Get her attention.
We hiked almost five miles in, camping near
Sorry with a not-really-apologetic smile.
(I’d start a forest fire to get a better look at you.)
A gesture returned (I think, I hope) by the citrus iris of the sun peering from behind the silhouetted crag. Fleeting as a wink.
Aw, shucks. … Shucks? Be cool, man.
We circumnavigated the water, sneaking glances, seeking access. Light caroming off the ripples like thousands of index finger Come here’s. A rattling snare, my heart.
Shoo – she split her evergreen entourage. No. Way.
Me?
Yes, you.
Gulp.
The clearest of paths but the steepest of approaches, no doubt. She knows only the pedestal. My vision narrows to photo negative, a wormhole vacuum (she’s reaching for space, after all). A pocket of loose rock an overturned sack of marbles on which I slip, hands down to prevent a face plant.
Fuck. What a tool.
I stand a bit straighter as though it will replenish my mystique, my man.
Atop the small ridge it’s just an introduction, still so far from her reality. Above treeline like the crowd broke through the floorboards. Pretty damn vulnerable now. The curling ribbon wind her leg-breaking scent, suffocating my words. Masochism ain’t so bad; incredible, actually.
My lungs allow no more than a head nod. A nod that really says Ohmygodpleaseletmedevouryou. But she sees hello and the still-clear sky suggests she obliges. I don’t care if it’s sympathy.
I’ve only thought this far. Shit.
Once a crumpled soda can, my diaphragm finally expands. I use the new, angel-hair-thin O2 to muster something, anything.
Nice digs, eh?
Ugh.
It’s the
She laughed, though, and the Indian Paint Brush seesawed in her sweet exhale.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/blile59/2056362770/
A second chance, dick. Think. …
Eyes locked but silent.
I can hear the delay of game whistle now. The red zone’s escaped your grasp, playa. Go set up your E-harmony profile, dood:
Hi, my name is Ryan. Expect extensive pantomiming on dates. Try to decipher that I like wheat beer, spooning, music…
Wait. Music!
It’s like Anita Miller in Almost Famous: Listen to Tommy with a candle burning, and you’ll see your entire future.
Excuse me for a second. I’ll be right back.
I stood tip-toed at the DJ booth, and although I didn’t request The Who, I stayed in the era.
Piano boom.
Well there’s a light in your eye that keeps shining,
Like a star that can’t wait for the night,
I hate to think I’ve been blinded baby,
Why can’t I see you tonight?
Like I just slew some conversational dragon, I strolled back to her side, hand extended.
Care to dance?
Rico fucking Suave, right? A rabbit on the race track, feverishly scaling again.
The Bonham shuffle like hot coals on heels, and the delay of game whistle became the footloose cue on Fool in the Rain.
We merged like twist ties; spliced wire, surging with shared hertz.
But god, was her conquest merciless. Undulating, relentless boulders the confident hips refusing me rhythm, always adapting. Was I leashed?
The frigid winds her whipping hair, shielding her face from my nuzzle, my muzzle.
Leaning hands on knees, I’d disguise exhaustion as a retro Charleston
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Baker_Charleston.jpg
Ominous clouds slithered closer, inversely the creeping house lights. Make moves, son.
My persistence wore on her reign. I stressed my leash, the collar fraying. After what seemed like endless false summits, the sovereign cairn in plain view.
Truly animal now, all extremities clawing, racing up her tapering torso. The alcoves of her pointed shoulders filled with my hot breath, dotted with my sweat.
My final, sloth steps like careful nibbles on her obelisk neck.
Threads, threads, threads…
And she was coy no more.
But Fairchild was not simply an incendiary, 13,502 foot affair; a challenging catch and release told-you-so notch in my hiking bedpost. The subsequent descent confirmed a 17-mile relationship, complete with impassioned embraces and the dodging of thrown dishes.
Baby, you make me a better person.
I fucking hate the way you chew your food.
It was insightful that way, as only something simultaneously amazing and miserable can be.
At the trailhead, it was exciting to walk away from the car. We were escaping alarm clocks, inboxes, ring tones, bosses, board meetings, traffic jams, dog shit. Life became elemental: walk, breathe, panorama. I swear the air was fresher. The birds were personalizing their tunes for us.
