Men at war.

December 12.
Phil and I stood for a moment, looking out across the glacier that second evening at Low Camp. It was midnight, and though the long daylight hours of this strange season still illuminated our white world fully, the low angle of the sun cast definition to the wind-scalloped snow before us. A lone figure was approachng as we spoke about the motivations of Climbers. It was a patient and introspective discussion that was handed back and forth like a Rubix Cube. Then Phil said something that clicked all colors to solid on the cube´s six sides.

¨Look at this bloak cómin´ down the mountain. There´s no celebration, no people cheerin´, and that´s not what he wants either. This man has been at war, really, with himself.´´

Jakob Dylan speaks of this notion in his song Valley of the low sun, a lyric depiction of WWII that could easily apply to an Antarctic expedition.
The Earth´s still climbing as it keeps on grinding it´s way up around the sun.
As cool water crashes down to the masses, boot legged and bottled like rum.

My dreams are humble, lean as arrows and streetwise, ready and fair.
As we bum-rush the ages tied to the rails of high seas not fit to be sailed.

Whatever we´ve taken does feel like heaven, but baby we just look like hell.

Now act like you mean it, where paradise was in the valley of low low sun.
Act like you mean it, where paradise was in the valley of low low sun.

In as much as this analogy may hold true, I ate breakfast this morning among the walking wounded. By the time a Climber takes on Vinson Massif he has served numerous tours of duty on high altitude battle fields. Some are missing fingers. Others bare the tattoos of frostbite. Many have no visible scars and choose to speak of days spent surviving at 30 below as though it were an afternoon at the zoo, stoicism and denial being their standard issue carbine.

Most of the people at my table this morning were part of a team stormed in at High Camp for six days under truly horrific conditions. I have heard Guides question why this team did not retreat to a lower camp and conserve their strength while waiting out the weather. I tried to engage them by asking what, 10 years from now, they thought they would most remember about this trip. All were silent until the woman next to me said ¨I just want to get out of here.´´ Too soon for war stories.

There is a 12 inch mirror that hangs near the coffee station. I wonder to myself if it is an instrument of humility, a means by which an unruly Climber may be checked. Examining my reflection for the first time in two weeks, I am surprised by how little I resemble myself. My lips are swollen, cracked and peeling from the effects of sun and cold. My facial hair has grown out.  It is two-toned, with dark cheeks and a grey stripe running from my mouth down my neck as though I choked while eating a bowl of indiffernce.  The end of my nose is chaffed and red, my hair matted and greasy.  Suddenly I am aware of my many minor hurts; the blisters on my feet, the numbness of my finger tips, the tingling in my toes and a deep ache in my shoulders. By comparison with those seated at my table Vinson treated me fairly kind. But there is no denying it also kicked my ass. There were times I could not get warm or struggled with breaking camp in windy conditions. I looked to the reason for coming on this climb but, as there was no clear rationale, found myself just coping. ´´I´m not having fun,´´ I thought again and again, flirting with the notion this might be my last mountain. That thing that had driven me through the first four of the seven summits seemed to be quieting. Vinson had not beaten me. I stood on it´s summit. Yet, more than ever, I felt ready to declare peace.

A hasty retreat.

The forecast storm arrived during the night.  Powerful winds shook our tents while the -25 celcius temperature added an unwelcome bite. Mark said he had been up since five a.m. worrying about our descent of the fixed lines in these conditions. The careful progress required would leave all exposed to extreme cold and the ever-present menace of frostbite. It was eight a.m.  Mark asked us to strike camp and be ready to leave in 30 minutes. ¨It´s gonna be meusili bars for breakfast while you pack up,¨ he informed us. Guy peeled back the wrapper on an energy bar and bore down on the frozen product. ¨I´m going to break a tooth if I insist on eating this thing,¨ he complained, then placing the bar into a pocket to thaw for later.

There was good news, though. We would be leaving most of the group gear at High Camp for the next Adventure Consultants group to use, thus sparing them the work of packing it uphill and likewise sparing us the burden of taking it down. We kidded Mark that it seemed too coincidental AC had steared this strong group of Climbers into an early season expedition to act as pack mules. We would similarly be leaving group gear packed into Low Camp. Just before leaving High Camp I walked out to the edge of our perch. With the whole of Antarctica spread out before me in shades of white, I opened a plastic bag and released a small quantity of my brother´s ashes into the breeze.

While descending the fixed lines my Thermarest mattress role came loose and shot down the ice face. Considering it´s light weight, the mattress moved incredibly fast, skidding out across glacier at the base of the hill. The sight of this served as a sober reminder.  Once at the bottom of the lines Mark and I roped up to retrieve the mattress settled some two hundred yards out on the glacier.

The Team loaded the sleds left at Low Camp and continued down to Vinson Base Camp.  There Mark cooked up some pasta and poured red wine from a box. We delayed building camp as there was some chance the Otter would make a flight, extracting us from this shaded place that held the cold air miserably. During our first two days at Vinson Base Camp several of us had agreed that this was the coldest we had ever been. This included experiences on Denali and Everest. The Otter arrived a few hours later. One Team was ahead of us in priority, but that left 4 seats open. Phil immediately volunteered to stay behind.

Meeting Phil has been one of the true treasures of this experience for me. He is kind and affable, quick to laugh, and brings a liteness of spirit wherever he may be. Phil shared many quirky stories about the Isle of Man and his work their as a Police Officer. He had me laughing so hard a couple of times it hurt to gasp in the cold air. It goes without saying that Phil is an extremely gifted Mountain Climber, but what´s more he is a Rare Dude.

Phil and Mark stayed behind at Vinson Base Camp. We left them our final stores of wine and Glen Livet with which to be better received at dinner in the heated staff hut that evening. Guy, Steve, Tony, and I climbed into the Twin Otter and, forty minutes later, stepped out at Union Glacier Base. We were greeted by a lively man in an Adventure Consultants jacket, the owner of Adventure Consultants, Guy Cotter. Readers of Into Thin Air will recall numerous mentions of Guy and his brave efforts to help the stranded on that day when everything went wrong. He is a larger than life character with flashing smile and energetic demeanor. Guy helped us set up our tents, then took us into the large dinning tent for dinner and a beer. He had just finished guiding a private party that skied the last degree to the south pole. A brown tiger stripe on one cheek told of the extreme cold that had sponsored this minor frostbite. Guy readily answered questions about the events that took so many lives on Everest in May of 1996. Acknowledging mistakes made by various parties, he likewise detailed what had been learned by them and the steps taken to improve Climber safety in the future. I could not help but think this sort of discussion is as tiresome as it is painful for Guy, but if either is the case he did not show it.

I settled into my sleeping bag and listened to Christmas music on my I-pod. I had brought along a small set of battery operated Christmas lights which were rendered useless by the 24 hour daylight. But they now shined brilliantly inside my sleeping bag.  I thought of family two continents away and the coming holiday.

The descent to High Camp

The vast majority of climbing accidents occur in the course of descending. A Climber is typically weakened from the demanding effort to reach the summit.  As well, there is a psychological tendency to let one´s guard down once the prize has been obtained.  I try to stay mindful of this, telling myself ¨now bring it home,¨ as the objective shifts to that of returning to the safety of High Camp.

