Digression; Side note 2
The Ascent:
The ascent is bold. It makes its intentions known. It challenges all that oppose it throwing fire from the sky and rain from the side. Legs cramp, brows furrow, fists grow white, all the while a slow path performs a crescendo and the victor stands upon weather beaten rock and snow with the wind wiping exhaustion and bringing vigor and glory and peace.
The Descent:
The descent is cruel. Its motives are scarcely scene, but become more apparent with every stumble down. Bones become brittle. Joints become stiff. Hunger sets in. What comes up must come down. Bull shit. The distance grows. The heat gets hotter and the wind gets softer. The forests are inviting. They ask for nothing more than a chat. Then it gets dark.
March 9th - a Saturday
Tis the second consecutive day that I have risen before the sun to do nothing but say hello and make her coffee. It wasn't too bad, either; finding comfort by adding a little chicory; watching the clouds billow over the mountains as they cover the turquoise blue lake that extends past the horizon just to tuck it in at night. Fragments. Run-ons. My mind has been full of them lately. Constantly thinking of my past, present, and all of the would be futures that it has conjured at the same time wields an anxious mind. A dominating thought has been my career. I'm ready to grow up. To get a haircut. To shave my face. To become my own man. Self reliant in every respect of the word. I write this as the day is coming to an end in Aoraki (cloud-piercer) National Park. I am anxious about the hike thru Ball Pass. I bought my first Topo. It already has some food stain on it. I snagged avalanche and hypothermia guides. I have my Cuban cigar at the ready. The seas may look calm, but they are buzzing beneath.
March 10th - a Sunday
Our first true Alpine crossing. Thank the Lord for those old folks with all of there rejuvenating wilyness and, more importantly, experience. The slippery scramble up that scree pitch on top of our consistent wash out of our route was a tad scary. With our tents snugly situated behind several large boulders, the "Upper Playing Fields" aren't too shabby. The pink and purple and blue haze dropping below the surrounding white and black peaks makes for one hell of a view. Those damn Kea better not get into our stuff tonight. Alpine parrots? Huge green parrots with brightly colored under feathers that have a more inquisitive mind than a cat tripping on nip. I cannot believe that the Hooker and Tasman glaciers used to fill up those two valleys; the Hooker to the left and Tasman to the right. It's even hard to imagine them coming up to the moraine wash out rising some 1000 feet of the two old guys let alone the entire damn gully. Still anxious. We cross the pass tomorrow morning.
March 11th - a Monday
That scree slope falling out of those chaucy bluffs looks sketchy. It's 6:30 in the morning. My camera is steadily taking pictures. Maybe it will turn out well, what with the pink and blue climbing over the distant, but not so distant peaks. I'm looking at Mt. Cook (Aoraki) from the Northeastern side. I see where we have to go. I see our pass. On to the scree slope, up the bluff, thru the ice field, over the snow, atop the pass, and down the crumbling Ball Ridge with the Caroline face to our "true-left," will we reach the mouth of the Tasman glacier all while taking notice of the OTHER glaciers and mountains towering above us and breaking beneath us. Anxiety. Fear. Excitement. My pulse has quickened. It's nearly time to go. We have a long day ahead of us. There is no more route. We're leaving the trekking party that we met behind. We must find our way. I like that. Scares the hell out of me, but I like it.
March 12th - a Tuesday.
It's Drew's birthday! I'm in the car. We're in the car. We're alive. Sun burned, scraped, skinned up and down, achey, but relieved, proud, and happy. That climb. That scree. Looking to the right and left and seeing nothing but an immediate wash out lasting thousands of feet with nothing but fine gravel and big boulders to stop you on the way down, which, as you well knew, wouldn't. It's as if the side of the mountain fell off leaving nothing but a fragment - there they are, again - like little momentos for the mountain to remember her by. Makes me sad. The snow pitch! The heavily trodden and iced ascent up. Jack not getting crampons. The steep, slippery traverse down. Looking at Mt. Cook and hearing him rumble as he cast down ice and rock the glaciers and valleys below. Ball ridge. The exposed Ball ridge. All dangerous. All scary. All conquered (well, not Mt. Cook). That 8k run right after. Getting the crampons back with not a moment to spare. Success. Relief. Gratitude.
March 16th - a Saturday
The last several days have been a blur. Images and country are crashing together throwing flashbacks of big dinners, rock face, momentary solitude, boulders and beach, nightlife swing, green falcons, among other things. It's been a good trip. We're in Dunedin. We're at the beach. The wind is blowing. The surf is up and the water is cold; it's just so damn clear! It's a shame that your pride won't allow you to surf anymore today because your lack of skill surrounding by that surplus of skill. But, to be fair, that wet suit was a girl's wet suit; i.e. way too damn tight in a few areas (like, one area). I still have a stomach ache. This may be my favorite beach, yet. All of those gentle rolling hills and bluffs really make it something special. Actually, it's that lone, old, gnarled tree. It's just siting there in a pasture of golden hay at the foot of the sand looking over the bay. Natures light house. Green house? The boys are being lazy. I don't blame them. Lots of climbing yesterday with a big night out afterward. I lost my nerve cleaning that route. It was tall. It was exposed. It was scary. More like beautiful. I'm proud now, but that's after. That's usually how things go, I suppose.
