Pack up and pull out.
Up the slick slabs surrounding Black Lake on the tips of our toes. Traverse across Gertrude Saddle and already we are within the clouds. This is a water world, up here in the clouds, and we are alone with the rocks beneath us. Not a scene to be seen. As we begin snow-stepping up to the top of Barrier Knob. Chester and Carl up front kicking steps through the steepness and Simon and I behind. Following—literally—in their footsteps.
Careful to avoid the ice sheets that could quickly become the slick-quick death of us all. None of us have crampons and there are only two sets of ice picks to split between the four. Stick to the soft snow. Find a path through the powder. I will follow you there.
Through the clouds to the top and then skip down the scree. Or rather. Or rather make sure not to face plant in the controlled fall down the pile of large loose and loose-large rocks. Down to the Adelaide Saddle. Down Down Down. To the Adelaide Saddle and a tarn situated between drop-offs on either side. But we are the cloud people, and the steep drop-offs down into the valleys are glimpsed only between breaks in the drifting gray sheets.
Slither out of the backpacks and crawl to the water’s edge. Mouths to the icy clear and draw deep from the pool. Mouths to the icy clear and it is all roots remembered, a communion with the four-legged fauna. To the watering hole. The watering hole for the weary. And while we drink a group of climbers sidles up from the other side of the saddle.
And here we are on the Adelaide crotch. Between two peaks chatting. We are travelers travelling in opposite directions. Helmeted against the drizzle, here. High in the Darrans. A chance meeting at a pool in a cloud. We are the booted minions of Landau Calrissian. Four of us marching into battle, the other four returning home from the front. Into the clouds. Out of the clouds.
And in parting one of them turns and says over his shoulder, “Well, I hope the weather clears.” And we smile and echo one another. “It will.” “It will.” “It will.” “It will.” As they disappear into the mist.
And we too must move. Must get going. Must head for Phil’s Bivvy. A cave built of boulders beneath the intimidating North Face of the Sabre.
The hike down from the Adelaide Saddle, down toward the Adelaide Lake, is not so much a hike as a down climb. A down climb through loose rock and tussock. Face the steep hillside—toes toward the wet rock—and ladder down using grass patches as hand holds. Down the water path—we are the stone flies crawling down the instant river, down the runnoff’s run, down the waterfall to the scree strewn across the flat land.
Across the scree and into a marsh, my boots already full of water. Blisters biting into the Achilles and the insoles now. Shins dented from the unforgiving plastics, and it feels like the nail has once again ripped off the big toe of my right foot. Boo-hoo.
Keep on keepin’ on. The slow slog now. Into and out of the marsh and into the rugged country. The ragged country. The thick ground cover covered in rainwater and clinging to legs. Thigh-high grass, and the dense green. The dense green hiding the ground and the rocks in the ground. And there is no path at all. But push on toward the rock bivvy. Toward the hope of dryness and what will quickly become home sweet home. Push on.
And when we reach the cave we file in and peel off the wet clothes. Layer after layer. Like the weeping skins of onions. Until we are bare-chested and bare-legged beneath the rock roof. Pale and dew-damp before re-adorning ourselves in the dry stuffs stuffed into the bottoms of packs.
Rig a clothesline with tat and begin the waiting game.
A big feed of tortellini and tomato sauce and cheese. The communal cooking and eating of we cave people. Of we troglodyte. And we take turns reading aloud from The Bone People until we turn in for the night.
Drift off one by one on a stone floor covered in hay. We cocooned in nylon and down. We dry in our rock fort while outside—in the dying light—the rain falls.
The rainfall.
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