I have not replaced as many bolts at Pinnacles as Clint, Bruce, John Cook or Brad but I think I am in the neighborhood of 100. (John Cook probably knows my exact count)
I knew John when he was closer to normal. We would go climb at Pinnacles, have a great time clipping bolts on established routes or placing them ourselves on new routes. Always planning for our next trip out. One day as we were approaching an obscure area, I realized he was no longer hiking near me. I called but no answer, so I back-tracked, scoping side trails that might lead to interesting rocks or private places to answer Mother Nature. I was perplexed because he was not one to be easily distracted, although the flies always liked him and occasionally would swarm around his head forming a small cloud.
Soon I was in an area I had not been in before. There are many of these rifts and hollows, micro meadows and corridors that have been infrequently visited by humans since the tedious events causing these surreptitiously formed deviations, to current times. This little grove was hidden well and I could hear voices that led me around a few final corners and chaparral stands to finally peer into it. There were 3 individuals and one was obviously John and he was laying down as if asleep or dead. The other two crouched over him were Clint and Bruce. Bruce was chanting in a language I couldn't make out and Clint was using an ancient bow with its string wrapped around a shaft, carved with many symbols to drill into the side of John's forehead. I was momentarily rendered speechless and immobile from shock. After that moment I started to scream at the slightly bloody murderers. Bruce quickly opened a leather pouch and dropped what looked like a seed or pill into the hole that Clint had made and then dosed it with a powder from the another similar pouch before both disappeared into the underbrush.
Rushing to John's side I felt for a pulse and before a few seconds passed he groaned and passed a very long winded gas, which was typical for him after dozing. Sitting up suddenly, he stared into my eyes and said "I'm going to start rebolting old routes".
Brushing away the powder, there was only a slight mark on the side of his forehead.
The amount of rebolting that John did after that was phenomenal and unusual and terrific for the climbing community. Why anyone would spend such an exorbitant ton of their time doing this beats me. I was unable to ever get a straight explanation from Bruce over what I had seen. Dodging every inquiry, he suggests that I likely suffered from heat stroke and was hallucinating from extreme dehydration or that my chalk bag was tainted with magic mushrooms and on and on. The problem was that the altering event that caused my climbing partner to start rebolting routes had happened on a cold spring equinox day and I had forgotten my chalk bag.
Noal, you may want to check your hairline next to your forehead for a small scar. Natalie, you too.