Digression; Side note 3
Details. Life is full of them. Sure there is always that big picture scheme, but how do we know or, better yet, feel words without knowing those little words to describe those big words? Little words being details, of course. The little things that you're supposed to enjoy. Our mornings are pleasant. This is how: birds singing, sun rising, tent stirring, wind blowing, camp moving, water boiling, coffee making, breakfast munching, Eugene starting, car packing, and we move on. How about even more? The way Micah flashes his blue eyes when I flash an additional sugar packet for tea; the way Drew always says, "nice." after a good roll up of the tent; the way Jack's stomach growls louder than my own after a meal (WHAT!); the way a wave dances and tempts you closer never being able to discern whether she's going to give you a smack or salty kiss; the way the sky looks above the tree line as you stumble out of the tent in the wee hours of the morn. Yeah, those. They're nice, right?
March 21st - a Thursday
Micah left two days ago. My entries haven't been sparse for lack of material, but to accessibility and time. Yeah, we've kept on with the trekking and climbing and all of the other "cool" stuff, but his absence has caused a great deal of unrest within me. The last three nights have been bad. Can't sleep. Not a wink. I'll wake up from a small trance and immediately jump to conclusions as to why my worn out body won't do what it's told. What is it about? It seems as if all my drive and ambition are narrowing to climbing out of this whole that I have out myself in (having a good time doing it, I might add). Becoming financially secure and settled. Normalcy. I crave normalcy; that day to day grind that so many people tell me that they wish they could free themselves of. Free like I am. It seems as if my mind is more occupied with forecasting job outlooks than the outcrop of that bluff we just climbed. It will pass. Things always do.
March 23rd - a Saturday
Content. We had a massive meal for dinner. 3 burritos with all of the fixin's (except sour cream; junk is nasty). I make almost every meal. I don't know how this happens given that Drew is every bit as good as a cook as I am, if not better. Eh, whatever. I don't mind it. Beats washing up afterward. We've been climbing a lot of rocks as of late. Big rocks, little rocks, slippery rocks, slab rocks, granite rocks, limestone rocks, dirty rocks, clean rocks, overhung rocks, ya know; the lot of them. Drew is a damn good climber. Wye creek was scary. I think that I would have attempted to onsite lead a route on that big wall, but if I would have looked down, I might have cried. I think Dunedin is still bothering me. Being utterly exhausted 75-80ft off of the ground after finishing the hardest route you've ever attempted desperately hanging on as you're trying to remember the process of cleaning a route while being above your protection with nothing above or below. I lost it on that route. Unnerved for sure. The past several days have been good for me. I think I'm getting it back again. The mojo.
Let the pic's begin:
Tis the second consecutive day that I have risen before the sun to do nothing but say hello and make her coffee. It wasn't too bad, either; finding comfort by adding a little chicory; watching the clouds billow over the mountains as they cover the turquoise blue lake that extends past the horizon just to tuck it in at night. Fragments. Run-ons. My mind has been full of them lately. Constantly thinking of my past, present, and all of the would be futures that it has conjured at the same time wields an anxious mind. A dominating thought has been my career. I'm ready to grow up. To get a haircut. To shave my face. To become my own man. Self reliant in every respect of the word. I write this as the day is coming to an end in Aoraki (cloud-piercer) National Park. I am anxious about the hike thru Ball Pass. I bought my first Topo. It already has some food stain on it. I snagged avalanche and hypothermia guides. I have my Cuban cigar at the ready. The seas may look calm, but they are buzzing beneath.
March 10th - a Sunday
Our first true Alpine crossing. Thank the Lord for those old folks with all of there rejuvenating wilyness and, more importantly, experience. The slippery scramble up that scree pitch on top of our consistent wash out of our route was a tad scary. With our tents snugly situated behind several large boulders, the "Upper Playing Fields" aren't too shabby. The pink and purple and blue haze dropping below the surrounding white and black peaks makes for one hell of a view. Those damn Kea better not get into our stuff tonight. Alpine parrots? Huge green parrots with brightly colored under feathers that have a more inquisitive mind than a cat tripping on nip. I cannot believe that the Hooker and Tasman glaciers used to fill up those two valleys; the Hooker to the left and Tasman to the right. It's even hard to imagine them coming up to the moraine wash out rising some 1000 feet of the two old guys let alone the entire damn gully. Still anxious. We cross the pass tomorrow morning.
March 11th - a Monday
That scree slope falling out of those chaucy bluffs looks sketchy. It's 6:30 in the morning. My camera is steadily taking pictures. Maybe it will turn out well, what with the pink and blue climbing over the distant, but not so distant peaks. I'm looking at Mt. Cook (Aoraki) from the Northeastern side. I see where we have to go. I see our pass. On to the scree slope, up the bluff, thru the ice field, over the snow, atop the pass, and down the crumbling Ball Ridge with the Caroline face to our "true-left," will we reach the mouth of the Tasman glacier all while taking notice of the OTHER glaciers and mountains towering above us and breaking beneath us. Anxiety. Fear. Excitement. My pulse has quickened. It's nearly time to go. We have a long day ahead of us. There is no more route. We're leaving the trekking party that we met behind. We must find our way. I like that. Scares the hell out of me, but I like it.
