Darran Days: Out of the Mountains

To Eat.  To Sleep.  To read and talk shit.  To shit-talk and read and eat and sleep.  Day in and day out.  And day in.  Red, yellow, black, and blue.  Slugs rolling around on the upper tier of the cave fortress.  Phil’s Bivvy.  Day in and day out.  And day in.

Until.  Until the food stores run low, and we collectively decide that it is time to go.  That the rain will not stop.  That there will be no more climbing on this jaunt into the mountain country.  And on this morning when we have the revelation, on this morning after we have resigned ourselves to the inevitable retreat, on this morning the rain stops and the clouds clear.

We exit together.  Out of the cave and into the sunshine.  Dancing beneath blue skies.  The scene spread wide open.  Immaculate.  The four of us dressed in socks and polyprops and hopping through the dew.  Everything visible.  The far away walls of the basin.  The glaciers perched between the peaks.  The mirror Lake Adelaide below in the valley.  The rugged country between here and there.  Turn in circles, arms outstretched.

And hope returns.  We have enough food for a few more days.  We can hold out.  We can climb tomorrow.  After everything has dried.  We can climb tomorrow.

And as the waterfalls shrink, as we talk about summiting the Sabre, the rain begins to fall once again.  Back into the cave like mice.  The cat clouds sweeping over the Adelaide Saddle.  Wet claws outstretched in dripping tendrils.  Back into the cave as the wind picks up, as it whistles down the granite.

And it is all over.  Pack up and get out.  The rain will not stop.  There will be no more climbing on this jaunt into the mountain country.  The revelation revisited.  And it is time to go.

Pull the clothes off the clothesline rigged.  All of them drooping damp across the entrance of the cave.  Tape the feet.  Stuff the backpacks full, and strap them to backs.  And once we are suited again in our semi-wet gear, we file out of Phil’s Bivvy for the last time.

Through the rugged country.  The ragged country.  The thigh-high grass and the uneven ground.  Back to the marsh and through the marsh, and up the steep walls to the saddle.  Clinging to tussock, placing the numb toes of the plastics on wet edges.  Up the waterfall way.  Up to the tarn and past the tarn.  Up the rock jumble to Barrier Knob.  Battling. 

The rest of the boys cruising.  But I’m battling.  Stepping at strange angles to prevent the plastics from cutting into my shins.  Falling behind.  Breathing heavily.  And making noises that I don’t mean to make.  I feel like a tourist on a guided trip.  This is not what I signed up for. 

But the boys are helpful.  Encouraging me onward and upward like good camp counselors.  I vomit twice in my mouth.  Choke it down.  In their eyes am I struggling student?

Onward and upward to Barrier Knob.  And down the snowfield on the other side.  The terror rising when we realize the path is not as stable as it was a few days ago.  The snow shallow and a sheet of ice underneath.  Chester shows me how to “arrest.”  How to fall on my ice axe if I slip and start sliding.  A quick tutorial and then it is down the steepness.  Down the snow and ice.  Hearts in our ears.  Down to the rocks on the other side. 

And down.  And down we go.  I can keep up.  More or less.  Down to the Gertrude Saddle.  Milford Sound visible through the valley.  Visible through the flitting mist-wigs, through the cloud-hair blown wild by the wind.  A group photograph there on the saddle.  And saddle up for the last push.  Down.

Past Black Lake and pick up the gear that we stashed on the first day of the trip.  Down the Gertrude Track and past the point where Carl and I—the Gertrude Gurus—turned back on that first day.  Yes, this is my second descent into this valley.  And I am still falling behind.  Again.

But the end is in sight.  Back across the scree pile at the base of the mountains.  To once again teeter-totter over the pointed rocks.  Back into the flatland.  And across the river crossings.  The boots stay strapped this time.  Splash through and know the end is just around the corner.

Wet and tired.  Stumble back into the parking lot.  Pull off the boots.  Strip off the layers.  And pop the tops of beer bottles waiting.  Smile as the clouds part.  As the sun shines down on the Darrans. 

Late afternoon, shirtless and shoeless in the parking lot.  And what a trip it was.