Eighteen strong, sweating and hiking with fifty pound packs,
Three weeks deep in mid-summer, carrying our worlds on our
backs,
When the red bearded man appeared in snow shoes over the
pass,
G.I. Joe man Outback, waving his arms and pointing back
towards the ridge.
Like beer foam, the clouds spilled over into the three-quarter
basin,
And the mountain storm brewed, roiling rapidly in our
direction.
We dropped our gear while he shouted us into the gully;
Scattered fetal teenagers, we thought we were going to die.
Separated from the group, and huddled on my foam pad,
Like a Muslim on a mountainside, praying in the wrong
direction,
I pulled the steel rims from my face and tucked them under
me.
I could hear the others at a distance, every one terrified.
Heavy, grey, billowing monsters, greedily swallowed up the
sun.
When the lightning struck between us, I could feel its heat.
The hairs stood erect on my forearms. Thunder growled, and hail
fell from the sky,
Like golf balls, relentlessly pelting my spine, that day on
Treasure Mountain.
Up where the marmots live, they eat your socks if you leave
them out,
And there is no help for miles, where the ice persists thick
into July -
Then like a snap it was over, and for the others hypothermic
shock set in,
But I couldn't feel it; Aged seventeen and flying high on
adrenaline.
Fifteen people split and climbed inside two, three person
tents,
Boys and girls in underwear huddled together for body heat,
While I collected the gear, and the three adults boiled
water.
Everything would be alright, they responsibly repeated to my
peers.
An hour later everyone was dressed, packed, and hiking up to
base camp.
We would talk by the campfire, laughing as if it were any
other repast,
As if every one of us hadn't just seen our lives flash
before our eyes.
That night we tried to sleep, up there on Treasure Mountain.
Adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I tossed and
turned all night.
The next morning we trained for ice climbing, but my stomach
wasn't right.
That evening found me trowel-handed often, between shivers
and shakes.
On the third day, finally coming down from my high, I knew I
couldn't climb.
So while I cuddled in my Thinsulate, the others examined the
horizontal ice sheet.
Sun beat down on its pale face like a spiteful child in
judgment of those softening crystals.
Clearly no pick ax or crampon would hold fast, that final day
on Treasure Mountain.
They returned to find me, trembling and feverish at over
thirteen thousand feet.
Our window was closed. We struck the camp and I searched my
soul,
Scrapping for the willpower to hike back down into the
reassuring arms of civilization.
The very burden of existence; my pack felt heavy as lead,
and my legs were tired as eternity.
My eyes trained on my feet, while my mind boiled inside a blistering
flesh cauldron of fire.
This time, there was no leprechaun spotted at the end of a
Rocky Mountain rainbow,
No cavern of riches guarded by a ferocious, slumbering,
fire-breathing dragon,
No ancient, mislaid prospectors cache, nor long forgotten
bandits stash.
Our map led us on that journey, to an entirely different
vein of reward.
Now with that day a memory, through faded decades, tell me how
you think I'll cave.
For I am standing now, having once been brought low up on
that high ground,
Where the marmots ate my socks, and I felt the heat of
lightning. You must realize,
When the sum purpose of life was breathing, I survived
Treasure Mountain.
