The Climb

It was seventeen hundred hours or thereabouts when three young men were met with a frozen pond tucked away in a bed of snow on a palace of a mountain. A vague sense that they had finally succeeded in putting a considerable amount of vertical distance between themselves and their home at the base of the mountain range dawned on them.

These men, donning camo and military decorum, had trekked untold kilometers upwards from an encampment nestled at the foot of the mountains. They suspected they were nearing the summit but they were not entirely sure, as a day’s worth of bearing witness to winter-worn rockfaces and colorless crags had rendered them near-snowblind and unable to gauge the topography through which they trespassed with any certainty. But where an oppressive absence of green nearly succeeded in robbing the men of their vision, there so happened to be sporadic groves of assorted wildflowers, the sight of which never ceased to surprise and revitalize them. These enclaves of foliage—the only respite afforded by the monochromatic and otherwise lifeless land into which they fled—bore sunflowers which towered far above the men’s heads at apparent odds with their high-altitude, low-temperature locale and in seeming defiance of the laws of their own construction. The men imagined that the sunflowers, nature’s Independence Day fireworks, took note of their camo-green uniforms and turned to salute them as they walked past in their long military strides.

To absolutely no one’s dismay, there was no birdsong accompaniment to the scene with which they were confronted; indeed, through the men’s snow-savaged senses, the silence was song enough. The frozen lake that lay before them represented not only an end to the rigors of the day-long climb, but a cause to celebrate: here they were, at the edge of the world, finally permanently removed from the stiff utilitarian beds, empty commendation ceremonies, and flavorless MREs that they had resolved to leave behind forever; here they were at the point of no return, delivered from pointless bureaucracy, morning formations, and institutional walls covered in chipped, lead paint. A milky sky portended sleet and so here is where they would rest.

Provisions were not lacking—Specialist Noelle, the organizer of the trek, saw to it that each member of the band had access to at least a three-day supply of beer. There was at least fifteen pounds of sausage links to be divvied up among them. Each escapee had his own spot of bourbon and then some.

Noelle was a disgraced solider whose expulsion from the military was imminent. His fellow travelers speculated amongst themselves that something must’ve made him snap one day to compel him to enlist, for as naturally defiant and rule-breaking as he was, he was as suited to his career as a glacier is to existing in a sea of lava. Yet one thing was for certain and it was that he found the military like a lost child; and his sense of overall disenchantment with his life decisions was never not palpable in some way, shape, or form. In spite of a generally sanguine nature towards his acquaintances (in his willingness to forego military dictates surrounding fraternization, he had many), the timbre in his voice gave way to an occasional chilliness that was interpreted by many as speaking largely to his dissatisfaction with his choice to take up arms.

He huddled over the rations, surveying their longevity, and said, “you boys ready for the rest of your lives?” In spite of his exhaustion from the climb and the dire legal implications of their AWOL status, he still managed to maintain a breezy, amicable tone.

Private Lawson, a second traveler—straight-laced, self-serious, and well-kempt for a Bravo-company boy—whirled around to face Specialist Noelle. Noelle’s line of questioning had evidently interrupted his whittling session. He had been carving their platoon’s insignia carefully and methodically into the branch of a startlingly green conifer with his standard-issue knife.

“Sorry you’re getting kicked out of the Army, but why am I here again?” he queried in a brusque, authoritative tone not befitting such a low-ranking soldier. Lawson was known for his hard work and dedication, although his efforts had garnered him the reputation of being an unbridled tool-bag among similarly ranked members of his platoon. Jokes circulated alleging that he was a power freak with a Napoleon complex who got off on acting bigger than he was. His uniform looked a bit too large for him and his helmet appeared to swallow up his head.

“My brother,” Noelle started, “don’t do me like that. You’re here now. You told me you needed a break. This is your break. You agreed to this. Let’s drink. I bet Baker will take me up on it.”

The third and eldest traveler, Specialist Baker, meanwhile, was transfixed on the lake. Normally the most lighthearted of his group, he was uncharacteristically unexpressive. He nodded wordlessly at Noelle’s invitation to drink; and Noelle, not wanting to dampen the jovial mood he was attempted to create by commenting on Baker’s silence, obliged him. A bottle of bourbon was thrown Baker’s way. He couldn’t be bothered to wrest himself from his daze to catch it, so it landed in the snow beside him with an unceremonious thud.

Baker had sharp features and an overall hawkish, birdlike look about him. His bright green eyes never failed to cut through the recipients of their gaze like daggers. Prior to his service, he earned a degree in marine science, which he could not find a practical, lucrative, meaningful professional outlet for despite his wealth of knowledge in the discipline. With nowhere else to turn, he found that a career in dying for his country came more naturally to him.

He was freezing. A southern boy, he never grew up knowing a real winter but he got a taste of it those times he’d attend family functions in the far north. He carried with him memories of fantastically wealthy extended relatives huddled together around a gilded fireplace in their estate on especially snowy days. He felt like a lifelong foreigner to a life like that—to the money and to surviving in the bitter cold. He looked to be in the midst of a heated argument with himself about something.

