Waiting Out the Storm at Camp Heliotrope on a Mid-Spring Afternoon - Kayla Humiston

Wind and rain have subsided for now

Sunlight and blue sky in small doses

Mist and clouds lift from the valley floor

Up and over pine mountains.

 

From the tent door I see rocks and grasses           

Patches of blue sky and big clouds puffed out

Overhead, the sound of an airplane

Behind the tent, the icy mountain – Mount Baker –

Nooksack is the Native name -

Stands taller than surrounding peaks.

 

My partner ties his boots

And zips his rain-pants

Next he will put on gaiters

And leave the tent to look out

Scope the climbing route.

 

If the weather clears, we’ll go for it, taking our packs, ice-axes, food and water, and leaving the rest at camp. All together, the climb will take six hours or so, depending on route conditions and weather.

We have spent the day in the tent, bundled up in sleeping bags of down, munching and nuts and fruit, like squirrels. We take turns reading Chinese poetry from Five T’ang Poets.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell me.

I stay behind to write.

 

These mists in the mountains remind me of China. I feel like a hermit in the hills.

My mountaineering boots sit in front of me, holding my coffee cup. The sun grows warmer and brighter out, but drops of frozen rain still pound down on the tent. I feel the wind’s cold tongue and my muscles tense up.

            The cloud from the valley floor rises and grows. I see it closing in all around. This is what today has been like. Waiting for the mountain to give us a clear answer

“Yes you may climb me,” or “no, not today.”

 

Already today three parties have headed back down the mountain. Two climbers made their way up past our camp, braving frozen air. Earlier this morning a red-headed starling came to our camp, and then swooped away down into thick clouds. Last night, as we set up camp, two curious Ptarmigans stopped by to beg for food. A black spider crawls outside the tent. She has a large round belly that looks like a miniature black pearl.

 

Misty mountains

Cold spring wind

Rattles the cooking stove

Waiting for one window

Of clear weather-

Clear signal-

To ice-ax and crampon

A slow path along a glacier

To see what is there,

And be challenged

If the weather clears

A panoramic view reveals

The border of Canada

The city of Vancouver.

 

Wind rustled tent

Clean mountain air

Cold, crisp condensation

Coalescing misty clouds

Afternoon stretches on

Time passes slowly

Almost

Vacantly

Startling starling sings a song

Black pearl bellied spider crawls along,

Black bird! A raven perhaps-

Flies off toward the horizon.

 

Two boots at tent’s edge

And a water hose

Red, wet bandana

Wind rustling tent

Gray clouds arise from

Valley floor

Full of density, foggy mist

Shifting and rising

Over expanse of mountain

Pines with small snowy patches

Two trekking poles next to

Gray speckled rock,

Tufts of golden grasses,

Sounds of wind rising,

Up from the chorus

Of distant pine trees

To envelope this

Snowy tundra.

 

At the base of Mount

Baker (or Nooksack).

Cold, frozen, bluish

Glaciers are

Moving ever so slightly

Not within my eyesight

But in my conscious knowledge

Glaciers are melting

Ever so slowly

Science tells me

The glaciers will be extinct

By mid century

Global warming thoughts

And all the white space that

Surrounds this poem,

All the white space

Of all that isn’t said.

 

Wind picks up

Blows the tent flap in

Cold wind chills my fingers

Specks of ice spatter the tent

With machine gun quality

There is a war somewhere

The news of it is everywhere

Even here on this mountain,

So far away from everything.

 

I want to cry for those who

Have died

It is Memorial Day

And I think of soldiers

And I get lost in this

Vacant stretch of time

 

A cooking pot,

Some climbing gear,

Two helmets,

All in the vestibule

Unused as of today

This trip, this journey,

This waiting game.