Any Man’s Death

One day, I met a man with a mule. The day was sultry, and I sat in the shade of a narrow draw watching the heat waves ripple off the talus. It was plain how the lava flow had come down the mountain to the slope above the draw, had reached out to embrace and isolate the spot, and how the Doug firs surrounding the flow had matted the earth with windblown needles. Cool, shaded air gathered beneath the trees, sinking finally down slope to wash the draw. I sat alone in the shade watching marmots play jack-in-the-box from their holes in the talus, popping up here and there to scold and chide. I sat in a stupor, pack still on back, water bottle untouched. I sat and ravens cawed and the jays flitted from limb to limb.

I heard a mule bray and a man cuss routinely, the pair in concert. They weren’t too far off. I hoped they would stay on the trail and go on by. I listened for their passing. A grey bearded marmot popped up, listened, yapped, and ducked down his hole. Jays screeched up the ridge and then came winging down through the draw. I could hear the clip clop hooves and some crude rhyme from the man.

I watched the talus. Waiting. I could hear the creak of the harness and the tink tink tink of a tin cup and then another round of braying and cussing. I tossed a rock at the talus and up popped the grey beard to chatter at me; then, just as quickly, quiet and gone. The old man and the mule appeared, ambling cross slope and down into the hollow.

I wished for a hole to hide in.

“Hot,” the old fellow said. He lifted a battered straw hat and mopped his forehead with his forearm. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from beneath the hat. He swiped a hand down his bewhiskered chin. “Meet my mule,” he said. “Name’s Done ’cause his work never is.”

The mule snorted.

I said hello to the mule.

“He’s not so bad,” the man said. “You just got to know mules. My name’s Jake and everything usually is.”

I said hello to Jake. “Name’s Will,” I said.

The old man squinted up some at my name, his eyes appraising me, boots to backpack. He smacked the mules hindquarter and reached under to loosen the pack straps around the mule’s ribs and belly. “A carrot for you, Done,” he said to the mule. “Loco for carrots,” he said to me. He drank a long pull from his canteen, offered it to me. He shrugged when I passed on the water, then plopped down on the ground with a grunt. He sifted a handful of dirt and pine needles through his palms and patted the ground affectionately. “Good ground,” he said. “Old, like me. Climbing?” he asked.

“Just a gut check,” I said. “See how high I can go before spooking.”

He grinned. “Done it,” he said.

The mule brayed.

“Damn you ya hyper shit. Put a sock in it.” He swiped a hand across his face. “Never took to those namby-pamby group excursions myself,” he said, “taking forever and then some just to walk up a little old hill. Been up Rainier fifty times or more, dozen times solo and lived to tell about it.”

“I see that,” I said.

“Working up the northwest ridge?” He caught my eye. His were pale blue, but bright. His right eye narrowed to a squint.

“Ridge was working me.”

A grin began playing about Jake’s mouth. “Do the couloir?”

I laughed. “Wind scoured bitch. Snow hard. Bits zinging down. I tucked into that little alcove about two-thirds up and thought about it.”

Jake smiled. “Prudence always a bitter pill.”

“Sure.”

We sat a bit and the marmot popped up, then down; the jays circled; and the mule stood stock still with his head down. I slipped out of my pack straps. Jake sifted some more dirt.

“Heard about Unsoeld?” he asked.

I had left the ranger station ten day ago. Had avoided the few hikers passing through. Jake looked up the talus, squinted, and tossed a rock. “Heard what?” I asked.

“You know Rainier?”

I nodded. “Some.”

“Cadaver Gap?”

“Sure.”

“Big old slab of snow come rumbling down and caught him in the Gap. Willi was leading a party from that school of his. Been stormin’ some. Thought it best to get them off that rock. Didn’t make it. Good place to die, Cadaver Gap.”

A stillness then. I stared off. Heat rippled from the talus. A raven shadowed through the hollow to alight on a low limb. I remembered a photograph in a magazine: Willi and his daughter, embracing, laughing smiles, down from the mountain. The daughter named Nanda Devi, named for the mountain of his dreams.

Unsoeld had climbed Everest, that impossible traverse with Hornbein and a night out at 28,000 feet. He had lost a few toes, but had survived. He had come back to the Pacific Northwest to teach philosophy and climbing. He led people up mountains. He led his daughter up mountains. They dreamed together of Nanda Devi, goddess mountain of the Himalaya. Dream became reality, and they had gone together to climb the goddess mountain. And there, high on the mountain’s flank, death had come, come to embrace the daughter. She lingered, weakened, and died. There was nothing to be done. Willi survived. Helpless. Desolate. He returned alone to teach philosophy and climbing. His hips failed him and were replaced with artificial joints. On he climbed, his gait awkward, but steady, always steady, steadfast. Until now. Now, finally, no more.

Jays screeched through the low limbs of the fir trees, and the mule brayed. Jake ran dirt through his fingers, talking, “ … and what’s the first thing I do but run smack dab into you, name of Will. Damned if any of it makes sense. Here, you, Done, a carrot for you mule.”

“’Any man’s death … ‘” Will, running a thumb across his forehead, muttering.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. A line of poetry. That’s all.”

The grey, bearded marmot popped a head up and barked. Jake squinted at me, nodded. The mule brayed.

“Done, damn it all to hell.”

The marmot stood frozen, poised at the edge of his rock.

“Which way you headed then, Will?”

“South. Three-finger Jack maybe.”

“Figures. Me and Willi fell off that little knob more times than I care to tell about. Had to take a couple of goes at it. Only two kinds of climbers. Them who’ve fallen, and them waiting to fall. And none of it carries any more import than the tinking of a tin cup.”

Jake slapped the dust from his hands. “I’d be pleased to travel with you, son, if you’re so inclined.”

The greybeard watching from the talus barked once again, went to all fours, and scooted along a narrow shelf. He stopped and stood, chattered and barked. Then suddenly gone. Heat waves rippled off the talus.

I took up my water bottle and drank.

“If Done doesn’t have any objections,” I said, “I’d be pleased to have your company.”

We looked to the mule. Done snorted softly, head down, tail swishing the still air.

“I believe we can take that as an affirmative,” Jake said.

We drank some water.