The Rat

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. Even more confusing was its plump state; perhaps it is a commuter rat and we were intruding on its desolate, but safe suburbia. Though I was the first to the ledge, Jordan was the first human it came into contact with. Maybe the first in a while. Maybe the first ever. Before Jordan's arrival it was it and I on the ledge. I had slumped into pack rat suburbia with cramped hands that acted on routine. Thus, as I fixed one rope and set the other up for a belay, I drifted.

   A blue sky briskly moving through the colour wheel to its nightly black refuge.
   The constant chill of the mountains. The one that symbolizes everything that is beautiful about discomfort; the conductor to a symphony of wilderness basking in its stand-alone stage time without the sun.

   It doesn't feel like that though. Cold doesn't feel like a brilliant conductor serenading you. Maybe it should, but it doesn't. It feels like a dull discomfort. More like a price of admission than the main event. That being said, it is undeniably a part of the magic of the mountains, and it too should be romanticized.

   I drifted deeper into dreamlike exhaustion. The glacier looked more like a frequently drifting ocean, occasionally gently crashing into the neighbouring spires. My eyes were brought back to focus by the rhythmic clicking of an ascender on a rope. Jordan noticed the rat soon after his arrival. The warmth of his friendship felt good. On the pitch up to the ledge, I stood up on a block so big that I couldn't even fathom it ever moving. It didn't even cross my mind. Then, after carelessly traversing on it searching for the right path, it pivoted. My ignorance evolved to sinking realization, and I scurried. At the most, it moved an insecure man's six inches. It was like a giant stretching in the light of early morning, and then deciding to sleep in. The path I had chosen was wrong however, and soon I was down climbing back to the block with a heavy understanding of the situation that I found myself in: Between pack rat suburbia and I sat, with an unknown level of security, the block. I sobbed at the bleak situation I found myself deeply committed in. Even down climbing further would involve yarding on the block. I'd already backed off of one pitch. Jordan and Jaron had been bold princes for the last two days. I thought of Jordan deep in an off width amidst a bugaboo blizzard. With his last piece of protection seemingly in a different time zone, he pressed on. The blizzard continued, as did we. Jaron didn't look at the shit piece of gear that he knew he had stand on, but he did stand on it. He didn't shy away from insecurity. It was my turn to bear the load. I sobbed a little more. I tried to be ginger. The moment I feared so much was over before I knew it. I ended up in a finger lock. The block stayed put.

   I didn't want to sit alone with my spiralling mind now that it had snapped back to reality, and was glad Jordan and soon Jaron were there with rational voices. Our hands continued their independent action. Sleeping arrangements were arranged. Food was cooked. Water was drank nearly dry. Whiskey was drank completely dry. I didn't dislodge the block. I didn't kill myself. I didn't kill my friends.

   I wonder if the pack rat ever had any close calls during its life in the mountains. There were stories in those beady eyes. There had to be. It lived a life that we had planned for. A life that we could only maintain for a few days. I wonder if those close calls sit with the rat; if they morph into demons that it'll have to face. I didn't fall asleep to these wonders. I fell asleep paranoid about the pack rat crawling on my face to the melody of Jordan reading Slaughterhouse Five.

   "Guys, do you want to just finish the rest of the water?" Jaron was the voice of all of our dry mouths and sponged minds; betrayed by the sweet nectar of Alberta Premium. We all congregated from sleep to the Nalgene watering hole and wandered back to rest through the grasses of talk of shooting stars zooming above us.

   The pack rat was the next alarm clock. I awoke to my feet being gnawed at through my sleeping bag. I swore and kicked and it scurried. My ruckus woke my friends.

  I wonder if it planned to wake us up; if it knew of the majesty we were missing out on. The three of us sat still in the serenity. Millions of different worlds looked upon our ledge. Shooting stars were paintbrush strokes. Another brush was bristled vibrantly with the green of the Aurora Borealis. Standing watch was a harvest moon, a single dot from a brush well soaked with orange. Its faint light glistened the spires, and the rat, running back to a crack for safety. It seemed unbothered by the scene.

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. The why is still confusing.

   I don't know how the block didn't kill us all, and I don't know why it didn't. If I'm this confused I can't imagine the perplexity it feels. After all, it is a rock. Perhaps it is best not to ponder.

   The how in adventuring is often a puzzle, but the pieces are all there.
   The why can be written in big, bold, letters right in front of your face, and it can be almost impossible to find.

   As I gazed, completely affected into the natural night sky; as I shared pack rat suburbia beside three beautiful souls, I began to see big, bold, letters.