The Team set aside any further celebration for later. We knew we would have to repeat the ridge walk just completed and the seriousness of this shown on everyone´s face.  The wind picked up again as we got underway, but the lessons learned the first time up the ridge removed enough mystery from the pitch that both ropes progressed confidently.

We stopped to rest after descending 1,000 feet to the base of the saddle. Sheltered from the wind and relieved to have completed the most dangerous part of the descent, the Team hydrated and removed heavy layers while chatting excitedly. I called Lin on my satellite phone. At the sound of her voice I began to choke up. With broken pauses, I shared the news we had summitted Antarctica and were now on our way down. Lin was very happy, agreeing to call my Mother and Sons to let them know. ¨Now come home to me,¨ she finished.

The Team eased into High Camp around eight pm. Exhaustion and blistered feet had overtaken any inclination to celebrate our accomplishment.  We half-heartedly forced down some pasta, the last few bites of mine freezing to the bowl before I could consume them.  I climbed into the refuge of my down bag and surrendered to sleep.

The top of the bottom.

December 10, 2010.  For each day on a major expedition there will be one Climber who is off. He is disorganized and cannot find his rythym. Slow to ready himself, this person usually holds up the Team, bringing about unwelcome delay and loss of body heat as team members, stripped down to working layers, stand idle in the chill breeze. I was that person on summit day. A piece of equipment that had worked fine in the past would refuse to engage in it´s appointed task. A critical item set out the night before would be lost beneath the impossible tangle of gear Mitchell, Guy, and myself had forced into a two man tent. Doug helped, but a prideful sense of self sufficience left me feeling worse still. Though I delayed our summit bid by 20 minutes, there was not a single comment or sideways glance offered by the Team.

Getting underway, I set about coaching myself for the seven hour climb ahead. ¨Simple thoughts,¨ I said. I evaluated the efficiency of my stride. It was even and clean. The crampons bit into the hard snow with reassuring purchase. Probably a symptom of lingering frustration, I was setting my climbing poles much harder than necessary. I eased back a bit. My legs felt solid, my toes uncharacteristicly warm. As the rising sun would be shining on my left side for most of the ascent, I had worn a much heavier glove on my right hand than on my left. As well, I had activated a chemical hand warmer inside that glove. In Antarctica, whatever the sun does not touch is frozen or on it´s way to frozen in very short order. A woman on the earlier Adventure Consultants trip this season was frost bitten on one hand by not taking such considerations into proper account. I needed a soundtrack. It would have to be a mental soundtrack as listening to an I-pod while traveling in a roped team is at best poor form. I decided on the Charlie Brown Christmas album, leading off with Linus and Lucy.  There is a ridiculous dance the animated characters do to the sound of this song, and Lin and I cannot hear it without likewise replicating them. I found myself smiling broadly.

We cruised up a meandering route of moderate incline for the first hour out of high camp. Cresting a ridge, the landscape opened up to a vast glacial field of perhaps six kilometers across. The tracks of earlier teams navigated the various crevasses in broad lazy arches. The day´s real climbing awaited on us on the other side of the field. A more inclined pitch up to a saddle was followed by a very steep icy slope gaining most of the last 1,000 feet of elevation to the call. We had enjoyed ideal weather the whole day. Clear sunny skies and very little wind blessed us with conditions few Climbers dare to wish for.  Yet Doug had fretted the serious deterioration of these elements forecast the day before, and, as we took the call, it seemed those concerns were well founded. The temperature had dropped to -35 celcius and a fierce wind shredded the high flank of Vinson from the opposite side. We had to shout at close range to hear one another as we added balaclavas, heavy mits, and massive down parkas. The final pitch looked down on us. It was an extremely steep and narrow reach of ice-covered rock perhaps one hundred feet tall. I am often asked if I feel any fear in the course of my climbs. I do. And in this particular moment I felt a gut full of it.

Doug led Mitchell and I up the pitch. We were followed by the rope team of Phil, Steve, and Guy. We clawed with ice axes and crampons that too often were cheated by hard stone.  I kept telling myself ¨Don´t blow it. Stay focused here. Make every step count.¨  There was too much slack in the rope as I closed in on Mitchell, delayed for some reason just over the break. I tried shouting to him to belay me up, but the wind easily consumed my muffled squak. I held my position on the rock face waiting, but a growing sense of vulnerabilty got the best of me. I looked back at Phil, waiting to advance his team from the same narrow ledge, and we just shook our heads at each other. I pushed the slack to one side and mounted the pitch.

 I caught up with Mitchell just over the crest. He was trying to understand Doug´s instructions for using the boulders as running protection. Though the wind had let up momentarily, it was still impossible to comprehend one another through the obstructions of ear and mouth presented by our garments. We eventually sorted things out enough to continue along the ridge. Just fifty yards separated us from Vinson´s summit. But this distance was a narrow catwalk of icy rocks that fell off to oblivion on one side. We were careful and methodic. There was anchored protection available in a few places. We used it. A group of unroped German climbers overtook us about half way through. ¨This guy is coming past,¨ Phil shouted over my shoulder as we edged along a ledge 18 inches wide. The German Climber said ¨Excuse me,¨ in broken english, then swung around me on the outside, stepping on our rope with his steel crampons as he did. ¨What an A** H***,¨ I shouted as he shuffled away. I should note that the climbing ability of Germans is respected much more than the manners they tend to display in the course of climbing.

We continued on. I refocused on my foot placement, also watching Mitchell ahead of me. If he should stumble I would have a quick decision to make. The rope advanced, then halted again. I looked ahead to see Doug at the Summit removing his pack. He then took hold of our rope and began belaying Mitchell and I in. Doug then instructed Mitchell to back out onto the dramatic summit ledge while he parced out line. Mitchell returned after Doug had taken a photo. I stuck out my hand to him and said ¨let me be the first to congratulate you on standing atop all seven summits!¨ Mitchell smiled through the icecicles hanging from his grey mustache, then stepped aside. I edged cautiously out onto the same summit ledge and posed for my summit photo, removing my heavy mit just long enough to make the sign language symbol for love.

