First, the air changes. It’s no longer warm or sticky, but crisp, firm, tingly - almost minty. The snowline spreads downhill like lava from its summit crowns. It creeps to lower altitudes, covering glacier and rock. It fills crevasses, flattens trees, swallows the landscape; it leaves nothing but a uniform, paper-white sheet of snow. Then the leaves turn. Not all at once or in sharp, stinging colors, as they do in New England. No, softly, their edges brown like batter in an oven, crumbling into muted, anonymous colors. The grass follows suit. Lush, trembling alpine meadows become straw-colored. Row after row of smoky, yellow tufts fill the space between disrobed woods and snow-splashed crags.
We change too. We no longer walk the same way. We arrive with purpose. Each step is counted and measured against the sand left in the hourglass of the season, against each weekend of good weather we might still get. It’s a heavy step, full of purpose. We no longer saunter or even hike through the woods, but rather tromp and stamp, the fall of our boots military in its purpose.
We discover the yellowed meadows with a sober sort of alacrity. It’s beautiful, yes, but there is a task at hand. Mountains loom above us, their lofty flanks enclosed in a thin crust of snow.
We wipe away the sweat and change into clean layers. Tents are unfurled, sleeping bags unrolled, pads inflated by the force of our lungs. Headlamps are readied, summit packs are stuffed with water, food, spare gloves, glacier glasses. We blow up our pillows and organize our small comforts: headphones, a piss bottle, a chewed-up paperback. Each movement is precise, measured, practiced. Each one is the apogee of five long months of climbing mountains every single free day we’ve had, and we’ve had many. Movements rehearsed in our living rooms, delivered time and again on frigid glaciers, on rock plateaus, or in meadows such as this one, to the vague applause of thunder and cold winds. Movements executed time and over with fake stoicism, only our inner selves glimpsing how good it feels to still play, to camp with your friends, to climb a mountain because you want to. This routine means everything. It is civilization.
We use big rocks to hammer in stakes, the plastic cover of the stove to scoop snow, and a black tarp to line the roof of our four-season tent. Everything has been packed to serve double, or even triple, purposes. Each item’s weight has been accounted for, considered, debated, sometimes unpacked and then repacked, until every object only appears to the mind’s eye accompanied by a little number. Ice axe: 1.2 pounds. Tent: 4.6 pounds. Glasses: 45 grams. The minutiae of this calculation contains the joy of packing for the climb. We are scientists, engineers, explorers. Not to mention our other jobs: weathermen, chefs, expedition planners.
And above all, climbers.
Every statement is uttered in relation to the climb: “I’ll eat another dehydrated meal...we’ll need calories to burn tomorrow.” “I’m going to take two warm bottles into my sleeping bag...I have to sleep so I can be rested for the climb tomorrow.” “I can’t believe this weather we’re having...I’m so happy we’re getting one more climb in.”
And yet, there is doubt. Will we be able to make a summit bid? Presently, the weather changes. Gray clouds laze across a marble-streaked sky. Flecks of snow spin down and litter the dry, cracked dirt. We shelter in our tents, mired in fluffy down, taut canvas, and doubt. Will it happen? Will we stand up there? We cannot say with any certainty, so we trade platitudes. “Just being out here is awesome already.” “As long as I get to be outside, it’s fine.” We are liars. The summit means everything. But if ignoring a bully gets them to stop teasing you, then who’s to say we can’t trick this weather system by pretending we don’t care?
We are lucky on this day. The snow turns into rain, then back to snow, and then pitters to a stop. We hold our breaths. Soon, lances of sunlight draw a patchwork of smoke-stained sky, slowly brightening into a deep blue. The cloud cap rises, splits, and dissipates. Pink clouds swirl over the mountains as the sun crashes into the woods in a splatter of color.
The night is short, cold, cruel. Through the vents, we see stars brighter than jewels, Orion’s belt a scintillating accoutrement. They diminish and pass, replaced by shy, pale skies. A sickle of a moon levitates above the clouds. We stir. We rise. We brave the harsh, cold air outside the cocoon of our sleeping bags. We make small talk while some brew coffee, and all comment on the cold: “It’s chilly.” “It’s nippy.” “It’s fucking freezing...better get moving.” We get out of camp, behind schedule as always.
The way to the summit is hard. The way to the summit is always hard. There is always a difficulty. What is it this time? Oh, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I could say it’s crossing the immensity of a glacier in a single, roped line, scaling sheer rock faces, encumbered by a bric a brac of climbing gear, or simply stumbling up a simple mix of scree and snow. But it’s always the same struggle, the same fight. The meandering, intricate, unrelenting quest to move up.
Up. There is no other way, no other creed, no other religion. Up is a prayer uttered in the cathedral of the mountains.
The mind goes through moods in these yawning stretches of time in which the climber pushes up. “My legs hurt.” “This is beautiful.” “I’m out of breath.” “We’re gonna make it.” “My pack is too heavy.” “I love this.” The brain is a slobbering, bipolar creature, torn between its pains and its pleasures.
Eventually, the going gets easier. We are no longer shocked at the effort expended by the body. It’s become normal, factual, even acceptable. The mind starts to wander again...ah, the delight! How rare and beautiful those moments are, where body and soul both wander, one drowning in the immensity of its own thoughts, the other lost in the movements of the climb. To feel oneself moving so freely, quickly and efficiently, physically and spiritually liberated from the shackles of everyday life, to feel oneself so wonderfully fragmented in one’s existence, and yet so unified in one’s purpose, is to truly feel what it means to be human.
This is why we climb. In spite of the pain, in spite of the cost.This is our spiritual food, and we will not be starved.
And then a snow-splashed spray of black rock in the sky, dripping in ice, and one can go no higher. The ceremony begins. Solemn handshakes and a few strangled words, followed by quiet contemplation. The presence, felt by each one of us, of all the things that need not be said. Because it’s sheer joy to stand at this confluence of ridges, seasons, and stories, at this highest place in the sky where friendship is easy and the soul can breathe.
