Ascent

Andean Omen

For days cloud layers hunker on the flanksof Ecuadorian volcanoes, hover overthe Valle Central. Three climbers puffthrough mist, rain, fresh snow on preparatory

volcanoes, teased by the sun-rain dancein Quito: dark curtains drop against wetwest slopes, blown open by sun and wind.No snow domes show, only long green bands

over tilled plots above the valley floor.Tonight’s our night, no marginfor error, yet for two days almost noChimborazo. Weather defeats other parties.

I rise, peer out the window, gasp, grab Dan.Nearly 6 p.m., winds pushed offcloud cover and Chimbo towers above us,giant vanilla sundae spreads just northeast.

Busy with cameras outside, rapt devoteesof the evening light-show, eyes and hearts pourover glaciers, rock bands, ridges; hands palmthe curves of two summits, transfixed by yellowing light.

In the sun’s turning the sprawling conewinks at us, pulls closer before the brilliantswirl pinks and fades in the still dusk.We shake our heads, dumb in the face

of the sign, a blazing epiphany.This is what we came for.In a few hours we slowly rise underthick stars and a fat half moon.

Penitentes

Gasping at dawn, I stumble into the labyrinthatop Veintimilla summit, tiredpilgrim amidst fields of penitentes,a thick procession of snow-ice figuresbent and slightly curved by prevailing winds.

Token of high Andes elevation, penitentesgrow through “differential ablation” sincesnow “sublimates,” puffs into vapor,the dew point always below freezing.According to Wiki their “surface geometry”

becomes a “positive feedback mechanism”and their hollows, “almost a black bodyfor radiation.” Our guides force a pathas my old crampons plunge through freshsnow or skitter off iced planes.

In the slight saddle before Whymper summitmy weary body stops, dazed, while inthe gathering light my eyes brushtheir gleaming facets, glovesreach a polished tip veering above me.

Lone dissidents lost in this clottedfrozen march, our tilt and heightprove no match for theirs. Temporaryguests in their domain, I thread slowly,slip, bump my shoulders as we ease back,

withdraw from the field, dazzled by thedense blue-white sculpture, the closeranks of angles and curves impeding myprogress, crowding my length. Stranger topenitentes, accustomed to saddles before

summits, I retreat with Dan, humbled,if not penitent, bested by the mazebut not the Roman Catholic imaginationwith its ancient rite of public contrition,a hooded progress towards expiation dependentupon audience, not altitude; upon tears, not dry cold.