by Tony Daniel
Outside, the wind was howling like a bear caught in a foot trap.Like the scream of a woman falling through space. Soon, however, snow covered the entrance hole, and the sound abated. Jeremiah slept in fits and starts. He had many dreams of falling.
In the morning, he broke out into the sunlight and found that the storm had passed. Aconcagua was blanketed with a snow coating almost as thick as the one it had had before yesterday’s avalanche. Still, the path down looked impassable, ready to come loose and avalanche again. The mountainside could remain like this for some time, for weeks even. He tried to think of other ways out of his predicament and grew anxious with himself. For the first time, he was afraid. Before, there had been just too much amazement. But anxiety was useless. What the hell could he do?
He could climb up. There was that. He scanned the summit pyramid. Its exposed rock was whitish-gray, as if the rock itself were suffering from frostbite. This was icing, but should be relatively crumbly. It was too cold for a coating of verglas—the enemy of the climber trying to negotiate rock—to develop. There were many cliffs on the pyramid that were dangerously corniced with snow—snow that could give at any time and sweep him down the mountainside along with it. He could just make out the route that Parra had suggested, up a small gully that cut into the summit pyramid like a ready-made ramp. It was called the Canaleta.
Without really deciding to do so, Jeremiah found himself climbing upward. After so many mountains, it was an old habit, an instinct that took over when one was not thinking or could not think. He climbed. That was what he did.
Within a couple of hours, he was at the Canaleta. This was not going to be as easy as he’d supposed it would be. The slope was moderate, but rock and ice cannonballs shot down it at random intervals. For once in his climbing career, he wished he’d brought a helmet. But a helmet would do him little good against one of those suckers, anyway. The trick was to be lucky and not get hit. Not a very sound technique. Jeremiah studied the falling stone and ice more carefully. There was a pattern to it, albeit a convoluted one. Stationary boulders were placed in strategic locations all the way up the ramp. If he could shuffle from boulder to boulder, only exposing himself to the falling shit on the traverses between rocks . . . it wasn’t a perfect plan, but it would increase his chances greatly. And the floor of the gully was mostly ice, too steep for snow to collect. He could use his ice-climbing skills to full advantage. So. Start.
The first few traverses were easy and eventless, but as he got higher, the boulders became smaller and provided less protection. Once, a cannonball rock slammed directly into the boulder Jeremiah was sheltering behind. He ducked, but part of his back was exposed, and he was stung with the broken shrapnel of the exploded cannonball. He shook off the pain and skirted to a better shelter. And finally, he was up and out, over to one side of the gully. He was on the final ridge.
And the rest was easy. He climbed steadily through deep snow, which got harder and shallower as he got near the summit. When he crested the mountain, he was walking almost normally—except for the inch-long spikes on his feet.
There was an aluminum cross that marked the highest point on the summit; it was half-buried in snow. Jeremiah rammed in one of his ice axes and affixed his camera to a screw atop the ax. He flipped the self-timer button, jogged over to stand by the cross. The jogging left him winded and panting hard. The camera clicked. He went and set it again and got another. Proof. Okay. He finally took a good look around.
To the north and south, there was a sea of mountains that disappeared into the distance. To the east was a falling line that led ultimately to Mendoza. To Ánalia. To the west was Chile. All of the mountain peaks were below him, as far as he could see. Jeremiah Fall was standing on the highest point of land in the Western Hemisphere, 22,835 feet. Western Man, on top of the West.
From his day pack, Jeremiah took out the butterfly mosaic. It glimmered in the sun. Here’s to us, Ánalia. Here’s to a taste of the warm South, even in wintertime. Jeremiah set the mosaic down next to the aluminum cross. He backed away, started to take a picture of it.
No.He felt the female presence again, heard a voice and saw a flickering, just on the edge of his vision. It could have been the altitude, the lack of oxygen.You’ll need that, said the voice.
“What do you mean?” he found himself saying. The wind carried his words away, over to the west, out toward Chile. “Tell me what you mean.”
