In The Ascendant
She began struggling soon after they left the trailhead but they had discussed that before setting off and agreed it would be slow and steady. They rested often of pure necessity. She was not able to push herself at anything resembling the pace they were accustomed to, or thought that they were. Her chest felt constricted, but nothing like the iron-clamped feeling of suffocation of more recent vintage. She could, she supposed, thank the daily Aspirin therapy for that. And as far back as she could recall, at least back when the children were teens, her legs, under physical duress, had become cramped and heavy through a steep ascent.
They hauled themselves to another of the many ledges so far encountered. They levered themselves, tugged at tree stumps and outcrops, made the ledge and continued up the winding trail. The small black dog crouched to leap the next ledge, but they ordered her sharply to wait. She’d had no trouble clearing most, but she was not as agile as she once was. They would lift her over this ledge, fearful of the prospect she might miss and surely slide straight down the mountainside. Then the Apricot toy, 8 pounds of canine testosterone. She murmured reassuringly to him, bent forward, was taken aback to see him shrink at her intent, trembling.
A month earlier, her husband had been so debilitated from an undiagnosed bladder infection which had thrust his enlarged prostate into intemperate action they felt certain their expedition would be thwarted. That was then; now he offered his outstretched hand, but she refused, seeing him poised so tenuously on the rising rockface. Breathing tightly with each stride she gained short-lived momentum, disciplining herself to observe, to note to memory as many details of the trees, underbrush, mountain stream slipping by them as possible.
More long stony crags to mount, and yet more. She recalled when she was so much younger, fearing to walk upright on the long sloping expanses of rock. Then, she hadn’t been averse to advancing crabwise on all fours, ditching any semblance of dignity. Now, she rose steadily, albeit at a pitifully slow pace, completely upright. Stopping often to catch breath as cooling breezes wafted over them, they half-turned to glance behind at the steadily unfolding, breathlessly vast march of mountain tops.
Although they drank nothing themselves, they offered water often to the little dogs struggling with the effort, tongues lolling. At one juncture a young woman with a yellow Labrador paused briefly on the trail below them to rest. As she resumed her climb and easily passed them the toy Poodle snarled and frantically barked his idiotic willingness to beat hell out of the Lab. The young woman laughed wryly in response to her observation that people-legs did not rejoice in such unreasonable demands.
There’s scant shade at this elevation, but the little black dog still winds her way for brief rests under the timid shade of scrub oak and spruce growing in stubborn defiance of prevailing winds and cruel winters. When they finally, in a triumph of disbelief, reach the first peak, they stop, shed backpacks, and perch quietly in surveillance of the lofty scene spread around them. They observe the ribbons of white-grey clouds in the peaceful sky and they breathe pure mountain ozone. Her husband identifies a few of the taller peaks. From her backpack she withdraws doggy treats and prevails upon the lanky black one to abandon her scant shade. The dog accepts a cookie, hauls it to the shade, eats it and wearily repeats this little performance several times. The tiny dog sits beside the woman, devouring one cookie after another.
When they begin the descent to the Col she recalls her bemusement the year before at the spectacle of an elderly, slight and dapper man reaching out his hands to encourage a tall, robust grey-haired woman clad in an ankle-length denim dress and puffy-white tennis shoes. The sight of the drop-off to the trail descending to the Col looks formidable. She descends now carefully, first on her arse, until, gaining sufficient courage, she continues upright again. A short walk on the Col brings them to another ascent, and they rise the remaining four hundred feet to gain the second peak. In the process they file carefully through narrow passages and up winding pathways shouldered by boulders, lungs searing, legs leaden. Then unaccountably a short hike through thick forest where they had seen two very inebriated, giddy young men beside the tent they’d plopped in a scant clearing, two years previously.
At the second summit they look back, down upon the first peak they’d left. They feel happy, and are glad to stop and talk to a muscular young man wielding a hiking pole in each hand who is doing the circuit in the opposite, more difficult direction. The young man appears amenable to the exchange of hiking tales, although it’s more than clear he doesn’t need the rest. He obligingly regales them with his accounts of the really difficult climbs he’s managed through the course of the week, this being the easiest, the last one. They’re familiar with most of the climbs, which they had also managed, years ago. The balance of their day’s adventure will be on the descent, and there is relief in that knowledge. They anticipate the gradual descent of one smoothly massive rock face after another, one switchback following another on the circuit’s completion.
They look for the yellow markers arrowed on the rock, or the rock mounds urging them toward the right direction. They know they’re truly on the descent when they reach the spine, the final ridge with its dizzying fall-away sides. They call to the dogs to stay beside them, which they appear willing enough to do as they carefully search their own way through the many little rocky traps awaiting the unwary. Finally, the plunge into the forest thick with old yellow birch, maple, white pine, large smooth-barked beech, hemlock. The path winds through thickly tangled roots, fallen rocks, the air damp with mould, but not unpleasantly so. Her knees feel wobbly, her footing uncertain. His legs are fine, but his toes have been badly battered. Another hour and they would surely be out, although they’re slightly surprised that their progress is still slow, they’re unable to proceed as speedily as they’d anticipated, going down.
As he scrambles his way down slightly before her, the black dog pacing him, he suddenly shouts, begins to run while calling to her to stop where she is. Bloody damn! They’ve stumbled across a hovering stacked vortex of wasps. How is that possible? While he swoops to lift the dog in a vain attempt to shield her, the woman lifts the tiny dog and struggles with it off trail to bushwhack alongside the trail. When they re-connect he is still pulling wasps off the little black dog, off his hands and chest, cursing the determination of the angry swarm.
For the balance of the descent the little black dog runs on with renewed determination, setting a pace they cannot match, obviously intent on maintaining a safe distance between herself and the stingers - glancing back occasionally to ensure her troupe is following the leader.
posted by Pieface @ Saturday, October 29, 2005
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