[email hidden] (rick++) wrote in message news:<[email hidden]>...
Quoted message said:I see he is on a national book signing tour.
He does his backyard Boulder Sept 20 and Denver Sept 21.
Here is the review from the Albuquerque Journal
Hiker Produces a Compelling, Self-Absorbed Account of Utah Ordeal
By Toby Smith
Journal Staff Writer
REVIEW: Aron Ralston's hiking story is like the harrowing driving
stories you sometimes hear, those tales of motorists who skid off a
bridge, crash land in a swamp and hang on for a week as they inch
their way to help.
There's one exception. Ralston, who survived an unbearable,
well-publicized six-day ordeal in Utah last year, left part of his arm
behind. The part he hacked off himself.
As might be expected, Ralston has written a book about what he
endured. Though we know how it ends, it remains a compelling account,
documented now with his own photographs achieved, shall we say, in
mid-cut.
There's a strong New Mexico tether here. Ralston, once an Intel
engineer, lived in Albuquerque for three years. He was active with the
Albuquerque Mountain Rescue Council before he bolted corporate life to
work in an Aspen, Colo., outdoors store.
Coincidentally, that Albuquerque group assisted in his Utah
rescue. Moreover, that search was greatly aided by identifying the
truck he drove. It bore a New Mexico license plate.
To his credit, Ralston doesn't spend the entire book on what
happened to him when a truck-tire-size rock trapped his right arm
while he was "slot canyoneering" in a remote section of Canyonlands
National Park.
Instead, he attempts to support the incident by recollecting
anecdotes from his short (he's 28) life.
Doing so works for and against him.
Impetuous loner
The benefit is that we come to see a risk-grabbing adventurer who
grew up itching for the next avalanche. We get to know a gear junkie
who is most comfortable sniffing the paths left by cranky
monkey-wrencher Edward Abbey and suicidal wanderer Chris McCandless.
As an impetuous loner, Ralston is a guy who thinks nothing of
sticking his body down a telephone booth-wide crevice in Utah without
telling a soul where he will be, the No. 1 no-no when heading into the
wilds.
For kicks, he taunts black bears in the backcountry, jumps into
freezing rivers fully clothed, charges off into the frightful night
toward another summit.
Ralston details these audacious acts, returning periodically to
work up the gumption to amputate an arm that is terminally wedged
behind a boulder. (So preoccupied was he with a Phish tape as he hiked
that day, Ralston didn't sense the precariousness of the loose rock
that eventually pinned his limb.)
In an attempt to redeem or perhaps explain himself, Ralston
reveals that he's a disciple of a credo that goes, It's not what you
do, it's who you are.
Trouble is, Ralston fails to convince us that he lives by those
words— even after nearly bleeding to death in Utah. He's still the
consummate peak-bagger, forever tackling high mountains solo and in
the midst of a blizzard. A newspaper item last month said he had
completed the Leadville 100, a maniacal endurance run held at 10,000
feet, and that he can play the piano one-handed.
Some may see these achievements as inspirational. But all they
really do is confirm Ralston's self-absorption. Seemingly not
interested in exploring who he is, Ralston continues to define himself
by telling us what he has done— what crag he has clung to, what
whitewater rapids he nearly drowned in, what wall of ice he picked his
way up. How time after time he hoodwinked death.
In case we missed any of his daredevilry, a swaggering
"biographical chronology" is attached to the end of the book.
Transcendental state
Nowhere in "Between a Rock and a Hard Place" does Ralston discuss
what he gives to others, or what he is contributing to the world
beyond an appreciation for the environment and its majestic scenery.
Oddly, there's barely a mention of Ralston's father. Because life
seems to be all about Aron, we never learn his father's first name nor
what he does for a living. Surely the kid gleaned something from the
old man.
And yet Ralston manages to attract us. His feelings about wanting
to go it alone to achieve a transcendental state are readily
identifiable. Morever, he writes well, particularly for a first-timer.
Some quibbles: There's far too much brand-name dropping of equipment.
And, on occasion, a reliance on the florid phrase: "I resume my
excavation as darkness from my penumbral hole spills into the desert
above me ...''
Those missteps aside, the panic, fear and hestitancy Ralston
describes during his Canyonlands nightmare are presented brutally and
straight-up, right down to the last drop of urine that he drinks to
stay alive.
Surgical note: The actual severing was done with a $15 multi-tool,
and Ralston had foresight to break the bones in his forearm to make
the grisly task easier.
It would be hard for anyone to say what he would do if stuck
similarly to Aron Ralston. A self-indulgent obsessiveness clearly
helped him save his life. Not so strangely, that same characteristic
got him into his predicament.