We had walked for miles in the freezing cold. The fog of our breath led us forward. Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale. We were determined to achieve our goal and getting there was our ultimate aim. Some were panting, some made a whistling sound, some breathed heavily, others not. Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale. Each of us creating our own mist ahead of us in different patterns, lengths and degrees. Nothing around us mattered as we strode on purposefully except getting there. The terrain was bleak although in some uncanny way it was truly beautiful. Even though colour (as we know it) was lacking, the white on white landscape was exquisite. High white fluffy dunes, low icy dales. Not one of us spoke, all you could hear was the rhythm of our breathing and the crunch and stress of the white stuff below our boots as we clambered cautiously across peaks and troughs of this beautifully dangerous landscape.
With poles outstretched dictating our safety, together with our frozen breath on we went. Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale. Beards, fringes and fingers frozen we climbed higher and higher. The landscape becoming more unstable, us becoming more vulnerable. The views were breathtaking, taking our breath away (in more ways than one) as the air became thinner.
Our team of ten created an rhythmic opera from the sounds each individual climber produced. The rhythm was music to our ears. We walked in beat. We breathed in beat. We simultaneously conducted our own orchestra without even knowing it. A convoy of courageous mountaineers one behind the other, everything about the team created rhythm that reinforced our commitment and determination; our reliance on each other. Everyone and everything about the ten of us only worked if we remained together and committed.
As the blizzard, swirling around us, became more intense, our vision became further impaired. Flakes covered our clothing merging us further into the landscape. Frozen gloves constantly struggled to wipe clear our goggles. Our convoy followed the music our comrades made, both in front, and behind. We kept in step. It was imperative we listened to the music and kept to the rhythm.
Our team leaders breathing changed. Excited and adrenaline pumping he shouted "I see the top, I see the flag." Our teams rhythm changed again. Breathing quickened; hearts pumped. Jackets & sallepettes crackled as our step quickened. Puffing, panting and much frozen breath could be seen streaming out in front of each frozen visage as our pace upped its game. Just a few more yards and we would be there. We would all see the flag. We would record this feat; photos would commence, the world would know we had made it. WE would smile and be proud and our breath would take on a more relaxed rhythm for just a moment, as we took in this moment.
But in these extremes one cannot afford to relax for long and tonight we would set up camp in the freezing blizzard, at the summit, aside the famous red flag, sated from our strength and determination and the sheer risk but strangely comfortably exhausted. The rhythm of our breath would change again as we relaxed, ate and finally slept in this alien landscape. Tomorrow would be another day to breath again.
#amwriting
15.03.16
