Climb a mountain
(Page 3 of 3)
By day's end I've got bloody fingers, scraped forearms, bruised kneecaps. But we've made it up a half-dozen pitches and even passed our "lesson" in rappelling, which amounts to walking off a cliff backward. Not that Miggi's impressed. "It's 10, maybe 20 percent of the Matterhorn," he says.
The Breithorn will be higher, harder, more exposed. And it will introduce us to climbing with crampons, spiked metal plates that strap onto boots and dig into the mountain's snow-and-ice cliffs.
* * *
There's nothing to do but follow Miggi up.
I get into a rhythm, smashing the tip of my ice ax into the wall we're hanging onto, taking a step up, digging the crampon into a foothold, sucking a breath.
The weather is gorgeous, the views spectacular. But we're struggling to breathe the thin air, pleading for a pull of water from the camelbacks attached to our packs.
"Fifteen more minutes," says Miggi. "If you want to climb the Matterhorn you have to keep moving."
Things don't get a lot better, even after we trade the ice for several pitches of rock along the Breithorn's ridge.
"What now?" Miggi calls disgustedly a while later.
I'm stuck on a big rock, sort of like a turtle shell with a tent stake in the middle. If I stand up, I figure, I'll fall 1,000 feet or two in either direction - the rock connects a gap in the ridge. But the alternative seems to be painful. I close my eyes and half stand, half inch forward in the saddle. Made it.
Another maneuver requires us to climb up one rock, lean over a chasm, and hug the rock on the other side. I can do that. I'm good at hugging rocks.
Meanwhile, Dennis is gasping with each step. By the time we head back, Miggi is half dragging me and I'm pulling Dennis as hard as I can. We're whipped.
The Breithorn traverse, about a third as demanding as the Matterhorn, is supposed to take five hours. We've needed six, with just two short breaks.
"What do you think?" Dennis asks, still sucking in air. "If we stay another week and acclimate, can we give the Matterhorn a try?"
Miggi doesn't hesitate. "It's not possible," he says, adding something about better conditioning and better technique.
I just want a hot bath.
* * *
"The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time."
Dennis is quoting James Taylor.
It's the day after the Breithorn climb, and he's vacillating between philosophical and dejected. Taylor is the former.
"I don't want to hang around and be taunted by that mountain," Dennis says minutes later, shaking a fist at the Matterhorn.
I share his disappointment. Still, I'm feeling pretty good about myself, and about us. Climbing sort of terrifies me. But I did it. We're here in what Kathy calls "Heidi's place," a fantastic valley of flowers and meadows, fresh-cut hay and soaring snow-covered peaks.
We've shared an adventure, even if not the adventure. And Dennis and I are laughing together with an ease that's too often eluded us. Climbing in tandem, the rope between us has somehow grown stronger.
I like that. Maybe we should do more of this.
"What if we spend a month in Colorado, get used to the altitude, and then come to Zermatt?" Dennis asks.
Could work. There's nothing wrong with dreaming.
