The Last Adventurer

As I was trying to convince myself that the constant downpour was really nothing but a drizzle, we came to the footbridge I had crossed yesterday. The bone-dry rocks were now covered with a raging river at least three feet deep. I shook my head at my Milford naiveté, and gladly used the bridge to cross the hidden river. Ten minutes into the switchbacks, we were too hot. Awkwardly, we sheltered under a slightly less-wet tree, and quickly peeled off our under-layers while attempting to stay dry.

Once redressed, and only slightly damp we continued on. Our hoods were up, making any conversation impossible. Our heads bumped the grey clouds hanging on the roof of the sky that dangled tendrils of rain. All I could hear was the constant pounding of my heart mixed with the irrepressible gasps of air that my lungs sought. I blinked in shock. Two switchbacks ago, we had actually left the trees. All about us was nothing but rock and low scrub. From obscured peaks, transitory waterfalls cascaded in myriad streams down to the valley below. The wind had the voices of long lost gods and spirits on it, each speaking the story of long forgotten memories in a multilayered omnipresent roar.

My boots splashed in and out of inches deep standing water. Rain coursed and swirled in impossible physics defying loops, vertically soaring out of chasms and soaking in diagonal, perpendicular, and parallel lines of moisture. In front of us, a stone cairn loomed out of the mist. We were on the ridgeline of the pass. The distant toothpicks were the trees of early morning; the slight small teardrop of water, the expanse of Lake Mintaro I had watched ducks at yesterday. Despite the sense of accomplishment, there was no stopping for any sort of photo. The voices had become a primal yell that pushed us about the slick rocks like pawns. The mild drops of rain had become needle-sharp ice crystals that rattled against every surface aggressively.

A mere ten feet higher or so from us, snow supplanted ice in a fast falling blanket of white. I staggered over to the point marked with a sign “12 second drop”. I edged close to the sign, fumbling to close my jacket vents. The drop was void of color and all perspective, save the wind that rushed from it. Even though I could not perceive anything from the “drop”, I eased away carefully, so that I would not accidentally slip into it and test its depths with all of my senses. Once back on the ridgeline, I signaled my wife to head directly to the warming hut, and followed close behind her while I struggled to get my baklava over my face. After being battered along the last section of trail, we came to the improbable structure, and navigated the double-door into the building.

Inside several of our companions sat, all looking bedraggled and tired, but in various stages of getting ready to head back out on the trail. My wife slumped on to a convenient bench, and began trying to make adjustments to her wardrobe to address which items of clothes were too wet to continue wearing. While she wasn’t as wet as some of the people there, I was leery about her – or I standing around in the warming hut for a length of time. The hut gas ring was unlit, and as a result, the “warming” hut was really a cold hut. While it did shelter everyone from the wind and rain/sleet, its ambient temperature was probably no warmer than twenty-five degrees.