Forever on the Mountain by James M. Tabor

Author:James M. Tabor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2007-02-22T16:00:00+00:00

TOUGH BILL BABCOCK and his team spend this Tuesday, before the storm hits, down on the Muldrow, ferrying eighty-five-pound loads from 8,600 feet to 10,000 feet, making the round-trip in an incredible two hours. The weather is pleasant, the temperature about 25 degrees Fahrenheit, though whiteout blankets their route most of the day.

While they’re doing that, at some point during the morning, perhaps even while the summit climbers are radioing their good news to Gordon Haber, Steve Taylor hears footsteps crunching toward the tent. The weather is still clear. He scrambles out and is astonished to see John Russell, alone, trudging toward him.

Even in his weakened state, John reaches Camp VII during this spell of mild weather. But the descent has left him spent, shoulders slumped, head down, moving slowly. His beard and mustache are clotted with snotsicles, and he almost falls over shucking out of his pack.

Sucking air, John flops down on the snow in front of Steve’s tent. He is pale and can’t seem to catch his breath. Steve removes John’s crampons, pulls him inside, and gives him a drink, perhaps warm Tang or grape Kool-Aid, two of the expedition’s powdered drinks of choice. For the first time on the mountain, John isn’t growling and grousing. He accepts the help and drink gratefully and explains what happened in a dialogue probably similar to this.

Got good and fucking lost last night.

Where are the others?

Ahhhh, they went for the summit this morning when it got clear.

They just left you?

Hell, no. I told ’em to get their asses up that mountain, buddy.

And you couldn’t make it?

I’m a beat dog, Stevo. Altitude’s got me down.

So how did you all get lost yesterday?

Some asshole broke the fucking wands in half and stuck ’em in like that. You couldn’t see ’em for shit. I couldn’t believe it.

Steve and John would certainly discuss trying to go back down to Camp VI, where Joe and the others are, but John says, no way. It’s too windy, he’s too tired, and they need to wait for Jerry Clark and the other guys. The memory of his own struggling descent would still be fresh in his mind, and it was probably scary. Being alone on that mountain was enough by itself. But he was also tired and ill, and may have had to keep sitting down, and when he sat down he wanted to go to sleep, and he knew that if he did, he’d probably never wake up, so he had grabbed handfuls of snow and slapped them hard into his face.

Steve and John don’t talk for a while after that. John drinks endless cups of liquid and munches snacks—fudge, peanut butter cups, Logan bread. Finally Steve says he should try to go out and find the other cans of Blazo, but the wind has kicked up and he doesn’t move right away. John doesn’t move either; he just lies in his bag, panting softly, eyes closed.

After a time, Steve would call up the energy to dress and go outside on a fuel hunt.

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