King of the Dirtbags (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine November 2001

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King of the Dirtbags (Cont.)

THE NEXT MORNING, we rose at 5:30. I thought it a late start for climbing a new route, but Yvon seemed unconcerned. It took the four of us two hours to hike to the base of the south face. George and Kent intended to scramble to the summit via the west ridge, while Yvon and I had identified the gorgeous, curving line that creased the thousand-foot face. It went straight to the summit.

When Yvon discovered that, despite his admonitions, I'd brought a number of cams, he cut the biggest ones off the rack. He also cut a third of the slings and carabiners. He climbs with no helmet, no chalk, no tape, no headlamp, no sunglasses, no sunscreen. This is his way of adapting to the mountain.

"I've cut everything superfluous from my life," he declared.

Even though I knew it was yet another bit of Chouinard hyperbole, I still chewed on this sentence for the first

"Yvon's in denial," George told me. "He's a capitalist. He just can't bear being lumped in with all those businessmen he doesn't respect."

several pitches of the climb. Yvon is a man who owns three homes: an oceanfront house in Ventura, an oceanfront home made from recycled materials on California's Central Coast, and a home in Wyoming with a jaw-dropping view of the Tetons. Yvon is a man who flew to South America five times last year just to fish. But he doesn't use chalk.

The climbing was pure fun, compelling but not difficult. We didn't say much. We simply climbed—smooth, in sync, swapping leads.

I was watching Yvon lie-back through the overhang on the sixth pitch, his movements poised and precise, when I remembered something else McMahon had told me: "You should see him surf. He just glides. He has no hesitation throwing himself out onto huge waves."

One time, I don't even remember what Yvon and I were talking about—writing, freediving, business—he suddenly said, "Forget about the end result. It means nothing. The end result is we die. What matters is the process. The process is everything."

It was hackneyed Buddhist rap, but here's the thing: Yvon, despite—or perhaps because of—his many contradictions, lives it. For Yvon it wasn't the fact that we were climbing a new route in the Winds; it was all about how we were doing it. To him the ascent became more elegant each time something unnecessary was eliminated. Gear, chalk, words, signals. He believes, with all his being, in the Saint-Exupéry line that regularly appears in Patagonia Inc. literature: "In anything at all, perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything left to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away."

WE COMPLETED our directissima of Arrowhead's south face in three hours, and then spent the afternoon back at camp in a pleasing, post-exertion fog, erratically debating this and that. At one point I told Yvon that I thought Patagonia clothing was too expensive.

"Not compared to Calvin Klein," he responded.

He went on to defend his company by saying that, because of the renowned durability of Patagonia apparel, everybody from dirtbags to billionaires buys it.

"Dirtbags don't buy anything," I exclaimed. "They schwag it. I know—I used to be one."

"I still am one!" Yvon countered.

Now hold on...Yvon does wear the same old clothes for days on end. And he did sleep with his clothes on the whole week we were in the Winds. And no matter the protean conundrums of his mind, he's snoring in less than two minutes. And most of his climbing gear belongs in a museum. And he's completely satisfied eating sardines with a piton. And he doesn't need a shower. And he flies economy just like the rest of us. And he sleeps on friends' couches instead of paying for hotel rooms. And he drives vintage beater Toyotas. But...

"C'mon, Yvon, you're a multimulti-millionaire."

"I give it all away. I don't even have a savings account."

True, I already knew that Patagonia Inc. had given millions upon millions to environmental causes.

"But that's not even the point," he continued. "Being a dirtbag is a matter of philosophy, not personal wealth. I'm an existential dirtbag."

"You're not a dirtbag anymore, Yvon, you're a businessman. A very successful businessman. Dirtbags don't own companies. Somewhere along the way you must have wanted to be a businessman."

"Never!" There was real vehemence in his voice. "All I ever wanted to be was a craftsman."

"He's in denial," George told me later. "He's an entrepreneur. He's a capitalist. He just can't bear being lumped in with all those businessmen he doesn't respect.

"But he also isa dirtbag. It's a statement as much as anything else. You know those Patagonia ads—'Committed to the core'? Well, Yvon is the core."

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