SUMMITS

by Wade Edwards

    As I opened my eyes, looking into the darkness, I knew the inevitable was going to happen. I was going to have to get up and go pee. I lay there, in the freezing cold with nothing between me and the cold, hard ice but a cheap sleeping bag, hoping and praying that this feeling would go away. But of course it didn't. I should have expected this; it had happened every other night that we had been on this godforsaken mountain. So, with what little strength I had in me, I pulled myself out of the sleeping bag, pulled off my dry sleeping socks, put on my wet pair from the day before that I had been trying to dry in my pants (although it really didn't do anything but make my underwear wet), and searched for my boots. Of course they were nowhere to be found, so I was forced to put on my head lamp (that was so tight I felt like it was suffocating my brain) before I found out they were right next to my sleeping bag case-stuffed-with-clothes-and-turned-into-a-pillow. While slipping my boots on I realized that I was in the middle of everyone. I would have to get over them to get out. Finally, after I had crawled over and awakened three people, I was out from under the tarp. I searched for a place at least twenty yards from water and fifty yards away from the campsite, and finally I got to do what I had wanted to do for the last twenty minutes. While trying to find my way back to the tarp in the darkness, I realized that I had forgotten to see if I had peed yellow or clear (clear being much better because it means you have enough water in your body, or so I was told). I got back to my sleeping bag at 3:00, only an hour of sleep time left. I pulled off the wet clothes quickly and buried myself in the bag.

    I woke up an hour later to the sound of loud bellowing screams. Had I slept at all? I reached for my socks and shoes. They weren't there. Right, the 3:00 walk. After a long and exhausting search accompanied by the screams outside, I found my socks and shoes again and drug myself out from under the tarp. There I found the reason for my sleep being interrupted; I was not at all surprised. Mike was laying across a rock with his feet propped up on several packs. Mitch, our group guide, was applying some type of cream on his bare, dry, infected feet.

    "Damn! I thought it was getting better. It feels like pins all the time now."

    "Okay, just keep 'em elevated, and let these guys pack your stuff."

    "Can I at least cook breakfast?" Mike asked, not really caring about the answer, while sliding over to the table and bench made out of padded snow.

    "Yeah, that's fine. Ty, pack Mike's stuff for him, will ya?"

    "Which bag is yours, Mike?" I muttered. I really didn't want to pack his stuff but, when you are on the side of a mountain and only one person knows the way off, you do what he tells you.

    "The one with the green fart sack, thanks." Fart sack was our name for sleeping bag liners. Never mind why.

    I went to look in every sleeping bag for the one with the green fart sack. My only two thoughts were how bad I felt, and how hard it would be to pack two people's stuff and not hold the group up. (Truthfully, the only reason I didn't want to hold the group up was so that I wouldn't be embarrassed.) This was exactly the situation I had been trying to avoid for the past two weeks (and, really, my whole life).

    After I found his stuff, Mike started barking strict instructions on how it had to be packed, and I had to follow his instructions to make sure I packed it exactly right. By now everyone had a very specific way they liked their packs. I finished Mike's pack and helped him get it on, before I started packing my own. While getting my stuff together, I noticed everyone else was just about ready to go.

    "I don't give a shit if they get mad at me. I'm the only freakin' person helping that little crip over there," I thought. I didn't dare ever say anything of the sort. I figured if I said it, Mitch would be all over me, and I didn't do anything that might lead to humiliation in front of the others.

    Surprisingly, no one said anything to me. They just waited patiently. I just think that they wanted to rest before today's hike. We were supposed to climb over a pass that day, With the slow start today, though, it looked like we would be forced to wait until tomorrow. When I was finally ready to go, we got in our hiking line. It was single file, with a really strong hiker in front to "break the path." I was usually second, because I was slower, and it was better if I stayed in front of everyone else, but today even slower Mike went in front of me.

