Up Wright

***This story is dedicated to Debby and Dave.***

UP WRIGHT (A true tale of my first significant peak)

The Adirondack Mountains have been a favorite retreat for my husband and me ever since we took up wilderness backpacking two years ago. This September, after months of working out in the gym, I was finally ready to pick up the gauntlet the mountains cast down to me each time I had wandered into their enchanting, intimidating midst. I was ready for a serious climb.

Wright's Peak is located in the High Peaks Region south of Lake Placid in New York State. The hike can last a grueling eight hours, round trip, and culminates on top of Wright, 4580 feet above sea level. Most of this height is covered in the space of less than three miles; the angle of ascent frequently exceeds thirty degrees, and in places is closer to forty-five.

The first mile out from the lodge winds through endless forests of white birch; the trees are nearly silent on this gentle autumn day. The fullness of the mountain quiet astonishes me. If I and my companions are still, the only sounds to be heard are those of red-tufted woodpeckers typing on tree-trunks. Occasionally, a brown-and-white chipmunk breaks cover on a frantic scavenger hunt; other than that, we humans seem to be eerily alone.

We have been climbing for three and a half hours, and the giants of the forest have been steadily shrinking; in this part of the world, due to severe climactic conditions, trees cannot survive over four thousand feet. I know this, but still it crosses my mind to wonder if someone has slipped a magic mushroom into the gorp I munch for energy and I have begun to grow, like Alice in a Wonderland England has never been part of.

At last, we are as tall as the surrounding forest, which has become steadily more sparse. Over the past half mile, through breaks in the vegetation, we have caught sight of summits of other, smaller mountains. My heart pounds with more than exhaustion.

Now, we come to the last tree in the world: a blasted white trunk with stubby limbs, upthrusting from the thin alpine soil like the mast of a ghost ship stranded on a reef. This, more than anything, speaks to me of the harshness these mountains endure through the changing seasons.

I step gingerly out onto the rock face; the top of the mountain lies 385 feet further up and from there I will be able to see the whole world. A wild desire to be the first of our party to reach the summit overtakes me and I break into an awkward run. Maybe the thin mountain air has robbed me of my usual caution. Maybe it is that I feel suspended between earth and sky and am invincible; I think that if I stumble I will not fall down the steep rock face but rather up into the great bowl of sky. It is hard to feel the pull of gravity when you dwarf thirty mountain peaks, and the lake from which you began your quest is a sky-god's hand-mirror.

I scramble upwards, sometimes on all fours, and from this vantage point realize that I have left the Earth; I am on the Moon. The black-and-white speckled granite expanse is deeply pocked, as though the surface has been bombarded with tiny meteorites. There is life here, though. Yellow scarecrow hair misnamed goldenthread pokes up in wayward tufts. Patches of a dark green plant with crimson stems creep along the ground; the growth looks as though it is related to the rubber tree which stands in my grandmother's stairwell. Here and there, tiny colonies of what seem to be ordinary grass look out-of-place among the more alien inhabitants on this near-naked giant's head. In spite of my enthusiastic haste, I step carefully around the fragile alpine vegetation; if crushed, it will likely perish. Generations may pass before another spore or seed takes root in the tiny pockets of wind-deposited soil.

Beyond each seeming summit rounds yet another height to scale. My pace has slowed and I pant for air. I do not trust that the top is the top until I stand upon it. Horizon to horizon, the earth is spread with mountains clad in the Joseph's robe of autumn. Colors run into each other with the distance, darkened here and there as a free-flying cloud darts across the face of the sun. To the southeast, on Mount Colden, white granite streams flow down like lava.

It has taken us four hours to conquer Wright. We remain on the summit for a precious hour while the sun westers. This is a time to be savored, to be committed to memory. The age of the place humbles me; its craggy, worn and wrinkled face the visage of a god who has suffered itself to be touched.

The trip back down is a knee-grinding journey into hell. As dusk grows closer, I hurry through a fog of pain, almost oblivious to the whispering balsam and pine. The hardy alpine plants have inspired me with their tenacious grasp on fragile life; I will carry their lesson with me for a long time. Maybe it is something of their courage that I feel as I struggle to outrace the approaching night.

By: Pamela Clark

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