The Climb #1

I can hardly remember reaching base camp. All I remember was that I had to breathe a little harder. I remember breaking through the tree line, the world switched from green to a mix of white and grey. My parents brought me there, they were on the way to the top. A mountain so vast and jagged, I was only told stories as a child of a few who had reached the peak. It was everything. Seeing the view from up there, brought everything into perspective. But you were going to need oxygen, and training, and more bravery than my 17 year old heart could hope to muster. Here as base camp, it wasn't all that bad. It was heavily populated, hundreds actually, most days. Far more would turn around and make the trek back down the mountainside, than decide to face it. The reports were near constant. Another climber, now two, now three, were caught on the way up, frozen against the rocks. Clothing and oxygen meant to sustain for just long enough to make it to the top, and then quickly to descend, stood no chance against a few days wait. There was no safe time to climb. That much was sure. I wondered for much of my wait here at camp, if I even wanted to climb, if the draw of the top was worth it, could ever be worth it. But my parents were sure. And they didn't wait long. Hand in hand they said goodbye to me, that solemn and somewhat hopeful Sunday morning. I double checked all of their gear for them. Their ice picks were sharp enough, plenty of rope and extra rations. I myself made sure that their packs were full. And then they left. And they helped each other up the side. We all stood and cheered for them, we all sent our best wishes. And as they reached the lip of the first steep climb, I yelled "I love you" as loud as I possibly could. From there I could only watch for shapes I couldn't see. Imagined them on rocky outcroppings, on bare faces, on snowy edges where they couldn't have possibly been. And then the storm struck the camp.