I found this scribbled in an old Diary recently. Don't know why I wrote it? Maybe I was going to send it off, or maybe it was part of some cathartic process, but I thought I'd throw it up here anyway:-
Judging by their clothing, they were from the 30's. Bleached skin stretched across haunted faces, sunken eyes staring through encrusted ice. Skeletal fingers pointed through torn battered gloves as they crouched next to me and mocked my presence on 'their' bivouac ledge.
Down on the icefield to the left, whistling sounds cracked the air, followed by dull thuds as the face's artillery opened fire once more. White hydras slithered down from the buttresses above.
I pulled the bivi sac tighter round my head, as the snow got heavier. Through the odd break in the clouds, the stars hung in the sky like voyeurs. The best seats in the house to watch my inadequacy exposed.
Next to me, the Beard snored, impervious to both my nightmares and the situation. Northern hard man in his element, chewing rivets and shitting bullets. I often wondered whether his complete indifference to serious situations was because he was tough, or too thick to recognize danger.
Down below the lights from Kleine Scheidegg flickered, almost close enough to touch, but they may as well have been in another Galaxy for all the safety they offered.
At some point during the night, I must have drifted off to sleep. I awoke to a limpid, watery apathetic dawn.
The Beard was smoking, brewing and farting. It was no longer snowing, and I looked out from the face to a clear sky. I wasn't cold. This worried me - especially on this face. Above the sound of the primus and the Beard's bowel movements, I could hear the sound of running water. To the left, the white hydras had been replaced by waterfalls, whilst up to the right, the Ramp was an overflowing drain of misery.
The Beard handed me a brew with a manic grin. I hated that grin. It always made me want to punch it. It was a grin that always preceded trouble!
"Weather's improved youth,"
I said nothing, lit a fag and stared around.
"Ramp could be a bit wet, but we should be alright?"
I continued to ignore him.
He started gearing up, and I stayed firmly put in the bivi sac.
"Come on youth?"
I didn't trust the weather. This face never comes at you straight on, it sneaks up from behind and then stabs you viciously in the back. I wanted to go back down, whilst we still had a weather window.
The Beard was adamant on up, I was adamant on down.
For the next hour, we conducted a typical 'Tourettes' fueled argument.
And whilst we questioned each others parentage and testicle size, the weather settled the matter for us.
All the while we had been arguing, a thick blanket of cloud had dropped down the face. Half an hour later we were battling our way back across the Second Icefield through a fierce storm, and being bombarded by stone fall and avalanches.
It took us another two days to finally reach the bottom of the face, during which time the Beard proved he really was a hard man, and my inadequacy's were once more confirmed!
Post edited at 13:13
