followed hours of the same thoughts repeated again and again. The dark face of the mountain filled not only sleeplessness but the entire world. Its coldness, its hidden terrors would be revealed only at certain times. Long before dawn he lay, victim to these fears. The iron hours before the assault. His eyes were already wearied by images of what was to come, the miraculous had drained from his palms.
The weather had not been good. The delay was eating at his nerves. Each morning they woke to overcast skies or the sound of rain. Everything was ready, ropes, pitons, supplies. Every day they sat in idleness.
Weather is critical in the Alps. The sudden storms are the cause of most disasters. The casual arrival of clouds, a shifting of wind, things which might seem of little consequence can be dangerous. The sun, moreover, melts the ice and snow at higher altitudes, and rocks, sometimes of unbelievable size, break loose and fall. This happens usually in the afternoon.
One must know the mountains. Speed and judgment are essential. The classic decision is always the same, whether to retreat or go on. There comes a time when it is easier to continue upward, when the summit, in fact, is the only way out. At such a moment one must still have strength.
It cleared at last. They walked to the station. Their packs were huge, they weighed at least fifty pounds. Ropes slung over their shoulders, when they moved there was a muted clanking like the sound of armor.
His chest felt empty, his hands weightless. He felt a lack of density, the strength to cling to existence, to remain on earth, as if he were already a kind of husk that could blow away.
This great morning, this morning he would never forget. Carol was standing among the tourists. A group of schoolchildren had arrived with their teachers for an excursion to the Mer de Glace. Rand stood near a pillar that supported the roof. The sun was warm on his legs. His clothing, different from theirs, the loaves of bread sticking out of his pack, the equipment, set him apart. A kind of distinction surrounded him, of being marked for a different life. That distinction meant everything.
They boarded the train. The seats around them were empty. Amid the shouts of children and the low, murmured talk of couples, young men with cashmere sweaters around their necks, a shrill whistle blew. The train began to move. Carol walked along beside it as far as the platform’s end.
The valley fell away. On the opposite side the Brévent reared like a wall, a faint path zigzagging up it. An elderly Englishman and his wife sat nearby. He had a turned-down hat. There were blotches on his face.
“Very beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“I prefer the Cervin. The Cervin is much nicer,” his wife replied.
“Do you think so?” he said.
“It’s majestic.”
“Well, here you have majesty.”
“Where?”
“There.”
She looked for a moment.
“No,” she said. “It’s not the same.”
The train rocked gently. The conversation seemed like scraps of paper floating from the window as they went upward. At Montenvers a crowd was waiting to go back down.
By three that afternoon they were camped beneath the Dru. That evening they had a good meal, soup, thick pieces of bread, dried fruit, tea. Afterward a bar of chocolate. They planned to start at dawn. Above them the face was silent. The slanting rays of sun fell on their shoulders, on the warm, lichened rock and dry grass. They watched the sun go down in splendor behind the shoulder of the Charmoz. Cabot was smoking. He held out the thin cigarette as he exhaled. Rand took it from between his fingers.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Brought it with me.” He leaned back, his thoughts drifting off. “And so,” he said, “they waited for morning. I love this time. I like it best.”
“Here …”
Cabot reached for it. He inhaled deeply, smiled. It seemed he was a different man here, calmer; the strength remained but not the vainglory that
The weather had not been good. The delay was eating at his nerves. Each morning they woke to overcast skies or the sound of rain. Everything was ready, ropes, pitons, supplies. Every day they sat in idleness.
Weather is critical in the Alps. The sudden storms are the cause of most disasters. The casual arrival of clouds, a shifting of wind, things which might seem of little consequence can be dangerous. The sun, moreover, melts the ice and snow at higher altitudes, and rocks, sometimes of unbelievable size, break loose and fall. This happens usually in the afternoon.
One must know the mountains. Speed and judgment are essential. The classic decision is always the same, whether to retreat or go on. There comes a time when it is easier to continue upward, when the summit, in fact, is the only way out. At such a moment one must still have strength.
It cleared at last. They walked to the station. Their packs were huge, they weighed at least fifty pounds. Ropes slung over their shoulders, when they moved there was a muted clanking like the sound of armor.
His chest felt empty, his hands weightless. He felt a lack of density, the strength to cling to existence, to remain on earth, as if he were already a kind of husk that could blow away.
This great morning, this morning he would never forget. Carol was standing among the tourists. A group of schoolchildren had arrived with their teachers for an excursion to the Mer de Glace. Rand stood near a pillar that supported the roof. The sun was warm on his legs. His clothing, different from theirs, the loaves of bread sticking out of his pack, the equipment, set him apart. A kind of distinction surrounded him, of being marked for a different life. That distinction meant everything.
They boarded the train. The seats around them were empty. Amid the shouts of children and the low, murmured talk of couples, young men with cashmere sweaters around their necks, a shrill whistle blew. The train began to move. Carol walked along beside it as far as the platform’s end.
The valley fell away. On the opposite side the Brévent reared like a wall, a faint path zigzagging up it. An elderly Englishman and his wife sat nearby. He had a turned-down hat. There were blotches on his face.
“Very beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“I prefer the Cervin. The Cervin is much nicer,” his wife replied.
“Do you think so?” he said.
“It’s majestic.”
“Well, here you have majesty.”
“Where?”
“There.”
She looked for a moment.
“No,” she said. “It’s not the same.”
The train rocked gently. The conversation seemed like scraps of paper floating from the window as they went upward. At Montenvers a crowd was waiting to go back down.
By three that afternoon they were camped beneath the Dru. That evening they had a good meal, soup, thick pieces of bread, dried fruit, tea. Afterward a bar of chocolate. They planned to start at dawn. Above them the face was silent. The slanting rays of sun fell on their shoulders, on the warm, lichened rock and dry grass. They watched the sun go down in splendor behind the shoulder of the Charmoz. Cabot was smoking. He held out the thin cigarette as he exhaled. Rand took it from between his fingers.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Brought it with me.” He leaned back, his thoughts drifting off. “And so,” he said, “they waited for morning. I love this time. I like it best.”
“Here …”
Cabot reached for it. He inhaled deeply, smiled. It seemed he was a different man here, calmer; the strength remained but not the vainglory that
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