Rites of Passage
(Approaching Ingalls Peak, 2012, original oil)
Rites of Passage
Forty-six years ago,
my first winter in the Pacific NW
my first winter break at college,
I headed out to climb Mt Stuart in the North Cascades
in the company of a couple of older guys.
I’d been climbing for a few years by then, but had only first x-country skied
that Thanksgiving. Oh, and I also had torn all my left knee’s cartridge
that fall playing rugby, but it was so far gone it no longer bothered me;
I think they call that the hubris of youth, at least, I would now.
Even all these years later I vividly remember
the level of despair I descended into
trudging along, alone in the dark, the first night
wondering where and, more importantly, when
the camp would be.
But before I ever got there I was reduced to calling out for help,
wretched really, and beneath the dignity of any real climber,
but I didn't care, I was back again a child of four,
cold and tired and just wanting to be carried home.
Clearly my suburban roots were showing,
and while I still remember the desperation
and eventual relief of finally seeing our camp up ahead
with glowing tent and welcoming hot food and cocoa,
I don’t remember my humiliation in the moment.
After that rough start the trip got better,
as we climbed higher and higher up out of the valley.
Maybe the guys took some of my load,
maybe I just toughened up, but I don’t remember that either.
When we got to the top of the pass, up above the trees,
and saw Stuart there, magnificent in the crystal clear light,
looking more like the South Face of Annapurna
than something we could ever climb,
the reality of what we were doing finally sunk in.
The next morning with refreshed and realistic plans,
we decided to climb Stuart’s diminutive neighbor Ingalls instead.
And although approached via a steep crusty cirque with a summit
guarded by cliffs all rimed in ice, we made it without a hitch.
The last day we skied out, fast and furious down the steep
switch-backed trail, fueled with seemingly endless breaks
to smoke another bowl, as I pretended to know what I was doing,
on my old wooden skis with cable bindings and a 40lb pack.
I don’t think I ever told the guys about my knee.
I’d hope if I did it all again I’d have the self-discipline now
to avoid the whole crying out for help thing,
at just the beginning, at that,
of such a manly adventure.
I’m no longer a scrawny kid after all,
obviously more mature and probably tougher,
certainly more out of shape,
but the beauty of it is, I wouldn’t even do it now,
I’d know better, and I’d miss the adventure.
The adventure of boys making ourselves
the men we want to become,
not directly, or even clearly, but creatively,
in our own stumbling and fumbling rites of passage.
(1/24/24)
Copyright ©
James Moore
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