The Middlebury Fireside

THE MIDDLEBURY FIRESIDE

The Middlebury Fireside Kindling Stories & Igniting Inspiration in Middlebury’s Outdoor Community

Vol. I Fall 2015 We believe in the creed of the campfire, the religion of rock, the pilgrimage of the trail and the meditation of the mountaintop. We are the essence of stories and want yours to come alive in firelight. Contents

I. Up Liberty, Jordan Collins II. Crude, Ben Harris III. No wonder they call it the great one, Emma Erwin IV. Constants, Cooper Couch V. Tchotchkes, Hannah Habermann VI. Calculating Beauty, Mara Gans VII. Augusta, Hannah Habermann VIII. On Earth, For Earth, Jenny Moffett IX. In Search of Paradise, Meena Fernald X. Algonquin: Power, Peace, and Metempsychosis, Kent Ratliff XI. The desert, Mara Gans XII. Faces of the Ice, Ryan McElroy XIII. Teton Dreams, Morgan McGlashon a note from the editor As I approach the end of my time at Middlebury, I find myself reflecting on the ‘good old days’ of being here. Those days when I was younger, the college was newer, and a different party graced the plush seats of the Proctor lounge. Yet, while faces change, and I feel my own four years ebb towards their end, there’s a steady cycle to the culture here. For every fading senior there is a passionate freshman ready to pick up the pack and shape their new home. And so, just as we all pass along Painter’s cane at convocation, as students here, we all pass along the memories and stories that shape our collective identity.

Here, bound between the Greens and Adirondacks, guided by our shared culture, we become as resilient as the mountains themselves.

As Laurie Patton put it when she joined our community, “These mountains call all of us to be bigger in our aspirations and yet also to be smaller and linked to a larger purpose. Middlebury’s mountains give us a sense of place that is also a sense of community. They help us find our place in the world, and even if we don’t find it immediately, we have a deep and abiding trust that we will. This is the strength of the hills.”

We hope to share that strength with you, just as many before us have shared it, with stories and tales told in the glow of the fireside.

- Mara Gans ’15.5, President

Cover photo by Mara Gans ’15.5; Mission statement photo by Sofi Hecht ’18; Logo by Evan Gallagher ’15.

6 Fremont Peak, Wind River Range. Ben Harris ’16.

Undisclosed location. Ben Harris ’16.

7 Up Liberty Jordan Collins ’15.5

We talked about how last night was like a birth canal the two of us starting our ascent without expectation, knowing only that the sun sets and sight fails, and realizing what it means to travel as if motionless through a vortex.

To arrive out of such black silence, pierced only by our dim sphere of perception:

that miracle headlamp glow, beyond it

noise resounding in the imagination. What surrounded seemed empty,

might not be.

Moving like this changed our bodies, tricked them into strength outside of time and space, the night becoming an escape from intellect— consciousness pushed to the surface like sweat, senses carrying us forth as they would on scrambled legs.

We were born, this morning, naked on a mountain, its cliffs conducting a symphony of orange.

Our first wail was a melody from lives past, our singing caught by the winds that curve around this world in currents, the precious sting of those high

breezes on our bare bodies

bliss, coursing through new veins. 8 Crude Ben Harris ’16

Only rainbows she ever sees are in gasoline so she prays for a spill in the morning paper. Please no. No, not petrichor—petroleum, because the ugliest thing in the world is a bird so slick and black it cannot breathe. She watches the ship way out there keel over then she says seems like seems like the water just all of a sudden decided it don’t care to carry around any more dead weight. He laughs and grabs the camera, starts shooting as a thousand rotting octopi wash ashore one by one. When the octopus is faced with a predator it shoots black ink and swims quickly away. He films as the bird wades back into the bruising sea beak bowed before the breaking waves, the bleeding plume.

Accompanying photo by Michael O’Hara ‘17 9 No wonder they call it the great one Emma Erwin ’15.5

Foreword by Mara Gans ’15.5: hopefully it’ll be fine. This is hard work So often when we talk of mountains, we for sure—a marathon like no other. get caught in the endless edits, reflections, and missed details of stories long since June 19 past. This watering down, mixing around So tired again and my feet have disinte- and cleaning up of those tales is certainly grated. The inside arches, heels, and toes valuable as we incorporate them into the are all rubbed completely raw. They’re rest of our lives—but there’s something to pretty grumpy. Another big night, but be said for the in-the-moment, unabridged not too terribly long. Snow/ice conditions rush of those same tales. This series of jour- were pretty stellar so it’s much less sketchy nal entries by Emma Erwin ’15.5 gives you than yesterday. The hill of cracks lives up the raw play-by-play of her daily life on to its name: a solid running jump to cata- Denali. It brings with it the fear, joy, awe pult your body over is required to get past and occasionally poor sentence structure of atleast a dozen of the crevasses. Not too someone who’s really writing at 17,000 feet. bad with solid snow, but I’m guessing it gets pretty sketchy when the snow soft- June 18 ens up (which usually happens around Night hiking is awesome but I’m exhaust- 7am)—luckily we made it through just ed. Hiking for twelve straight hours is before then. It’s awesome hiking at night the norm now and the lower icefall was though—better snow, cooler tempera- gnarly. I took a big fall when an ice block tures, no need to worry about sunburns, fell out from under me as I was crossing and the sky is in a constant state of sunset/ a crevasse. Definitely shaky after that, but sunrise. It looks that there’s been a pretty a snickers bar helped. I’m a little nervous big forest fire way off in the distance, so it about going back through the icefall to- smells like smoke and the horizon is hazy. night to get the cache and bring it up. Happy to have made it back to camp in Hopefully it won’t be too bad, just anoth- under twelve hours and I’m so, so glad to er big push. My feet are starting to feel it get to sleep. and show it—long days in plastic boots make some pretty raw soles. So exhaust- June 24 ed and glad to be able to get some rest. Feels like Denali weather now. It was Real nervous about the move tonight but cloudy at 3 am when we woke up, and

10 now it’s pretty much a whiteout with a fall we’re all dead! decent amount of snowfall and winds. Getting back down the ridge to pick up The way up was quite a beat down— the cache was actually pretty fun. Going luckily we got stellar weather. I definite- back up along the ridge was pretty gnarly ly freaked out a bit on the home stretch. though. Plenty of fresh powder renders Coming off a big ridge I had to monkey crampons useless, if that wasn’t enough, over a huge crevasse with horrible footing add in high winds and next to zero visibil- and no solid ice axe placement. But, like ity—plus you can’t hear anything. most things, I just took a big leap and it was A-Okay. Jackson struggled over that June 25 part and took a pretty big fall. But, every- Today was quite a day. We ferried a load one self-arrested and that kept us all from up to Browne’s Tower and back—it was by falling too far. far the toughest day so far and completely exhausting. Up by 4 am and out by 6; it The altitude is starting to get to everyone took us a solid 6 hours to get up and we now. Little tougher to breathe up here. didn’t make it back to camp until just before 6 pm. A long haul for sure with a lot July 1 of ups, lots of rappels, and all kinds of rid- Welp, yesterday got a little crazy. We left geline walking. You have to be completely Browne’s tower fairly early and made it focused and on your A-game every single to the cache in pretty good time. It was step. ’Cause if you take a misstep and a big getting pretty windy so we pushed up to

