This story is an exceprt from my novel THE ILLUSION OF PLURALS (2002).
The trail up to the snowfield, the snowfield itself, even that last steeper section through the Watercourse would pose no difficulty. A plod, thought Murchison. He walked up a shallow grade along a side hill above a creek. The trail followed this creek for several miles through a dense, mixed stand of fir and cedar trees. The chafe of the pack straps and the jar of his footfalls occupied Murchison. Dougal trotted easily ahead of the man. Robins whistled; jays shrieked. On the steeper pitches, the creek rippled and murmured; the clear, cold water coursed over gray and brown and red rounded stone.
Stiff with the hike in and the nights out, Murchison adjusted the straps of his pack over the bulk of his parka and pulled his wool cap down over his ears. One step followed another; one step, then another and another and another, working into a rhythm, one foot after another. He envied the dog’s easy trot.
This is how it’s done, Murchison thought. You just plod along. Anyone could do it. Endurance. That’s all it took to climb most mountains. All you need to be is perverse. Obstinate. “Hey, dog,” the man called. “Don’t look so happy with this business. Mangy crut.” Having a swell time, he is. A swell time.
The dog slowed and turned, tongue hanging from the side of his muzzle, looking back at the man, then loping away again, wolf trot.
As the man zigzagged upwards, he left the creek behind. The trees thinned becoming stunted and bent, wind swept, one side nearly bare; and Murchison felt the sting of a sudden gust. The rain had stopped, but the sky promised storm. An oatmeal sky, Murchison thought. Claire’s line. Another gust ruffled the dog’s coat. The cloud thickened, and the dog would appear and disappear and appear again. A wide spaced row of short, gnarled firs marked timberline. The man could distinguish nothing more above him. There was the dog’s shape, coming and going, and a persistent, chilling overcast.
Wind from the southwest, Murchison thought, feeling the cold on the right side of his face. Gusty up here. From this spot, he remembered, was a fine view of the summit of Grants. On a clear day. And off there somewhere, the northwest buttress. Mist swirled, condensed in the cold air, freezing; and he heard now the distinct crunch of the snow with each step. Above him, he heard the dog’s muffled bark.
“I’m coming, mutt,” the man called out. “I’m coming.”
Perverse and stupid. That pair. And, yes, dog, I’m still coming.
Dougal came back at a run, suddenly appearing, barking, turning, spinning about only to run off up the snow slope. Through the light, wet snowfall, Murchison could see the dog rolling in loose drifted snow, nuzzling and nipping at the furrows he made using his muzzle as a plow. Patches of old snow, gray and gritty with pumice dust, still lay exposed on wind blown slopes; the flats and hollows were white with new snow.
“First stop,” Murchison said. MacKenzie Snowfield. The Blindman.
Pulling an arm from a strap, he swung his pack off and down. This knapsack he carried now weighed no more than fifteen pounds with just the essentials. He had left his bigger frame pack hanging from a tree at the lake.
Seems heavier, he thought. This little pack. Too heavy. Too soon.
The dog rolled and nipped at the snow, snarling, barking, stopping to look at the man.
“It’s break time,” he said to the dog. “And time to put on the rain gear. And dig out my moth eaten balaclava.” Gloves. Won’t do to get soaked through. Hypothermia, killer of the unprepared. Where had he read that? Some Forest Service handout, he thought.
“I’m gearing up, dog. You’re on your own.”
Lucky beasts, he thought. No problem with vasoconstriction. No frostbite. Little chance of hypothermia either. And no doubts. None. Not one. The best part, probably. No doubts.
“Any second thoughts, dog? Is this weather to your liking? A lovely day.” Lovely.
The dog chewed at the snow balled between his toes.
“We’re a little behind schedule, Dougal,” Murchison said. “You’re going to have to step up the pace a bit if you expect to have any chance at the summit. Cut out this lollygagging. I’ll tell you though, boy, this mountain in this weather is no place for errors of judgment. You understand me, dog? Let’s have no errors of judgment, shall we, mutt.”
The dog sat with his ears up, head turning from side to side, listening to the man. A gust of wind raised the thick hair on the dog’s flank.
“Well,” said the man, “let’s be going then. Burning daylight.” He slipped the ice ax from its loop on the back of the pack.
