Higher up the side of the valley we discerned two little animals gazing at us with great attention and since we did not recognise them at that distance, we clambered towards them to investigate further. At a distance of some ten yards we stopped – not wishing to scare them. Their skins were a chocolate brown on the back with a lovely, creamy yellow tint on the belly. In size they were somewhat larger than English rabbits but rather like them in appearance as they sat up on their hind legs and washed their faces keeping a wary eye on us through their claws. They did not seem in the least perturbed by our presence and most certainly did not show any real signs of fear. There they sat with a sort of grin on their faces, their ears cocked and their tiny front paws weaving endless patterns abound their muzzles.
Having read that marmots were common in the area and remembering that the description given of this cute little animal tallied with what we saw in front of us, we came to the conclusion that these little denizens of the rocky vastness of the mountains must indeed be marmots. Stealthily, we edged nearer and nearer hoping that we might even take hold of one. However, when we were five yards away they just melted into the ground. One second they were there and the next they had gone – vanished in a flash to their wee burrows beneath the rocks. We searched for a short while but futilely for there was not a trace of their whereabouts and so we retraced our steps and in a short while reached the very foot of the glacier’s remarkable snout.
We were surrounded by a vast silence broken only by the occasional crump of an avalanche or the crash of falling ice. This quiet was almost beyond description – as if there was something missing from the alien world that now surrounded us. There was not even a breath of wind to create a faint rustling as it passed our ears. Neither animal nor bird disturbed the peaceful silence and the familiar roar of rushing water was now drowned by distance. Even our footfalls were muffled by the plasticity of the ice on which we were walking. On all sides, the gigantic rock and ice peaks hemmed us in as, hand in hand, grandeur and silence reigned supreme.
From the moraine we climbed easily upward for roughly a hundred and fifty feet. We gripped grass and flowers to help us in our passage. Many of the weeds were of the sage variety. When they were crushed in our hands they emitted a rich and fragrant scent. Intermingled with the scents of the many alpine flowers, the aroma of these tough little shrubs made another pleasant element in our climb. Eventually, we reached the end of the easy section and were confronted with a cliff of rock twenty feet high which appeared to end in a ledge. A careful examination of the slopes to left and right did not give us a clue to an easier route and it seemed that there was nothing else to do but to try our skill on the rock face. Oh for a sixty foot alpine rope!
There seemed to be a dearth of finger
and toe holds in the next twenty feet and the drop down to the moraine did not
look too enticing. However, putting all thoughts of failure from our minds, we
started upward once more. I remember that I stared hard and long at the rock
and worked out every detail of the cracks and knobs I was going to use and
where I was going to place my fingertips and my toes and in what sequence I was
going to use them. Try as I might, I could not see a way of covering the last
three feet to the ledge. Trusting in the belief that a closer view would surely
reveal something, I placed my toe in the first crevice and took a firm
grip of a knob of rock just within reach
above my head and levered myself up.
That last passage is a real cliff hanger! I just keep thinking of your Dad making this trek back then with unsophisticated gear, but with an adventurer's eye and an open heart. So much more interesting and thoughtful than things I've read by climbers of the region in recent times.
ReplyDeleteThey didn't even have ropes and helmets and they were wearing hob-nailed boots not state-of-the-art climbing boots.
DeleteBecause I know that your father lived to marry and sire a son who gave us his words, I know he made it to the ledge. But whoa!
ReplyDeleteI love the description of the little marmots, if indeed that is what they were. And the silence- he really, really had a writer's eyes, ears, and way.
Not just one son Mary but four and a tiny girl who was sadly miscarried. I would have loved to have a sister.
DeleteI love the middle bit, with "grandeur and silence reigning" - it gives me the goosebumps, but in a calming manner, if that makes any sense!
ReplyDeleteThere is a term in German for the eternally snow-capped highest peaks of our planet's mountain regions, "ewiger Schnee". Even when I first heard this as a little girl (I must have been in elementary school, maybe 7 years old), it sent a shiver of awe down my spine. And the part you decided to share here with us does pretty much the same.
Good job we know your Dad made it back home - that last bit is truly gripping!