11 the ridge to check out the conditions and July 3: Summit Day try to scout camping at 18,000 ft. But at We made it! The view from on top was the top winds were so insane we decided unreal and almost everyone shed some to head back to the cache and hide be- tears coming around the last ridge. It took hind a big ice boulder to set up and install a hell of a long day’s work getting there high camp at around 17,000 ft instead. and back from high camp. We left around After putting in a few hours of work, we 7 a.m., stood on the summit at 7 p.m., got the three-man tent up. Conditions and got back to camp well after one a.m. quickly deteriorated and the wind picked The way up was rather chilly and windy. up so much that all seven of us ended up I was pretty exhausted the whole way— hunkering in the three-man tent for over maybe altitude, dehydration, or a lack twelve hours straight. That was pretty cra- of sleep. Who knows, but we didn’t take zy. Six big men and I do not fit in a three- many breaks—maybe just three or four man tent too comfortably. Don’t really the whole day. Nevertheless, after making want to do that again. Pretty sure no one it to Denali pass, up to Archdeacon’s Tow- got more than an hour or so of sleep, and er, through the Football Field and up to we were all feeling pretty awful. Conor the Summit Ridge, we all stood on top of was starting to exhibit signs of HAPE and the summit. A month of hard work finally April was pretty hypothermic. The night brought five of us original twelve to the was rough and far from pleasant, but we top. It was pretty awesome. Not the clear- made it through. est of days, but it felt cool standing on top of all of the clouds and all of North Amer-

12 ica. As TJ reminded us: “Only because we done! And a kind of an overwhelming have stood on the shoulders of giants can feeling of safety. No more obstacles to we see further than most.” overcome—no crevasses, icefalls, ava- lanches, glaciers, bears, or raging rivers. Coming off the summit ridge Jackson Just a bus to catch in the morning. started rapidly exhibiting serious signs of HACE, so we had to get him down fast. Today the skies cleared up a bit so we get He pretty much looked like a drunken an incredible view of the mountain. It toddler and couldn’t function much on looks absolutely humongous from down his own, so TJ short-leashed him and ba- here. Crazy to think that we were standing sically pulled him down to the Football on the tiptop just a week ago. We worked Field behind me. Everyone was pretty hard for it—and the hard work paid off. dehydrated and completely exhausted. Conor started hallucinating on Denali What’s even better is that we all made it Pass, but luckily David and TJ kept it to- safe and sound back to solid ground. Fin- gether and we all made it down safely. gers and toes, too.

July 11 No wonder they call it the great one. At Wonder Lake campground and it feels so good. It is surreal being here—finally

All accompanying photos, Emma Erwin

13 Constants Cooper Couch ’14.5

I went backpacking for the first time We each walked at our own pace, watch- when I was twenty-three years young, ing waves crash against the shore as they and it won’t be the last. Never before had were made visible by the rayitos of light I carried a pack that held all I would need creeping over the cliffs. We reached the for a short jaunt away from civilization. waterfall slightly before the sun. Rushing With a group of close friends, I went to water plunged down from the mountains, Point Reyes National Seashore in Cali- diving into the vast ocean behind us - the fornia, where the crisp, dry heat from the same ocean that swallowed the sky in its sun helped warm the winter skin I’d built hues of deep blue. Such a scene marked up over the last six months in Vermont. the beginning of a perfect day. It was refreshing to feel so disconnected from the over-technologied, overworked I can’t exactly say why we all kept calling it atmosphere we live in at Middlebury, and “the perfect day.” Maybe it had to do with away from the resources we so often take the weather, or the serene beauty of the for granted in our homes and workspaces. natural environment surrounding us, or having shared the experience with people After a long first day of hiking, we made who care about each other. Maybe it was it to camp shortly after sunset and had a the feeling of accomplishment for having quick dinner before passing out. The next beaten the early-morning urge to stay morning, we woke up early to watch the asleep. Perhaps it was the cool refreshing sun rise over Alamere falls. Our groggy water coupled with the warm sun at the dawn march down the mountain path to swimming hole we stopped by on our re- the seashore wasn’t the most pleasant, yet turn. Or, perhaps it was the ice cream we still, it made me feel more connected to devoured afterwords at Fairfax Scoops, my friends. We were all fighting fatigue a local favorite. I honestly can’t attribute and pushing our tired bodies past our that feeling of “a perfect day” to any one comfort zones with the goal of sharing of those moments or even a particular a breathtaking scene together. I felt their combination of them. I am much more companionship as I trudged along the inclined to say that it was the fact that we seashore in the darkness of early morn- were all present in each moment. We were ing, mist shrouding my already half-open, present together at times—cognizant of sleep-seeded eyes. each other’s presence while still living in

14 the beauty of the moment. At other times, ready to focus on creating some constant we were each individually present, free of good in my life. As I do that, I look for- any distraction to separate us from that ward to experiences like these, which have inner connectedness between mind, body proven to continually empower me, boost and spirit. my self-confidence, connect me with oth- ers on a deeper level and clear my mind There have been very few “constants” in to find that sense of inner peace. For me, my life, or at least the typical constants exploring the outdoors with good people many college students tend to have. The is the most nurturing space for resilience, issue that feels most constant in my life is and I can’t wait to see what adventures are loss; however, I decided recently that I’m coming my way!

Accompanying photo by Cooper Couch

15 Tchotchkes Hannah Habermann ’18

Much to my parent’s chagrin and the cha- flags draped across my window. Most of grin of airport security, I am an expert at you probably know the ones I’m talking packing, lugging, moving, lugging, and about, with red and yellow and green and unpacking what would be considered by blue squares that college students hang in many as, to put it bluntly, a lot of shit. Last their dorms after taking one class about fall, one of my friends visited my room for Asian religions. Outwardly there is noth- the first time and said, equal parts stupe- ing notable about these flags – they aren’t fied and amazed, “that’s a ton of tchotch- handmade, they don’t speak of a lifelong kes.” Being from the pulsing, diverse devotion to Buddhism, nor do they come metropolis of Montana, I was decidedly from trips to India or hiking expeditions unfamiliar with this Yiddish term, which in the Himalayan mountains that I’ve nev- I later came to discover refers to “a small er taken. In fact, you can currently order bauble or miscellaneous item.” a ten-pack of prayer flags exactly identical to these ones on Amazon Prime for $7.97. Wikipedia also goes on to say that de- pending on context, this term can have But when I was seventeen, I spent for- a connotation of “worthlessness or dis- ty-two days paddling on a river through posability, as well as tackiness,” but clear- northern Canada with five other young ly that context doesn’t apply to the tan- women, and every night we would fall gled collision of colorful beads hanging asleep staring at these flags hanging in our from my lamp, the rusted piece of metal tent, the colors illuminated by the gold- I found on a school playground that al- en sun that never sets when you’re that most certainly could give me tetanus, the far up north. As we camped somewhere flower seed packets that I insisted were new each night, they became a symbol too pretty to be thrown away, the scraps of consistency, of brightness, something of cloth and seashells and pinecones and grounding and comforting and familiar. feathers and rocks and concert tickets and On my eighteenth birthday my parents scribbled notes from friends that pass for told me they were getting divorced, and my version of interior decorating. my flags, my dog, and I drove up to the mountains to start the process of begin- Amongst this hodgepodge of nouns that ning to grapple with what that means. clutters my room, there is a string of prayer

16 Since that trip they’ve hung in goat barns to commit myself to one place for four in foggy late October Washington, flitted years. A year later, they keep watch over in the breeze down California’s Highway my sprawl of tchotchkes, objects that hold 1, and grown sun-bleached in the unfor- stories of me despite their outward knick- giving Utah desert heat. As I moved out knacky appearance. They remind me of of my childhood bedroom, and into the the places I’ve been, the place I am, that room across the hall that my parents used is finally, slowly starting to feel like a good to share, they stood witness to my small, thing, and the places I have yet to go. They brave, determined attempts to start fresh, remind that home is wherever I choose it to let go. I hung them up as I moved into to be, and that making a place a home can my cramped freshman double at Mid- be as simple as hanging up your flags and dlebury, scared after a year of traveling calling it your own.

