The Rubbish Collector

The task ahead of him was mountainous. Literally. He was not alone in it, there were others, but something about the environment made him feel the loneliness of his existence, like he was a speck on the earth. He always felt like this here.

He ate a hearty breakfast. He laughed, joked with his colleagues. He would draw on both for energy as the detritus of the selfish adventurers was scattered and buried, disguised by snow and ice.

They had devoted an offering to calm the goddess while they cleaned her skirts and folds. They hoped that she would favour their presence with clement weather.

He eyed his surroundings, wary and respectful. He knew this land; knew its mercurial stirrings.

It was time to ascend. Sheer white rose above them. The marks of the intrepid dimpled the surface with the herringbone of the bipedal, the pattern inching its way to the next ledge. The blue of ice radiated through the outer sheen, like a washed out ink stain on a pristine white shirt.

This was not the only thing that coloured the slopes and crevices.

He was up to the task: his belly was full, his spirit was willing. He loved being here for what it was. He had been to the summit before - this was not about conquering. This was about clean-up.

Wrappers, tins, oxygen tanks, excrement, corpses.

Hand over hand, crampon over crampon, he climbed. His spikes cut into the ice with the squeaking crunch of resistance. The wind was beginning to whisk snow into spirals. Raising his head to the black sky, he hoped that they had enough time to make the next camp.

From a distance, their passage up the cliff mimicked the rainbow prayer flags that hung as a giddy reminder of good hope and positive outcome. Blasted by the rawness of nature, they swung from the guide rope like the flimsy pieces of humanity they were in the face of the enormity of the goddess' wrath.

He felt the frantic tug at his crampon. He clung to the rope but he could not hold himself against the surge.

As he fell, his eyes were filled with the magnificence of Everest.

***

366 words

I watched a documentary the other night about litter picking Sherpas on Everest. Anyone who has romanticised the achievement of climbing Everest should watch this as it lifts the veil on what exactly this entails and the cost to the environment as well as to the less successful climbers.

And look at that! The 66 of the 366 have been completed! Only 300 to go! What on Earth have I committed to? Could this be my own personal Everest?

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