knew.” After a while, struggling for expression: “I feel things. I feel that something’s not right. Maybe I have another language then, but I’m not sure. Nothing looks right, it’s all just… color. The names are gone. You know?”
Brian shakes his head, involuntarily grinning.
“Hmm,” Peter says. “It sounds like you might have some trouble getting your driver’s license renewed.” All three of them laugh.
Brian stands, stuffs plastic bags into his pack. “Ready for some ridge running?” he says to the other two.
“Wait a second,” Peter says. “we just got here. Why don’t you kick back for a while? This pass is supposed to be the high point of the trip, and we’ve only been here half an hour.”
“Longer than that,” says Brian.
“Not tong enough. I’m tired!”
“We’ve only hiked about four miles today,” Brian replies impatiently. “All of us worked equally hard. Now we can walk down a ridge all afternoon, it’ll be great!”
Peter sucks air between his teeth, holds it in, decides not to speak. He begins jamming bags into his pack.
They stand ready to leave the pass, packs and snowshoes on their backs. Brian makes a final adjustment to his belt—Pete looks up the spine they are about to ascend—Joe stares down at the huge bowl of rock and snow to the west. Afternoon sun glares. The shadow of a cloud hurries across the cirque toward them, jumps up the west side of the pass and they are in it, for a moment.
“Look!” Joe cries. He points at the south wall of the pass. Brian and Pete look—A flush of brown. A pair of horns, blur of legs, the distant
clacks
of rock falling.
“Mountain goat!” says Brian. “Wow!” He hurries across the saddle of the pass to the south spine, looking up frequently. “There it is again! Come on!”
Joe and Pete hurry alter him. “You guys will never catch that thing,” says Peter.
The south wall is faulted and boulderish, and they zig and zag from one small shelf of snow to the next. They grab outcroppings and stick fists in cracks, and strain to push themselves up steps that are waist-high. The wind peels across the spine of the wall and keeps them cool. They breathe in gasps, stop frequently. Brian pulls ahead, Peter falls behind. Brian and Joe call to each other about the goat.
Brian and Joe top the spine, scramble up the decreasing slope. The ridge edge—a hump of shattered rock, twenty or twenty-five feet wide, like a high road—is nearly level, but still rises enough to block their view south. They hurry up to the point where the ridge levels, and suddenly they can see south for miles.
They stop to look. The range rises and falls in even swoops to a tall peak. Beyond the peak it drops abruptly and rises again, up and down and up, culminating in a huge knot of black peaks. To the east the steep snowy slope drops to the valley paralleling the range. To the west a series of spurs and cirques alternate, making a broken desert of rock and snow.
The range cuts down the middle of it all, high above everything else that can be seen. Joe taps his boot on solid rock. “Fossil backbone, primeval earth being,” he says.
“I think I still see that goat,” says Brian, pointing. “Where’s Peter?”
Peter appears, face haggard. He stumbles on a rock, steps quickly to keep his balance. When he reaches Brian and Joe he lets his pack thump to the ground.
“This is ridiculous,” he says. “I have to rest.”
“We can’t exactly camp here,” Brian says sarcastically, and gestures at the jumble of rock they are sitting on.
“I don’t care,” Peter says, and sits down.
“We’ve only been hiking an hour since lunch,” Brian objects. “and we’re trying to close in on that goat!”
“Tired,” Peter says. “I have to rest.”
“You get tired pretty fast these days!”
An angry silence.
Joe says in a mild voice. “You guys sure are bitching at each other a lot.”
A long silence. Brian and Peter look in
Brian shakes his head, involuntarily grinning.
“Hmm,” Peter says. “It sounds like you might have some trouble getting your driver’s license renewed.” All three of them laugh.
Brian stands, stuffs plastic bags into his pack. “Ready for some ridge running?” he says to the other two.
“Wait a second,” Peter says. “we just got here. Why don’t you kick back for a while? This pass is supposed to be the high point of the trip, and we’ve only been here half an hour.”
“Longer than that,” says Brian.
“Not tong enough. I’m tired!”
“We’ve only hiked about four miles today,” Brian replies impatiently. “All of us worked equally hard. Now we can walk down a ridge all afternoon, it’ll be great!”
Peter sucks air between his teeth, holds it in, decides not to speak. He begins jamming bags into his pack.
They stand ready to leave the pass, packs and snowshoes on their backs. Brian makes a final adjustment to his belt—Pete looks up the spine they are about to ascend—Joe stares down at the huge bowl of rock and snow to the west. Afternoon sun glares. The shadow of a cloud hurries across the cirque toward them, jumps up the west side of the pass and they are in it, for a moment.
“Look!” Joe cries. He points at the south wall of the pass. Brian and Pete look—A flush of brown. A pair of horns, blur of legs, the distant
clacks
of rock falling.
“Mountain goat!” says Brian. “Wow!” He hurries across the saddle of the pass to the south spine, looking up frequently. “There it is again! Come on!”
Joe and Pete hurry alter him. “You guys will never catch that thing,” says Peter.
The south wall is faulted and boulderish, and they zig and zag from one small shelf of snow to the next. They grab outcroppings and stick fists in cracks, and strain to push themselves up steps that are waist-high. The wind peels across the spine of the wall and keeps them cool. They breathe in gasps, stop frequently. Brian pulls ahead, Peter falls behind. Brian and Joe call to each other about the goat.
Brian and Joe top the spine, scramble up the decreasing slope. The ridge edge—a hump of shattered rock, twenty or twenty-five feet wide, like a high road—is nearly level, but still rises enough to block their view south. They hurry up to the point where the ridge levels, and suddenly they can see south for miles.
They stop to look. The range rises and falls in even swoops to a tall peak. Beyond the peak it drops abruptly and rises again, up and down and up, culminating in a huge knot of black peaks. To the east the steep snowy slope drops to the valley paralleling the range. To the west a series of spurs and cirques alternate, making a broken desert of rock and snow.
The range cuts down the middle of it all, high above everything else that can be seen. Joe taps his boot on solid rock. “Fossil backbone, primeval earth being,” he says.
“I think I still see that goat,” says Brian, pointing. “Where’s Peter?”
Peter appears, face haggard. He stumbles on a rock, steps quickly to keep his balance. When he reaches Brian and Joe he lets his pack thump to the ground.
“This is ridiculous,” he says. “I have to rest.”
“We can’t exactly camp here,” Brian says sarcastically, and gestures at the jumble of rock they are sitting on.
“I don’t care,” Peter says, and sits down.
“We’ve only been hiking an hour since lunch,” Brian objects. “and we’re trying to close in on that goat!”
“Tired,” Peter says. “I have to rest.”
“You get tired pretty fast these days!”
An angry silence.
Joe says in a mild voice. “You guys sure are bitching at each other a lot.”
A long silence. Brian and Peter look in
Similar Books
![[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers](/res/aob/book1.jpg)