“Guys, I was thinking,” Baker finally spoke, “ever walked on ice before?”

Lawson didn’t look up from his branding the conifer. “Fuck no, Baker. But I’ll watch you do it. I’ll even give you a hundred bucks if you cross over to the other side without dying.”

“This could be a very lucrative opportunity for you,” Noelle joked. “It sure as shit pays better than the military.”

Lawson added, “When the ice breaks and you start to drown, I’ll save your ass and you get nothing.” He laughed. “I’ll have you know I just got out of a class where I was briefed on water rescues…”

Baker took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, watching his body heat escape him in the form of condensation. The warmth hung tantalizingly in the air around him before promptly dissipating, snapped up at once by the bitter cold. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon afforded to him by Noelle, seeking not only the resolve to go through with his proposed course of action but the inner warmth that he knew drinking to provide. The beverage was no gilded fireplace in a fantastic manor on a cold winter’s day, but it wasn’t insubstantial towards lighting a fire in him.

With that, the sheet of ice before him positively dared him to master it and take his very first step. The prospect of not answering its call broke him and he started to slowly peter across the pond like a newborn.

Noelle and Lawson immediately froze, not anticipating that Baker’s threat to canvas the bed of ice was backed by anything resembling intent. Noelle looked on wordlessly, impressed in the very specific way that only young men are when faced with any form of daredevilry. Despite his initial antagonism, Lawson’s eyes widened in fear.

Lawson proceeded to slowly tiptoe the perimeter of the lake after Baker, readying himself for the ice beneath his comrade to give out. “Okay… Guys, this isn’t cool anymore. Noelle, I know I already asked, but why are we out here? Do me a favor and don’t invite me on any more of your expeditions-”

He stopped, apparently recalling his comparatively lower rank for the first time since their departure from the barracks, and cleared his throat to speak again in a tone more befitting of a private: “I don’t mean to overstep, but we should really head back. There’s really nothing for us out here. It’s freezing. This isn’t fun.”

Noelle retorted, “those rules don’t apply out here, dude. I came out here to get away from all that. I’m not in charge of you anymore! Also, kind of limp-dicked of you to hate the cold so much. You’re in the Army, man—you live for this shit. He lives for this shit!” Noelle exclaimed, gesturing towards Baker, who, not unaided by alcohol, was becoming increasingly surefooted.

“I do live for this shit!” Baker guffawed as he fought to maintain balance. He had inched towards the center of the expanse of ice, now a good thirty feet beyond the reach of Lawson and Noelle. He failed to notice the rapidly growing, spidery network of cracks forming in the ice beneath his feet.

“Baker! The ice! It’s cracking,” Lawson hissed in a now fiery tone, unable to suppress his panic in the name of military formalities any longer. “You’re gonna fall in. You’ll get frostbite! You’ve gotta come back to shore, man. What are you even trying to prove? Please just come home with me already!”

“Yeah. Come back. You’ll get your OCP’s wet,” Noelle snorted derisively, mocking Lawson.

The ice groaned, starting to give way beneath the soldier’s feet. An inebriated, determined Baker was unfazed by its threat to swallow him up.

The remainder of Lawson’s brave face had, at this point, completely melted away and he resorted to pleading with Baker. “Please head my way. The treeline, dude! There’s no snow over here. You won’t make it. You’re drunk. Sorry for pushing you to do this. I’ll start a fire and cook you up some sausage... You need to sleep this off.”

Through Baker’s bleary, drunken, snowblind eyes, the uniformed Lawson seemed to blend in with the rich backdrop of conifers. He imagined the trees were lined up like formidable soldiers at his back, beckoning him to safety. At this, he looked back to Noelle for reassurance. Noelle, entirely unbothered and wanting to join in on the fun, had started stripping and disposing of his uniform. His pale skin blended in with the barren, punishing snow-covered terrain.

“Lawson, no… This is happening. I’m conquering the ice…! I’m never going back to that fucking compound. I can do this. We’ll make it out here. This strange old bird can’t only fly, but he can swim! We’re free!”

Baker’s delirium was climbing and his thoughts raced: he was walking on ice and he was chasing his dreams! He was finally putting the military behind him! He was high on his earning potential! He imagined many grand things in the span of seconds:

I have several patents. I have just been given several million dollars for my breakthrough research into the Mariana Trench. I am a Nobel prize recipient…!

He was swallowed up by the ice. The last thing Baker saw was Private Lawson springing into action—it was the most action Lawson would see in his career. The training he so prided himself on served no one out here. Baker had fallen through the cracks and sunk into some chasm, irretrievable and hopelessly lost. The sky had begun to relieve itself of the sleet it had promised; the two remaining soldiers’ descent from the mountaintop appeared inevitable.