Accompaning photo by Hannah Habermann

17 Calculating Beauty Mara Gans ’15.5

“That’s good coffee,” said Eli Mauksch (’15) pand my outdoor playground a little. So, as we drove his Subaru out of Lander, WY after some driving, hiking, and a thorough and up towards the Wind River Moun- discussion on who we’d put on our Zom- tains. I sipped my own coffee, trying not to bie apocalypse team and whether we were critique the under-extraction too much; cake or pie people, we set up camp at the I’d had better. Mostly though, I thought base of the cirque. Eli and Austin spent the about the adventure ahead. I’d spent my remainder of the evening with their heads entire life growing up in the shadows of towards the rocks and their noses buried the Cirque of the Towers and had long in the climbing guide, scoping out routes ago learned to and fantasiz- sport climb in ing about being their foothills, stronger climb- but until today, ers. I spent I’d never had most of my eve- plans to climb ning looking any of their big at flowers and peaks. Sure, taking pictures I’d fantasized in silent disbe- about it, but lief that we were most of those actually going dreams were to manage to pushed away climb anything. into the ‘to- View of the Cirque from our camp. From right to left, the three We packed up peaks we summited are Pingora, Tiger Tower and Wolf’s Head. do-when-I’m- for the next day: older-and-wiser’ drawer of my life plan. some extra clothes, climbing gear, food, Which mostly means I didn’t actually be- and a couple headlamps amongst the lieve climbing them was possible. three of us. I sort of thought we should each bring our own headlamp, but mostly However, when a peppy and confident Eli I was still caught up in the flowers. showed up at my house with his friend Austin and a trad rack in tow, I certainly Our first day was a breeze up the three- wasn’t going to turn down an offer to ex- pitch 5.8 K-cracks variation on the South

18 Buttress of Pingora. Or at least I thought pitch after pitch of sidewalk-like exposed so; I’d given up any decision-making, ridge, followed by columns of rock towers route finding and leading to Eli and Aus- waiting to be woven between. I may not tin, and so I happily, thoughtlessly fol- be one to pore over images in guidebooks, lowed along, stoked about the clouds, and but once on the rocks I knew there was rock crystals, and flowers. I also com- nowhere I’d rather be—the flowers could plained some about my feet. Apparently wait. multi-pitch climbing and scrambling aren’t so great in way-too-small aggressive In many ways climbing is a lot like danc- sport climbing shoes. Lesson learned. We ing. The wall is your partner, and each fea- summited Pingora and rappelled to the ture is a sequence in the flow of the dance. base of its mini neighbor, Tiger Tower. The best climbers aren’t the strongest in- Trailing behind Eli and Austin, I scram- dividuals, but rather the ones who can bled up barefoot, trying to save my feet best match their own movements to the and imagining how not cool my parents lead of the rock. Dancing with the East would be with my current combination of Ridge is unreal: tiptoeing exposed slabs unroped exposure and lack of appropriate footwear. I guess you have to break their rules sometime. We rappelled off the other side of the tower and walked back to camp.

The next morning we packed up and again took off towards the granite walls. Confi- dent after a successful yesterday, we tied in at a leisurely 10 or 11 am—definitely stretching the borders of “the alpine start.” We started a not-so-highly-recommended grassy ledge approach to the 5.6 clas- sic, the East Ridge of Wolf’s Head. Besides a general lack of protection and layers of ledges full of exposed, slippery, wet grass, the grassy ledge approach wasn’t that bad. Nonetheless, I was thrilled when we finally made it onto the ramp. Ahead stretched Eli scrambles to the East Ridge of Wolf’s head.

19 over thousand foot drops is broken up by down. One rap later, it got dark. I suppose flawless hand crack traverses—guiding that’s what normally follows phenomenal you boldly over its stunning ridge and in- sunsets. timately through its many towers. All that said, however, I’m not really that great a crack climber, so my dance definitely in- volved more bicep strain than grace. But, I guess that’s what there’s a ‘next time’ for. Above us, the sun moved across the sky, and we watched a storm system build up above Wind River Peak to the south. We’d lucked out; afternoon storms build up quick in the summer, but this one missed us.

More dancing was matched by the con- tinual saunter of the sun, and we eventually reached the summit. You never want Sunset from the Wolf’s Head rappel to spend too much time on top, but our seven pm summit time made hanging out Eli and Austin pulled out their head- particularly unappealing. Eli’s guidebook lamps. I didn’t have one to pull out. The recommended a descent involving a few next three-ish (60 m long) rappels I made raps and a way-longer-than-we-wanted were in the dark. Well sort of. Stars lit up scramble off another part of the ridge. the sky, marking a clear division between Some mountaintop I-spy revealed a dif- rock and heavens. Eli and Austin’s head- ferent set of rap anchors just below. The lamps danced above and below. Murmurs guidebook didn’t note them, but confi- of nylon jackets and whispers of ropes dence in the length of our double ropes sliding through expensive rap devices directed us there anyway. spoke a subtle reminder that, as much as I call the mountains home, I owe it to It was a good call. A couple raps later, my ‘man-made’ props to even make it out hanging off a vertical wall at 12,000 feet there. Alpine romance is charming, but I watched an absurdly phenomenal sun- it’s not outright purity. set. Normally during a sunset you look up to the horizon. This time I was looking After an eternity of rappels (Eli was count-

20 ing, I was looking at the stars), my feet was a turned page in a coloring book; it came to support their own body weight. It brought the same theme, but with differ- was late, and our sleeping bags were still a ent outlines. . . mile or more of steep boulder fields away. Now I wanted my headlamp. I switched “Wait! I know how we can find our tent!” my thoughts out of ‘beauty appreciation I announced. “Which peaks could we mode’ and into their ‘pay attention now, see from camp? We just have to walk un- or you’ll break an ankle’ setting. Silently til we find the same view and we’ll find computing our footsteps, we worked our our tent.” As I stated this, I felt dumb for way down. I hovered between Eli and not knowing myself what the silhouette Austin’s headlamp beams, reducing my of the cirque had looked like from camp, world and mind down to each step and but I knew in the hours Eli and Austin the pool of light around it. had spent pouring over the guidebook and mountains, they would know exactly Sometime after midnight we made it back what we’d been looking at. to the valley floor, but not to our tent. After all the technical climbing, scram- Sure enough, they did. bling and navigating we’d done, locating our beds proved to be the surprise crux A couple days later, Eli and Austin piled of the day. Stumbling around, everything into the Subaru to depart for their next looked the same in the dark: tents and adventure. As they drove off, I sat enjoy- boulders, trails and streams. For the first ing a not under-extracted cup of coffee, time all weekend I felt my good attitude contrasting the science and precision that start to waver. I insisted our tent was far- goes towards brewing it with the bril- ther south. I was wrong. Eli suggested liance of its divine taste. It’s not unlike backtracking on the trail we came down. a good day in the mountains where you Still no tent. We stopped to elect anoth- need both a meticulous calculation of the er direction, referencing boulders, tiny details and an appreciation of beauty to streams, and faded trails. Nothing was make it home. that convincing. I zoned out and looked Accompanying photos by Mara Gans up at the sky. My mind’s ‘pay attention’ setting faded as I retraced the silhouette of the cirque—again, that clear division between rock and heavens. This time, however, it was different. The new angle

21 augusta Hannah Habermann ’18

put yourself in the way of beauty, my mother told me when I was a gap-toothed seven hiding in the sunflowers, elbows dirty with the morning’s explorations, hair tangled, smiling.

now each peak is everest and we are in antarctica, just us, the sky hills trees, the two-fingered wave to every truck that passes. have I ever really known how delicately wind and sun and snow dance together?

a waltz tango box step sped up slow dance over the road clouds over earth, a free joyful kind of fleeting

this blurry window screen whipping past moment is a gift, freeze frame, the frost an elongated leaf of diamonds. this is the quiet sacred sigh of your body pressed against mine in the back of your car, curled into a nest of winter coats and soft scarves and a sled.

and yes too this is the empty still of the moon with the crooked line of a barbed wire fence carelessly strewn across its surface.