As each Climber completed his photo we gathered at a wider area off to one side. A Team photo was taken. Doug advised that I not make any satellite phone calls as we would need to descend immediately. As I turned away from Doug, Phil gathered me up in a huge congratulatory hug. Overwhelmed with emotion, I began sobbing. ¨I know,¨ Phil comforted, ¨I know.¨

December 9, 2010 - The Move to High Camp

We broke camp after a breakfast of oatmeal and cocoa.  There was an enthusiastic vibe to the team - conditions were ideal and we would be moving to High Camp.  If the weather forecast proved correct, we might well leave for the summit the very next day.  Each person's share of group gear was divvied out by Doug.  In addition to my own things, I would carry a tent, tent poles and a canister of fuel.  My pack looked massive once everything had been loaded into it, but the weight was less than the 60 pounds that I trained for.  We roped up into two teams, until reaching the bottom of the fixed lines.  I coiled the rope, after myself, Mitchell and Guy unclipped from it.  Doug stood next to his pack smiling, as I turned to hand him the rope.  He'd already secured his rope to the top of his pack and the clear message was that I should do the same.  Steve noticed this, and immediately offered to carry my rope.  I've met many successful people who, in reality, were only successful at harvesting the efforts of others.  Steve is not one of them.  Steve was always quick to volunteer if there was a difficult or unpleasant task to be done.  Equally important, he is a builder, whose cheerleading brings out the best in those around him.  As an Investment Banker, Steve occupies a much vilified post on the heels of the recent global financial crisis.  Yet it is easy to sort him from the rabble of posers who typify that enterprise.  The duress of any mountain climb, eventually reveals the true character of those involved.  Steve had been revealed to be the genuine article.  I insisted on carrying the rope. This was part of a pledge I made to myself at the start of what I knew to be a difficult day.  I would bear whatever weight came to me and not utter a single complaint.  The rope was another 3 pounds, and though I would feel that weight in the course of ascending 3,000 feet, I judged it manageable.
We started up the fixed lines.  My legs felt strong, assisted by an ice axe in one hand and an ascender in the other.  I was breathing hard as we climbed into the thinner air, resting occasionally to take in the frozen vastness beneath me.  The playful banter of the prior day was absent, as team members labored beneath much larger loads.  Doug had commented earlier in the day, that he had heard me phoning in a blog entry and it sounded "Quite dramatic".  I took this to mean embellished.   As I threw down my pack at the top of the fixed lines, I commented that when I write about that part, it was going to sound quite dramatic.   We added the items cached the day before, at the top of the ropes.  Doug additionally asked Guy and I to take on a few items to lighten the load of one member who was struggling a bit.  We readily agreed.  At this point my pack felt truly substantial.  We trudged the remaining hour and a half to High Camp, put up tents, ate a freeze dried meal and turned in for the night. 
As I lay in my sleeping bag, I thought about the comment I'd made to Doug and regretted it.  Doug is an outstanding guide, who works incredibly hard in the course of looking after clients.  He is watchful and protective, repeating various cautions against frostbite and snow blindness, to the point of caring harassment.  His agreeable demeanor is an excellent foundation upon which solid group cohesion may be built.  And group cohesion in this type of climbing, is everything.  So very appropriately, I drifted off to the sounds of "Enter Sandman" by Metallica playing on my iPod. 

December 8, 2010 A carry up the fixed lines.

We slept late today.  I could hear the steady march of climbers leaving in the early hours, to High Camp.  But our plan was to rest up from the previous day's move, then carry a load up the fixed lines.  The fixed lines are a series of ropes running 700 meters up a very steep flank of Vinson.  Climbers clip into the lines for safety.  So steep is the incline, that an unsecured climber would have no practical chance of arresting a fall.  We each carried an allotment of group provisions laid out by Doug.  The hill looked formidable as we stood at the base.  A team was finishing the last pitch high above us.  They looked very small.  As the bulk of my training had focused on this type of work, I enjoyed a familiar sensation that bolstered my confidence.  Indeed, all team members progressed at a strong, steady pace.  Mitchell, who was behind me, noticed that my crampons had worked loose.  He cinched them tight for me.  I bantered with Steve, directly in front of me, and Phil, just ahead of him. We debated which Who album was best.  Phil said the Bee Gees came from the Isle of Man, to which Steve and I then added every historic figure we could think of, including John F. Kennedy….they were all from the Isle of Man.  "Hey Phil", I called out above me.  "Elton John versus Boy George in a knife fight.  Who do you like?"  "What are you talking about, Mate?"  "I'm just asking who you think would win. Try this, Mick Jagger versus Sid Vicious in a knife fight."  "I'll take Sid Vicious", Phil called down. "Me too", Steve added.  We stopped to take a photo of incredible landscape below us.  Starting up the rope again, I called, "Hey Steve!  Joan Baez versus Randy Bachman in a knife fight.  Who do you like?" "I don't know who these people are", Steve objected.  Steve is forty.  "Joan Baez is a folk singer, and Randy Bachman is the huge dude who fronts Bachman-Turner Overdrive.  C'mon man, he could eat her whole! That was an easy one." 
We rested at the top of the fixed lines, and cached our provisions.  We had covered about ¾ of the way to High Camp.  Tomorrow, when we move to High Camp, we will pick up those provisions on the way.  At dinner, a sumptuous chicken curry over noodles, Phil brought up my blog entry where I talk about Mountain Lovers, versus Summiters.  I sensed some bristling among team members, as the title of Summiter came to rest on their chief motives for taking on this climb.  Then Doug spoke up.  "That's kind of the reason you get in your car, isn't it? You're going somewhere."  I asked Doug if he would come to this place if there were no chance of summiting.  He said he would.  Every guide I've ever met is a true Mountain Lover.  Most Summiters aspire to that same deep connection with the mountains.  A few arrive at that place…..very few.

December 7, 2010 The move to Low Camp

Broken clouds brought enough sunlight to allow us room to think about something other than thawing fingers and toes.  For the last two days, we have paced the perimeter of camp, in an effort to generate blood flow during those periods where one can no longer reside in a sleeping bag.  I'm rationing my chemical hand warmers for High Camp, but decided to use one alternated between feet to derive some temporary comfort.  It was glorious. 
We packed sleds and packed this morning, starting up the route to Low Camp.  It was quite cold at first.  A stationary cloud shadowed us.  As we approached the edge of the shadow, it moved away, keeping us shaded.  Yet the exertion generated enough body heat that feeling returned to my hands and feet after 40 minutes.  Then the cloud shifted and we were suddenly struggling with the heat of the sun, both direct and that which was reflected from the snow.  We changed into lighter clothing layers and applied new coats of sunscreen, enjoying a snack of energy bars…for the first time comfortable in the outdoors. 
The remainder of our move consisted of a 3 mile trek up a long valley. As we set out again, that large dark cloud shifted to dim the whole of the route before us.  In an instant the temperature drooped from plus 28 degrees, to minus 5.  I added a thicker hat and gloves, not wanting to put on a heavier coat and pants, as optimism had persuaded me the cloud would once again shift.  It did not.  Occasionally, a finger on one hand or the other would ache, so I would remove that glove and hold the hand beneath my collar, against the bare skin of my neck.  This provided adequate relief without halting the team's progress. 
There was tired celebration among team members, as we pulled into Low Camp. The sun returned as we built camp - erecting tents, cutting blocks of snow to build a protective wall and fetching snow to melt for water.  It was 11:00pm by the time we ate dinner - a fabulous meal of frozen vegetables, instant potatoes and lamb shank with gravy.  I hesitate to mention the remarkable meals we had enjoyed, as doing so detracts from the central themes of hardship and sacrifice.  But facts being what they are, we eat very well, with much credit to Adventure Consultants and our guide, Doug Bates. 
The team bedded down at 12:30pm. Absent the clouds, there was plentiful daylight, even at that hour. I walked to the edge of camp, and called my love, Lin on the satellite phone.  She was pleased to hear the weather had improved, as forecast.  Indeed, there was not a breath of wind where it had raged only a day earlier.  There was a team camped next to us who have been stuck at Low Camp for the last 8 days. Lin said she had gotten the flowers I ordered.   We talked about how much we missed each other, and how wonderful it would be to come together for Christmas in Arizona.  The temperature dropped 15 degrees in the course of this conversation, as the sun eased lower on a dazzling icy horizon.