    "Vamoose!" Mitch yelled, and we were off. As usual we started at a slow but steady pace. As had happened many times before, the conversation, for those who talked, turned in a revolving circle of music, alcohol, sex, and marijuana. The conversations were always led by Jason. Jason was the kind of guy that everyone knows in high school. He had done it all, or at least he said he had, like he had something to prove, always talking about his best high or the bad acid he had at his first Grateful Dead concert. You couldn't ever take him seriously. It's strange but even though hiking was by far the worst part of the day, I enjoyed this time. I think it was because when you're talking and laughing, it was easier to get your mind off how much every part of your body hurt.

    Just when I started to feel a little better, I took another step and fell through about two feet of snow. The deep snow was without question the worst thing about this expedition. In alpine conditions you have to get started hiking early while the snow is still frozen. As the day wears on, the icy frosting on the snow melted, and sometimes you would step into a hole, or what was a hole two feet under, where the soil was. The problem wasn't really the falling, it was that it took so much energy to get back up. It was exhausting, frustrating, and embarrassing. This time was a little better, only because everyone else was falling through, too. In days past it had just been me. Mike would fall in front of me, and each time he let out a sharp scream, the kind that gives you chills to hear it. And each time, I'd try to help him up and right his pack. The morning was endless.

    Finally, we stopped for lunch. It was a great spot. The wind was moving the clouds quickly away from around the nearby mountains, and we could see across valleys of pines to rocks cresting out of the snow on other peaks. None of us would have paid much attention before this expedition to stuff like that, but now we all felt like we had earned that view. That made it special. We all sat eating and looking across the valley. All except Mitch and Mike. Mitch spent most of the time fooling with Mike's feet.

    "Ty, get me some hot water. Just melt the snow." I brought Mitch the pan and he put a gauze pad in it and wrapped it around Mike's toes. Mike's toes looked terrible. They were chalky white, and the skin looked thick and hard. Mike had quit screaming out loud, but by the look on his face, I could see that he was screaming inside.

    "What's the problem?" I asked.

    "Frostbite. I was hopin' it wouldn't get worse, but I don't know. This is a problem." What did that mean for me, for us? I had a panicked feeling. We were near the last pass, our highest and last summit. Then it was down the mountain to home and good food.

    "Ty, come help me with this pack," Mitch said, and pointed to a pack on the far side of where the others were eating. We walked over to it, and Mitch bent over like he was getting something. I just stood there.

    "Ty!" Mitch signaled me to stoop beside him, which I did. "Mike has got frostbite. Sleeping in his wet socks or something, I don't know." I knew. Louis, our "inner city" representative in the group, had said he was going without socks one day, that he was tough and could take it. He said it right in Mike's face, and I guess Mike thought it was a challenge. I probably would have, too. So without telling Mitch, Mike did not wear his socks a couple of days back. (Louis, of course, did wear his, and he laughed at Mike for falling for the dare. Louis was the strongest and the fastest among us, but he was never happy until he proved you were worse than he was. (What an asshole he could be.) I didn't tell Mitch either. He was feeling sorry for Mike, and if he knew, he would be mad. He'd be mad at the rest of us, too, for not telling him right away that Mike didn't wear socks. He was really strict about the clothes he made us wear, and most of the time, that was fine with me. Usually, I wished he made us wear more.

    "Mike shouldn't be walking at all, but he has to walk some to get down. He can't go to the last summit," he continued. "He has to go down now."

    "He won't get any recognition for the expedition if he doesn't make it to the last summit," I said.

    "I know, but if he gets any worse, he'll get gangrene and his toes will have to be amputated. Which do you think he wants more, the recognition or the toes?" Mitch's tone was hard, and I was glad he didn't expect me to answer. "Someone has to go down with him. It can't be me, because I am required to take the rest of the group to the last summit."

    Shit! I could see this, he meant me. Stooped there, staring at the pack that Mitch didn't need, my mind racing though all we had done, and why I had done it, and how close I was to the recognition that I had earned. I had earned the right to make that last summit. Don't take it away, I thought. But it was gone. I knew it. I could hear Mitch's voice going on about how I had a natural way of helping, and how he could see that in the way I took care of Mike.