I want to share this moment with you, like the little green plant on my crooked sill wants to grow tall. if you start to come here I must warn you – you can never go back to small, the sky too big to be pushed back into the place in your mind that forgets.

anyone can be an artist –just stare at the mountains long enough, but if I made you stop the car every time I wanted to take a picture

22 we would never get anywhere but here. Fishing in the last light. Owen’s River Valley, CA. Sofi Hecht ’18.

Cochamo. Chile. Mara Gans ’15.5.

23 On Earth, For Earth Jenny Moffett ’16

I believe in conversations with ravens. caddisflies touch like water skimmers on the folds of the bleached white, sunsoaked I believe in keeping mindfully mindless, water. My eyes burn at the sight. In a haze a stream of consciousness, and wide set that comes from eyes too fragile for a eyes. world so bright, my gaze softens back to the flow of the water. It moves with me. I * * * lie down like a boulder in its path and let My breathing riffles, lingering in the shal- the current flood my body. I am a fixture lows. It darts—arrhythmia. I feel no feel- of the waterway. Each torrent, pool, and ings and just keep pinching myself, pull- riffle is predicted by physics; I simply play ing up more skin, hoping it will pull me along. My mouth opens just millimeters out, but the skin tents. I drink in the wa- above the arc of the water’s pourover on ter of the barren, dry lake and dust swirls my chin. I am full. I have enough. inside my lungs. Cementing my alveoli, I take in more, more. I lay down in the * * * desert whose edges have blurred. Sierras I wake from a still sleep. I am floating in press down on me to the east, visions of a sea of blue whales. Interpreting blue, deep pools churn in a wide ocean over- opaque objects. They see me and are sing- head. I’m drowning. Yet I have drowned ing. I understand their songs but they are before and the peace was greater. Empty meaningless; they sing of nirvāna. The life moves past my lips through osmosis greatest calm I’ve ever felt, reaching out and I dissolve. Dust to dust. Breath labors. to them. Our eyes lock and hold. The one Pumping, thick, bloody lungs find it hard on my right, her eye is deep blue and I see to decipher the identity of the particles. my reflection. I hold on. Submerged in Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, just dust? belonging. I have been a whale, I tell the Are we fluid? Where has the water gone? lump next to me in bed. It’s flowing East now, I suppose. I’ll stay here and wait for it to find me. * * * Tires rolled on black pavement. Spring * * * babbled from the speakers like mountain Blue-green creek water billows through runoff. Warm summer air wrapped me the eddies of my consciousness. I watch in place. Suddenly, we heard them. Like

24 a gospel chorus driving a congregation to a higher power—then only to fall. To pull its feet, the frogs’ voices compounded on into myself, gather all of my light, and re- each other, rising out of shallow pond wa- flect it out. A single drop of light against ters near the road. I bore witness to a mir- the grey sky. Brilliance lasting only for an acle. In perfect harmony with Vivaldi, the instant. Likewise, I am moved by winds, frogs joined the music, becoming mem- by the hands of the world around me—a bers of an interspecific orchestra. Instru- ball of clay. I sway. ments were inherently, instantly inferior to the music of the world. Inspiration and Light stratifies with the mountain hori- art collided and clattered down around zons in a monochromatic painter’s palate. me. Foot hit brake and neither spoke. Ev- Feathery blue-grey streaks across the sky, ery window and ear opened to be filled. dark-to-light-to-darker. The sky tells sto- My eyes closed and a hand held mine. ries in color. It speaks in rhymes and rid- The bullfrogs, the spring peepers threw dles and paradoxes and when you finally out their voices as dutifully as members sit for a still life you find life is not still. of a choir. Where the song told the story It makes profound statements in rising of three high-pitched notes, the peepers clouds. It holds dialogue with the heav- obliged. Tears swelled and turned tides in ens. Stratus is more mild-tempered than my eyes. Rapt, my foot gripped the brake. cumulonimbus. Cirrus does not engage The night dissolved into their concert. in such trivial matters, preferring to muse about the state of life below. They chatter * * * on as light rains sprinkle damp spots on Today I know grey. Grey jays at lunch. my knees. Grey evening sky. Grey fog on my thoughts. * * * Spruce limbs wear delicate opal earrings Clarity and focus go out from the meditat- of leftover rains. Mist rises off a mountain ing mind like spruce needles off a branch. stream—the world saturated with mois- Their bodies like spokes, like outstretched ture, air thick with water. Spider webs arms to a god above. Nature arranges them apparate into view with the turning rays in rows, structured and purposeful, their of the sun. In their centers artists become angles precise. I long to be a drop of rain hunters. I watch them all. Wood thrush off their tips. To stay and observe the path dances from limb to limb above the for- of life before it erupts. To literally hang est floor, then flits out of sight. Stillness on to the moment. To graze the hand of pervades.

25 * * * arrow-like points. Navy blue backside, Lighting bugs rehearse their choreog- white face, black cheek. Yellow eye. As raphy in open fields at night. Sparkling she tumbled up into the wind, she ex- like scattered glitter, the hills are alive. posed her white, grey-banded underside. Flash. Flash. Flash. Their pulses of light The image formed. Just moments ago, are breathtaking alone, heart-stopping to- in my periphery, less than five feet away, gether. They put on the only show worth she had dove, snatching a songbird from watching tonight. I think of bottling up the air, before releasing it, startled by my their masterpiece, of holding a dancer in presence. I stood alone now in a grove a jar, but only this stage will do. Inspiring of tamarisks, red ants crawling up my awe. Let’s close our eyes, close our minds, legs, sand hot on my soles, neck craned, and watch them dance. eyes strained, to watch her fly away over the terraced red canyon walls. The wind * * * blew hard and hot against my face, like Blue sky on blue lake. From the shore the someone had opened an oven. My mouth water looks blue. On it, it is as dark as the opened, and I said her name out loud: depths of the ocean. Like paddling across a pool of black tar. A pond in a deep cave Peregrine. where bodies rise out of the water, met by a blue fire on an island. My imagination strike-slips. Crushed ideas brush past one another and powder my mind with their sandstone rubble.

* * * From the corner of my eye it happened. A flash of navy, a flash of yellow, a flash of gone. And I dashed. Images from half-seconds before registered slower than my feet hit the sand. She soared higher and higher above my head. Past a grove of tamarisks, I met her, six feet above my head, as she soared away. Larger than a raven, smaller than an eagle. Outstretched wings curved like a boomerang narrowed into

26 In Search of Paradise Meena Fernald ’16

At the base of Mad River Glen, it is -15 de- the slopes. However, rumors of Mad Riv- grees without wind-chill. In the warmth of er Glen, hidden in the peaks of the Green the basebox lodge, patrollers insist “we’re Mountains and home to legendary glades lucky there’s no wind today.” Good god it is and unbelievable snow, have traveled with cold. No wind today my ass. me throughout my skiing career. “We’ll take you there when you’re older. When I am suspended mid-air in a chair made you’re ready,” was my father’s constant re- for one, rocking back and forth as I slowly frain. His depiction of the iconic single ascend to the summit, where fresh pow- chair to the summit—so cold that they der and rugged terrain await me with once provided wool blankets to keep skiers frosty, open arms. A GoPro awkwardly se- company—contributed to the enthralling cured to my helmet catches the wind as it shroud of mystery that surrounded Mad soaks in the breathtaking views, compen- River in my youthful eyes. What’s more, sation for the frigid conditions. Bursts of at the top of this solitary journey, Paradise blinding sunlight behind snow-encrusted lies hidden. This trail, deemed by experi- pines, white-topped ridgelines for miles in enced skiers as “an actual black diamond every direction, and deep powder stash- in the east,” remained elusive to our fa- es combine to create the perfect winter ther-daughter team in the winter of 2013. wonderland vista. After weeks of freezing So, now, in the winter of 2014, following rains followed by warm, 40 degree Janu- a newly discovered instinct to push my ary days, winter is finally here and the Single Chair lift at Mad River Glen is open at last.