December 6, 2010 Waiting out the weather.

As we settled into our tents last night, word came that the two teams which moved up from here yesterday, were greeted with similarly extreme cold temperatures plus 35 knot winds.  Mark commented that such conditions start to enter the realm of life threatening.  Another team stuck at High Camp, is down to 24 hours of food.  We were glad indeed that we'd chosen to wait things out here at base.  As the conditions reported are essentially the same today, we will again remain at our present camp.  The forecast for tomorrow calls for winds diminishing to 15 knots.  This being a manageable circumstance, we will likely move up the mountain. The next day is forecast to be clear and calm, the storm having passed. 
We've just retired to the tents, following a fantastic curry supper prepared by Doug.  As has become our custom, we finished the meal with hot cocoa fortified by a snort of Glenlivet.  Cloud cover has cleared for the first time since arriving at Vinson and the air looks still up high.  Our spirits are restored by the promise of moving to the next camp tomorrow

December 6, 20010 Exercising a virtue.

There are times when I understand almost nothing being said by my team mates. "Are we talking about cricket?" I will ask.  Invariably the answer is ¨yes¨. Such was the case at breakfast this morning.  A huge biannual grudge match is underway between the cricket teams of Britain and Australia.  It is called The Ashes.  Just to get a rise out of Guy who is constantly seeking updates, I'll ask, "So what's the latest with the Cinders?"  Politely, he corrects me.  I asked the lads to explain cricket to me.  This they did, with the greatest contributions coming from Guy and Phil.  Steve, who grew up in Milwaukee, acted as translator likening many aspects of the game to its bastard son baseball.  In the end I found cricket both interesting and boring for the same reasons as baseball, and doubted I would give an afternoon to either, were it not for the food and drink.
There is a team two weeks ahead of us dug in at high camp, unable to summit owing to powerful winds strafing the peak.  We empathize with their plight, but have no interest in joining them. Thus we remained at Vinson Base Camp today rigging sleds (or sledges as Ernest Shackleton calls them), practicing our rope work and refreshing the snow anchor techniques used in crevasse rescue.  Almost anything I know about this type of expedition was taught to me by my brother-in-law Ty and the other members of my Denali team 3 years ago.  Weather permitting, we will move to low camp tomorrow.  The packs will be heavy, the sleds will be heavier. But we will be working and so, for that time at least, warm. 

December 5, 2010 Arriving Vinson Base Camp.

As the weather continued to improve, the decision was made to use a DC3 fitted with skids to move the climbing teams from Central Base.  The teams were deposited on a glacial runway a short distance from the Vinson base, from which the Twin Otter carried us the remaining distance. Soon thereafter a cloud system moved in, cheating us of the sun's warmth.  Our team immediately set about shoveling out level platforms to build the tents upon.  This was hard work, which rewarded us with a temporary respite from the extreme cold. Three two-man tents were erected, and then a group dining tent was secured over a rectangular hole dug 4 feet into the snow.  Bench seats and shelves for food provisions were likewise carved into the snow beneath this tent.  Our guide Doug prepared hot tea and biscuits.  We all marveled at the place where we had arrived.  It is easy to look in almost any direction and imagine that no human has set foot there.   Jagged snowy peaks surround us on three sides, with heavily crevassed valleys between them.  Massive seracs, or blocks of broken glacier stack up like a great bag of Legos dumped at the base of these glaciers.  There is a silence, like that which fills the space between echoes.  An auditory wedge separating statement from affirmation.
"I'm cold." Phil declared, and left to fetch his heavy parka.  "Me toes are numb." he added.  "Mine too." I agreed.  As the sun faded lower behind the hills, whatever meager solar heat it had been providing followed with it.  The cold crept into all of us, even as we enjoyed a hot chicken and pasta dinner.  Doug advised that it would be 30 degrees colder at the summit.  This came as serious information to the team members, many of whom were already cold and wearing their heaviest gear.  To change the mood, I told a joke, titled "Mumba Bumba", which cannot be repeated here as my mother is among the readers of this blog.  By the time we retired to our tents at 11pm, I was chilled through. I climbed into my 40 below down bag and closed the top behind me.  I lay in the fetal position for almost 30 minutes before feeling the warmth return to my feet.  I tried to listen to the audio book about Ernest Shackleton on my iPod, but it only made me feel colder.  Scrolling through my musical options, I lit upon Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit".  I cannot say why, but something about it just seemed to fit and the comfort that came soon took me away to the land of Morpheus. 

December 3, 2010 Arrival at Union Glacier Base Camp.

Minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit air took hold of any exposed flesh as we stepped out of the jet.  Collars were raised and closed; light gloves were exchanged for heavier versions. We were directed to a portable structure where hot tea and a kerosene heater provided welcome comfort.  Groups of eight would board a van just unloaded from the IL76.  With the benefit of snow tracks instead of wheels, the van easily crossed the 8 kilometer expanse to Base Camp.  Three large Quonset hut tents form the core of Union Glacier Base Camp. Two are laid out with rows of tables for dining and cooking stations at the rear.  Another is the designated library…a place for journaling, napping or silent board games.  A set of 4 restroom huts stand opposite the dining tents. One of these huts is lined only with urinals.  The second is designated for the ladies only – it's contents remain a mystery.  What is known is that all residents are expected to keep urine and feces separate, thus the remaining two huts have both drop toilets and wall urinals, and one is expected to use each accordingly.  Several grids of tents are arranged around the perimeter of the camp.  Outside of those, is a line of flags delineating the safe zone. We're living on a glacier…..a moving, cracking, expanding and contracting piece of frozen water.  Crevasse falls are a very real risk outside of the safe zone.  As such, the message of the flags is understood and respected by all.
The occupants of this camp form a very international populace. Many of the ANI staff working as support personnel are either Norwegian or Kiwi; the IL76 pilots are Russian; the pilots of the Twin Otter are Canadian; we share a dining tent with other teams hailing from Jakarta, Germany, Russia and Canada.  In the whole of this place I have found only one American, aside from myself. Though English seems to be the common linguistic thread, I often have to ask people to repeat themselves, as my ear is not tuned to the varied accents.       Germans study my blue eyes and prodigious beak, then initiate conversations in their native language…but for two generations, they would be quite correct. 
We have enjoyed the comforts of this place for 24 hours, waiting for clear enough weather for the Twin Otter to fly. Though the night time temperature was well below zero, our team logged a comfortable and much needed 11 hours of sleep.  There is a nervous energy about the team, a restless anticipation of our next leg up.  We pace and drink too much tea. We talk about other mountains, other interests.  We confess to already missing the women in our lives back home.  Phil, always ready with a bright smile and clever comment, suggested we take a warm bottle of water to bed.  This, he claimed, would abate the loneliness.  I further suggested that members shave one leg.  While the group appreciated the logic behind this, they also made it clear they are not THAT lonely. 
Word came at 10:00am that the Otter would fly today.  Mitchell will leave first, rounding out the passenger count on that flight.  The rest of the team will follow in the second flight, taking off about 4:30pm.  I'm watching Mitchell.  He is watching the Otter warm up. He has the eyes of a bird dog….focused and serious. The epitome of a modern adventurer, Mitchell has run endurance races all over the world, including one through the Amazon.  He has hunted big game in Africa, climbed six of the seven continental summits, surfed the breakers off Fiji, and dove among sharks.  Mitchell is already planning to next trek across Greenland.  At age 62 he shows no signs of slowing.  Mitchell is extremely well spoken in the fashion of the highly educated, but at times has difficulty keeping all of that knowledge contained.  He woke his tent mate, Guy, this morning, with a critical dissertation on the safety latch used on the German Mauser rifle

December 3,2010 The adventure begins.

