their differences seemed stark, though similarities would arise with time.
In 1985, when Chris graduated high school, Joyce was close to sixty years old. She’d lived through the Great Depression, a World War, and Vietnam. She’d watched a moon landing, two Green Bay Packer Super Bowl championships, and the rise of the women’s movement. Life had treated Joyce well, and with four grown children off on adventures, she prepared to enjoy their every step.
Draped in red, white, and blue, the graduating seniors at Appleton East prepared to walk into the gymnasium. For Joyce, it was the end of a life at home with kids. Her days would turn to volunteering and even grandchildren soon.
Dear Mom,
All is well at school. Studies tough, but I’m surviving. The classrooms are cold. Really cold. Can you please send a pair of my mittens?
—Chrissy
Joyce sent the mittens. She knew her daughter well. Chris hated being cold. When the Wisconsin winters subsided and the school term ended in summer, Chris returned to Appleton. Working at a bakery brought in needed college funds, while spending time with her friend Nadine remained a constant. And not far from Appleton was the home of the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA), a nonprofit dedicated to aviation enthusiasts that held a fly-in convention every July; Chris caught the flying bug.
“She jumped into new adventures with everything she had,” Nadine remembered. “She was tenacious that way. If you were with her and you wanted her to stay longer, she’d say that she simply had something to do, without bragging about what it was, even if it was something major like climbing a mountain. That summer in college she took one visit to the EAA convention, thought it was cool, and invested her entire being in it. Not standing from a distance watching others fly. She needed to do it herself. She needed to fly.”
Learning to fly consumed the rest of Chris’s summer days, and she earned her pilot’s license by college graduation. For Mother’s Day, she took Joyce up in a rented plane so she could show her how it all looked from the air: circling Lake Winnebago, the Fox River, and the family home. Chris Feld was already learning to love the view from the top.
After graduating from college in 1991 with an electrical engineering degree, Chris made Atlanta home, where she’d gotten a job at Lockheed Aeronautical Systems. Entering this world as one of the few women in the room wasn’t new to her; she’d experienced it at home in Appleton and in her undergraduate classes in Milwaukee. At Lockheed, her talent for leadership was noticed, and she was assigned to guide a team designing software for a lighted control display for the C-130J Super Hercules, a military cargo plane.
Challenged but still restless, Chris sought outside activities to battle the tedium of her nine-to-five routine. Her desire for something more than a fancy job was about to lead her down a new path.
CHAPTER 3
A NATURAL
EYES GLUED TO THE PAGE of a North Face catalog, Chris sensed something click. The climber in the photo was on a summit in Alaska. Below him a layer of wispy clouds hung as the sun set in golds and crimson. Making it to the top of Nordic Mountain in Wisconsin had been a thrill, but this . . . this seemed a thousand times more exciting.
Just enough to intrigue her, the image led Chris to a presentation at the Atlanta Climbing Club in early 1993. The speaker had recently returned from Argentina, where he’d climbed Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere. His slides showed a gradual ascent over the course of roughly twenty-one days. In the final shots, he kneeled on top, smiling. At 22,837 feet and lit by a sky of liquid blue, the alpinist looked elated.
Chris was fascinated. The speaker talked about the hardships, altitude sickness, the climbers who’d failed and those who’d arrived unprepared. “I’ve only been at this a few years, but the physical challenge is addictive.” Dressed in jeans and a crew-neck T-shirt, he was appealing in a rugged sort of way. And older. He looked to be in his forties. The fact that he was talking about something she was increasingly fascinated by was a bonus.
“So after all this,” he said, “if you feel like climbing is something you might want to take a crack at, you should go big.” Ending the talk, the speaker added, “I’m heading to Bolivia in a few months. That’s what I’d consider challenging! If any of you are takers, come on up and chat. I’ll stick around for a while.”
Chris rose, waiting for the crowd around the climber to thin. When he seemed free, she eased forward, full of wonder as she approached. “I think I might be hooked,” she announced, shaking the speaker’s hand. Their eyes connected as he laughed at her opening line. His hair was streaked with gray, matching his moustache. The energy she felt from him during the presentation proved stronger up close. He seemed a mix of wise and dynamic, and she sensed immediately that they’d get along.
“I’m Christine Feld. I loved your presentation.”
“Keith Boskoff,” he said. “You’ve got a little experience in you for something like Bolivia?”
She hadn’t. “Not tons, but I pick things up pretty quickly. Just took one course at the Sporting Club at Windy Hill. Did a little climbing with a friend of mine in Michigan, too.”
“Michigan? You’re from the Midwest?”
“Wisconsin.”
“A cheesehead! A Wisconsin girl goes to Bolivia. I’m liking this image,” Keith said. “Got any gear after that course at Windy Hill?” He shifted his weight, crossing his arms as he sized up the short blond woman in front of him. Her build was solid. Not lithe or wiry like the women at the climbing gym he was used to seeing. She looked strong, capable of endurance—qualities he knew were important trekking miles at altitude.
“A backpack,” Chris said. “That’s it. But I just got a raise, so my credit card is ready to be put to use. You might look at me and think I’m not up for it, but I’ve got three older brothers so I can handle myself. I’m into all kinds of sports. Tennis, barefoot waterskiing, running, racquetball.”
Keith looked at the fiery woman before him. She seemed like the real deal. “Tell you what. Let’s get together, rope up, and I’ll give you a few more pointers.”
Chris and Keith began training together, a partnership that turned into romance with ease. He was seventeen years her senior and owned an architectural firm, a career that allowed flexibility and enough money to support his climbing habit. Chris committed to her new interest by purchasing gear and absorbing the knowledge she’d need for the sport she would grow to love. She was an uncomplicated girl from the Midwest. Yet at age twenty-six, she was a natural for the sport. Years as an engineer had sharpened her analytical skills. Patience had grown from struggling to keep up with her brothers and then leading teams of men at Lockheed. And she was resilient—a gift from her German-bred, pragmatic parents.
THE SPORT OF CLIMBING, SOME say, is misunderstood. What the average person might see as a sport for the selfish or those simply needing an adrenaline rush, climbers observe as a way of life. Athletes capable of sorting through technical challenges rise in the sport. Those at the top of their game are typically articulate and astute about the risks involved in scaling rock, ice, and high peaks. Their wish to survive and enjoy the thrills captured by being in nature generally outweighs their desire to walk close to death. They don’t have a death wish, but a wish to live in a way that few others understand. Elite athletes and those involved in extreme sports
