Climbing Ripinski
When I climbed Mt. Ripinski a week and a half ago, I wanted to summit. I set a fast pace--too fast--at the outset so that my climbing party might reach the goal by our established turn-around time. The others in the group seemed to be of like mind, and we fed off each others' determination all the way up the trail.
Above 2000', we met another party returning from the top. They warned us that visibility wasn't good further up and that there were strong winds above the tree line. Rather than discouraging us, the news spurred us on. Getting to the crown of a veiled mountain had become more important than reaching the point from which a 360-degree vista is possible.
I no longer needed to see the wide world of the surrounding mountains rising from the bay fed by the Chilkat and Chilkoot rivers. Alpine meadows of lush flowering heather, mist-encrusted lupin, and scattered buttercups attracted my attention, each more glorious--to use John Muir's term--than the last. The summit was still my goal, but only in as much as pressing on towards the summit meant passing through the next meadow further up the slope.
Once at the rocky top, my friends and I noticed the chill air, added layers, snapped a few photos documenting our success, and headed down the mountain without much ceremony. We had underestimated the time needed for our descent, however, for each turn brought into focus a new view for my camera. Reviewing the photographs now, I can see how powerfully the mist-enveloped flowers on the cloud-enveloped mountain pulled at my soul.
Gary Snyder is correct that "Mountaineers climb peaks for the great view, the cooperation and comradeship, the lively hardship--but mostly because it puts you out there where the unknown happens, where you encounter surprise" (164). I've sought great views of the wild--my photo blog is testament to the desire--but my experience on Mt. Ripinski surprised me. Under a veil of clouds, I noticed myself most strikingly out there.
In that the mist shielded the range of mountains from my view, it also invited me to focus on the immediately proximate in my life. All around me was silence. And then I heard myself breathing. As much as I admired the striking colors of the ground cover and the angular shapes the fog brought into relief, I considered my presence in the midst of the scene.
*Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild, San Francisco: North Point, 1990.
Above 2000', we met another party returning from the top. They warned us that visibility wasn't good further up and that there were strong winds above the tree line. Rather than discouraging us, the news spurred us on. Getting to the crown of a veiled mountain had become more important than reaching the point from which a 360-degree vista is possible.
I no longer needed to see the wide world of the surrounding mountains rising from the bay fed by the Chilkat and Chilkoot rivers. Alpine meadows of lush flowering heather, mist-encrusted lupin, and scattered buttercups attracted my attention, each more glorious--to use John Muir's term--than the last. The summit was still my goal, but only in as much as pressing on towards the summit meant passing through the next meadow further up the slope.
Once at the rocky top, my friends and I noticed the chill air, added layers, snapped a few photos documenting our success, and headed down the mountain without much ceremony. We had underestimated the time needed for our descent, however, for each turn brought into focus a new view for my camera. Reviewing the photographs now, I can see how powerfully the mist-enveloped flowers on the cloud-enveloped mountain pulled at my soul.
Gary Snyder is correct that "Mountaineers climb peaks for the great view, the cooperation and comradeship, the lively hardship--but mostly because it puts you out there where the unknown happens, where you encounter surprise" (164). I've sought great views of the wild--my photo blog is testament to the desire--but my experience on Mt. Ripinski surprised me. Under a veil of clouds, I noticed myself most strikingly out there.
In that the mist shielded the range of mountains from my view, it also invited me to focus on the immediately proximate in my life. All around me was silence. And then I heard myself breathing. As much as I admired the striking colors of the ground cover and the angular shapes the fog brought into relief, I considered my presence in the midst of the scene.
*Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild, San Francisco: North Point, 1990.
posted by Palmer Seeley | 1:08 PM
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