    "Why not Louis?" I blurted. "He's stronger and faster than I am." As soon as I said it, I knew why not Louis. Mitch just raised his eyebrow and looked at me, the way he looked at all of us the first day when we all said things we later found out were stupid. "Okay, maybe not Louis, but how 'bout the others? I am one of the slowest." Well, the slowest, I thought.

    "Because I trust you and because Mike trusts you. I know you can do this." I don't know how the hell he knew, because I sure didn't know. I did know one thing: there was no point in arguing with Mitch. He had said it, that was the way it was going to be. Two months of training, and two and half weeks on this mountain, and I was not going to finish the expedition.

    We did not move on that afternoon. We set up camp. Mitch worked on Mike's feet, and everyone wrote in journals and talked. I didn't have much to say. This was probably my last night with these guys until base camp. These guys were strangers to me two weeks ago, and they might be strangers to me after next week, but this week we were alike, we were friends. I'd look at Mike and try not to hate him for what he was taking away from me.

    Mitch came over to me and spread out a map. He showed me where they were going, and we routed how I would go down with Mike. We would meet at the base camp, he said, but if we had trouble like if Mike could not walk at all (I started to panic again), we could wait at an old resupply drop on our route. Their route would take four days. Our route would be one and a half. It was important, he said, that we not go off that route because that is the route he would retrace if we were not at the base camp. (All of sudden I started to feel really hot. Right there in the snow, I was sweating.) I took the map and stared at it, but I was really staring through it. I wasn't ready for this. Already on this expedition, I had done a lot of things I never thought I could do, but I knew I could not do this. Night came, and I guess I got into my sleeping bag, but I don't remember. The night was cold winds blowing under the tarp and across my face. My nose was icy, but my palms were sweaty. I'd sleep, I guess, for a few minutes, then I would open my eyes to the darkness. Even darker shapes would form in front of my eyes: failure, danger, fear. Finally it was morning.

    Like the morning before, I packed Mike's bag. I remembered most of it, but he kept giving me instructions. He was not impatient like the day before, though. He was quiet and beaten. I knew just how he felt. As the others got ready to head toward the summit, Mitch lead Mike and me back down several hundred yards the way we had come and then he pointed to a small peak below us to our left. I checked the map, nodded, and with Mike in front of me, the two of us started out.

    The morning was slow walking and a lot of quiet. I don't know what Mike thought about during the silence. I just walked behind him, watching his pack rise and fall with each step, and I thought how much I hated his hat, his hair, his accent, his complaints, and his stupidity at not wearing socks. He's stupid, I pay, that's all I could think about. Mike would groan every once in a while; without emotion. I would ask if he was okay, and he would say that he was. We played this conversation a half dozen times. Finally, he asked, "What did you do on your solo?"

    The solo was our twenty-four hour time alone on the trip. I didn't have to go anywhere, so I just set up camp where I had the best view, wrote in my journal, and thought about my life, my family, and my friends. That sounded too dopey, I thought, so I lied. "Mostly sang."

    "Let's do that now, okay?" Mike was almost begging. He needed something to keep his mind off his feet, off what could happen to them. I didn't know how much Mitch had told him. I realized I should have asked, but I hadn't and it sure as hell was too late now. So we sang. We sang every song we ever knew. If we were facing the right direction at the time the mountains sang them back to us. And after lunch, we sang them all over again. Neither one of us would sing anywhere but the shower in the real world, but this was our private world spreading over miles, and we sang. Mike forgot his feet, and I forgot to hate him for what he cost me.

    Then Mike stepped through the snow. It hadn't happened all day, and it wasn't happening in a great place. We were walking down and across a long slope. I tried to get him up but couldn't. I got around and below him to give him something to hold onto to get up. I pulled him up, pushing myself back away from him. Mike stood, but before I could regain my balance, he let go of me and brushed the snow off his legs! Damn, I thought as I tumbled onto the slope, butt first and backward. I was sliding down, facing Mike. He looked up from brushing that stupid snow off his legs and reached for me. As he did, he tumbled forward, too. I remembered our first days of snow school. I reached in the side pocket of my pack for my pick. Jabbing it hard into the snow and holding on tight, I stopped. Mike, of course, came sliding toward me.

