Monday, January 14, 2008

Report From the Base Camp

If all clocks on Earth were to suddenly stop it would be comparable to what I have experienced here at the base camp. There are plenty of rations (for now), and all the men are healthy and in high spirits, but we have yet to come to a consensus on our plan of approach to the summit. Every waking minute I spend reviewing again and again my many discussions (read: virulent arguments) with Gladstone and Trevor. Ah… Trevor. He is causing me so much frustration I’m ready to drive a crampon through each of his crust-encircled eyes.

What Trevor doesn’t know… scratch that. Of course he knows; I’ve gone over this a dozen times with him. The fact is he’s incapable of allowing any semblance of reason and rationality to seep into that astoundingly thick skull of his. Trevor refuses to acknowledge that any attempt at the western crevasse would spell death for all parties involved for a number of reasons.

First, the high levels of nitrophosphate originating at the liquid limestone reserves far below at the ledgeset are blown in by the easterly winds unhindered. At that altitude oxygen levels in the human bloodstream are reduced to such a degree the body will force it’s pores to extreme dilation in order to allow more atmosphereic particles into the bloodstream. A man exposed to unadulterated nitrophosphate winds in this condition, no matter how much gore-tex and millflak he’s wearing, will develop embedded rivuettes across his corpus in a matter of minutes. Embedded rivuettes, particularly those located along the creases and hollows of the flesh, attack the lymphatic system’s circulation and eventually bring it grinding to a halt. We would, in short, drown in a pool our own lymph.

Secondly, the amount of silversnow condensation we’ve been able to spot with our somatic wavewraith generators is astounding. Frankly the area is not unlike a mad landscape Dali would envision in one of his nightmarish paranoic-critical renderings. From our current vantage point we have no idea how much silversnow condensation is truly located there, and Trevor, the fool with balls of an ox and brains of a pigeon, insists we will easily conquer it. I doubt even myself, the seventh rated alpinist in the world, could conquer that oblique furrow. Silversnow condensation, among the most deadly geophaltic phenomena on Earth, was once regarded as a friend to the alpinist. A friend! Ha! I put it to you: would a friend with an atomic structure similar to a bamboo forest on its inside, while bearing an atomic structure similar to a Escher staircase on it’s surface, allow you to climb allover him/herself? Would he/she?

As if this weren’t reason enough, I have yet to mention possibility of a civechs infestation. Yes, we have found evidence of a sizable civech colony occupying the western crevasse, and still Trevor is considering it. Not long ago one of our javelin exploratories returned from the granite footcluch near litermark of the western crevasse with a satchel of olo pulp in tow. As every experienced alpinist knows, civechs come down to a lower altitude in the tonal season to gather olo fibres. The civechs combine the raw fibres with a saliva extract to create a pulp, which they then use their anteoccular mandibles to fashion into birthing gauntlets. After the birthing cycle all surviving civechs, young and old, begin their distinctive “shütre-sleink” back up the crevasse and into the sheltered couloirs they call home. It is this pulp I hold in my left hand as I write this very sentence. Any man attempting to drive a boreal icemaster into the western crevasse would be playing The Duchess Cards with his life, for if he does happen to pierce one of these couloirs he would find himself at the mercy of an entire civech colony, in close quarters, in their element, primed and ready. Multiply this by the number of alpinists in the party and we would without a doubt be middlestrung before sundown.

So here I lay in my bivouac, engaged in a perpetual stalemate. The northern fugue and the eastern bergschrund are not without their own dangers (sun slaw and whiteblock lines, respectively), however I have made it extremely clear in the preceding text that they are worlds apart from the Western crevasse. All my dauntless conviction, the brio of my past verves, the sheer physical mass of it, in spite of all this…

And Gladstone? I have seen few alpinists with acuity and athleticism to match his, but in our discussions with Trevor he is as reticent as a duck. When dealing with a dunderhead like Trevor I am more than prepared to wield the dice and I would have, days ago, were it not for the inexplicable rank he holds. How Trevor managed to manipulate his way into his current position I cannot say, but the excursatory rift torn by his puerility is in immediate need of mending.

If light were alive it would dream, and the dreams would transcend all corporeal burden and anoint focus to the singular conclusion of all narratives, upon yonder peak, at the summit. And here I remain, at the base camp.