The Mercy of Mountains

Hail slams against the tent fly draped hastily around our bodies. With as much speed as our numb fingers can muster we unroll our camp mattresses and place them between our heads and the pelting ice. Fork lighting illuminates a grey sky, followed swiftly by crashing thunder. I marvel at the rapid change in weather, for in the Grand Tetons storms roll in with the speed of a charging bull. In a moment of calm, frustrations ebb away and I shut my eyes, reflecting on our journey.

We had placed our trust in one who was not worthy of it. He had boasted of his hiking feats and his knowledge of these unpredictable mountains. His promise to guide us in our first summit had us keen for adventure, and by dusk not only had we lost our path multiple times but our stove and first aid kit, sworn to be safely stowed in his pack, were missing. We embraced our meals of energy bars in good spirits and at daybreak embarked on our final push to summit.

Jackson Valley lay before me like a vast, glorious watercolor. I attempted to breath it all in, to memorize the rivets and turns of the valley, but my mind was full with awe and exhaustion. My first summit, my first true climb. Blisters burned on my heels and pride burned in my heart. Ominous dark clouds signaled it was time for our descent and we trailed our guide off the beaten track.

Rain began to tumble as our guide scaled down steep, trackless ridges with the agility of a goat, leaving us straggling behind in a wake of dust and rolling pebbles. We emerged into a familiar valley, only to have our elation dampened with the discovery that we had dropped too far and were below our camping sight. We ordered him to collect our gear and with his departure thunder echoed in the distance and dark clouds threatened to close in on us.

Upon his return we stood saturated in the pelting rain, which was turning rapidly to hail. He yelled to us, gesturing wildly with his arms but his words were lost in the storm. With final understanding we threw our hiking poles into the scrub and fled to him. He extracted the fly from his pack and flung it over us. I looked up just in time to see a fork of lightning strike the ridge above us, and my body trembled.

My eyes open as a wearied laugh escapes me. The hail ceases as abruptly as it began and we peel the fly from our bedraggled bodies. I lean my head back, and watch the sun break the thick gathering of clouds. We are alone here, but for each other and the sweet smell of a passing storm.