    "Use your pick, Mike. Your pick."

    "Where the hell'd you pack it?" he yelled as he came closer. I didn't pack it, I knew. And I knew he couldn't use his feet. They were numb and he would never be able to get his heels in. My mind was racing. Mike was on track to slide to my left.

    "Spread your legs," I yelled. Mike did, but if he had had any idea what I was going to do, there is no way he would have spread 'em. As his left foot came to me, I pulled out the pick and threw the pick, myself, and my bag into Mike's spread eagle. His groin came hard against my fists clinched around the pick. I know he stopped, but at that moment all I knew was that the loudest and worst scream I had ever heard was coming from about six inches from my face. I probably should have wondered if Mitch could hear it and what he would think. Instead I just lay there, the scream, the mountain's echo of the scream, and my ears' echo of them both bouncing inside my head. In a minute I could sit up. Mike was all right, well, he would be all right.

    "At least this will take your mind off your feet," I offered. Mike was not amused. We walked a little while further that afternoon, but the singing was over. I still hated Mike and his stupidity, but I started to think less about that and more about Mike and his feet. Mike was slowing down, too. We found a spot a little higher than Mitch had suggested on the map, and we made camp. Well, I made camp, and I made dinner, and I boiled snow for the gauze wraps for Mike's feet, and I started feeling really sorry for myself, and then I felt guilty about that since there was a chance Mike might have to have his toes amputated. Then I'd get mad at Mike in my mind for making me miss the summit and for making feel guilty. I was glad when it was time to go to sleep.

    We stretched out under the tarp. It was smaller than the one the whole group had been under, but we had more room because there were only two of us. Since I had not gotten much sleep the night before, I was ready for a good night's sleep, and I did sleep for a couple of hours. Well, the sky was not ready for a full night's sleep. It was ready for war. First the wind started to pick up the edges of the tarp. I reached out from the sleeping bag and pulled it down. The cold came down my arm and chilled my ribs. Another edge flapped up, and Mike grabbed it. We had slept like this before. It would be okay. Then came the rain, icy knives of rain that turned to hail. For four hours we huddled together, closer than we had ever been in the group tarp, each with one hand stretched out to hold the tarp (our only protection against the weather) above us. Finally, the rain turned softer, and wind blew past us, and as they did, the sun came over the mountains. We pulled ourselves out from the tarp, ready to damn the sky, but when we looked the sky had become the most amazing color of violet, and the snow across the valley reflected a paler violet, and it was too perfect, too beautiful, too calm to speak, much less curse.

    I wanted to get an early start because I wanted to get to base camp before night. First I had to make breakfast, wrap Mike's feet for a while in hot gauze, break camp, and pack Mike's bag then my own. I hadn't gotten any good sleep in the last two nights, and when Mike complained about how he hurt, it took all of my restraint not to yell at him. This was why I was here and not the others, I figured out. Louis would have had to put Mike down just to prove what a big guy he was. Jason would too busy talking about -- or making up -- his drug experiences that he would hardly notice Mike. Chris was too sympathetic. If eight toes hurt on Mike's feet, Chris would say he had nine toes that hurt. I knew it. I didn't like it, but I knew it. I was the only one who could get Mike down. And that was what I was going to do. Mike was clearly worse, so I repacked the back packs so that Mike's was only about forty pounds instead of the sixty-five it had been. I was pleased with myself when Mike put the pack on and could walk more easily. Then I put my pack on and my knees buckled. I adjusted the load and forced myself to stand, smiling at Mike like the extra twenty-five pounds was nothing.