Mark awoke us at 2:40am. We would fly, and our ride to the airport was leaving in 20 minutes.  I showered with an uncharacteristic brevity, then layered up with the fortification of garments necessary to step off the jet in Antarctica.  "We could get to the airport and have to turn right around" the ALE rep cautioned, as we loaded into the bus. Weather is never certain in Antarctica, thus nothing else is either.
Steve and Phil had not slept at all. Various shops had stayed opened for them late into the night, the last closing at 1:00am.  In the short time following, the pair removed tags and packaging. With sympathetic regards, the people at ALE agreed to loan several parkas, pants, boots and down sleeping bags to Phil and Steve at no cost.  Just the same, they had burned through over $8,000 of their own funds replacing the remaining needed items. With nominal maximums set for lost luggage , only a minor fraction of this sum would be coming back to them.
I was expecting the IL76 to ride like a garbage truck with wings. What more could one ask of a Russian cargo jet?  But the monstrous hulk sped down the runway with smooth efficiency.  Loaded with 45 passengers, their gear and a panel van on snow tracks, the IL76 lifted off, slicing through high winds with impressive stability.  Most of the passengers reclaimed lost sleep during the first few hours. Even the ship's navigator, a typically stoic Russian nodded intermittently.  The even whine of the jet turbines retreated to a reassuring hum behind my earplugs.   Passengers were moving about the cabin when I awoke.  A plate of open faced sandwiches was being passed around.  I took one and joined a group of Germans socializing near the still dozing navigator. What I had assumed to be charts in front of him, turned out to be a Russian crossword puzzle.  Soon there were potato chips and Sprite being passed around.  All about the cavernous belly of the beast, people in heavy down layers chatted and ate. The flight crew seemed to tinker endlessly with engine speed and pitch as they brought the big jet down.  So precise were these adjustments that the first touch of wheels to ice was barely perceptible.  Then the jets roared as their thrust was reversed to slow the aircraft - a procedure executed with care on a surface where brakes are useless.  We had arrived in Antarctica.

Plan B(uy)

The final inbound flight for the day has arrived. When asked about the missing baggage it shrugged it´s shoulders.  We are told the Fly decision for Antarctica will be made at 2:00 A.M. tomorrow morning, and it is likely a "Fly."  For Phil and Steve, the hand has been forced.  With the assistance of our Guide, Mark, they have embarked on a mad retail rampage. Lest Readers think this fun, it should be noted Phil and Steve are not likely to find the quality, size, and compatibility of items to adequately replace that which was lost.  As well, none of it will be properly broken in. Thus they will enter one of the harshest environments on the planet with untested kits.

Rubbing the toe.

December 2, 2010.
All members of the Team arrived in Punta Arenas yesterday. Each had been delayed enroute by as little as six hours and as much as two days. Phil, who lives on the Isle of Man, found his 30 minute flight to England cancelled when snow hit. Not willing to risk a second cancellation the following day, and thus his entire trip, he chose to take the four and half hour boat ride ashore. This, combined with the subsequent train ride to Heathrow, amounted to the better part of a day. In the mean time that short flight was restored. Exhausted from hauling his duffels of gear, Phil watched it land.

It is with much joy that I report the successful arrival of my gear! My backpack, however, was soaked clean through as though it had sat out in the driving rain all night in Atlanta. Everything had to be unpacked and hung to dry. The airport in Atlanta is truly remarkable for its conveniences, layout, flow, and state of the art automation. From everything I saw it seems clear a lot of forethought went into the design of this very large, very busy facility. About the only things not considered where rain and wind. All bets are off if they see much of either. The confusion and helplessness which ensue are mindful of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where the flying monkeys ravage Dorothy and freinds.

I could have done worse.  Such was the fate of Phil and Steve, who arrived without any of their gear. Both theory and promise on the part of airline representatives suggested the duffels in question to be in Madrid. Though no one could offer an eyes-on confirmation, Steve and Phil were reassured the wayward gear would arrive today in Punta Arenas. Both are presently staked out at the airport, hopeful to see their belongings on the last flight in. Absent that, they will be forced to purchase complete new sets of climbing equipment and clothing in the next five hours. The weather is ideal right now in Antarctica and it looks likely we will get the "Fly" clearance this evening. For general reference, the cost of outfitting a Climber for a high altitude arctic expedition is $3,000-$4,000.

Otherewise the Team is good. Spirits are high, and we have settled into the friendly cadence of six Ravens perched on a wire.  We reported to the headquarters of Antarctic Logistics Expeditions after breakfast this morning. Their we attended the required pre-flight orientation. We sat among the other forty or so passengers, people with casue to be in Antarctica; Climbers, Trekkers, Scientists, and Penguin Watchers. The Speaker told us what to expect of our experience aboard the Ilyushin 76, with particular emphasis on the primitive nature of onboard restroom facilities. The talk also outlined the procedures for keeping urine and solid waste separate at Base Camp. Both will be flown back.

The presentation then shifted to a discussion of frost bite. It can come on quickly, but there are warning signs; numbness, white skin, a hardened wood-like feel to the flesh. Several graphic photos drove home the point. "If you freeze part of your body," we were instructed,"don´t thaw it unless you are sure you can keep it thawed."  The Speaker said that a medical tent was available with treatment to stabilize various forms of injury until the afflicted could fly out. However, no special flight would be ordered outside the normal once a week IL76 visit unless the condition were life threatening. To frame this last point she stated that frost bite and broken appendages are not considered life threatening.  Anyone who had come still thinking this is just another tourist excursion left the talk in a state of informed sobriety.

After lunching with Guy and Doug, I set out to find some cold medicine. I am 95% over a cold that kept me out of training during the final week of preparation, but a persistent runny nose continues. As I speak no spanish, the signs mean nothing. I am effectively both illiterate and mute. Still, many words can be broken down to familiar clues. This combined with a willingness to mime form both my communication and low level entertainment for those I engage. My "Guy with a head cold" was a real crowd pleaser at the Farmacia.

I walked around Punta Arenas for an hour or so. December is their spring time here. Yet the chill wind coming off the sea is biting.  Sporatic snow flurries came and went without accumulation. A lone penguin stood, breast to the sun, on the beach. I wished I had my camera with me. Soon a couple happened along and, posing for ever-closer photos, drove the bird back into the brine.

