flashed under the sun. I raised the binoculars. A camouflaged military truck was moving languidly along a well-worn trail along the river. Was this a routine patrol? Or had something alerted them? That something being us.
“What is it?” Faye asked.
“Military truck.”
“Are they on to us?”
“I don’t think so, Dick Tracy.”
The truck moved on without incident, disappearing within the deeper foliage along the stream’s bank. Just a routine patrol, I hoped.
With the toe of her hiking boot, Faye kicked a loose pebble into another such pebble in a pre-historic game of marbles. “So this is the infamous Mount Ararat.”
I shook my head. “Hardly. The true Ararat is high above, and a lot closer to heaven than you or I.”
“You sound like a song.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you heard me sing.”
Later, we dressed in long underwear, polypropylene socks, nylon pants and windbreakers. The nylon outer shell would keep the wind and rain out; the long underwear to keep the warmth in. A good recipe for mountain climbing. To complete the look, I handed her a wool cap and a pair of ski glasses. Now she looked ready to conquer a mountain, or hold up a liquor store in Aspen, Colorado.
A dry wind swept along the canyon. I lit a cigarette. The vultures were gone, probably gorging on the carcass of some poor creature who had propagated the myth that women were inferior to men.
“Are we ready?” she asked, voice tight, managing to sound excited and impatient all at the same time.
“Almost,” I said.
I helped Faye into her backpack and slipped into mine. Both packs jangled with crampons and carabiners. I slipped a hundred foot kernmantle rope—coiled in a classic mountaineer coil—over my backpack.
“Now, we’re ready.”
The sky was clear, although thunderheads lay on the distant horizon, waiting like an invading Medieval army for the command to storm the castle. The wind was crisp but manageable. It was good hiking weather. I crushed the cigarette under my boot, leaving my mark on the holy mountain. I led the way forward, and upward.
Chapter Fourteen
The ankle-high grass gave way to loose volcanic rock, which was akin to walking across a field of bowling balls. A cold wind swept down through the canyon, funneled between the massive rock walls, whistling over the many rock protrusions. The cliffs were layered with basalt, limestone, quartz, sandstone and dolomite in a sort of geologic rainbow.
An hour into the climb I stopped in the shade of a rock buttress. Faye was breathing steadily, a film of sweat on her upper lip. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her hand.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked impatiently.
“Water,” I said. “If that’s okay with you.”
She nodded her consent. “A little water does sound good.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
When I had finished drinking, Faye was still guzzling away. Precious liquid trickled down her chin and neck.
“You might want to conserve some of that,” I said.
Reluctantly, she pulled away from the bottle like a baby from a teat. She stared in shocked silence at the half-empty contents. “I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty,” she said. “Where do we get more?”
“Reconstituted urine. I have special baggies and distillers in my backpack. When done properly, the water doesn’t taste bad. Sort of coppery.”
“That’s not funny, Sam.”
“Of course not.” I grinned and pointed farther up the canyon. “We’ll be passing a stream about an hour’s climb from here. And higher up, we’ll use melted ice and snow.”
“No yellow snow.”
“No yellow snow,” I agreed.
The wind blasted over the rock buttress, moaning like the dead. Now all we needed were flapping shutters. Preferably broken. Higher up, between the canyon walls, the narrow strip of sky revealed storm clouds approaching from the east, dark and gray, as if composed of a million lost souls. On Ararat, storms hit quickly, and hard. From blizzards to
“What is it?” Faye asked.
“Military truck.”
“Are they on to us?”
“I don’t think so, Dick Tracy.”
The truck moved on without incident, disappearing within the deeper foliage along the stream’s bank. Just a routine patrol, I hoped.
With the toe of her hiking boot, Faye kicked a loose pebble into another such pebble in a pre-historic game of marbles. “So this is the infamous Mount Ararat.”
I shook my head. “Hardly. The true Ararat is high above, and a lot closer to heaven than you or I.”
“You sound like a song.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you heard me sing.”
Later, we dressed in long underwear, polypropylene socks, nylon pants and windbreakers. The nylon outer shell would keep the wind and rain out; the long underwear to keep the warmth in. A good recipe for mountain climbing. To complete the look, I handed her a wool cap and a pair of ski glasses. Now she looked ready to conquer a mountain, or hold up a liquor store in Aspen, Colorado.
A dry wind swept along the canyon. I lit a cigarette. The vultures were gone, probably gorging on the carcass of some poor creature who had propagated the myth that women were inferior to men.
“Are we ready?” she asked, voice tight, managing to sound excited and impatient all at the same time.
“Almost,” I said.
I helped Faye into her backpack and slipped into mine. Both packs jangled with crampons and carabiners. I slipped a hundred foot kernmantle rope—coiled in a classic mountaineer coil—over my backpack.
“Now, we’re ready.”
The sky was clear, although thunderheads lay on the distant horizon, waiting like an invading Medieval army for the command to storm the castle. The wind was crisp but manageable. It was good hiking weather. I crushed the cigarette under my boot, leaving my mark on the holy mountain. I led the way forward, and upward.
Chapter Fourteen
The ankle-high grass gave way to loose volcanic rock, which was akin to walking across a field of bowling balls. A cold wind swept down through the canyon, funneled between the massive rock walls, whistling over the many rock protrusions. The cliffs were layered with basalt, limestone, quartz, sandstone and dolomite in a sort of geologic rainbow.
An hour into the climb I stopped in the shade of a rock buttress. Faye was breathing steadily, a film of sweat on her upper lip. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her hand.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked impatiently.
“Water,” I said. “If that’s okay with you.”
She nodded her consent. “A little water does sound good.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
When I had finished drinking, Faye was still guzzling away. Precious liquid trickled down her chin and neck.
“You might want to conserve some of that,” I said.
Reluctantly, she pulled away from the bottle like a baby from a teat. She stared in shocked silence at the half-empty contents. “I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty,” she said. “Where do we get more?”
“Reconstituted urine. I have special baggies and distillers in my backpack. When done properly, the water doesn’t taste bad. Sort of coppery.”
“That’s not funny, Sam.”
“Of course not.” I grinned and pointed farther up the canyon. “We’ll be passing a stream about an hour’s climb from here. And higher up, we’ll use melted ice and snow.”
“No yellow snow.”
“No yellow snow,” I agreed.
The wind blasted over the rock buttress, moaning like the dead. Now all we needed were flapping shutters. Preferably broken. Higher up, between the canyon walls, the narrow strip of sky revealed storm clouds approaching from the east, dark and gray, as if composed of a million lost souls. On Ararat, storms hit quickly, and hard. From blizzards to
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