three-fifteen in the afternoon.
FOUR
JOURNAL ENTRY . February 14, 1988
Fucking cold. We're not talking about it, or we'll go crazy, but I'll write about it here. Then I can look back one day—maybe in July, when I'm sitting out with a beer, covered in bug dope and slapping at the sparrowsized mosquitoes—and staring out at this white bitch.
I'll know I was here, that I did it. And that beer will taste all the sweeter.
But right now it's February, and July's a century away. The bitch rules.
Wind's taking us down to thirty or forty below. Once you're down that far, it doesn't seem like a few degrees one way or another matters. Cold broke one of the lanterns and snapped the zipper on my parka.
With night lasting sixteen hours, we make and break camp in the dark. Taking a piss becomes an exercise in exhaustion and misery. Still our spirits are holding, for the most part.
You can't buy this kind of experience. When the cold is like broken glass lacerating your throat, you know you're alive in a way you can only be alive on a mountain. When you risk a moment outside shelter and see the northern lights, so brilliant, so electric that you think you could reach up and grab some of that shimmering green and pull it inside yourself for a charge, you know you don't want to be alive anywhere else.
Our progress is slow, but we're not giving up on the goal of reaching the summit. We were slowed by avalanche debris. I wondered how many had camped there, under what is now buried and barren, and how soon the mountain will shift or shimmy and bury the snow cave we fought to hack into her.
We had a short, screaming argument over how to circumvent the debris. I took the lead. We spent what seemed like two lifetimes getting through and around it, but it couldn't have been done any faster, no matter what anyone else thinks. It's a hazardous area, known as Quicksand Pass because the glacier's moving under you. You can't see it, can't feel it, but she's slipping and sliding her way under you. And she can suck you down, because beneath that world of white are crevices just waiting to make themselves your coffin.
We picked our way up Lonely Ridge, ice axes ringing, frost clinging to our eyelashes, and after battling our way around Satan's Chimney, had lunch on a picnic blanket of untouched snow.
The sun was a ball of gold ice.
I risked a few pictures, but was afraid the cold would break the camera.
There was little grace but plenty of passion in the post-lunch climb. Maybe it was the speed we'd popped for dessert, but we kicked and cursed the mountain and each other. We beat steps into the snow for what seemed like hours, while that golden ball began to sink and turn a vicious, violent orange, that set fire to the snow. Then left us in the killing dark.
We used our headlamps to give us enough light to chop a tent ledge into the ice. We're camped here, listening to the wind blow like a storm surf through the night, easing our exhaustion with some prime weed and the success of the day.
We've taken to calling one another by code names from Star Wars. We're now Han, Luke and Darth. I'm Luke. We entertained ourselves pretending we were on the ice planet Hoth, on a mission to destroy an Empire stronghold. Of course, that means Darth's working against us, but that adds to the fun.
Hey, whatever floats your boat.
We made good progress today, but we're getting jumpy. It felt good to carve my ice ax into No Name's belly, inching my way up her. There was a lot of shouting, insults—motivational at first, then turning on an edge as ice chunks rained down. Darth took some in the face, and cursed me for the next hour.
For a minute today I thought he was going to lose it and try to bloody my face as I had his. Even now I can feel him stewing about it, boring the occasional dirty look at the back of my head while Han's snoring starts to compete with the wind.
He'll get over it. We're a team, and each one of
FOUR
JOURNAL ENTRY . February 14, 1988
Fucking cold. We're not talking about it, or we'll go crazy, but I'll write about it here. Then I can look back one day—maybe in July, when I'm sitting out with a beer, covered in bug dope and slapping at the sparrowsized mosquitoes—and staring out at this white bitch.
I'll know I was here, that I did it. And that beer will taste all the sweeter.
But right now it's February, and July's a century away. The bitch rules.
Wind's taking us down to thirty or forty below. Once you're down that far, it doesn't seem like a few degrees one way or another matters. Cold broke one of the lanterns and snapped the zipper on my parka.
With night lasting sixteen hours, we make and break camp in the dark. Taking a piss becomes an exercise in exhaustion and misery. Still our spirits are holding, for the most part.
You can't buy this kind of experience. When the cold is like broken glass lacerating your throat, you know you're alive in a way you can only be alive on a mountain. When you risk a moment outside shelter and see the northern lights, so brilliant, so electric that you think you could reach up and grab some of that shimmering green and pull it inside yourself for a charge, you know you don't want to be alive anywhere else.
Our progress is slow, but we're not giving up on the goal of reaching the summit. We were slowed by avalanche debris. I wondered how many had camped there, under what is now buried and barren, and how soon the mountain will shift or shimmy and bury the snow cave we fought to hack into her.
We had a short, screaming argument over how to circumvent the debris. I took the lead. We spent what seemed like two lifetimes getting through and around it, but it couldn't have been done any faster, no matter what anyone else thinks. It's a hazardous area, known as Quicksand Pass because the glacier's moving under you. You can't see it, can't feel it, but she's slipping and sliding her way under you. And she can suck you down, because beneath that world of white are crevices just waiting to make themselves your coffin.
We picked our way up Lonely Ridge, ice axes ringing, frost clinging to our eyelashes, and after battling our way around Satan's Chimney, had lunch on a picnic blanket of untouched snow.
The sun was a ball of gold ice.
I risked a few pictures, but was afraid the cold would break the camera.
There was little grace but plenty of passion in the post-lunch climb. Maybe it was the speed we'd popped for dessert, but we kicked and cursed the mountain and each other. We beat steps into the snow for what seemed like hours, while that golden ball began to sink and turn a vicious, violent orange, that set fire to the snow. Then left us in the killing dark.
We used our headlamps to give us enough light to chop a tent ledge into the ice. We're camped here, listening to the wind blow like a storm surf through the night, easing our exhaustion with some prime weed and the success of the day.
We've taken to calling one another by code names from Star Wars. We're now Han, Luke and Darth. I'm Luke. We entertained ourselves pretending we were on the ice planet Hoth, on a mission to destroy an Empire stronghold. Of course, that means Darth's working against us, but that adds to the fun.
Hey, whatever floats your boat.
We made good progress today, but we're getting jumpy. It felt good to carve my ice ax into No Name's belly, inching my way up her. There was a lot of shouting, insults—motivational at first, then turning on an edge as ice chunks rained down. Darth took some in the face, and cursed me for the next hour.
For a minute today I thought he was going to lose it and try to bloody my face as I had his. Even now I can feel him stewing about it, boring the occasional dirty look at the back of my head while Han's snoring starts to compete with the wind.
He'll get over it. We're a team, and each one of
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