing a spot for the weekend in one of the few cars in circulation, mostly owned by the older and experienced members. It also turned out that there were other greenhorns hiding in the corners and eventually we all gravitated together to form an incredible circle of friends that few of us probably have experienced since. The song 'Bob Dylan's Dream' comes to mind when trying describe how I feel about those times.

The main focus of our climbing life was to become skilled enough to ascend the big peaks and their more technical routes. To us rock climbing was merely practice to meet this goal. Wool knickers and red anorak was the uniform of choice. We refused to climb in anything but big mountaineering boots even though it was obviously increasing our struggles tremendously. If it rained or snowed at the cliffs, well, all the better. Being able to climb thru adverse conditions was high on the commonly accepted achievement list.

Ah, yes...