The calm was of a violent nature. It was the kind of calm that sent a man to the frenetic brink of mental collapse, only to instantaneously return him to an utter, euphoric cognizance. The sky was victim to the land: iridescent hues of violent and orange bled from the peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains. The billowing snow of early winter was immaculate, subduing the rugged terrain and ice beneath it. The serenity of the scene was interrupted by a figure. A lone man stood at the base of an outcrop, along the fore ridge of the mountains. Despite a heavy jacket and subsequent layers, it was obvious that he was of a lean stature. He stood six feet in height, with the contrary, muscular slenderness of a dynamic athlete.
Beneath goggles and scarves was a solemn face. The man was a veteran of war and of life. He had seen the utmost atrocities of battle, only to return home to broken relationships, addiction, and depression. These experiences left the man with a detached resentment of existence. Only in the wild could he make some guess as to the rudimental essence of life. He admired the animality of things. Only in nature is a cause and effect relationship so apparent. His own survival depended on his skill as a component of a coherent environment. The desolate wilderness left him in the primacy of his most pure state.
The man was at work; his hands labored with a long rope. After a few moments of mild challenge, the cord was properly secured to a harness around his waist. It was at this moment that the man looked up at the subject of his outing. Above him was the outcrop, a broad, rocky precipice with a deep gap. This crevice was filled with a cascading sheet of glistening ice. The wall guarded a precarious monster: a thunderous plume of frigid water. But like many of its fellow alpine beasts, the falls lay in a docile winter slumber; its roar reduced to a mere trickle.
He began to consider his way of ascent. The right-hand side of the falls was clearly less forgiving than its gentler adjacent. Compared to the placid angle of the left side, its edges rose like turrets above the valley. This particular route was littered with obtrusions; exposed rock and thin ice were apparent at every turn. The man contemplated this for a moment, and decided to pursue the right-hand portion of the shelf. His thirst for challenge outweighed any deliberation of rationality.
He checked his minimalist gear. His boots were latched with durable, spiked crampons. His harness was securely fastened. From his wrists hung the requisite icepicks; the tools upon which his endeavor depended. He carried a modest daypack containing the bare essentials of survival and first aid. He then confirmed the integrity of the belaying line, a strong cord that was meant to sustain a fall through the use of friction. The line ran from his harnessed waist to an anchoring device at the top of the falls. This device had been installed prior to the climb by way of a short hike along the eastern ridge.
It was at this moment that the man initiated his climb. With three swift strikes of his icepicks, he was momentarily suspended along the shelf. He quickly plowed his crampons into the ice. Next, he withdrew an icepick and selected its new location, the rest of his limbs locked in rigid position. With the pick sealed in at a few feet above his head, the man began to pull up his body to match the pick’s height. This motion sent a ripple of pain through his body. His quavering muscles instantly resisted, until his weight was transferred. He repeated this process up the frontal slope.
The man was exuberant. His physique was an orchestra and the falls his concerto. The rhythm of his arms was impeccable, both entities working with equal and coordinated strength. At about 25 meters above the ground, the man stopped. He looked back towards the valley. The view could have been depicted in transcendental literature. The valley was in a state of complete tranquility. Its rolling hills clutching barren trees and frozen creeks. It left the man motionless, savoring the scene. He soon returned to his climb, only to face the climax of the waterfall’s difficulty. The ice was nominal. With only a single stroke of his pick, the blade penetrated the ice. He could hear the muffled dripping of running water under the surface.
The glow of sunset was falling to the twilight and darkness crept upon the falls. It turned the ice a luminous blue. The man’s pace quickened. Desperation took over as he tried to outperform nightfall. His technique became sloppier and the effects showed on his climb. Small chunks of ice fell with every step. As he finally approached the summit, the conditions worsened. At one dangerously thin patch, the man’s hand went limp with anguish. It sent the pick reeling toward the valley below, only to dangle from a strap around his wrist. The man dug in with his bare hand. His coiled body gripped the ice. With great effort, he regained the hanging icepick in his hand. He reared back the tool and slashed it towards the shelf. The blunt force of the pick was insurmountable. It cut deep into the ice. With a cracking sound, a gash erupted from the pick’s laceration. It shot towards the top of the falls, widening in the process. The man was still. He watched, confounded, as the splinter made its way towards the summit. With a final crack, the falls were opened. With it came snow, ice, rock, and climber, tumbling in an indiscernible mass. At first, the plunge was lethargic. Time seemed to stop and abruptly start again, sending him into an freefall. His safety line and anchor fell uselessly beside him. Finally, his body met the snow of the valley.
It was dark when he awoke. The moon and stars shone clearly above him. He attempted to sit up, but the effort was feeble. It was no matter; the soft snow comforted his body. He felt no pain, only warmth. His admired the sky’s unearthly expanse. He focused on the moon, a bright orb in the ambivalent night. Then the blackness overcame him.