[...story resumes...]
The first day of our family reunion camping trip was picture-perfect: the tents were erected without incident, hot-dogs were cooked and my uncle (who always seems to have a guitar on him though we never saw him pack it or carry it with him anywhere) played old folk songs as the sparks went up into the purple sky. It was summer, but at our altitude the night air was chilled. We wore hooded sweatshirts and sang along to "Tambourine Man" and "Hey Jude".
The next day it rained, though it was not the kind of demanding rain that required our full attention. It did not come down in sheets and relegate us to cover; in fact, it didn't even seem to come down at all. Rather, moisture just seemed to explode from every surface, as if the trees and rocks and the ground itself were exuding wetness from somewhere within. Every now and then a large drop would fall onto a cheek or a shoulder from somewhere high up in the homogenous grey, causing one to look up for fear that it was just a warning shot, that the torrents were soon to be unleashed on our small contingent. But the assault never came, so we ran around in last-year's tennis shoes and smoke-soaked sweatshirts, smelling the crisp wet conifers, realizing that candle makers and detergent companies (try as they may) don't even come close to capturing the scent.
It was during this aimless exploration that Mark, my cousin one year my younger, found a small bird standing beside the stream. The bird did not appear injured, but when Mark approached it failed to fly away, and only seemed to be contemplating the water rushing in front of it, wondering what it feels like to swim the way humans wonder what it is to fly. Not knowing what to do with the small, fearless woodland creature, Mark did what any child does when they find a wild animal that lets them get close enough to touch it: he scooped it up and made it a pet. We now had a mascot for the trip. We would earn its trust and nurse it back to health, train it to come when we whistled and feed it sunflower seeds. It would live in a shoebox. We had big plans for our forest friend.
The following day - Day 3 - the sun had burned through the clouds and the air was already hot by early morning. "Today," announced our Uncles/Fathers with the kind of sadistic joy that only a parent can truly appreciate, "we are going to climb that!", and pointed, dramatically, at the mountain that rested just behind our camp; the Face of God. We, of course, were giddy. An actual mountain!? To CONQUER?!? We began throwing supplies into backpacks: granola bars, canteens, band-aids, spools of string, wilderness survival manuals. I debated designing some type of flag on the back of a bandana, a "family crest" we could plant at the summit to let the world know that "yes! We had been there! There was no stopping us! This 12,000 footer was only the beginning!" Alas, the flag idea was scrapped for lack of time and materials; the memory alone would have to serve as proof that we had scaled the precipice.
It was late morning by the time we got going, sweatshirts tied around waists and plastic water bottles in hand we trudged up the rocky footpath that ran beside the stream, stopping often so the youngest members of our patrol could catch their breath. Only a few were left back at camp: the women who were unused to sleeping on the ground and thus were too tired for adventure, the grandparents who had already conquered their share of mountains in their lifetimes, the youngest cousins whose little legs were no match for the steady incline and unsure footing. But the rest of us, energy unending and fueled by the untouched mountain air and unfiltered sunlight, followed the directions of our Uncles/Fathers, walking/running/skipping/jumping/falling behind their tall socks and mid-thigh khaki shorts. We stopped for photo opportunities and ate trail mix from the hands of older cousins. The sweat soaked our backs and the spaces behind our knees.
Sometime after noon, we found a clearing in the tree line. The world opened up then, and we could see what felt like hundreds of miles in all directions. My younger sister, who (to her credit) had not complained the entire time, took this opportunity to begin throwing up. "She has altitude sickness," said my dad, visibly torn between taking care of his child and continuing the expedition. What?! You can get sick from being too high?!?! I thought. I had never heard of such an affliction, but I viewed it as a weakness and vowed to never incur its symptoms. These human bodies are so fragile!
Thankfully, someone volunteered to take my sister back down the mountain to camp, sparing my dad of the chore and allowing us to continue hiking on the now less-visible path which, due to the steepness of the trek, had begun cutting along the side of the mountain instead of attacking it head-on. Progress was slower now, with more breaks; Up and up we went, the temperature dropping by degrees every couple of minutes. We donned our sweatshirts and drained our water bottles.
Near what we though was the top, it began snowing. At this point, we became painfully aware of one fact: We were totally unprepared for this...
[The story concludes on Friday. Will we make it out alive? We shall see...]
No comments:
Post a Comment