Ride (poem)

Ride

His lungs were on fire. Sweat was beading on his brow, and dripping from his nose. The drops flew sideways away from him, from the striking force of the wind. As the gusts came, they buffeted his frame, causing him to brace against it. He adjusted his grip on his board, without it he was 'without his paddle.' Thank God for the bootpack, he had no energy for post-holing. With a rhythmic gait he plods onward and upward. Not looking back. As he turns his gaze upward he sees another thousand vertical feet standing stoically before him. Neither the man, nor the terrain will waver. He plods on.

Small steps make seemingly little progress, but the steps kicked by others before him are more easily used than to kick his own. He speeds up his pace, pushing his cardiovascular system a little further. It's not for lack of conditioning that his lungs hurt, but the thin dry air at this altitude. He recalls that it's been some time since he's hiked up here. The thick blanket of snow makes backcountry travel, and peak-bagging difficult and time consuming. He's been on this journey already for over 30 minutes, and has covered about half the distance.

Canvas and Cocktails?

He approaches the edge of a 'switchback' kicked in his route. Looking to his left he sees a vast, wide open snowfield, broken only by a few rock prominences, and cliffs. On top it is capped with rugged looking spires, and a peak of crumbling stone. He stands atop a temporary shelf. A large cornice built by the constant wind from his right side. As he turns to the right his eyes fill with water, and are forced to squint. A gust burns his cheeks and nose with a cloud of tiny ice razors. He lowers his head and continues his plod.

Living in the land of paradox makes sure he's sweating with his efforts, but that cheeks fingers and toes are numb. The sun beats on him from above, and springs back to him from the sea of white covering the ground. Stopping for too long begins to fog the lenses of his glasses, pushing too hard makes him lightheaded. A land of paradox and balance. The Rockies will test the strongest of wills. The reward is unmatched. Twenty minutes of struggling finds him surrounded by more sky then snow. It appears to be a mere 300' more. The wind is constant, the sun unrelenting and lungs gasping to maintain.

The last bit of summit ridge is, of course the steepest and most exposed portion of his journey. The bootpack trail is constantly washed over in the wind, and is only evident by its ability to support his weight. One false step to either side will see him sink to his crotch in the soft powder. One foot in front of the other, and diligence brings success. As the ridge disappears in front of him it opens to a seemingly endless series of peaks and bowls, drowned in the winter's shining white love. Down the steep chute in front of him lies a vast alpine playground with a deep blue pit. The giant alpine lake is frozen, but half windswept. Thousands of acres of virgin powder lie before him. In a land of paradox he realizes the wind here is calm. Perfect. He finds a packed out flat area, and settles in for a few minutes. He takes the opportunity to sip some water, eat half a granola bar, then strap-in for his descent. Unfortunately his path doesn't lie toward the thousands of acres of untracked pow. He will ride his board to the left of the ridge, back down toward the highway, and his waiting vehicle. Although not completely virgin, only a few tracks wiggle their way down the same path. There's plenty of room to forge his own path, and choose his fresh and bottomless destiny.