March 12th - a Tuesday.
It's Drew's birthday! I'm in the car. We're in the car. We're alive. Sun burned, scraped, skinned up and down, achey, but relieved, proud, and happy. That climb. That scree. Looking to the right and left and seeing nothing but an immediate wash out lasting thousands of feet with nothing but fine gravel and big boulders to stop you on the way down, which, as you well knew, wouldn't. It's as if the side of the mountain fell off leaving nothing but a fragment - there they are, again - like little momentos for the mountain to remember her by. Makes me sad. The snow pitch! The heavily trodden and iced ascent up. Jack not getting crampons. The steep, slippery traverse down. Looking at Mt. Cook and hearing him rumble as he cast down ice and rock the glaciers and valleys below. Ball ridge. The exposed Ball ridge. All dangerous. All scary. All conquered (well, not Mt. Cook). That 8k run right after. Getting the crampons back with not a moment to spare. Success. Relief. Gratitude.
March 16th - a SaturdayThe last several days have been a blur. Images and country are crashing together throwing flashbacks of big dinners, rock face, momentary solitude, boulders and beach, nightlife swing, green falcons, among other things. It's been a good trip. We're in Dunedin. We're at the beach. The wind is blowing. The surf is up and the water is cold; it's just so damn clear! It's a shame that your pride won't allow you to surf anymore today because your lack of skill surrounding by that surplus of skill. But, to be fair, that wet suit was a girl's wet suit; i.e. way too damn tight in a few areas (like, one area). I still have a stomach ache. This may be my favorite beach, yet. All of those gentle rolling hills and bluffs really make it something special. Actually, it's that lone, old, gnarled tree. It's just siting there in a pasture of golden hay at the foot of the sand looking over the bay. Natures light house. Green house? The boys are being lazy. I don't blame them. Lots of climbing yesterday with a big night out afterward. I lost my nerve cleaning that route. It was tall. It was exposed. It was scary. More like beautiful. I'm proud now, but that's after. That's usually how things go, I suppose.
Digression; Side note 3
Details. Life is full of them. Sure there is always that big picture scheme, but how do we know or, better yet, feel words without knowing those little words to describe those big words? Little words being details, of course. The little things that you're supposed to enjoy. Our mornings are pleasant. This is how: birds singing, sun rising, tent stirring, wind blowing, camp moving, water boiling, coffee making, breakfast munching, Eugene starting, car packing, and we move on. How about even more? The way Micah flashes his blue eyes when I flash an additional sugar packet for tea; the way Drew always says, "nice." after a good roll up of the tent; the way Jack's stomach growls louder than my own after a meal (WHAT!); the way a wave dances and tempts you closer never being able to discern whether she's going to give you a smack or salty kiss; the way the sky looks above the tree line as you stumble out of the tent in the wee hours of the morn. Yeah, those. They're nice, right?
March 21st - a Thursday
Micah left two days ago. My entries haven't been sparse for lack of material, but to accessibility and time. Yeah, we've kept on with the trekking and climbing and all of the other "cool" stuff, but his absence has caused a great deal of unrest within me. The last three nights have been bad. Can't sleep. Not a wink. I'll wake up from a small trance and immediately jump to conclusions as to why my worn out body won't do what it's told. What is it about? It seems as if all my drive and ambition are narrowing to climbing out of this whole that I have out myself in (having a good time doing it, I might add). Becoming financially secure and settled. Normalcy. I crave normalcy; that day to day grind that so many people tell me that they wish they could free themselves of. Free like I am. It seems as if my mind is more occupied with forecasting job outlooks than the outcrop of that bluff we just climbed. It will pass. Things always do.
March 23rd - a Saturday
Content. We had a massive meal for dinner. 3 burritos with all of the fixin's (except sour cream; junk is nasty). I make almost every meal. I don't know how this happens given that Drew is every bit as good as a cook as I am, if not better. Eh, whatever. I don't mind it. Beats washing up afterward. We've been climbing a lot of rocks as of late. Big rocks, little rocks, slippery rocks, slab rocks, granite rocks, limestone rocks, dirty rocks, clean rocks, overhung rocks, ya know; the lot of them. Drew is a damn good climber. Wye creek was scary. I think that I would have attempted to onsite lead a route on that big wall, but if I would have looked down, I might have cried. I think Dunedin is still bothering me. Being utterly exhausted 75-80ft off of the ground after finishing the hardest route you've ever attempted desperately hanging on as you're trying to remember the process of cleaning a route while being above your protection with nothing above or below. I lost it on that route. Unnerved for sure. The past several days have been good for me. I think I'm getting it back again. The mojo.
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| looking at Cook from the Upper Playing Fields. |
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| I know Jack. |
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| hey, Drew. |
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| going down. |
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| whip my hair? |
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| surfers in the woods? nah, they comin' |
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| Milford. |
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| Mount Cook (The Caroline face) |
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| KEA! |
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