You’ll need it on Everest.
“I’m not going there. I’m never going back there. People die when I go there.”
But the presence was gone.She was gone.
Jeremiah was utterly alone.
With a bewildered heart, Jeremiah retrieved the picture and began his descent. Now was the time when the most concentration, the most care, was needed. He tried to free his mind of all thoughts but climbing down. To where? At least to Camp Independencia. He could hole up there. For how long? Three days. Maybe longer. And then? The way down might be easier. But no. That was no ordinary avalanche. It would take a long time for the mountain to restabilize after that one.
A cannonball rock caromed past. It barely missed taking Jeremiah’s head off. Shit. Pay attention. Once, coming down the Canaleta’s final run, he slipped and fell. This was bad, for he would accelerate rapidly on the ice and shoot out of the run so fast it would send him tumbling down the mountain. With expert movement, he got himself turned right and used his ice ax to self-arrest. On ice, the procedure was delicate and required experience, else one could start spinning completely out of control. He dug in the blade and bottom spike of the ax and barely grazed the forepoints of his crampons against the ice, applying just enough pressure to keep him from sliding on past the ice ax, but not enough to stop him short and spin him around upside down. It worked, and he was lucky—for the fall had carried him nearly out of the Canaleta. He rose shakily and got all the way out as quickly as he could.Shoom went a block of ice, shooting past right after he’d gotten out of the way. The Canaleta was a bad place, and he was glad to be rid of it.
From this point, climbing down was easier. Still, he had to be careful, for there was no one but himself to arrest him if he started falling, and the self-arrest on the Canaleta had taken much of the strength from his arms. He doubted he could stop himself again. Noon was nearing when he got back to Camp Independencia with its wrecked A-frame. He had decided what to do. As he looked over the edge, the avalanche remains appeared as dangerous as ever. Yet there was a line of descent he could imagine that would skirt the worst of the debris—provided he could find his route once he was down there.
Everest. The voice had said he was going to Everest. That had to mean he would make it down off this hill, didn’t it? Christ, I’m listening to voices in my head for advice now, he thought. It wasn’t funny, and he didn’t laugh. Was he going to Everest, then? Had the inarticulate right side of his brain decided that he was going and provided him with a prophetic voice to inform him of that decision? A rational explanation. He doubted it immediately.
What I really hate is standing here undecided, Jeremiah thought, freezing my ass off. I feel strong. I’m climbing well. I want to do something. He imagined what staying here for several days would do to him. First he would dehydrate after his fuel ran out and he could no longer melt snow. Or he’d try to eat snow, and die from hypothermia. If he didn’t die, he’d be forced to descend in weakened condition, and he truly did not believe that the climbing conditions below were going to get any better.
“I’m going,” Jeremiah said, as if by speaking aloud, his decision would somehow be recorded, known—whatever the outcome. First, Jeremiah made himself a cup of hot tea. Then he sorted his equipment. He left behind his stove, food, and fuel, taking only his camera, ice axes, and sleeping bag. If he did not make it all the way down, he might need to bivouac one more night. He’d die without his sleeping bag, of that he was sure. “Okay,” he said, and started down.
The going was incredibly complex, with a mixture of s
now, ice, and rock that changed composition with each step, and none of which was stable. He found himself slipping and sliding down stretches that were nearly vertical. Only by taking long loping steps for yards on end, partially out of control, was he able to retain his balance and not fall on down the hill to his death. Jeremiah tried to follow a diagonal that avoided the main line of the avalanche, but found seracs and plain old boulders constantly blocking his way. As a consequence, he had to zigzag downward, trying desperately to work his way to the left side of the avalanche’s primary path.
But midway down, he came upon a line of rising stone and ice that could not be surmounted. Jeremiah tried to work his way in or around the barrier, but there was just no way. He was boxed into the most dangerous place he could be, and could do nothing about it. In fear and despair, Jeremiah turned back to his right, and descended the surface of the avalanche.
