Rising Abruptly (21 page)

GIANNA, sipping her wine: Last night, I had a strange dream.

GREGOR: Not falling off Assiniboine, I hope?

GIANNA: The hordes were coming.

GREGOR: The hordes?

GIANNA: We were saying farewell and we were being pushed back by the hordes. Every hiking trail, every mountain face was teeming with people. Tiny people. Like crabs or bedbugs. Crawling everywhere.

GREGOR: Farewell? Farewell to what? The mountains?

GIANNA: Oh, I don't know. Farewell to love, maybe. To the
idea
and the
feel
of mountaineering. Silence, solitude…

GREGOR: Sheer terror too?

GIANNA: In the dream, nobody was pushing and shoving. It was all so
civilized
. And yet, it felt… like one of your nightmarish shadow puppets on the mountain face.

GREGOR, using the street light streaming on the back wall of the kitchen to create shadow shapes with his hands: Aye. I'll improvise a Rockies horror show out of your dream of the Insect People. Fire away.

GIANNA: More like the Human Zoo. Speaking of which, did you know? There was actually a zoo in Banff townsite in the 1920s.

GREGOR, hands forming a wapiti, morphing into the aquiline profile of a human face: Carving the heads of our most cherished politicians into the walls of Rundle, like the goofy Americans did on Rushmore. Imagine climbing the bridge of a nose. Negotiating the ledge system of the creases in a forehead. And you and I are part of the ever-expanding zoo.

GIANNA: I know that. Burning gas, logging thousands of kilometres on paved roads. I know that. And for what? To satisfy our selfish pleasure.

GREGOR: So, it wasn't all grim and gruesome, after all?

And his nimble hands tipped into a deer hit by a car.

GIANNA: What are you suggesting? From now on, we should walk all the way to the mountains? Each time?

GREGOR: Not go at all.

GIANNA: You wouldn't say that if you were in your twenties. Or fifties even.

GREGOR: Just knowing they are there should suffice.

GIANNA: Right, sure. And yet, tomorrow… Are we bailing?

GREGOR: As long as we keep driving to the mountains, even using the outhouses provided, we are part of your hordes, Gianna.

And his hands made a shadow man speaking from both sides of his mouth.

GIANNA: Mr. Puppet Master playing devil's advocate! What bothers me is… What if the great weather holds and…

GREGOR: We want the weather to hold.

GIANNA: And the North Ridge is crawling with climbers and their guides?

GREGOR, making shadow insect: Crabs and bedbugs.

GIANNA: That's what my dream…

GREGOR: I don't like crowds on a climb any more than you. But this is a crowded world. We'll adapt. Climb in turn with other parties.

GIANNA: Climbers above will bomb us with rocks they dislodge. Impatient hot shots will push us aside. I have visions of disasters, tangled ropes, dropped tools.

And she took a gulp of wine.

GREGOR: Slow down. My hands can barely keep up with the overload of disastrous scenes. Imagining the worst is hardly useful.

GIANNA: Just rehearsing the climb. The city sure is creeping into the mountains. We are at the crossroads, Gregor. We and the mountains.

GREGOR, clapping his hands hard, ending the impromptu, pouring himself a fresh glass of wine: Relax, Gia. The mountains couldn't give a shit. Your hordes, and us of the Insect People too, don't forget, are but a blip on their geological clock. In any case, before your dream becomes reality, we'll be long dead.

GIANNA: That is my wish.

BITTERSWEET

GIANNA: For me, the relationship was bittersweet. The love-hate relationship, complicated. With Gregor? Not with Gregor. Never with Gregor. With the mountains. The dos and the don'ts. Acceptance and refusal. It took me a long time to realize the tug-of-war was not between the mountains and me, exactly. It was between my two physical selves. The ambivalence generated by the active self (bitter) and the passive self (sweet). Sure, I had been active, travelling and walking, oh that, I had done in excess, but always in the flats. Otherwise, I had never leaned toward all-out physical activities, like
sports
. But Gregor tried to convince me mountaineering was not a sport. Mountaineering was a state of mind.