Punta Arenas is that tired but kind city one finds in corners where dogs wear no collar and few people choose to live. There is a stately park in the center of the city. Vendors of inexpensive handcrafts man booths around the perimeter. At the center is a massive bronze statue commemorating Hernando De Magallanes. The elements have fatigued it´s finish to a mackeral grey, save the toe of one figure rubbed to a shiny lustere by the many who believe it to be good luck. Any Everest expedition visits the prayer wheels for similar reasons prior to ascent. It cannot hurt. I rubbed the toe.

The Brocolli Crown. A Haiku.

I eat thee with haste,

unrinsed, uncooked, raw.

Damned the aphids.

Closer to fine.

Much of mountain climbing involves the efficient use of energy. One learns to not squander same by way of anger, regret, or frustration. A trashed tent represents an opportunity to see how a team gets by putting six climbers in a couple two-man tents. Faulty communications equipment invites mid-mountain commerce, trading toilet paper ("mountain money") for a few minutes use of another team's satellite phone. A delayed move to the next camp is a chance to recheck vital gear and better appreciate the view of the camp you are stranded in. Normally this applies to just the days spent on the climb, but in practice it kicks in the moment you leave home.

My flight out of Phoenix was delayed an hour. This left me ten minutes to make my connection in Atlanta for Santiago, Chile. The odds were stacked against me pulling it off, Atlanta being the world's busiest airport with sprawling distant terminals. But I negotiated my way to a forward cabin seat and hoped for the best. The best passed as we sat on the tarmac in Atlanta for 35 minutes, waiting for another jet to clear out of our terminal. My flight left without me. As this particular flight occurs only once a day, I would have to stay the night in Atlanta and catch this connection the following evening. I cued up with numerous other travelers awaiting the chance to scan their now worthless boarding pass and learn their fate. A burly woman in a Delta Airlines uniform stood next to the machine. She was not there to offer sympathy. Whatever demonstrable remorse she once had was used many shifts ago.  It seemed most likely she was there to protect the scanner.

"You booked on the nine thirty flight tommora," she would say to a disbelieving Passenger. "This voucher is for you to stay the night at the Wellesley Hotel and you pay $50," she continued. She almost always had to repeat this before it sunk in that a person was not only going to be a day late for a business meeting, cruise, wedding, or organ transplant, but that he would also pay $50 for the inconvenience. Watching this was nothing short of Human Theatre.

People stormed off, only to circle back and re-engage. They pleaded their case that this was not their fault. The burly Delta Attendant would examine the voucher and note that weather was the cause of delay, stating "Delta caint control the weather." Indeed the hub for Delta, Atlanta, was experiencing very stormy weather. This granted them a virtual carte blanche for blamelessness worldwide. "But the weather was fine in Phoenix," one woman complained. "Yes, but that aircraft came from Atlanta," she was told. "We were delayed because of a power outage in Minneapolis," the man in front of me challenged. "That's the city power," the Delta rep countered, "Delta caint be responsible for that. Besides weather probably caused that outage." As their were few remaining flights that evening to anywhere, it was clear most of us would be spending a rainy night in Atlanta. The $50 was all that remained to be debated. If you could prove the delay was Delta's fault entirely, they would pay the full cost of your room and offer a meal stipend. When my turn came I decided to try the only thing I had not yet heard. "Alien abduction," I stated, dropping my boarding pass on the scanner, too late realizing this too was not Delta's fault.

It was probably easier for me than most passengers. I was scheduled to arrive a day early in Punta Arenas and this simply meant I would arrive on the same day as the rest of my team. The only damage to me being the omission of the trip I planned to take to the penguin colonies that day. It was not the same as missing a wedding  ...though I have been to many weddings I would sooner trade for a penguin colony. Really, they look pretty similar if you think about it.

I took my vouchers and walked a short distance away. From there I watched a few more acts of the Theatre. One poor woman, who spoke almost no English, seemed convinced she was being taken advantage of. She was correct, of course. But in the tradition of all great greek trajedies, the Fates were the pick-pockets. She collared a Security Guard standing on a Segway. With a toxic voucher pinched between the fingers of each hand, she waved her arms in grand sweeping arches. She spoke fast and lucid, punctuating her conviction with a squeaky noise like that of a dog toy. One foot stomped all the while. Unfortunately, the Security Guard knew no Lebanese. Frustrated, the woman stalked off in the direction of an ice creamery. "Yes, happy food," I said to myself, "it can only help."

In short order I found myself waiting in cold drizzle for the hotel shuttle. I passed the time watching people, guessing their stories. One woman was nine feet tall. That was my first guess. She was remarkably tall. But nine feet seemed implausible. I lowered my estimate to six feet seven inches. Still she may have been seven feet. My goodness she certainly was tall. I thought about how awful it would be to be tall against your wishes. Short people have a similar problem, but at least it does not stand out like a flag pole. "Tall can be a disability," I thought to myself. The woman seemed particularly vexed by something. In the absence of further information I assumed it to be her height.

Later that evening I ate dinner at the hotel bar, sitting next to an Army Sargent named Robert. Robert was on his way to Afghanistan. He had served there and in Iraq on several prior deployments. When I asked Robert about his experiences he opened up a photo gallery on his IPhone and started talking. "Why have you taken pictures of these people," I asked as he scrolled through shots of Afghans walking down the street. "Because they are part of my life," he answered. Though a bronze star and purple heart are also a part of Robert's life, he seemed to carry no animus for the people of the country which sponsored them. "Buildings like this," he instructed, pausing on one photo,"don't take bullets well. You and I would go in hip to hip, always touching so we knew where each other was in the darkness. There would be shooting. Bullets bounce around inside concrete buildings like this, so it would be important to stay about a foot away from any wall." Robert had worked trading Municipal Bonds for Merrill Lynch at one time. It was safe. But that may have been the problem. Already a member of the Reserves, Robert matriculated into active service and has served, by his account, in over 400 combat missions since. He is 43 years old. Very old for a combat warrior. I asked Robert if he ever feels fear in combat. In a very believable tone he said he did not, adding "you're already dead." "By that, do you mean you live with a sense of destiny," I asked. "I don't wanna put words in your mouth, but do you feel you are meant to be here, you are here for a purpose, and if you die here then that is the way things were meant to be?" Robert smiled a little as he considered this. "Yes, " he said, "and no."

I am languishing away the hours before my flight this evening in the Delta Sky Lounge. It costs the suspiciously similar sum of $50 for non-members to spend a day here. I tried to negotiate gratis admission, recounting my faultless delay the prior evening. They would have none of it. Though I must say it was the most relaxed and pleasant "no" I have ever enjoyed. I invited them to consider my Alien abduction story. (Note to self: The Alien abduction story does not work.) I pointed out what a great organization Delta Airlines is and how this represented an opportunity for them to truly stand out among the mouth-breathing competitors who masquerade as fellow eagles in their congress. They returned a still nicer "no." "You are clearly an important and powerful person within this organization," I fixed upon the woman behind the mahogany counter, "but I wish to speak with someone still more powerful, someone your power plus one." She handed me a phone a moment later.  The Supervisor on the other end explained Delta has several thousand similarly afflicted passengers wondering the terminals of Atlanta International Airport at that moment. Delta could not afford, nor did they have room for, free admission for these refugees into their lounge. I suspect this Supervisor is the Nice Trainer for the Lounge Reception people. There was something about her refusal that made me like her more. I felt like a sorority girl.