The day progressed, and he ground his way onward, downward. He hoped that the setting of the sun and the general cooling off that followed would harden the snow a bit, decrease the chances for a major breakaway. But there was no guarantee. He climbed downward.
As the sun set behind the western peaks, Jeremiah realized that he had left his headlamp back at Independencia, in his day pack. There was nothing he could do about that, either. As blackness filled the sky, he continued his descent. The darkness seemed to be sapping him of his will, as if it were creeping into his soul as it was creeping across the West. He’d just been to the top of the West, and had felt a kind of semimystic identification with it. Would the night descend on him before he could descend the mountain? Slipping and sliding, afraid that each new step would be his last, Jeremiah kept climbing down.
And the moon rose. This was immensely cheering to Jeremiah, for now the moon was practically full. He began to see better, and picked up his pace a little. Then he was off of the rock-and-ice mixture and onto pure snow. The going got tougher. He was slogging through. Jeremiah could no longer feel his feet and was certain that his toes were frostbitten. This was a shame, for he’d always thought his feet were one of the better parts of his body, and he’d had a special fondness for his toes. Probably they would have to come off. If he lived long enough to have that to worry about. He pushed on.
And thought he saw, far below—a light. But then it was gone, and he was sure that he was mistaken. Then, there it was again, far, far below. Was it Parra, in the tent with a candle lantern? As if in answer, the light flickered, then came back on. Oh God, oh God, sweet Jesus, let it be.
That was when he heard the roar coming from above him.
He couldn’t see a thing. Running downward was impossible in the deep snow. All he could do was stand and wait for the avalanche to bear him away. He was going to die with a blank, bewildered mind.
Jeremiah didn’t have long to wait. Within seconds, the snow was upon him. He was swept up like a stick in an ocean wave and spit out onto the avalanche surface. But soon he was rolling, being turned under again. There was something you could do. Something you did in an avalanche. No guarantee. A last hope. But he couldn’t think, couldn’t remember.
Suddenly, the presence was there again, rolling along with him, speaking a wordless calm. Then a word.Swim, she said. Yes. That was it! You kick your legs, you flail your arms; you pretend you’re swimming. Youare swimming, swimming through snow. Jeremiah swam. Swam the American crawl, like thenorteamericano that he was.
I sailed to Antarctica in order to climb the Vinson Massif, the highest peak on that continent. I climbed it alone out of necessity, but I would have done so, anyway. For I was in mourning for a lost love, and I had thoughts of throwing myself off into that desolate wasteland. But with every step up the mountain, every plunge of my ax into the snow, I was healing. I was healing. And that is the reason I went to Antarctica, and the reason I sailed there alone, and the reason I climbed. The reason I climb. For there is a wound in me that seeing the mountains opened long ago, that seeing death on the mountains reopens often enough. And the only cure is climbing. I can only find healing for this wound in the highest of places.—Still Life at the Bottom of the World
And he was swimming, and turning his head for air, and breathing, breathing, and churning, kicking,swimming . Then slowly, slowly, the avalanche subsided, struck a deal with gravity to hold for this one time, to hold. And Jeremiah came to rest. He lay there, facedown in the snow. Then he heard something, a humming sound, a human sound.
He picked himself up. Not five hundred yards away was Camp 1, and the glowing aura of the tent. Jeremiah stood up and walked down to camp. As he grew nearer, he could hear the whistling hiss of a stove. He quickened his pace. After his eyes got used to the brighter light, he could see Parra, sitting half in the tent, but with the stove outside, heating water. Parra looked up at him and nearly turned the stove over and spilled everything, but regained himself. He smiled in the huge way that only Argentinians had.
“I’m back,” said Jeremiah.
“Yes,” said Parra. “And I’ll have your tea in a moment. Did you know there was a big earthquake?”
The huge avalanche, thought Jeremiah. That was the cause. That, or an aftershock. There were two avalanches.
“If I could feel it all the way up here,” Parra said, “it must have hit Mendoza hard.”