    Damn, that was stupid, I thought, 'cause there is no way to give any of this load back to Mike. Mike looked back obviously unconvinced by my fake smile, but he knew he could not make it with his full load. So without speaking, we agreed to leave things the way they were, and we set out, following Mitch's map. We were moving at about three-quarters speed. We crossed the timber line in the first hour, and by midmorning, we had moved out of any deep snow. Moving out of the snow helped me a lot, but Mike was at least as bad off. Mitch had expected us to reach the resupply drop within an hour of waking. Instead, we ate a very late lunch there. I took Mike's boots off and wrapped his feet in hot gauze during lunch. His toes were starting to swell, but I had no idea whether that was good or bad. As I struggled to get his boots back on him, I looked up and saw tears running down the side of his face. I looked behind him quickly, like I hadn't seen the tears.

    "Look, is that a hawk?" I said, pointing to a cloud over Mike's shoulder. Mike didn't answer, I guess because he didn't know how his voice would sound if he tried to talk. I wanted to say, "I don't care anymore about the summit. I care about getting you back. We're gonna make it. Don't worry. Don't cry."

    Of course, I didn't say anything at all. I went through the brush at the edge of the trees and found the sturdiest and straightest two branches I could. Mike used them as walking sticks for the rest of the afternoon. If one would break, I would hunt for another. We went through five walking sticks, and every song we knew again. If we hadn't been headed for base camp, we would have stopped about four to set up camp. We kept walking when the sun started to set, and when the moon was over the mountains to the east and the sun was dipping below the mountains on the west. We kept walking with the pink and yellow remains of the sun lighting our way. We walked into base camp at 8:00.

    The rest was a rush. They took Mike to a hospital. They wanted to take me, and as much as I would have liked to lie down on a mattress with sheets and a real pillow, I wanted to wait for Mitch and the others more. It was the last thing I could do. My back and my feet were killing me, but I knew if I said anything they would make me go, too, so I kept my mouth shut. I slept in my sleeping bag that night, and I guess I could have slept anywhere, because it felt great. For the next day and a half, they gave me jobs to do around the base camp, and I just tried to volunteer for the ones that I could do sitting down, like cooking. I watched as other groups arrived from their expeditions. And finally, I watched as Louis led my group in. I could see the relieved look on Mitch's face when he spotted me.

    Our last night together was not on the mountain. It was at base camp. We talked about what we learned, and we promised to write each other, though we knew that no one really would. Louis admitted to Mitch that he had prodded Mike to go without socks. Mitch started his safety-first lecture, but realized that if Louis was confessing, he already knew. Mitch told Louis that Mike had frostbite, but that because he had had some treatment with the hot gauze wraps and because he had gotten to the hospital in time, it would not be necessary to amputate his toes. This was the first time that Louis had heard about the possibility of amputation, and damn if that city boy didn't start crying like crazy.

    "Thanks, Mitch. I'm glad he's okay. Thanks, Mitch." Louis kept saying.

    "Don't thank me, Louis. Thank Ty, he's the one who saved your butt." Louis didn't seem to hear. He just kept thanking Mitch.

    Finally the time came that I was dreading. There was a special ceremony honoring those who had completed the expedition. They each received a pin acknowledging their achievement, their perseverance over obstacles, and their courage. I watched Mitch hand each one of the others their pins. I kept hoping that somehow I would get one, too.

    Mitch called me up, but as soon as my hopes were raised, he crushed them. "I wish that the rules allowed me to give a pin to Ty. But I can't. He conquered a different summit. He had most of the same physical challenges as the rest of the group, but he also had a challenge of character. The cost, if he failed that challenge, would have been enormous to Mike and to him. But he met it, and he deserves our recognition." Everyone came up and shook my hand, which was nice, I was thinking, but not as permanent as a pin.

    Then Louis came up, he hugged me and hugged me, and it seemed like he would never let me go. When he finally did let go, he held out his hand to me. I started to shake his hand, until I realized that he was handing me his pin. I looked that at the pin I had coveted, and I looked at Louis. The tears were back in his eyes. I guess he had heard Mitch after all. I reached my hand to his and closed his fingers around the pin. I finally realized that what I had gotten was the more permanent reward.