Of Men and Mountains
RiFT
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to
persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Copyright 2007
For Patricia “Trish” Cacek
Thanks
Of Men and Mountains
Robert F. Thompson
Jordan stood at the bottom of the mountain, rope in hand, staring at the ground in sullen contemplation. It was a beautiful day; absolutely perfect for thinking, but stalling wouldn’t get him any closer to his dream.
He blew a tense breath out though pursed lips then walked his eyes up the mountain. As he did it seemed to sprout up before him, as if he were watching a time-lapse film of its growth captured over a hundred-hundred-million years time; the green, abundant and forested faded into gray stones and spires that eventually dissolved into a white haze looming above him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the clouds, searching for the elusive peak lurking somewhere high above. Most days the fog and mist hid it from sight completely. Even on the best days it was hardly visible from the ground, but it was there, a stony, jagged point piercing the sky. The true top of the mountain however, known only to those who’d heard tell of it, who’d read it in a trade journal, or had seen it in a dream, was flat, and peaceful, and perfect, and so grandly positioned it stood above the winds, the snows, and the threat of avalanche.
He checked his gear for the thousandth time. He’d managed many climbs before, but never anything this high, or dangerous. Despite all his planning, and preparing, and practice, doubt still gnawed at his courage. But he was out of excuses, and running out of youth. It was now or never, climb or keep his feet on the flat Earth forever. He wanted to, needed to climb, so he would.
He climbed without any formal training, without teachers and with little support other than his own determination and resolve. Mostly his friends and family hoped he’d grow out of this climbing phase and pursue a more sensible career. They could never understand the need that drove him, and so he persisted and learned the hard way, by falling.
But this was the big one, the one all the amateurs talked about, the one they all yearned to climb; but few ever even tried. Sure, they’d bought the gear, and the clothes; they’d bought the climbing guides, most of them useless, written by climbers who’d accomplished little more than cresting a small, well-traversed hill, or who simply followed the latest climbing trends. These ‘expert’ authors did a wonderful job of posing as professionals having done little to no actual climbing. Regardless of a blatant lack of experience, they headed out on the convention circuit, lecturing and teaching the desperate and gullible about climbing, a skill they knew next to nothing about yet still received unfair sums of money for; money pried from the hopes and dreams of the droves of students who, because they could see, and enjoy, and photograph the mountain, and because they could essentially climb, things like ladders and stairs, assumed they could climb the mountain as well.
Then there were the professionals, sponsored by one, or several, of the major climbing houses, who climbed the mountain full time and got paid for it. They were all too busy climbing to waste a single moment helping anyone else learn the ropes, and buckles, and braces. Worse still were those that climbed professionally and discouraged others from trying because they feared the mountain would become too crowded, or too commonly climbed, and then they might not seem so accomplished, and important, and privileged. They worked hard to conceal the paths they used, and the gear they combined, to make the dangerous climb easier.
It is a very big mountain, big enough for everyone. But all some climbers can see is protecting theirs at all costs; even the cost of another’s dreams, and work, and effort.
So he’d go it alone, but he’d go just the same. He checked the safety buckles one last time, took a deep breath, and drove the first spike in.