And all at once, Jeremiah knew where the voice had come from, to whom it belonged. Not to Mandy. Or at least, not to Mandy alone. The longer he lived, the deeper the hurt—and the higher the mountains must be. Suddenly, not only his feet were numb, his whole body was numb, his soul was numb. He whispered a name. It came out choked and dry, as if his throat were full of autumn leaves.
“Ánalia.”
Black Canoes
O nly once did I ever think of Carol Verdane as a wren. Most people always did—a wren with big, big eyes. Carol had weak sight and wore glasses thick as stained-glass panes. Her stare could be startling when you were unprepared. But there was nothing of predatory owlishness about her, so a wren she was to some. She spoke with precise locution and a clipped Midwestern accent. She was brown-haired, bird-boned, and industrious. There was little about prehistoric Plains Indian culture she didn’t know, and she’d spent a couple of years working as an ethnographer on a Sioux reservation to understand contemporary Indians better.“It was a year before most of the Indians I knew stopped lying to me,” she once told me. “Eye contact makes Indians think you’re upset, and they’ll lie to you to make you more comfortable. They thought I was always upset.”
“You,” she said, cocking her head to catch me in her gaze, “would have gotten along fine, Edward.”
To me, Carol was not a sweet little wren at all. She had a power over me that I still do not completely understand. It was decidedly unwrenlike. Whenever we met, my unconscious mind took charge of my body. This is difficult to explain. Perhaps the best way is to describe Carol as a kind ofkey . She slipped into whatever lock kept my conscious mind battened down over what was underneath. She turned, and opened me up without the slightest difficulty. But she never turned willfully, I don’t think.
I met her at a pottery workshop up at Neah Bay on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State. I’d come to learn the traditional techniques of the Makah Indians; Carol was there because she had a Makah friend—a famous ceramicist—who was teaching the course. He introduced her to me, with a wink, as Little Wren. From the first, I felt her effect on me. We didn’t talk much at the workshop, but we went for walks together in the evenings, and Carol, who knew the stars, taught me constellations.
She slept with me several years later when she was doing graduate work in Missoula, Montana. She’d been very lonely and didn’t get along well with the few colleagues she had there. I think she was far out of their intellectual league, but she didn’t want to say this was so. I visited her over a weekend, propositioned her on the Saturday night, and we made love, once. I drove back to Seattle across the Rocky Mountain outriders, the twisted basalts of the Columbia Plateau, rattled and on
ly half-awake. The stars were bright, and I still remembered some of their names.
After that, every time I met Carol, the effect was even stronger. I am an artist—a potter—and I make my living off the upsurgings of my unconscious. The hinterlands of the mind are not utterly strange places to me. I cannot keep from having powerful urges—good and bad—but I like to think I have a certain social control over their expression. Whenever I saw Carol, that control vanished.
But it wasn’t only desire that overcame me. Also, there were . . . other things, feelings from deep, deep in my nature. Deep in human nature. She eventually wound up in St. Louis, where she was exhibit director at the Museum of Natural History. I visited her there a few times. Once, we met on a Saturday at Blueberry Hill, a pub near Washington University, which I’d frequented when I was in graduate school. It was also near Forest Park, where Carol’s museum was. I got there first and was drinking a beer when Carol came in.
I hadn’t seen her in three years, and she was changed a bit. Her hair was shorter and she wore jewelry and a touch of makeup, smartly professional. I was in my usual mud-spattered tatters, and we were quite the mismatched pair. Yet it took only a moment, a beer, for her key to click into place. She politely turned me down, as she had all times but once. But getting over that wave of desire, another hit me, this one—it is hard to describe it even now—somehow deeper than the sexual.
Sitting there in cultured St. Louis, I suddenly pictured Carol and me fiercely running together. Running over a plain, a savannah, perhaps. Or through open woodland. It was a feeling, not an image, you see. The feeling was in me, in my blood and bones. My calves clenched and my toes curled with the intensity. It was a muscular joy, as if we were very hungry, and we were going to kill something, and eat it, and we were running it down.
