Not all of my posts will appeal to the general public, and this is one of those that may not. But it will jog the memories of eight of my family members who joined me in a climb of Mt. Rainier in 1996. I composed this little piece of doggerel about a year before the climb, encouraging and egging on my fellow climbers.
Its meter, rhyme scheme, and certain allusions (e.g., repeating it thrice!) derive from Lewis Carroll's comic epic poem, "The Hunting of the Snark."
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Nine Characters in Search of a Mountain
They attacked it with crampons, they scaled it with ropes,
They pursued it with a laugh and a frown.
They charged towards its summit with feverish hopes,
They'd reach it before they came down.
They'd planned it for fortnights, they'd been packed for days,
They'd succeeded in dreams, and ne'er failed.
The peak beckoned above, through the Alpenglow's haze --
They'd climb if it snowed or it hailed.
They came from Seattle, and from sunny Umatilla,
From Sonoma, and the City of the Stars.
They came to do battle, on a most monstrous hill-a,
They arrived driving rickshaws 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 back down alive.
"I've conquered Mt. Adams (as have many Sirs and Madams),
Kilimanjaro has fallen prey to my skills,
You joined me on Whitney, but why continue this litany?
I'm quite familiar with climbing on hills."
"We will hoist a friendly beer, on the summit of Mount Rainier!"
(They welcomed with joy his sage 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 restating all my wisdom at least thrice."
But the days for idle boasting, and verbal riposting,
Reached an end as such days always must.
The sun shone hot and high, the month was now July,
They knew it now was "Mountain Top or Bust!"
They climbed to Camp Muir, behind their old, demented Führer,
O'er endless snowfields, with forty-pound packs.
Like dumb and panting mules, loaded down with climbing tools,
In camp, at last, they fell dead into their sacks.
But the tempus still will fugit, awake or asleep,
Not all your prayers will persuade it to slow.
So at Midnight's appearance, they felt their stomachs leap,
When they heard, "All right, guys, let's get up and go!"
They tightened their crampons, clipped "beeners" to ropes,
They set out with a sigh and a yawn,
But with eyes turned to summit, each soul surged with hopes,
As he vowed, "I'll dance there by dawn!"
* * *
You can call it Tahoma, you can call it Rainier,
You can salute it with prayers or a curse,
But until you have climbed it, and seen the summit draw near,
You can experience it only through verse.
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