Eternal snow? If it only it was so but global warming is unclothing so many mountains and the glacier upon which my father walked in 1944 has receded greatly. I am very pleased that you appreciated these extracts Meike.
DeleteI agree with everything everyone said. Thrilling. Your father seems to have led a very quiet life. Did you know that beneath that placid exterior beat the heart of an adventurer?
ReplyDeleteYes. I did know that Debby. I have a childhood memory of his snow goggles and a woolly balaclava with a bobble on the top.
DeleteIt's very well written YP. Are you going to add a chapter or two by yourself? It's very good and exciting.
ReplyDeleteI might add a chapter about a yeti who spoke with a West Cork accent.
DeleteExcellent. Your dad was quite the writer, as has been said before. I can almost see the snow-capped peaks and hear the silence. (If one can hear silence!) I'm glad the marmots escaped. LOL
ReplyDeleteDid he take photos on this trek? I really wonder if you might have something publishable here.
Frustratingly his companion on the trip - Arnold Berry - did take many photos but I have never seen them and I do not know if they exist any longer.
DeleteHmmmm...I wonder if you could track down Arnold or his descendants? If you're so inclined -- it would be really cool to see the images, especially the ones of your dad!
DeleteThe eternal snows: Ewiger Schnee as Meike puts it.
ReplyDeleteIf the doomed protagonist of Goethe's *Die Lieden des jungen Werthers* had contemplated such mountains, he might not have done away with himself.
Nabokov said that the shiver down the spine is the authentic experience of art.
Nature's art, in the case of the Western Himalayas. The sublime.
Haggerty
I applaud and approve of Nabokov's reflection upon art. Without those shivers what is the point?
DeleteAlan Massie, our greatest living novelist, speaks about the shiver, in a recorded speech:
Delete*Alan Massie. Toast to Sir Walter Scott.*
The Edinburgh Sir Walter Scott Club. 1990. YouTube.
Alan Massie wrote the script for a memorable BBC documentary:
*Sir Walter Scott - The Wizard of the North.* BBC Omnibus. YouTube.
Massie's range moves from wartime France (A Question of Loyalties) to Roman history (Tiberius: Memoirs of an Emperor). Only Peter Ackroyd is his equal.
I am about to reread his imaginary memoir of Walter Scott, The Ragged Lion.
If you struggle with Scott's novels, read his Journals, published in one big volume. They are crammed with gossip, scholarship, wit, weather, landscape, dreams, adventure, history.
Haggerty
There's a wonderful freshness and sense of excitement in your Dad's descriptions. I can smell that sage and hear that mountain silence. Even though we know there's a happy ending we're still holding our breath as he faces those last three feet.
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of those radio serials we used to listen to in the evenings of childhood before tv dulled our imaginations. It would make a great audio book.
Adele
I appreciate your honest response Adele - now back to the knitting my dear!
DeleteYou are getting this typed out quickly if you are already halfway through his writings. I agree with Steve that you may have something you could get professionally published. What a wonderful way to honor your Dad. He is a talented writer and his descriptions are excellent. I very much enjoyed all three of these excerpts. I imagine writing this out does bring you closer to you Father. If only more of us had something like that from our ancestors to bring us closer to them and to also bring their memory and essence into this modern world.
ReplyDeleteThe typed sheets could have easily ended up in a bin or on a bonfire. I am so glad to be rescuing them.
DeleteHurrah--for both of you.
ReplyDeleteThanks Joanne and hurrah to you too.
DeleteI like your Dad's writing. It's almost like you're there with him.
ReplyDeleteWell that would have been a miracle as I was born nine years later. Thanks Red.
DeleteI agree there is material there that could be published. A tribute and memorial to your dad.
ReplyDeleteTrouble is that many great books never got nods of approval from publishers. Even so - thanks ADDY.
DeleteWhat a wonderful experience you've chosen to share with us YP - thank you. It is so descriptive and I almost feel as though I'm right there, following in his footsteps. There is so much more of the sense of adventure in his writings than the sophisticated, state-of-the-art climbs we read about or see on TV today.
ReplyDeleteIt is almost as if they did not have a plan - they just followed their noses.
DeleteYour father was a good writer!
ReplyDelete