Sling, kick, kick, sling. Focus, breathe, rest, up, always up. As the sun winked maliciously at the wall, Renand swung his axe into the unyielded ice, spitting forcefully to his right, disregarding the chance that his spittle would hit his partner,Quirby, who was belaying him below. Swing, kick, up--always up, it was the only way. They had made slow time up the wall; dulled first by punishing cold, then by fatiguing heat. It was midmorning, putting them exactly 37 minutes behind Renand’s calculated timetable. It didn’t matter now, their food would be gone by the time they touched summit, if they even could touch summit, and Renand had no qualms taking more than his share. Afterall, it had been he who’d attended the Elite Alpine and Mountaineering Academy for the Gifted, it had been he who’d raised the funds for the expedition, why shouldn’t he take more than his share; surely he had earned the extra calories?
Climb, climb, climb, swing, kick. Rest, breathe. No time! No time! The time was now, the time always was now, up, up, up; leave Quirby to his frostbite and lethargy, up, up, up. His muscles tensed, eyes squinted from behind expensive lenses. Renand no longer feared falling, no longer feared death, long since resolving to free climb the wall’s final icy pitch; no longer requiring Quirby’s pitiful assistance. Kick, swing. Lactic burn seared across his shoulders, causing the axe’s arc to be stunted, crashing timidly into the ice and soft snow. Kick, swing. An icy gale blasted Renand’s exposed cheeks, reminding him of the life he had abandoned, now many thousands of miles away on a different continent, reminding him of the people he had similarly abandoned to pursue his dream. The dream. Certainly there was no nobler pursuit, no finer ambition than that which drove a man to capture, to earn his dream. No matter, the wind was coming. Kick, kick powerfully, swing; swing as though they’re watching you, power, power, power. Nightfall would be coming soon, summit within reach. It had not occurred to Renand that it would be wise to bivouac somewhere along the lip-like outcropping above him, to swiftly pitch the tent made for two men, now left to one, and rest. No rest, no time. Christ, time had become worthless, as worthless as Quirby’s incessant whining and requests to slow down and pace themselves.
Cracked lips, dehydrated mouth, fading daylight. The sun was making its vindictive descent, off to bathe some other part of the globe in its punishing radiance. Climb on! Carry on! Do it for the sponsors, do it for the years of effort and single-minded sacrifice. Prove them wrong. Let them watch. Renand succumbed; breathing heavily in the thin alpine air, clinging to the rock face he had become intimately familiar with without the security of a rope, cursing the weakness of the body. In the fading twilight, Renand could make out his reflection in the dented and worn aluminum axe; jaw flexed, eyes focused behind the expensive lenses, beautifully poised for greatness. Greatness. The word haunted and invigorated him, giving him warmth in a bitterly cold universe. Great men had come before him, more would come after. He wanted his name in the history books, that’d show them.
Kick, swing, kick. Sluggish now. Renand labored under the weak light of the headlamp. Live like a rooster, infinite expectation of the dawn. Thoreau’s principal teachings echoed through his exhausted mind as he continued his tormented summit assault. Courage man, courage. Swing, kick, swing, kick. Midnight now, murderously cold. Renand paused once more to admire his handiwork in the dark, pulling himself over and onto the gendarme ridge that stretched into the abyss. Trudging now, no more mechanical swing and kick. Always methodical, always controlled. If only Quirby could see him now, if only they could see him now. Trudging along the gendarme, Renand moved with slowed purpose, stopping frequently despite his mind’s constant demands to forge on.
Daylight broke. A tormented, famished, and savagely cold night had passed. The summit was visible once more, and with it brought a fresh surge of indignant rage and power through Renand’s core, warming him. Less than 500 feet of scree field separated Renand from obscurity and the exaltation of the summit. Less than 500 feet to complete an expedition that had been tried and failed three times before; the price of fulfillment was discipline, and the cost was a lifetime of missed opportunities. Renand’s musings were violently interrupted by the wind’s icy howl, threatening to plunge him back into the depths from which he had doggedly arisen. Less than 500 feet of windswept, snow covered talus. Spitting rudely into the wind battering him, Renand made the traverse; still moving with vengeful purpose and efficiency.
Transcendence. Attained at a terrible, euphoric cost. Renand collapsed to his knees, overcome with exhausted emotion. Pride and contented rage swept through him; if only they could see him, how foolish they’d feel for doubting him, taunting his training plan. He rose to his knees, the summit was deserted, no trace of human life save his own footprints and the wind battered logbook case. As he peered over the vastness below him, the cloud capped mountain ranges and plummetus valleys, Renand felt no remorse. To hell with Quirby, he couldn’t have appreciated the view anyway. Renand fumbled with his mobile phone, his nearly frozen fingers resting for a moment on its buttons as his mind feebly tried to remember how to use them. Let them watch, let them be jealous. He snapped a shot of the valley below and a poorly crafted summit selfie, using what little service the phone could muster to send the photos in to his friend Heinrich, the only one who had believed in him. As he turned to descend, Renand paid little attention to the rapidly dropping temperature, warmed by the triumphant euphoria of first ascent; nor did he pay attention to the series of storm clouds gathering ominously that would soon claim his life. His goal had been met. Renand would be remembered.