Burdens

The wind is what did it. Whenever Ivan gained purchase on the next snowbank, the wind would smack against his backpack, down on his shoulders, and he would slide a foot back down the mountain. His climbing rack had never felt so heavy, not over the steepest boulder of all the mountains he climbed. The wind was pushing him down, and he could not take a single step up carrying all that weight.

There was no more rock face for him to scale, only the steep mounds of snowdrift piled high against the final few ridges of the mountain’s summit. He knew the route well after planning his trek for weeks at the base of the mountain. The climb was easy: the worst boulder he climbed was a small V2, but it had been five hours since he left the base camp because of the storm.

His crampons scraped down through the snow like he was back training on his treadmill, sliding toward the immutable edge below. His protection was made to keep him on the mountain in mostly fair weather, not from this wind and the chance storm it brought. He had just climbed miles up a much steeper slope, but he found himself unable to move under the weight of the wind, his body, and his gear.

Ivan struck into the snow with his ice ax and dropped on his hands and knees. He unclipped his pack and it fell down beside him like it was made of gold. He left it there in the snow: his food, batteries, extra slings and cords, everything he brought on his back. And he could walk up the mountain like he had just stepped off his treadmill and discovered he could move again.

When the wind started to beat against his head, he took off his helmet and his head became light. It was cold, and he felt the creases in his jacket from his bag: He was both cold and light. He smiled, and his teeth were the color of the snow. He was sure, when he smiled, that he could see the summit high above.

He could not see the dark knots of snow being turned in the blizzard, and each foothold pushed him up the mountain as if he was jumping. He dropped his ax in the snow, since his crampons were gripping the icy mountain snow. The mountain was yielding to him, and he climbed to the last crest with the same light smile on his face.

Until the wind blew again. All his hours of climbing were hoisted up against his body like a heavy snowbank. The higher he climbed the deeper he felt gravity sliding up his legs, holding his body onto the mountain. His empty arms swung by his side, weighing down his body. Fear. He pressed his feet into the snow, and his foot slid down again.

It was the final crest, and even with everything gone, he was too heavy to take another step. The white steeple he had seen in pictures since he was a boy faded into the breath of mountain snow that flitted before him. Even empty-handed, he could not go further. Then, he heard the voice.

Within a shallow cavity a distance off his route, he saw a red cap where the voice came from. First, he thought this man could give him another ice ax so he could perhaps get to the top again, but he knew no one would stop this high up unless they could not get down.

“I am Ivan,” the climber to the man, crawling into the cavity. The older man was lying on the rock in a puddle of melted snow, breathing shallowly, the same color as the sky above them. He was probably alone, and the storm took him out. The man could have been lying there for hours.

“I am Harry.” The older man replied. “I’m almost there.” He pulled a strap off his ankle and revealed frostbitten skin under his pant leg. They waited for a few moments as Ivan looked over the older man’s broken body. “I can’t go down, now.” The man shook his head, looking down into the snow.

“I can’t go up.” Ivan replied. “The wind is what stopped me.” Harry noticed his missing pack. “You are too heavy?” Harry says, remembering when he was facing the wind and the steep snow. Ivan nods his head. The man would not live much longer, and he would not make it back down the mountain.

Until the wind blew again. They heard it howling over the wall of suspended ice and rock beside them. Ivan crossed himself and stood up. His legs shook under the weight of his day of climbing, but he did not want to go back down.

Ivan grabbed the older man’s arms and heaved him onto his shoulders. They both could hear crunching under them; either the snow, or Harry’s frostbitten leg, or the bones in Ivan’s feet. Ivan took a step out of the cavity, and the old man held on.

There was a few hundred feet to the summit. Every foothold felt like he was climbing a new mountain. The weight was unbearable, like the mountain was standing on him, rather than the opposite. The wind blew and he climbed with the man on his back.

With Harry on his back, he could climb the mountain again. He was heavier than ever, but he could pull them up with the tearing of his muscles and the freezing sweat on his face so thick it was like blood. He climbed to the top.

With all his might, they reached the top. Ivan carefully dropped the old man in the snow. They sat up there together, and the wind stopped. Harry’s breathing began to stop as the clouds faded away.

Ivan carried his body down the mountain. When he reached base camp and gave the man away, he felt the weight again.