The night was so dark, and I was so tired. Nine years ago I drove back from Colorado Springs following an exhausting three days of interviews about the visionary and troubled climber and soloist Earl Wiggins. I had met Earl once, corresponded with him a little, always respected him and been heartsick when he took his life. Over three days I had talked to Earl’s brother, his widow (who had found his body and whom he loved), and half a dozen frien…
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