Climbing in a rare window

of good weather,

good meaning merely hostile not lethal,

through a window

into the Death Zone;

through a window

into an insane dream-world

where nothing is normal,

the mind cannot think or remember,

the brain cannot function.

There is only the divine obsession, the Satanic compulsion.

 

Base Camp. On a hot day, the Gilkey memorial is odorous.

Corpses rarely make it down the mountain

in one piece.

Mountain pieces

are laid on pieces of people,

hoping they have found peace

on the Savage Mountain.

 

The Abruzzi route.

The Bottleneck, the seracs looming,

quivering above.

Praying there is no avalanche,

no dislodged boulder.

Praying the charms, the flags, the amulets

will work.

Praying the legs

will work.
Praying the sixth sense which warns of crevasses

will work.

Plodding on and praying the prayers

will work.

Praying no-one gets sick.

Praying the weather holds.

Plodding and praying.

Lives hanging by a thread.

Crampons, axe, rope, oxygen,

the whole kit and caboodle,

which the goddess may mock

and sweep aside.

Takar Dolsangma.

For every four who claim her,

she claims one for herself.

One of those who climb K2

or don't,

dying on the way.

Crazy people,

buried in the sky.