On the day the mountain shed its winter coat, we were sick with the spirit of adventure.
Go up the mountain, they said, but it is recommended that you take crampons. Okay sure, we said. And then we went up the mountain in sneakers. No gloves. No hats. No packs.
We were young. Student aged, some would say, but stupid aged, more accurately, is what my father would call us. It was always dare this, dare that; we would bet each other that we could jump off this rock and not break a leg, that we could chug this whole pitcher of beer without puking, that we could slide off this moldy roof with Mike’s mattress and land in that kiddy pool we stole from the neighbors no sweat.
Shit like that.
Sure, it was cold. Sure, there was ice stuck to our lips and mud slick on our shoes. Sure, we were only wearing snow jackets and sunglasses. But we’d handled worse. Right?
When we saw the first avalanche, we got it on video. YouTube that shit, we said. And then there was another one, when we were halfway up, fighting a blinding snow field, sunk to our knees, hands red claws.
Shit, we said more quietly this time, watching it slide by. Then we kept climbing.
You see, when we start something, we can’t stop. We go and push each other too far and we can never be the one to sit on our ass first, because then we might, maybe, not be a real man, if you know what I mean. We might be like, gay. Or something.
When we had almost reached a crest, we looked up and saw the curve of the moon resting against the peak. The night was harsh, the stars slivers of glinting metal. Our lungs were heaving and we tasted the cold, clean air on the backs of our throats.
We watched as the snow bank above us shimmied and slipped from the rock, no one around to tell us what were doing was stupid, no one around to save us if we fell. The only real thing was the cold in our bones; not the snow, not even the mountain. That’s what made us so young. So stupid.