Fierce Beauty by Kim Meeder Page B

descent left behind.
    This gigantic boulder used to be part of a stone fortress towering over the roof of the forest. The life it once knew was that of a pillar within a colossal ridge high above. It was a boulder for the ages, or so thought every generation that once stood upon its broad shoulders. Now it sits on the lowly forest floor, dethroned of its former moorings of grandeur. Since it rests defiantly in the middle of the trail, the new path obediently detours around it.
    After hiking about two miles, our group popped out of the deep forest and onto the Moraine Plains. Here the earth transformed from soft duff beneath towering boughs into dry, gray pumice. As the trees dropped behind us, we were greeted by massive vistas of South Sister, Broken Top, and Mount Bachelor.
    Step by purposeful step, we moved closer toward our goal and ever-expanding views. It seemed impossible that the panorama could get any wider or better, yet the proof that filled our eyes with every mounting stride clearly proclaimed that it could. I’ve never climbed a mountain without pondering how closely it must resemble our walk with our King. Although each step takes effort, each one also makes us stronger. Strung together, those steps bring us closer to Him and into a beauty far beyond anything we’ve ever known or could even imagine.
    About a mile from the summit, we carefully ascended the talus-strewn terminal moraine of Lewis Glacier. The reward of cresting its rim was to feast our eyes on the entire glacier sloping down into one of the most surreal green melt pools I’ve ever seen. Here we honored tradition by stopping to take in refreshments along with some indescribable views.
    Recharged from the brief rest, we pressed on to the final summit push. Even the one-step-up, two-steps-back effect of hiking on loose scree couldn’t dampen the thrill we felt from being in such a wondrous place.By climbing the western ridge that flanks Lewis Glacier, we could look right into the yawning mouths of many deep blue crevasses.
    Once we reached the summit crest, we strode across the broad crown toward the northeast ridge, where the true summit juts into view. Depending on the season, an ice blue teardrop pool often forms beneath the western ridge inside this nearly perfect volcanic cone. On this day all that was visible was a bright aqua depression where the water triumphantly bled through the icy snow, well on its way to becoming an ice-free pool.
    Having scaled the last few hundred feet to the top, we rewarded ourselves by stopping at a suitable boulder near the edge to enjoy lunch with a view. Although I can’t remember how the practice officially started, for some important reason every mountain that we climb in June has to be accompanied by a maturity-building cherry-pit-spitting contest off the summit.
    I knew that this year my position as Exalted Queen of the Pits would be challenged by two young men who were eager to put my superhuman pit-spitting ability to the test. Once lunch was finished, Jeff, Sam, and I lined up near the edge of a precipice like pigeons on a wire. Each of us picked a boulder to perch on. I selected a trusted old friend of a rock that I’ve chosen to sit on—sometimes several times a year—since 1985.
    Our preferred seating was ideal because of the abrupt downslope on the northern rim of the mountain. Beyond this slope, rock dropped almost vertically for nearly thirty feet, separating us from the upper reaches of the perilously steep Prouty Glacier. It was the perfect location for our pit-spitting challenge to begin. We passed around the bag of deep purple Bing cherry ammunition and steeled ourselves for the ensuing competition.
    Sam’s first attempt was pitiful. Jeff and I ended up wearing most of his effort, while his pit didn’t even make a showing. In the best teeth-clenched, Clint Eastwood–ish smack talk I could muster, I said, “You spit like a little girl.”
    Even before Jeff’s attempt I knew that my