Sinew and Silence

I drop the pen, its tip scraping across the paper as I step back, paralyzed by a vast nothingness that grips my being. The emptiness is turbulent and numbing. It takes my breath away while keeping it flowing through my mouth and nose. I must break free. I must find the muse who waits for me on the mountain. She must call my name, and I must call in response. I must go. Go up the mountain.

---

The mountain beckons. Its silhouette falls upon itself under the full moon’s gaze. Light shines onto the valley floor below, reflecting the snow that’s crouched low upon long-buried bushes and desperately clinging to the branches of shadowed evergreens. Snow-laden peaks glisten above, unreachable pieces of truth in the isolating grip of winter. The night weaves these deep shadows and bright lights into illusions of perception, making my path upward a treacherous dance of trust and ability.

The moonlight fails to penetrate the depths of the mountain's shadow, leaving me reliant upon the sweeping beam of my headlamp. I look side to side for each move upward, exposing deep depths of darkness to be shallow undulations of blue-glazed ice.

Swing, swing; step, step.

Each swing of my ice tools slices through the sky, the resulting impact keeping my arms above me as I hang off the cliff face. My toes point my feet upwards as I kick my crampons into the wall, securing the rest of my body to the ice.

Every ice climber knows it only takes three points of contact to move comfortably up a cliff. It only takes two points of contact to climb, and one point of contact to stay on the ice. Even if a climber does not know this, their body does. It only takes one climb to know.

Swing, swing; step, step. Step.

A snow-covered ledge gives me the space to put my arms by my side, turning to see the world of contrasts behind and below. I turn off my headlamp and lose myself fully in opposites united so peacefully in the breeze-filled night.

The metal of my tools lays against my legs, stirring back and forth as I stand, shivering, clinging to the cold as it clings to me. My hands are white where they’re wrapped around my tools and red everywhere else. Despite the cold, I am not wearing gloves. I only need gloves if my hands turn fully white – dead man’s hands. Otherwise, blood pulses life into my fingertips and lets me feel the full power of my swings through the cold.

The sound of water echoes under the ice as I turn back to the climb. My mind undulates with it as I slowly move upward.

Swing, swing –

A splintered crack protrudes from the metal of the tool in my right hand and runs downward, creating a crescent that reaches for itself until a full ellipse of ice is sectioned off by the crack. It breaks free, falling. Falling past my body and into the darkness below.

My other tool is still above me, while my right arm dangles in the air. The ice is white where it’s embedded. Whiter than what is safe. It’s too cold to hold much force when it’s this white, this brittle. My blood turns white with it, my hands, too.

Dead man’s hands.

Every climber knows that it only takes three points of contact to move comfortably up the ice.

Crack, cracking.

A vertical string races from the impression the fallen ice left in its absence. The line follows a white mark in the ice, flowing like a tear pulled by gravity down the face of the cliff. The column pulls away, tearing my right foot off from the wall with it.

Hold, hold.

It only takes two points of contact to climb.

Silence.

I can feel the ice under my left foot failing with the new weight it’s under. I don’t look down at it or the ground below. I wouldn’t be able to see anything in the darkness even if I looked. And I can’t look. Looking down is a step closer to falling. Look up. Look at my hand. Look at the tool in the ice. It’s the only thing holding me onto this cliff.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale –

Just as I breathe out, she appears. Her face hovers between the ice and my lips. The wind whips around her, billowing her hair dark, raven across her figure. It seems to sway the most with each inhale and exhale of my own breath.

The lady is startling, just like the cold of the ice and the brightness of the moonlight on the snow. Deep, brown skin holds large, somber eyes that wrap around my bones unlike any chill ever could.

She is unnerving yet she is comfortable. Like knowing that ice brings nutrients from the cliff face into the rushing mountain streams of springtime. Like the warmth the snow harbors in the ground for creatures that wiggle, crawl, and scurry. Like the cold that kills infestations of pine beetles within the bark of sleeping evergreens. Like the knowledge that life undulates in imperfect cycles. She knows that nature shows no partiality. And with that, she is content. She is comfortable.

Hers are the eyes that give me breath.

Inhale, exhale.

These are the breaths I have, precious even if I only have a few left.

The lady does not speak yet she calls my name with her presence, and my own call reverberates through my being. She reminds me that I am whole. I will be whole until the end.

Swing, swing – 

My hand still grips the shaft of the tool rooted in the ice, now with its partner holding my other arm next to it. My feet still hang above the evergreens. I know the lady won’t help me. She already has, in her own way. Now, my own sinew must get me through the moment. Even if it’s not enough, each breath has been worth it. I know that now. I’ve been reminded.

Breathe.

Swing, swing; step, step. 

I climb until I reach another ledge, stepping into the safety of the mountain’s cold embrace. Blood flows back to the white parts of my hands as I let gravity hold them. It has been stuck in my shoulders and neck as I climbed. Blood flows back. Life is coming back. I have not felt this in a while. It makes me gag. My hands hold my knees as I endure the flow of life. Fear, love, and grief exist at the peripheries of my senses without the wind of numbness surrounding them. They exist fully now, but I keep them from overwhelming my brain and body. Instead, I acknowledge the feelings and breathe. It’s the only way to hold on, hold onto myself.

---

The journey down from the mountain is quiet. I didn’t see her once my body rejoined the ice. That’s the way it always goes. Maybe she only exists in those moments of peril. Maybe she’s always one breath in front of me, her long hair whipping around us both, reminding me to breathe even when I can’t see her.

But now I know I’m alive. And that’s all I need.

I pick up my pen. I write:

I breathe again.

And I exhale words onto the page.