No peel here’s and microwave cook times. It was pasta boiling over an open flame, a few slices of bread, maybe one (two) fun-size Butterfinger for my sweet tooth. (Apples and oatmeal in the morning.) Hearty nutrients that took weight from our gear, made the trek easier.
No network shows, so we read by lamplight or just stewed in our thoughts. It’s funny how reading and thinking have become somewhat taboo, certainly in youth. The whir of a stream downhill was our lullaby as we pulled the YKK midway on our sleeping bags.
Dawn light woke us like a motherly nudge.
Ahh. This is the stuff.
Then it was time to confront the stunning peak. Its mere presence managed to both galvanize me and crush me, not unlike that illusory woman. It’s so damn confident and so damn impossible. But I knew the glory of its apex, and we put our heads down for the slog.
That endless slog.
Lava in our quads and vises on our lungs, we were drained. But that’s easy to forget when looking out upon layers of snowcapped mountain ranges almost floating on a robin’s egg sea. Roadways like pencil strokes miles away.
Solitude.
But then a sip on our Camelbacks produced nothing. Our bodies again became vocal.
Why would you do this to me, you sonofabitch?
Beef jerky and
Why don’t they build ziplines here? Toss me that carpet, Aladdin.
The supposed ease of downhill was quickly disproven. Each step was like billiards for our knees, bones colliding. There was no doubt I was becoming wickedly dehydrated, my pulse ever-present in my temples, thro-thro-throbbing.
Alas, we met the Saddle Trail.
It was hardly a trail, more a carved hazard. Those fucking marbles again, pebble city. I slipped a lot, and this time around I forfeit cavalier for cursing. Leg up, flailing my arms like a tight rope act desperate for balance. Unable to control my body, I was livid.
Then the trail inexplicably disappeared. We had to bushwhack to reconnect with it. Neck-high shrubs with strong branches held our weight well. As I went for a step on a lone rock … drop.
My foot landed short of its destination. My left leg took a dip in marsh water up to my man bits. Syrup water. Turn-my-kaki-pants-brown water.
Step, squisssh, step, squisssh, step …
Sunburn, headache, noodle legs, cotton mouth, prairie dogging, and at least two more miles before camp.
Camp. Where I knew I’d be eating tuna fish pitas. And sleeping without a pillow. And smelling like an asshole. And waking up feeling like a corpse.
I wondered how much TNT would level Fairchild. Or maybe I could just decapitate a fox. Whatever revenge against Nature I could manage.
We eventually got water, the effects of which I inevitably didn’t feel until much later. The tuna tasted like a little more than nothing. I slept about as calmly as Emily Rose. My spine resembled a sine wave.
We booked it out that morning like the apocalypse was nipping at our calves. I nearly dry-humped the Subaru. We drove directly to Estes Park Brewery for a killer lunch.
As I annihilated a chicken sandwich, I began thinking rationally again. What was disdain morphed into respect.
Being a nomad must have sucked mammoth balls. Or how about the folks on rickety wagons rolling up to the
… Fuck. Let’s go around. I feel dysentery coming.
And I thought we persevered.
Mountains have a way of building me up and breaking me down, therefore lending me an incredibly balanced perspective.
Their purity highlights the extraneous in my life. Their detail is extraordinary; I try to apply that scrutiny to the common, bullet-paced day. Overcoming their stature makes other challenges, however immense, seem manageable.
They also show me their permanence and my transience; get arrogant and my head could be a Gallagher watermelon. I’ve got the warning scars. And quite simply, they are bullies, terrorizing my physical and mental strength. They’ve got a whole gang: sun, wind, rain, mosquitoes, grizzly bears.
But I’d like to think the broken are the most appreciative of victories. I recall an almost-drunk Brian Shelby rocking David Aames’s world in Vanilla Sky: Just remember, the sweet is never as sweet without the sour, and I know the sour. It was only when Aames mangled his face as the victim of an attempted murder-suicide that he understood the sentiment .
But, you know, I’m talking about mountains.
And speaking of sour, be ready to juke and jive on the trail. Horses drop the most wretched magic-eight-ball-sized deuces.
Am I going to vomit?
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