Cloud engulfed them, and a gust swirled the mist into whorls of light and dark. Sleet stung the man’s cheek. His yellow anorak glistened with wet. His footsteps began to pock the snow cover. He plodded upwards. Scrambling through a boulder moraine, he reached up for a knob and felt the damp cold through the padded palm of his gloves. He unrolled the balaclava down over his ears and the back of his neck, and pulled it up to the tip of his nose. His arms swung by his side, and the plant of the ice ax on the steepening slope established a rhythm, slower now, slowing as the Blindman steepened. The thick knobby soles of his boots crunched upwards. One step, then another.
The mountain with its snow and the sky with its sleet were all of a singular grayness. No telling where one ended and the other began. Hoped I could have climbed out of this weather. Thought it might pass. Thought that. Showers and clearing. The forecast had talked about some clearing. Maybe not here though. Maybe there. Where? Here, there. Everywhere.
His calves began to ache. His toes felt numb.
No, just cold. Not numb. No feeling with numb.
He could feel the tightness in his hips from the long hike in, an ache in his knee joints. Ahead, the dog, back matted with wet snow, turned its head to look at the man. Murchison plodded on. He came to a steepening pitch and, leaning on his ax, stopped. Looked about. Nothing to see.
Some clearing would be good, he thought. Good to get out of this soup. Soup. No, that’s not right. Not a good analogy. Or metaphor. Whatever. Too damn cold for soup.
“You know, dog,” he said quietly, “for two bits I’d quit this little venture.” He brushed snow off his arms. “I’m coming, dog,” he said louder. I’m coming.
Doggedly. Standing still.
Dougal had kept on, and had disappeared in the swirl of snow above the man.
What a silly thing to do. Waiting for a bus, old man? Having a look at the view, are we?
What view would that be?
Pushing at the cuff of his anorak, he uncovered the face of his watch. He knew, with the weather, the climb would take a good deal longer than planned. Another three hours on the snowfield. Then two more up the Watercourse.
“Five hours,” he said. Then five more down. Or four. Piece of cake. Sure.
From above came the dog’s bark. Murchison whistled back, and the dog came ambling back, snow covered, tongue hanging.
“Snowing,” the man said to the dog. “Not about to go away.” Not this stuff. Not about to. Or three. Or four. “Snowing. Now that’s right.”
Stupid. Perverse. Obstinate. Cross-grained. Pigheaded.
“You know that, don’t you, mutt? Going to snow. That make a difference to you at all? No difference to me. None at all. Take longer, that’s all. So we’d better get on with it, dog. Time’s wasting.”
Mulish.
Dougal burrowed his muzzle into the snow, haunches up, stub tail working back and forth. He flopped down, cocked his head at the man, and barked. The man grinned back, wadded a ball of snow, and tossed it at the dog.
“Let’s get on with it then,” he said.
Sleet stung the side of his face as he started upslope, and he squinted his eyes against the bite in the wind. And as he climbed he felt the cold numbing his toes, his feet, his fingers. Every twenty paces he stopped to gather himself, leaning on his ax. Each step needed intention; each step was harder than the last.
Intent.
Harder.
He felt the pull of his pack, the grinding labor of lifting his leg and planting his foot for purchase.
Purchase.
Poking small holes in the snow with the pointed ferrule of the ax, he looked off into the blowing, drifting snow.
“Well, hard guy,” he said, “what are you going to do about this? You are becoming rather reluctant, hard ass.”
I’m reluctant, all right. Good word, purchase. Here on this slippery slope. I wish I could get the boots flat. The old ankles just don’t flex quite enough. Kicking a hole to stand in just bruises the toes. Holes for purchase. So I don’t lose my grip.
Reluctant. I am that.
“You’d better make up your mind, tough guy.” Fish or cut bait.
Question: Is there a point of no return?
Melodrama. The point of no return. Damned ominous, that is. No deposit, no return.
“Dougal,” he called suddenly, missing the dog. Where the hell is that beast? “Dougal, come, boy. Dougal.”
Point of no return. You’re past it, you old fool. Too old. From the day you were born. Past the point of no return. Don’t kid me.
Question: Can you come off the summit or the Watercourse, for that matter, in this weather?
Answer: That’s what a compass is for.
If you only knew the bearing. And remembered to look at the compass. And the bearing is marked on the compass. I did that before I left. So don’t kid yourself too much. But what’s the point? This isn’t Everest. Why take the risk?
The dog had come back to the man, and sat looking up at him, covered with the snow, feathers on his forelegs clotted with hanging clumps of hard balled snow.
“I want to do the Blindman,” Murchison said. “Do the snowfield. Do that much.” Then we’ll see. Not much longer now. “We’ll do the snowfield, mutt. The hell with it.”
Dougal turned his head, ears cocked, and whined at the man.
