Because it is There

A whimsical day in the mountains, a ski tour delight! Arc’teryx will keep you dry and an 800-fill down puffy maintains perfect bodily homeostasis. A low angle tour of Artisan point, top of Palmer, or a local groomer keeps you fit, happy, and safe. Ski touring is all fun and games, until those little voices start. They don’t bounce among all craniums, but if you hear them, they can’t be shaken. A little farther, ignore the pain, satisfy the itch. No road is faster to hell, no road so hot. Now your eyes have locked upon the summit, and we all know from tree skiing: Do not look where you don’t want to go. Deed is done, and your following path will lead to nothing more than the highs that bring lows. Depression follows a summit. The greater the accomplishment, the deeper into the crevasse I fall. No z-pully will get me out of this one. Glacier skiing is all about minimizing the risk, for it is forever present.

Just because it is there. People of no perspective, “Is the skiing was worth it?” Worth what? The climb up is dinner, which is not in sole existence with desert. Yes, the skiing is nice, nice as a utilitarian means to quickly decent the mountain. Climbing the mountain I think New York summer, 100 degrees and humid. Warm brain fuzz from a diabolical Thai chili. The utter encompassment of brain static, over the edge, into the black. Ski mountaineering done right is absolutely no fun. It is like life, suffering. But in this pain is the solace of the storm. So human here, so home. From the caverns of man, you skin through the trees. Here in this earthly layer, the foundation of life was built. Up to the delicate alpine zone. Here the lapses of association begin. The air, the trees, life, thins. Delicate layers of moss here have spent human generations forming. Not much to work with for this poor shrubbery. Like ourselves, it is trying, ever so. We proceed from the blue, into the black.

The peak is near the end, memory and all. Basic survival. Food, water, shelter. Safety? The air compresses my skull, forming bubbles in my brain that attack all senses of well-being. Here flow state rules all, push or die. I out run my headache and nausea. The doubt, the exhaustion. These last steps to the summit hold the weight of the thousands that proceeded. Up the Penrose steps, will I be here forever? It must end, or shall I. Is it the wind or my senses that are fading? The summit is for no man. God intended these sacred volcanos to be watched from far, far away, but man does what he does best. Conquer. I am man. I conquered.