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extensive, often intense, and it laid a nice foundation for future study on the subject.
    The one thing lacking, though, was instruction in the ancient language. Although Professor Gehrke could effortlessly read the Scriptures and ancient texts in Hebrew and Greek, he had not formally studied Egyptian. This was something I would initially have to investigate on my own. I soon became acquainted with one of the classic works on the subject, Sir Alan Gardiner’s Egyptian Grammar . Gardiner’s hefty tome became a persistent companion, its blue covers with a gold embossed title on the spine guarding the secrets to ancient Egypt’s language and hieroglyphic script. I was intrigued by the hieroglyphs and their picturesque quality, challenged by the unfamiliar grammar, and I tackled several of the book’s initial chapters on my own.
    Graduating with my degree in political science, I had no particular plans other than taking the ambiguous “year off” before graduate school to dedicate to climbing. I got a job at a local store selling outdoor equipment. I eventually worked for some mountaineering schools and guide services, where I spent my late-spring and summer days teaching all manner of people how to climb rocks, ice, and glaciers. I was naturally enthusiastic about sharing my favorite outdoor activity and getting paid to do so. Plus, I loved the challenge of taking folks into a potentially dangerous environment and bringing them back safely and happy for the experience.
    The mountaineering crowd I hung out with in the late seventies and eighties was a wild bunch. A number of them boldly proclaimed that if they were still alive by age thirty, they hadn’t lived life extremely enough. Money was of little concern, other than for facilitating their climbing habit, and living for months at campsites, in vans, on floors, and even under overhanging rock outcrops was not uncommon. Levels of difficulty were being continuously pushed in those days, and impressive new routes up peaks and rock walls were being established at a steady rate.
    Some of us participated in the high-risk game of climbing unroped—“free soloing”—that required utmost audacity, confidence, and focus. The consequences of failure were dire, but the rewards of successfully surviving the experience were intense personal satisfaction and, occasionally, status among one’s climbing peers. But it was addictive. I recall one particular day when mind, body, and spirit perfectly coalesced into an almost trancelike state during which I found myself free soloing a dozen rock climbs, some of which had previously scared me even when accompanied by a partner and a rope. It was magical, but when it was over, I shook in awe and fear for hours.
    My obsession with climbing nurtured certain traits that areuseful in archaeology. It developed a physical toughness required for fieldwork, especially in remote locations where accommodations are often minimal and the environment unpleasant to humans. In fact, I learned not only to tolerate such situations but to savor them. Years of searching for the next hand-and footholds also bring an eye for subtlety, and an explorer will always benefit from a zeal to see what lies behind the next corner or over the next ridge. In practical terms, too, mountaineering offered me a skill set that can enable one to explore places where the average scientist or archaeologist cannot or will not go, whether it’s up, down, or sideways in dangerous terrain.
    While my climbing fanaticism lasted for years, I eventually toned it down a bit. As I eventually began doing serious research in archaeology and Egyptology, I found that scholarship had its own form of satisfaction, even without physical adversity. I loved studying in libraries and exploring archives and museum collections where new discoveries lurk in exciting, unexpected places. It certainly couldn’t replace the joys of the outdoors, but it came in