Short Story: Ice

by John L. DeBoer

Ice points form on my mustache,

Vapor breath is labored.

I put one cramponed foot ahead,

Then rest before the next:

A steady rhythm, moving up,

Can’t yet see the summit.

Ice ax ready just in case

The leader or I fall.

Joined by rope, we are a team,

Our goal a simple one:

Just to stand atop the mount

And cross it off our list.

Ice and snow, the cold, pale coat

Of land we must ascend,

Can often hide a deep blue crack.

One mistake, down we’d go,

Tumbling into cold crevasse.

We closely mind our steps.

Ice cold not my feeling now.

Beneath my down I’m hot.

Uphill trekking in thin air

Is hard work, and my sweat

Is dripping down my tired arms

Inside my orange parka.

Ice outcropping straight ahead

Means little left to go.

One more push and we’ll be there,

A long day’s hike complete.

Knowing this, fatigue retreats,

And new strength pulls us up.

Ice ax jabbed into the top,

We proudly scan the view:

An apt reward for our quest

To beat the icy heights.

But no time to loiter here,

For now we must go down.

Ice has taken on a sheen

Caused by noonday sun.

The trip downhill is not as hard,

But still we keep aware.

We don’t want to need our rope,

Now that the end is near.