Downhill skiing seems like a Gans Mara by rather mundane adventure for a 20-year-old like myself, whose fate as a skier was decided before I could walk, when my dad took me speeding down mountains in a backpack, much to the

distress of the other parents on Single Chair, Mad River The

27 limits, I turn to face the mountain and the a little faster now, and the lift ride is not trail that has, for so long, loomed on my nearly as frigid as before. Channeling my horizon. inner owl, I twist my neck to take in the snowcapped mountains and valleys and Past the mid-station, the sunshine be- lose my breath again. It’s not like the view comes a little more consistent, and like is new; I’ve been living here for over a a morning glory, I instinctually turn my year. Yet, I can’t help but be overwhelmed face to bask in the warm rays. Below me, by the sheer beauty of the three mountain the run Chute promises to be my first real ranges that surround my home in Ver- test as I embark on my adventure. A log- mont. In the middle of the Green Moun- ically crafted strategy for descent replaces tains, I look west to the Adirondacks of what once would have been mind-numb- New York and East to the Whites of New ing fear and confusion at the winding, Hampshire. Again, I marvel at my luck. rock-strewn, mogul-ridden trail through the trees. At one point not too long ago, Ski tips up. Poles in right hand. Go. Dis- I would have looked down at Chute from embarking from the single chair, I imme- the lift and thought: No way in hell. I am diately look up to the right, where I know not jumping off that rock. It’s too patchy, the trailhead to Paradise lies hidden. A too steep, and too public. Instead, I find wooden sign reads “Paradise Closed To- myself picking out potential routes, think- day.” The temptation to ignore this warn- ing strategically and excitedly about my ing and embark on my adventure is over- impending descent. Several minutes later, whelming. my plans become a reality as I plant and turn around moguls, rocks, towers, and Paradise is a supposed rite of passage ice. I reach a rock wall, only a two-foot for Mad River skiers. It was originally drop, and finally my nerves start to kick declared too dangerous to be an official in. Eyes scan the precipice, straining to trail, but thrill-seekers and daredevils find a point to launch. I breathe easy. Ski- continued to trek through the woods to er’s left, a layer of powder cushions both leap over the waterfall and down its steep the rock face and the landing. turns. Thus, in 1984, Manager Bob Cooke decided to put “Paradise” back on the Bend knees. Deep breath. Go. map, making it the steepest official trail in New England. Such a reputation is daunt- * * * ing, and dissuades me from my original Back at the bottom, my blood is pumping plan to disregard the sign and venture out

28 to Paradise today. conflicted. “Paradise is one of those trails you want good conditions on. If it’s not Next time. Next time. Don’t be an idiot, open, it’s for a reason,” says ski patrol offi- Fernald. You don’t want to lose the rest of cer after officer. Neck strained to see the your season. You’ll get there eventually. incoming chair, I release my knees and enjoy the steady ride to the summit. Ev- I head to Fall Line, Paradise’s steep com- ery ride up, I get less cold, and I feel lone- panion, instead. Cutting under the lift, I ly only when the wind picks up. I wonder shoot across Chute and into a small path how much good those wool blankets used through the white evergreens and deep to do? powder-stashes and emerge on Fall Line. Narrow, winding, steep and mogully, my The consistent snowfall, a blessing on the knees, quads, and ankles are pushed past trails but a curse on the lift, finds its way their breaking points, and yet I speed into my goggles, through my face-mask downward, sweating and exhausted to the and freezes the back of my neck. Shoul- base. ders hunched, eyes down, I think: If I fall and hurt myself and I’m alone… and the * * * trail is closed… ski patrol won’t happen Back in line, I’m suddenly alone. On this upon me and neither will any other skiers. sunny, -15 degree Thursday, the mountain I am a strong and independent individu- is occupied by myself, a small handful of al. Get over this, Fernald. I am not only other skiers, and the members of the Mad by myself on the lift, but also on this ad- River Glen ski patrol. I think to myself: venture. I experience solitude unlike any This is it. This is your deadline. Today is other. the day you ski Paradise. Arriving at last at the top, I look to my Only one problem: I’m alone. And Para- right at that fateful sign “Paradise Closed dise is closed. Nearly every other trail on Today,” my stomach drops and I turn my the mountain is readily accessible, and yet back. I may not have conquered Paradise the one trail I need, I can’t get to. Just hike yet, but I will return soon. Its gates have up, ignore the sign and ski it. been opened and I have an adventure to finish. Next time I come I’ll bring backup, The line for the single chair is shortening, because Paradise alone is no paradise at and as I obey the red “WAIT” sign cov- all. ered in a light dusting of snow, I remain

29 Leigh Lake Alpenglow. WY. Morgan McGlashon ’17.5.

Sometimes the best adventures aren’t the crazy summits and extreme hikes. Sometimes they’re the days where you pack the truck, grab some fruit, and drive to a place that fills your soul. Santa Fe, Ecuador. Anahí Naranjo ’17.

30 Algonquin: Power, Peace, and Metempsychosis Kent Ratliff ’16

I step out of the van onto the hard packed outdoors can so differ from the bonds and snow of the Adirondak Loj parking lot. experiences we truly cultivate. The wind sweeps flurries of white, dancing from snow banks, and bullies clouds With all packs on backs, all feet in snow- to the horizon, drenching us in warm shoes, and all spirits high, we embark on sunlight and crisp blue air. Parker Peltzer the trail. As a training trip, my role is part ’17 and I prepare to lead a training trip for participant, part teacher, and part men- students pursuing a winter guideship for tor. We had spent a little over two hours a the Middlebury Mountain Club. Around week for the past three weeks going over me are participants strapping on snow- skills of leadership and familiarizing ev- shoes and hoisting their packs, excited for eryone with equipment in a classroom the chance to be in nature. Their stress- setting. Now, I must provide the example ful lives, now left somewhere on College of proper outdoor etiquette for these as- Street could no longer be called that. piring guides to witness, allow them op- portunities to prove and polish their own I watch as a sentinel, the energetic guides- leadership skills, and take any teachable in-training eager to prove that they are moment to give constructive curriculum. prepared for full “guideship.” “Trip to Amidst the teachable moments, Park- Marcy Dam, let’s gather over here!” “Does er and I have two concrete scenarios everyone’s pack feel comfortable? Here. planned: the “Lost Person Drill” and a Here’s how it should fit.” “Oh, you have medical emergency. Parker and I had talk- your snowshoes on backwards.” “Every- ed through the situation earlier: I was to body’s got two full water bottles?” As I be a patient with a broken ankle, an allergy look around, I realize that I’ve person- to ibuprofen, and severe internal bleeding ally trained every one of these guides- due to blunt abdominal trauma. All day, in-training. It was a strange thought, I will hike with painted bruising around simultaneously bringing forth the emo- my ankle and lower abdomen, carrying a tional realization that I am past the half- bottle of fake blood in my pocket should way point of my college career and filling I want to make it interesting. Parker and me with a sense of wonder that I was, in I agreed that I would fall injured whenev- that moment, significant. It is interesting, er it seemed logical. We want to make the how our perceived relationships with the situation as believable as possible.

31 old any time soon.

We stop at our campsite on the way to Algonquin Peak, a small snow-covered clearing just off the trail, to eat and drop superfluous gear. Doing so, I catch Park- er’s eye and hurry away with the excuse of a full bladder.