“We’ll worry about the Watercourse when we get there. Let’s get, boy,” he said. “Freeze your ass off standing here.”
Freeze your ass off, someone said. Freeze your ass off, he heard someone say. Freeze your ass off.
They trudged up the snow slope. His toes had numbed; and he began vigorously wiggling them each time he planted the foot. He would count five paces, stop and stomp his feet. Only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were exposed now, but his face ached with the cold. With the back of his glove, he wiped at his nose. Large flakes of snow swirled about him. The wind began to hum.
Freeze your ass off.
Murchison counted one, two, three, four and stopped, leaning over his ax. He pulled off a glove, unzipped his anorak, and fumbled in a pocket for his compass. The small rectangle of clear, plastic dangled from its red lanyard held by the fingers of his hand.
Time for a bearing. Bread crumbs to find my way home. Time to do that. No time to lose. No place. No place in time. Time for a muling. A pigging. To his left, somewhere in the muck … snowing, snowing pretty good, snowing sideways. Listen to it. He braced himself against the wind. Somewhere over there is that northwest buttress. Butt hole. Crevasses. Where the glacier turned and stretched and compressed. Stretched and compressed. Erudite bastard. Cracks up, it does. We’ll stay away from there. I’m no fool. Dead ahead is the Watercourse. Dead. Ahead. And over there, somewhere, drops off to Hell’s Kitchen. Abandon all hope ….
And Murchison laughed out loud. He had rolled the balaclava down over his chin, and now fumbled with his bare hand to tug the wool away from his mouth, to breath. The dog lay beside him nearly covered with snow.
“How you doing, boy?” Murchison said to the dog. “How you doing, boy?”
The dog nuzzled and licked his hand.
“Jesus,” the man said. The tips of his fingers were numb. “Jesus, I’ve lost the damn glove.” Murchison stood staring at his hand.
Done, he thought. Enough.
He half turned, facing the wind and snow.
Point the compass down the hill and go.
He should.
You should.
He lifted his hands and looked at them. He turned away from the snow and wind and stuffed his bare hand into a pocket.
Jesus.
No compass. Nothing to see. Cold and getting stupid. Classic. He squinted off down the mountain. Just the wind and the cold. An awkward turn downhill on the steep slope, cursing the wind, cursing the snow. And off down the mountain we go, me, myself and I. And that dog.
That dog. Follow the fall line home, dog. Go on now. It’s time. Time.
Mechanically, the man went. His steps, his gait, jerky, lunging down the slope, braced now against the heel plant, leading out with another step, like falling, bracing, one handed, lopsided, following the dog home. He had thought once to merely follow his tracks down; but he had forgotten. He had thought to take a bearing, but he had forgotten that, too. Forgotten that he had lost his compass, his glove. There was just the clumsy march down and down following the dog, trailing after, boot burying in the snow, lifting, stepping, down and down.
The oatmeal sky and shards of snow bore down on him. Lurching down, almost running, seeing nothing but the stub of the dog’s tail, hearing just the hum of the wind. Then his boot broke through a crust of snow, and his weight and momentum buried his leg to the knee, pushed down into the hole and stopped, suddenly. With boot and leg pinioned tight in the hole he had made, the man toppled forward, twisting, with a cry of pain and the dog’s bark. Murchison’s leg stopped abruptly, but his body toppled over quickly and he lay face down in the snow. He lay there, face down, breath harsh in his throat.
I have to get up.
You better get up, someone said.
Pushing himself to his elbows. No pain. Good. Ax. Get up out of this. Ax.
“Where’s the god damn ax?” he said.
Dougal walked circles around the man, whining.
Left it. Somewhere.
You’d better get up.
I’d better get up anyway. Better if I get up.
He pushed himself up with his hands and then rocked back onto one knee, and then sat down. He took the other knee between both hands, and pulled the boot from the small, black hole. Panting with exertion, Murchison scooted himself back uphill and sat, legs extended. The dog lapped at his face.
Stand up now, he thought. Good idea. Stand up now.
He rolled to his knees, groaned with the pain, hung his head, spit. Slowly he pushed himself up, supporting himself on the good, left leg; but as weight came onto the other leg, it gave beneath him and again he fell, a sharp gasp, a cry, groaning, rolling from his knees to sit with hands grasping his bad knee.
The dog continued to circle him. He barked once, and sat beside the man.
You’d better get up, hard ass, someone said.
You’d better get up, mimicking.
Murchison sat holding his knee, rocking back and forth. “Well, dog,” he said.
The dog sat watching him.
Well. “We’ll try it your way, pup.” All fours.
