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.