The rest of the Team." Your search result preceeds you."

You may have had the experience of starting to tell what you were sure to be unique tale, only to be waved off by the listener a few sentences into it. It turns out you are among the last to have heard this story, and the fact that you did not realize this attests to both your lameness as a story teller and a profound unawareness of that lameness. If it is possible to be disrespected in the same manner by technology then I suffered such a fate recently while researching the other members of my team. I entered the home country of each Climber into my search engine. Then I began typing the respective name. In each of the four cases the name was completed for me by the search engine, a clear indication it already knew where I was going. It had heard this story.

I omit the last names of each climber pending the completion of this Blog and their approval to include same.

Mitchell.  Originally from New Zealand, Mitchell now lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. In May of this year he summitted Mt Everest, the highest peak on the planet. He is 62.  “Too many people get to a certain age and think they are too old to do something,” he commented during an interview after returning home a local hero.  “I would like to encourage people to look at their lives: there are so many fantastically exciting things to do,” he continued. And it would seem Mitchell has done many of them. Having already stood atop the continental summits of all but Antarctica, the upcoming expedition is nothing less than an exclamation point to his philosophy of living, the seventh summit and his place in history among the very few humans to have touched them all.      

Steve.  At the age of 36, Steve found himself battling cancer. To this day, he harkens back to the difficult treatments he had to endure. When things seem tough during a climb and his body pleads with him to quit, he reflects on those treatments and finds strength in the knowledge that he can take so much more. Though he had done a fair bit of climbing prior to cancer, there was something about having survived the disease that awoke a sense of still greater ambition in him. While traveling internationally in his role as an Investment Banker, Steve trained wherever he was. He competed in marathons and Iron Man Triathlons. He went ice climbing in the French Alps. He did most of the things a person would do to train for a major mountain climb. Yet he had no such design. I believe many plans in life are made for us. We live the truth of our path and trust in where it is leading.  On short notice, in 2008, an opportunity arose for Steve to join a team planning an attempt on Mt. Everest. He thought of the inspirations in his life: his sister (who was born with a disability), and his brother (who died when Steve was 17). “You only live once,” he said in a subsequent magazine interview, “and it can sometimes be shorter that we like, so take risks and live life to the fullest.”  At age 38, two years after battling cancer, Steve stood atop Mt Everest.

Phil.  Phil is a policeman on the Isle of Man, UK.  I suspect he is the lone Isle of Man Reader of this Blog whom I identified recently (see The Produce is Selling well).  In as much as that is the case, I hope he persuades and few neighbors to start following along as it could easily triple my presence there. This would also be the kind of selfless act Phil has come to be known for.  In the course of preparing for his attempt of Mt Everest in May of 2010, Phil used public awareness of his feat to raise funds for Ronald MacDonald house.  Even as he descended the mountain after successfully summiting Everest, Phil’s call back home reminded those who might be listening “It is not too late to make a small donation at any police station. They all have a box ready for anything that you can spare.” The first person from the Isle of Man to ever stand atop Everest, Phil was welcomed home to great celebrity. The Manx flag he held during his moment of triumph (an odd configuration of three legs in a pinwheel) was placed on public display. Phil is 40 years old.

Doug Bates: Guide.  Doug has traveled the world extensively, from skiing seasons in Utah, Europe, Japan and Canada, to kite surfing in Vietnam, Hawaii, Australia and Ecuador. A senior guide for Adventure Consultants, Doug has led successful Nepalese expeditions on Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu, Lobuche East, Island Peak, Mera Peak, and Everest. He has also guided on the continental summits of Denali, Elbrus, Carstenz Pyramid, Aconcagua, and Antarctica’s Vinson Massif. It would be difficult to imagine a more robust climbing resume. In the vernacular of mountain climbers, Doug is alternately described as a Goat, Beast, Animal, Troll, Mutha, and Stud. An active writer and photographer, Doug also organizes the annual New Zealand Mountain Film Festival. You should check it out …next time you happen to be in New Zealand.

Present History

The world came to know a remarkable young man named Jordan Romero this last spring. He,  at the age of 13, summitted Mt. Everest,  becoming the youngest person ever to do so.  Still more impressive, we learned that this Big Bear, California native has already stood atop the high summits of Africa, Europe, North America, South America, and Australia/Oceana. His first major summit was Kilimanjaro at age 9. Jordan has enjoyed much well deserved attention, guesting on the Jay Leno show, and speaking at high profile events. Many fine articles have been written about him and his achievements. The article this link will take you to details Jordan Romero’s plans to attempt Vinson Massif in December 2010. http://www.worldof22.com/2010/05/us-boy-jordan-romero-at-mount-everest.html .  So it seems we shall be sharing the ice with Jordan, a young man who will almost certainly complete the seven summits in the course of that visit. He is a fine role model for young people everywhere and lives on a trajectory that could well make him one of history’s greatest climbers.  I hope to shake his hand.    

Meet Guy.

I was listening to the sound of his voice, a British voice, as he spoke from his office in the Cayman Islands. "You think the answer is obvious," Guy began, "but then you don't know." I had asked him why he is doing this climb, and though he had been considering the question since I emailed it to him a few days earlier the answer still eluded him. This is typical of the altitude climbers I have met. While most people would require a clear rational motivation for undertaking a difficult and often dangerous task, the altitude climber does not. If anything, he seems that much the better for the lack of such encumbrances. "I love to travel," Guy offered in the tone of a man headed out on a fall foliage tour.

I will meet Guy for the first time when our team rendezvous' in Punta Arenas on December first. He is 36,and engaged to be married, having proposed to his fiancee on the summit of Kilimanjaro. Originally from the UK, Guy lived and worked for a number of years in Tokyo. It was during this time he took a love for Trekking to the next level. After attending a mountaineering course in the Swiss Alps, Guy set about an ambitious effort to climb the highest summit on each continent. Attempts on Denali and Elbrus were rebuffed by the horrific weather too typical of both. But Guy summitted Aconcagua (the high summit for South America, 22,841 ft) and Kilimanjaro. In 2004 he made a trip to climb some of the peaks on the Antarctic Penninsula. "It was the best trip ever," he told me. Guy spoke of the remoteness, the pristine nature, the solitude of Antarctica., and the reverence in his voice explained much of why he is returning.

"If you are successful and summit Vinson Massif, what will this experience mean to you thirty years from now," I asked.
"A sense of achievement. Something only a small number of people have done. An experience that will not fade," he answered.
I asked Guy if he was a bit of a novelty around Cayman, going to Antarctica, climbing these mountains. He told me that, ironically, two other people from Cayman will be in Antarctica the same time as he. One is working on a Scientific study, the other is going to attempt driving across the continent in some kind of experimental eco-car. I felt bad for Guy. Then it occurred to me that I know two climbers from my home town who have already been there and done that. "It's a good thing we aren't doing this for the fame," I offered. "Yes," he agreed.

