The following piece of doggerel lunacy was never actually "published" (thank god), but was composed strictly for intra-family encouragement in 1996, several months before eight members of my family launched an assault on the summit of Mt. Rainier. (Three of us made it all the way to the top; the others were left lying on the ground at various spots on the route up.)
If you're not a family member, this "poem" means nothing to you. Go on to the next post! If you are a family member, you're wondering why on earth I'd ever publish it. Meh.
My thanks to Lewis Carroll for various inspirations, including the rhyme and meter scheme, which I more or less lifted from his mock epic poem, The Hunting of the Snark.
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They attacked it with crampons, they attacked it with ropes,
They pursued it with a laugh and a frown.
They charged towards its summit with feverish hopes,
They vowed to reach it before they came down.
They'd planned it for fortnights, they'd been packed for days,
They'd triumphed in their dreams and ne'er failed.
The peak loomed above, through the luminous haze --
They'd climb whether it snowed or it hailed.
They came from Seattle, and from sunny Umatilla,
From Sonoman vineyards, and the Town of the Stars.
They came to do battle, against a monstrous hill, (uh . . . )
They arrived in rickshaws and horse carts and cars.
Their leader was ancient, their leader was old,
His years had reached fifty-five,
His eyes were all rheumy, but his countenance bold,
He vowed he'd bring 'em all down alive.
"I've conquered Mt. Adams (as have many Sirs and Madams),
Kilimanjaro has fallen prey to my skills.
You joined me on Mt. Whitney, but why continue with this litany?
I'm clearly familiar with scrambling up and down hills."
"We will hoist a friendly beer, on the summit of Mount Rainier!"
(They welcomed with joy this glad advice.)
"You and I will give a cheer, as we toast atop Rainier,
This forecast I've now offered to you twice."
"We'll be awash in suds and foam, on good old Rainier's dome,
I know it's true, I'm not just casting dice.
The certainty of my prediction, is a function of my predilection,
For recycling all my wisdom at least thrice."
But the days for idle boasting, and verbal riposting,
Came to an end as such days always must.
The sun soon shone high, the month was July,
They knew it now was "Rainier or bust!"
They climbed to Camp Muir, behind their old, demented Führer,
Across endless snowfields, carrying forty pound packs.
Like dumb and burdened mules, half suspecting they were fools,
Until at last they fell half-dead into their sacks.
But the tempus still must fugit, awake or asleep,
Nor pain nor dread persuades it to go slow.
Midnight arrived so soon, they all felt they could weep,
As they heard, "All right men, let's go!"
They tightened their crampons, clipped carabiners onto ropes,
They set out with a sigh and a frown.
Eyes rose to the summit, each one still with flickering hopes,
"By God, I'll stand there before I come on back down!"
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