In a snowy winter, it’s difficult to get “lost.” Anywhere you go, you leave a two-foot Photo by Kent Ratliff deep trail, easily traceable. I walk on the path, hiding my prints among many oth- The metal lining the bottom of our snow- ers before embarking into the thigh-high shoes crunches against solid snow as we wilderness. I climb over boulders and make our way towards Algonquin Peak. to the top of a small cliff—finally find- Conversations lull to an appreciative si- ing my stage: a hole in the snow, just big lence for the sounds of snowfall and the enough to snag a snowshoe. I lower the odd bird call. The wind flows through bruise-painted ankle into the hole, sur- snow-muted needles of evergreen and prised at just how deep it was. With my the leafless branches of maple and birch. entire leg and lower torso in the hole, I There’s something so sublime about the finally find the bottom, a tangle of roots sound of winter in the woods. The tracks perfect for snaring my snowshoe and of the snowshoe hare cross the trail and getting properly stuck. In my head, I go dart off behind a boulder. Fresh, crisp- through my mechanism of injury, decid- cold air fills my lungs, carrying with it the ing exactly how I have gotten injured. I metallic taste of cold and physically rid- had stepped above the hole, slipped and ding me of the past, rooting me to my sur- fell, bashing my abdomen on the sharp roundings. This is why I go into nature. rock and coming down on my ankle at a sharp angle. When training guides, I get much less of this sense of rejuvenation, though it is sat- The scene is black and white, lacking col- isfying in a different way. I risk approach- or. I smear the tube of blood on my fore- ing nature more as a job than a passion, head, allowing it to drip down my face. but it’s a job I love, and I can’t see it getting Head wounds bleed more than you’d ex-

32 pect, even from a small cut. A small cut! well. They struggle through the obsta- This wasn’t believable if there was blood cle course of boulders, fallen trees, and and no cut. I grab a sharp stick and scour snow-hidden holes, arriving with good a line just above my bloodstained face, communication, guiding one another not deep enough to actually bleed, but over the obstacles. A first head pokes into deep enough to make them question. I my field of vision, and her eyes go straight embed the stick in the snow in front of towards my bloodied head. Then, a team me as evidence. With the stage set, I have of two comes to assess, picking their way only to wait. up the steep ledge to my position. “Are you alright?” Within five minutes, I hear my name shouted in unison from our little clear- “I don’t know” I manage, fear in my voice. ing. For this first call, I give no response. I must be quite the sight. Having no mir- I count the silence. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1… ror I have no concept of just how much “KENT!!” This time I give a feeble call. blood was on my face. My right leg is If they can’t hear me, they are to remain buried up to my hip, and my left splayed in place calling my name for a full ten across the snow, with the angle between minutes before moving to part two of the painfully obtuse. missing person drill. Ten seconds pass. “Is anything hurt?” “KENT!!!”

“Here” “My ankle’s killing me.” The words wince through gritted teeth. Their primary con- 10 seconds cern is my bloodied façade, as it should “KENT!!!” be. The possibility for serious head injury is present, so movement has to be limit- “Over here!” ed until they can rule out further spinal damage. Through several quick questions They hear this call and move towards me. about mechanism and pain quality, they From the crunching of their snowshoes, I diagnose that it is only a surface-level can tell they move on a snowpacked trail, wound. Each of the two reaches under not straight towards me through the brush an arm, ready to hoist me out of my self- as I had hoped. “Here’s some tracks!” Too laid trap. “AHHH!” The snowshoe pulls at easy; Damn those tracks. At least they my wounded ankle and my outcry causes had performed the first part of the drill them to pause their hoisting. I have given

33 them a lose-lose situation. They obviously cannot leave me in the hole, but my re- moval would hurt my ankle further. Care- fully, positions are reassumed and steadi- ly I creep inch-by-inch out of the hole. By this point, I am entering acute hypothermia from lying directly in snow for nearly 20 minutes, and they quickly move me onto an insulated pad.

“So your ankle hurts, let’s take a look.” The distraction had worked, they miss my abdominal wound, and without following the proper protocol my internal bleeding would go unnoticed. They take vitals, but are treating it like a basic scenario to practice splints, disregarding the possibility of more serious afflictions. My hypothermia is dealt with expertly. I lay wrapped in a -30 sleeping bag, insulated from the snow Photo by Ryan McElroy with a thick foam pad, and protected from the elements with the outer tarp casing of bindings on the make shift splint. Silence. my insulated cocoon. They begin work on “Kent?” my ankle, pried out from the other end of my swaddling, and I begin to mental- “Huh? What?” ly and physically deteriorate. With my “Does this feel alright?” breathing hidden by the layers, I hyper- ventilate. Rapid, shallow panting tricks “I …” the brain into emergency mode. My pulse “Something’s wrong.” skyrockets, and some pigment drains from my face. Emerging from my prepa- “…n..no, that, that doesn’t… hurt” rations I gaze at some point well beyond my attendees, wincing with every jostle of I begin to go into shock from blood loss. my ankle. “How does this feel” they ask Recognizing my worsening condition, with nurse-like care as they tighten the they place a call to 911 through Parker to

34 request an evac crew. During shock, the left beyond the trailhead. After acting body pulls blood to the core vital organs, out such an extreme situation for nearly leaving the rest of the body at risk. It’s the four hours, it takes time to regain com- last-ditch effort in prolonging life. They posure. With participants debriefed, les- take vitals again. “Pulse is higher, breath- sons learned, and myself composed, we ing rapid.” I am passed three water bottles pack away our little scenario, making our filled with hot water to place in my groin careful way back to the trail. The day was and armpits, areas with high bloodflow, gone, and the peak would remain pris- to help warm my hypothermic body. I’ve tine, unconquered and infallible, until been under care for two-and-a-half hours next time. at this point, and they still haven’t found the main injury. I decide to help them out, The next day we break camp and retrace give them at least some reason to suspect our way to the van. We hurry, rushing a stomach or abdominal wound—plus, I to make it back by the appointed time. was having fun with the fake blood. I dip We climb a hill within one mile of the my head into the sleeping bag and fill my trailhead and one participant stops in mouth from the tube. The acrid, sickly his tracks, gaze shooting upwards as he sweet blood fills my mouth, but I let it sit exclaims, “Wow…look at those trees!” I until I am forced to talk. “Are you feeling break my pace, pausing to gaze up, aware warmer?” I look up in glazed compre- that every stop delays us. But these trees, hension, teeter back and forth, and heave what majestic trees. They soar skyward, blood onto the pure white snow beside in that moment dwarfing any mechani- me, now looking like a strawberry snow- cal achievement of man. Deep red bark cone. and bright green needles flash against the white scene of snow and sky. I have led That did the trick. They peel back my six trips on this wild trail, but not once layers and do a pain quality check on my have I paused for these ancient sentinels. abdomen. I can see the realization of this I was lost among their branches, and I missed step in their eyes, in the sagging may never be found. shoulders and furled brows, in an awk- ward half-smile. They have learned something.

I regain composure, slowly, my symp- toms slipping away like the school stress

35 the desert Mara Gans ’15.5

Speed-up, keep-up, grow-up quick play the game, you know the one caught in the commercial hum. Get-up, move-up, speak-up quick work the game, it’s all a race stumble with its manic pace. Jobs, people, phones, stress. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

(Pause, breathe).

Art by Mara Gans

The desert is not like that. The desert breathes, in and out, slowly, a landscape in meditation, tranquil and intentional—but certainly not dead.

Wind and water carry the rhythm of heartbeats, the intonation of respirations. Together, they sculpt: canyons, arches, towers, and the unnamed features, those free of entrapment by language.

Notice these wrinkles and dimples. Footprints in the desert’s hearty face, they tell tales of ancient laughter and share worn records of prior battles. They breathe: in and out, slow down a moment, let cease your hasty gainful pace, and perhaps, you will hear its whisper.