The produce is selling well.

Dear Readers, I recently discovered the "Stat" feature of Blogspot. It seems the people behind this resource have been quietly cataloging page views per article on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis. What's more, I can also pull up a map of the world which reveals, in shades of green, where my Readers come from! I must say you all are a far flung group. The largest concentration of Readers come from North America, but there are curious concentrations of you in Russia and Brazil. It appears the Germans will have nothing to do with me, and I get big virtual yawn from the French. But this is easily offset by the single Reader I have from the Isle of Man.

I learned as an Improv Actor how to play to the crowd, and I am shameless about doing so. As there are numerous aspects of altitude climbing that might grab a person's imagination I am naturally curious which articles have received the most attention. And there is a clear winner. Logging in four times as many page views as the next most popular entry in my Blog, "The Shallot: A Haiku" is what the people want. This would appear to be the case outside my Blog as well. This piece is presently the number one Google search result for "Haiku and Shallot."  This is, admittedly, a fairly narrow search. But hey.

I love that! Probably because I love the random parts of life; like the fact that a giant inflatable gorilla is suppose to make me want to purchase an automobile. But I am irretrievably committed to this climb, dear friends,  and so cannot shift my focus of fancy to fibrous consumables. "Ode to Broccoli Crown" will have to wait.

The Bees

I was recently asked about how I handle the situation when things go wrong on a high mountain.  Because I tend to think in analogies, the true story of an experience I had as a child came to mind.  I took the time several years ago to write this story out, so really I'm cheating a bit by inserting it here.  But this account reveals the answer to that inquiry, as well as the answer's origins, so I could not pass it up. 

The Bees

I remember how good it felt to be five years old and digging up the side of a dirt hill.  Though I've since time mucked about in the dirt on various occasions for various causes, at no time have I known the gratification that use to come from digging in the dirt  purely the sake of digging in the dirt.  And so I was an eager accomplice when Denny Pearl came to our door that August day in 1968.  After telling me what he had in mind, Denny asked my mother if I could come out to play in the field.  She consented, no doubt reasoning that two five-year-olds couldn't get into much trouble just playing in the field behind our house, even if one of them was Denny Pearl.  But Denny, at the tender age of five, had already learned the art of half-truths.  Having stolen his father's shovel and hidden it behind our garage, Denny didn't plan on just playing in the field.  We were going to move some dirt. 

Skipping out the front door with coat half on, I followed Denny around the back of our garage where he retrieved the suspect shovel.  We crossed the field to the dirt bank and, after a brief discussion of the merits of digging in one place versus another, lashed into the dry sandy soil with a sense of purpose.  The heavy shovel blade carved into the hillside creating a caving effect whereby large walls of dirt would tumble at our feet, raising a dust cloud that we imagined looking something like a forest fire.  Denny took off his coat and fanned it in the dust trying to send smoke signals to some distant tribe of Digging in the Dirt Indians.  We climbed up the dirt bank and jumped off into the pile we had made.  In the fashion of five-year-olds everywhere we were then swept up by the More Is Better philosophy and set about making a still larger dirt pile.  It was this same thinking that led to the notion that two shovels might move more dirt than one, and thus I sped off across the field to steal my dad's shovel.

I didn't get far.  Perhaps thirty yards away I tripped and fell to the ground, landing hard on my elbows.  As I did, the surface gave way beneath them, caving in an underground nest of yellow jackets.  For their part, the hornets weren't pleased with this, and I was swiftly and summarily swarmed. I never saw the hornets.  The first sting hit my forehead and as I reached up, smarting from the pain, others followed.  My eyes clenched shut, I clawed at my own face and spun about miserably.  I remember the incessant white noise of their collective buzzing all around me. The pain was everywhere at once.  Bees were going up my pant legs.  Bees were in my hair.  Bees climbed inside my jacket and as I tried to take it off bees jammed in the zipper (this I would cite for years to come as reason number one why I shouldn't have to put on a jacket before going out to play).  I screamed and thrashed wildly at the air. I ran in dusty circles hoping I was headed for home.  I thought I had a problem.

But my problems were just beginning.  At this point Denny Pearl realized what was going on and, stricken with heroism, resolved to rescue me.  And while his intentions were good, Denny's five-year-old logic was fouled.  I don't say this because Denny would be entering a fracas with angry bees that might well sting him.  By and large most five-year-olds haven't got the sense God gave a dung beetle when it comes to self-preservation.  I say Denny's logic was fouled because his rescue plan involved smashing the bees with his father's shovel.

whampf! I felt the shovelhead strike flat across my shoulder blades.  I went down hard in the dust.  Fighting to my hands and knees, I stood while beating my own head furiously as the bees, now tangled in my hair, seemed be working there with particular enthusiasm.  “Don’t!  Don’t! Don’t!" was about all I could manage to scream.  I suppose Denny thought I was talking to the bees.

Kong! The shovel connected hard with my hip and down I went.  Again and again I struggled to my feet only to be beaten back into the dust by Denny and that shovel.  I suppose it was a good thing the bees finally turned on Denny because had they not he might have beaten me to death.  Looking back now it occurs to me that this would be the first time I came to know a friend as an enemy and an enemy as a friend.  Some lessons we learn young.  I understand the Chinese use the same written symbol to represent both crisis and opportunity.  Who knows, maybe Confucius was swarmed too.

Somewhere in the moments that followed, the bees grew tired and bored with stinging Denny and me.  Really, there couldn't have been much sport in it.  I ran home, where my mother met me at the front door with a hairbrush in her hand.  Though she clearly knew something was wrong, it was not readily apparent what it was.  I was screaming and crying, speaking only the language of a wounded creature.  Noting a bee in my hair she swatted it away with a flick of the brush.  Then she saw another, and another, and many many more all writhing about in an impossible tangle of hair and insect.  Horrified, she began beating my head with the hairbrush.  Of this I did not complain, glad for having traded down from the shovel.  Instead, I clutched desperately at my chest.  The bees that had crawled up my coat were still having at me.  My Mother moved the zipper only a short distance before it became further jammed with bees.  Grasping the collar opening with both hands she then ripped open my jacket, releasing a small cloud of Bees.

In rapid succession I was thrown into the shower, taken to the doctor, given a shot of something, smeared with an unpleasant ointment, and fed ice cream in quantities that clearly indicated my Mother had been as scared as I had.  In the final tally I was stung eighty-seven times, and for his trouble Denny was stung one hundred and eleven.

The other day I tried to look Denny up.  I imagined that he would be a Microsoft Licensing Agent not far from his hometown of Kirkland, Washington.  Or maybe, I thought, Denny is still digging in the dirt, running a construction company of his own.  Glancing at recent headlines, it occurred to me that Denny might even be in law enforcement somewhere in California.  In the end I wasn't able to find Denny, but in some strange way this was both a disappointment and a comfort.