All for one, one for all …
He stared at his bare hand. “God damn,” he said. He struggled out of his pack, rummaged to find the extra socks. Need to cover that hand. Need to.
Forgot. Forget it. Done’s done.
He slipped both socks over his numbed hand.
Time to go. Dog style.
You’d better get it up.
Ha ha ha.
And someone laughed.
Caw caw caw.
Murchison moved off down the mountain on his hands and knees. The dog walked beside him, then looping in front, head down, stub tail wagging, a bark, wanting to play. They moved down the mountain. He did not recall stopping. He sat squeezing his knee with both hands. Head on paws, the dog lay eating snow.
“I’m done,” Murchison said.
Dougal looked up.
“We’re done,” he said to the dog. He reached out and brushed snow from the dog’s hip. “Good old dog. We’re done now, boy. Good old boy.”
I hope the Botkin woman’s dog is all right, he thought. Poor old dog. Struck down human. “Struck down human,” he said out loud.
Murchison huddled in the snow. He ate the granola and fruit bars he had brought with him. Drank some water. Sat on the pack. Dougal lay plopped on the snow beside him. He clutched the dog and pulled the animal closer. Snow fell swirling in the gusts without direction. The wind hummed and howled across the snowfield.
Murchison sat huddled with the dog, half buried with drift. Everything grayed. No mountain. No sky.
Poor old dog, he thought.
Struck down … all too human. Human. In all it’s misery. Lost its … dog gone.
“We’re getting some of that now, pup,” came a whisper.
Coy said, A man of principle pays his way. Ain’t talking about money here, boy. Pays his way. Every blessed day. He knows the cost and he pays. I’ll tell ya integrity.
Coyote.
The dog stirred, sighed.
Show me a man who knows his own mind, that’s what, Coyote was saying. Simple as that. Got to know yer own damn mind. Or what have you got? And to know yer mind, got to lose it. Simple.
Damn simple now, he thought.
Gray. Everything. Wind hum.
Me.
Mountain.
Dog.
Sky.
Gray.
Simple now. Simple.
Murchison laughed out loud, startling the dog.
How simple it all was. Give it up, that’s what. Give it up. Who needs it? Who wants it? Give it all up. Dancing on the head of a pin. Us mountaineers, we have no fears, we do not stop at trifles …. Foolish. Fears. Climbing the walls. Climb. No ‘b’. Climing. Where’d it go? Lost it. Ha ha ha. Us mountaineers we got no fears. We pay the world no mind. We hang our asses from a sling and snap at our behinds.
Mad dogs.
“I’m no ordinary Joe,” the man whispered.
The dog whined and wiggled into the man’s lap.
No ordinary Joe.
Frozen Joe from Kokomo.
A slough of snow rustled past the huddled figures, a rush, pushing a gust of wind, the eddies of freezing crystals biting the back of his neck, his wrists, his eyes, and nose, a sudden shiver and still.
Still. Suddenly so.
Clear, cutting cold. Slumped in a hollow the last warmth of his body had made. Clean, cutting, cold. Here rooted in the earth.
No.
Uprooted.
Cut clean, Coyote said. Cleanly cut.
The pompous old fool. Sitting in a hollow crosslegged. Rootless. Some space between. Rootless and fancy free. Rootless this earth arcing the empty sky. Hear it hum. Here it hums. Taking its own sweet time this rock. Maybe he knew. Knows.
Cold.
Knows and cuts clean and cold through wind and snow and time. Cuts clean through the hollows. The hollow. The hallowed. Some hollow the snowbound earth cuts and arcs, dancing with the moon on the head of a pinned here, hallow be my name, he who knows nothing, ever again.
Knows.
Nose. Lose it. Frozen. Blew it.
Knew nothing.
All that nothing causing all that pain.
Clean and so cold it burns like fire.
And Coyote was saying, most men know nothing about everything. Get buried, they do, beneath all the rubbish of daily living. All the man made trash. Green light, red light. Stop here, go there. The sickness of humans. Greed and lust. More. Always more. You got to get rid of that, boy. That’s the fat and the gristle, the bone. Got to cut the joints, the hollows. Pure and simple. Give up all this hankering and hollering, wanting and needing. Give it up. Don’t need anything at all. Not one damn thing. Nothing. Let it go. It’s take away, boy, ain’t addition. Let it go. Less, you get it? Not more.
Singular. Not one. Not two.
Integral.
Wind hum snowfall.
The illusion of plurals.
Our father who art a haven, hollow be thy …
Numb.
majikwoid 