36 Faces of the Ice Ryan McElroy ’16.5

– Zach – “ICE!” Zach’s voice echoes through the falling snow, louder than the wind whipping through the surrounding spruce and the trucks passing by on route 73 far below. It cuts across the frozen Chapel Pond, which I had crossed less than an hour ago. I hear it, but nothing registers in my brain. My gaze is ever upwards, neck craning to spot the orange blob that marked the other end of my rope. Just barely making out the moving speck of a man, my eyes shift focus to the dancing shapes falling from the sky. Like pieces of glass, these shards spin and flip, clatter and sing, bounce down, down, down… Oh shit. That’s what he meant—I suddenly drop my head and curl inwards after being struck by a flying slab. No way I’m forgetting that one! Now much, and climbing so well. Yet, he was I know: ice is the name of the game. This only a year older than me. The story he season’s first day of climbing was off to a told me on the way to the ice, the one slippery start. about fishing for crawdads, keeping them in his apartment sink, and coming home * * * to find one on the carpet, pincers raised, I met Zach (’14.5) early my freshman year looking up at him, reminds me he’s not all at a Geology Department pizza lunch. His grown up. He’s still a kid just like me. large shoulders and burly frame were soft- ened by his calm voice and dimpled smile. Or maybe not. I feel like a modified kid. We soon became friends, and I learned he Like a kid who lost his essential fear- was one of the most patient teachers I’ve lessness. Now, taking the first step is the ever had. He could have been in his thir- hardest. Putting off an assignment, post- ties, speaking so eloquently, knowing so poning a phone call, or stumbling to let

37 someone know how you truly feel about the drive home from a full day in the Ad- them – it’s always so damn scary. Zach irondacks. “You gotta have your systems, continues ascending, now beyond my line man. At least two sandwiches. Make ‘em of sight. And then there are those other before breakfast. Three gloves. Each with fears. Smashing in my teeth. Eyeballs. a purpose. Oh yeah, and you can’t leave Wolves. Abandonment. Addiction. Living your boots in the trunk – there’s no heat an incomplete life. The list lengthens at a back there!” I certainly made mistakes, frightening pace while I stand belaying and my lack of systems was laughable, yet Zach at Crystal Ice Tower. He’s gotta be I had managed to keep my feet nice and there soon. The anxiety is closer to freez- toasty. I brought my boots with me in the ing me than the single digit temperatures. front seat. At least I had that going for me. I wait and wait.

“Ryan, off belay!” That’s my signal. He’s – Scott – made it up. It’s all me now. If I can just Scott’s a make-your-own-adventure manage to breathe…here it goes. kind of guy who skillfully avoids getting stuck in routine. His decades of climb- My mind is blank. I reach. Swing. Swing. Step. I’m up. Steel robo-talons pierce the ice and miraculously hold me. Swing right. Check the feet. Packs look like dots below. Kick. Test weight. Breathe. Swing left. Shattered ice. Swing again. Dinner plates. Swing and…perfect. Hero Ice. You can’t plan for it, but when you sink it, there is nothing better—an ice climber’s nirvana.

* * * Our day out ended just as it began: dark skies, temperatures just pushing double digits, and turkey sandwiches on my mind. But my body ached more than it did at 6:25 am. That’s for darn sure. “Clas- sic rookie mistakes,” Zach explained on

38 ing, mountaineering, and traveling take a the complexity of life off-trail. backseat to his current pastimes: sunrise hiking Mt. Abe, sledding down Lincoln * * * Gap, or ski touring a chunk of the Cata- “There’s old climbers and there’s bold mount Trail. The list goes on, but rarely climbers. But there’s no old bold climb- will he bring this up unless you ask. And ers.” Scott smiles, eyes twinkling. He tries it’s even more unlikely that you’ll get the not to take full credit for any of his wis- details on his past escapades. A climb- dom, attributing this phrase to his good er’s modesty, filtering both thoughts and friend, David Stone. words. Any lessons or snippets of insight are prefaced by, “I hate to sound like I’m “I don’t know why going up has such a lecturing here” or end with a “take that draw… it’s a total exhilaration, but I don’t and do what you will.” know how to put it in words.” That’s it. You can only feel the movement and the * * * rhythm. Beyond that, it’s just silly. The ice Listening is one of Scott’s greatest gifts. raining down on you, fingers frozen, and When we first met, I was taken aback by wind whipping past your face—we laugh how much I opened up—and how com- at all of it. “I could just throw rocks at you fortable I felt doing so. Early sophomore all day if you want,” Scott jokes. It might year I struggled with direction and with just do the trick. Pausing a bit longer, he finding a place to be comfortable here at echoes what Zach has mentioned. There’s school. The year before was real rough an “addiction to that ‘thunk’ when you and lonely. I was searching for something first set a tool and it goes right in…it’s al- to fix me. I tried studying harder, running most like bliss.” He holds out the ‘s’ as he further, crying louder, and sleeping lon- sits back, eyes closed. I picture the ‘hero ger. What I really needed was someone to ice’ he’s dreaming of. “How do I get that hear my story. Finding Scott was a huge back?” he asks longingly, more to himself turning point. I dumped out the jumbled than to me. mess of thoughts I’d been carrying around with me since walking from Georgia to * * * Maine just over a year before. Thru-hik- As with other climbers, there’s a tension ing the Appalachian Trail was unbeliev- in Scott between striving for more and re- ably satisfying. The hardest part was stop- straining this drive. Modesty usually wins ping. Scott got this. He honored my pain out at the surface, but today I see deeper. of the ‘in between’ and deeply understood Scott appears to be wrestling with finding

39 peace in his life, whether or not climbing is a part of it. “I don’t climb much, sadly,” Midway down the screen I find an orange he tells me. “It’s not that I’ve ruled it out…” dot flagging a note from Derek Doucet. but just that there are other things keeping “Ice Is Nice!” reads the subject line. “Hey him busy. And fulfilled. He appreciates a there, looking forward to seeing you at good cup of tea and loves conversation 8:30 tomorrow morning.” How could that with his family. But he’s the same guy who have slipped my mind? I scramble to pack gets upset when a good streak of getting up and leave a yellow sticky with a list of outside is interrupted by poor weather or things not to forget in the morning. Ther- personal commitments. mos. Lunch. Sunglasses. Wallet. Maybe Reflecting on my conversation with Scott, I’ll actually get some sleep tonight. I find that I too struggle with finding a sense of balance. The outdoor pursuits can In my dreams, ice shards ominously rain start to dominate and run my life with- down. It does not stop. out allowing me to breathe. But then the plodding through a semester crammed * * * full of class and scheduling with no time Most adults Doucet’s age avoid risk. They for climbing brings me way down, too. I are far more likely to stop at Cookie Love have been plotting my next long hike for for a creemee or the Teddy Bear Facto- years now, but I still doubt it will do what ry for a bit of amusement along Route 7. I need it to. Do I spend too much time in Why then does he cruise past these spots the future, sifting through all the self-cre- in search of icy walls? For Doucet, be- ated possibilities? And the reminiscing ing out in the extremes—the cold, wet, on the past? It’s so hard to stay engaged. and wind—is “perversely amusing.” He So difficult to focus. Maybe that’s why we laughs. It’s appealing to some. To us. “Op- climb – to center ourselves. erating within an acceptable level of risk, never recklessness, is a fascinating thing.” He chuckles again, well aware that what – Doucet – he says does not ring true with most. It’s now Thursday night, and I scroll through the backlog of email. It never I am so curious about what it is exactly stops. Perpetual sounds, images, mes- that keeps him going back. He struggles sages. Buy our jacket, sign up here, this to find the right words. “Immediacy and weekend at Midd! I don’t care. I hate the focus, maybe.” We so rarely are present clutter in my life. in our lives. “I think it’s the necessity of

40 being right here, right now.” We all feel fering” can bring him a similar feeling but the distractions. Preventing them from that it truly is a unique headspace when consuming us is so difficult. Doucet -de climbing. Where in my life can I achieve scribes the power of a climb to “strip away this? Must it be inherently dangerous to the noise.” I get goosebumps when I recall bring clarity? Scott’s words matching Doucet’s almost exactly. And I feel the same way. It’s nice * * * to know none of us is alone. Complete honesty. Doucet values this in climbing of all surfaces. You must assess When I ask Doucet if he can achieve the every flake of rock, each piece of gear, all same level of focus in any other part of his knots and hitches, the individual muscles life, his answer is a pained “no.” “I wish I contracting and relaxing to get you up the could say yes, otherwise the whole thing pitch. If you can’t be truthful when eval- smacks of addiction.” After some thought, uating the risks, it’s bound to catch up he mentions that really long days of trail with you. Climbing requires an honesty running with a “healthy element of suf- I wish to emulate in my living. Scott and Doucet, both older climbers, let this value speak in their lives. Clearly, with practice, it begins to permeate all aspects of life off the wall. For Doucet, one reward is feeling more engaged at work and at home with his family. But, it still is painful to realize that every time you go out, you put yourself at risk.

“You know, I have thought about quitting altogether.” I swallow, not knowing how to respond. Surprised Doucet has told me this much, I need a second to take it all in.

“Wouldn’t that be hard?” I ask. Of course it would be! What kind of question is that? Climbing “consumes your life,” Doucet explained earlier. “I don’t have any close

41 friends who aren’t climbing, guiding, or take much. Falling even just a couple feet thinking about their next trip.” There’s on an ice route generates enough force to no escape. The odds are stacked against a instantly shear through leg bones if cram- cold-turkey halt. pon points stick the ice. And you better hope they’ll stick if you want to climb * * * with the orange talons. Focus. Wake up. The day of cold, old, vertical ice pushes me to place feet more de- Different from rock crag climbing, ice liberately. Brittle ice shatters, even as I am should not be about testing physical lim- careful to stack tools vertically as Zach its. “Often it’s a mental and emotional is- taught me, rather than the vertical match- sue on the ice.” I think I’m starting to un- ing I still revert to. C’mon, Ryan. Smooth, derstand this. “A huge part of the game is triangle, breathe. He’s watching. Why did keeping it together.” you have to hike seven miles yesterday – before 9 am? Sunrise, was it worth it? And the My climbing today is far from perfect. I seven o’clock ski at Rikert on Wednesday? blame myself and the crappy conditions. In -50 degree weather? You’re wiped. You But I must let go of this negativity and can’t do this. Just give up, man. My left foot keep it together. I think back to Doucet’s scrapes out the thin ice. I look down to story in his Suburu. He talked about how watch it delaminate from the rock below, when things get “funky, goofy, or hairy” not registering what’s happening. I’m sud- in the mountains he laughs it off. “I got denly thrown off balance. My right hand myself into this mess,” said Doucet, “I bet- slips. Harness jerks up into my crotch. ter get out smiling.” He relies on humor The voices stop as I immediately let out: to keep him going, and now I choose to “Damnit.” follow his lead and laugh it off.

I have broken the number one rule in * * * ice climbing—don’t fall. Zach, Scott, and “Nice, man. Get those hips up. Sweet Doucet had all emphasized this early on stance. Maybe stem your right leg?” Who in our discussions. Unlike climbing rock, said that? Belaying Doucet at the end of especially bolted sport routes where falls the day, I catch myself coaching. He cer- are part of game, ascending ice brings tainly doesn’t need it. But maybe this is with it unimaginable risk with one mis- why he has offered to me out today. I do step or tenuous swing. Snapped ankles are enjoy helping people. And I am probably the most common injury, and it doesn’t more encouraging, approachable, and

42 trustworthy than I give myself credit for. bother trying? Are they worthy role mod- Maybe he wanted to share that, to help me els? As long as I continue to meet these see myself in a better light. Perhaps we all people and seek answers to these ques- transition from student to teacher. And tions, it’s likely my story will read similar there is much learned beyond the hard- to those of the men I’ve met. But nothing skills I feel obliged to pass on. How great is written in stone. I proceed with caution it must feel to inspire wonder, provide a as on ice, aware that my words may melt, sense of accomplishment, and stand as freeze, flow, or shatter at any moment. one honest person willing to help another Accompanying photos by Ryan McElroy along, up, and away.

– Ryan – I feel fortunate to have been so warm- ly welcomed into this community of ice climbers. Reflecting on my time with each, I catch glimpses of an unwritten future. Might my senior thesis involve work with ice flows? Will I take Zach’s job as head monitor at the wall? Might I lead mountaineering trips out west and be able to laugh off the dark times? What would a family change? Is there hope of being as calm and content as Scott? And might I someday question all of it? Like Doucet, might I ask if it is all worth it? Is this my future? Possibly. Possibly not. I will forever be in awe of the extreme. Rigid peaks, ancient rock, gnarled trees, and violent storms – they captivate me. But the people testing themselves out there are even more interesting. Their pushing of physical, mental, and emotional limits fascinates me. Why do they do it? What is the point? Should I

43 Teton Dreams Morgan McGlashon ’17.5

I’m sitting in Pearl Street Bagels in Jack- of my skis clinging to the mountainside son Wyoming, and it is pouring rain out- as we began to make our way off the sum- side. The forecast for the rest of the week is mit. My partners and I struck out on the thunderstorms and more rain. I sigh with first attempt due to some route finding the realization that winter in the Tetons and incoming weather earlier in the week, may finally be coming to a close. The lifts so we went back for round two. at the ski area stopped spinning nearly a month ago and kids are running around Confident in our route this time, we town in board shorts and flip flops, but cruised up the first 2,500 vertical feet by if you are as desperate to hang onto win- 8 am. At this point I put my ski boots on ter as I am, it’s hard to ignore the 70-plus and started skinning around 9,000 feet, inches of snow that have fallen since the while my partners Caleb and Andrew beginning of April. decided to see how far they could get in shoes—10,000 feet before they started A mere 24 hours beforehand, I was stand- post-hole-ing and gave up on the trail ing at the top of Teewinot Mountain runners. (12,330 feet) for the first time; the edges

44 The sun was hanging high in the sky by There is nothing quite like peering down 9:15 and it was heating up rapidly by 6,000-ft between your feet on a knife the time we started boot packing up the ridge, in ski boots and crampons, grip- East Face. We may have turned around if ping your toes for dear life. there hadn’t already been a boot pack put in by three climbers ahead of us. There The top of Teewinot is breathtaking. The were two guys down-climbing that had north side drops off with a few thousand decided they didn’t like the snow condi- feet of exposure; there is a stunning view tions, which was a little concerning, but of the north side of the Grand, and Owen they also didn’t have skis, so their descent sits high and mighty just to the west. would be much slower than ours. We decided to keep moving at least over the After enjoying the summit hangout and crux and see how far we could get. snapping a few quick photos, we de-cram- poned, clicked into our skis and began to Just as we made our way up through make our way back down the east face. the narrow crux, a mere 500-ft from the There were two tricky spots that we could summit, a rope came barreling down the have down-climbed, but for the sake of narrow couliour and nearly took Caleb racing the sun and saving time, we skied off the side of the mountain. A little con- through both cruxes. The snow was hot fused, we grabbed the rope and continued and heavy as we descended, but we kept climbing. Shortly after making our way moving and made it back to the snowline. over the crux, we ran into the party of three who were making their way down. Reaching the point where we have to Thankful that we had saved their rope, take our skis off and begin the bushwack they told us they would leave a few beers back to the car is always a bummer, but at the car, gave us a nod of good luck, and there is a sense of relief that comes over continued down to rope up through the me, knowing that the scariest parts are crux. over (usually). After cruising through the sagebrush, we laughed and high-fived as We were only 400 vertical feet from the we hit the dirt road, excited and relieved summit, but navigating slick snow, rocks, that we had a successful day and a new ski and melting pockets at 12,000 felt like it descent under our belts. took an eternity. Yet, no matter how hard Accompanying photo by Morgan McGlashon it is to make the final push to the summit, the last 15 steps on the edge feel effortless.

Editorial Board

Mara Gans Ben Harris Sofi Hecht Evan Gallagher

Special Thanks To

Scott Barnicle Anahí Naranjo Morgan McGlashon

Questions? Submissions? Email [email protected] go.middlebury.edu/fireside