State of mind? When I create my wild headdresses and perform his stories on stage, I told him, my state of mind is activated plenty enough. And so is his, he said, doing shadowgraphy. That was not in question. But he still insisted mountains were a state of mind. Although I teased him, they're rocks, Greggy, only rocks, I started to feel in the body that those rocks could play tricks with your head.

But when he went on to say that, with age, the blood of imagination thins out and becomes anemic, and mountains oxygenate imagination better than our workshop or the stage, I wondered about his state of mind. Still. I couldn't contradict him when he pointed out the body was built for walking, not to be forced into a chair. Walking, yes, I agreed. But did it have to be vertical walking? I was not a squirrel scratching its way up a tree. Gregor was unfazed and recommended patience, because it takes time and effort to break the addiction of the chair.

The addiction of the chair. In the great stifling humidity of the Far East, we had nurtured the passive self (sweet). Lounging in lounge chairs. But here? This region of unpredictable seasons was reactivating our desire for movement. Greg insisted our active selves (bitter) were calling us, loud and clear.

He warned me. With my ass on my chair, my love of movement was fast going to seed. Before my time, I'd transform into a matron of the commonplace. And his hands formed the shadow of an old woman in her rocking chair.

That was shock therapy. Gregor jolting my active self. Often, at his risk and peril. He proposed a mountain. I glared at him. Not wanting to go. And yet, not wanting to miss out. I went. Reluctantly. Dragging my ass, cursing the incline. Passive self pining for that chair. On every hike, the repetition of pain in muscles and lungs seemed pointless. Masochistic, even. I cursed his pig-headedness. Pig-headed, aye, he admitted that much. Necessary pig-headedness to counteract the insignificance triggered by idleness. The chair, Gia, he said. Beware of the chair.

Gregor and his chair. That was a laugh. Over time though, I came to appreciate his pluck for prying me out of my chair at his risk and peril.

In the early days, I often gave up, sometimes fifty metres below the summit. He didn't get it. A few more minutes, I'd stand on the top. Why come all that way and stop now?

For the day to be complete, he had to stand on the summit. For me, the top—the
peak-bagger
syndrome—did not matter. I'd had my fill and that was that. He went on ahead by himself. I waited in sunshine or in wind, sprawled on my pack, quieting my breath. Listening to the layers of silence. That too had to be experienced. The depth of silence, rising in layers around me. I was content. And maybe disappointed with myself. And he came back down with another summit under his belt. He was happy. A little sad we had not summited together. And, together, we returned home. The long, long way home.

THE MAN FROM MARYLAND

GREGOR: From the pass, Gia and I watched his progress through the scree. A small lone figure slipping and sliding up the steep rocky slope. Stopping often to catch his breath. To look up and assess the end of the ordeal. Never once turning around to look back and study the land as it would appear on the way down. Resolute, he resumed scrambling. The hiker made it to the pass. Grinned from ear to ear. To show courage. To hide exhaustion. He walked toward us. An American, it turned out. From Maryland, he told us.

The man from Maryland had no problem following the trail in the woods. But it was impossible to find the trail in the rubble, he said, taking off his small daypack and reaching for a bottle of Coke.

I played mountain teacher, as on stage I had fascinated spectators with my shadow hands shaped into an old couple mating. Once on the scree, there are no human-made trails. Only occasionally tracks the Rocky Mountain sheep make for themselves. Those tracks go where the sheep want to go, not where people want to go. The sheep are searching for food, for water. Scramblers are aiming for the summit. So, on scree, you must pick your way through the rocks, finding the places where the rubble is most stable.

The man from Maryland was perplexed. No one had informed him about that. He wanted to know where the rock was more stable. Even suggested signs should be posted to indicate where to go. Otherwise, people could get lost. And if there were signs to tell you where the rubble is more stable, it might prevent injury.

I was watching Gia, expecting a snide remark. But she kept quiet. Gianna of lost words in the mountains, preferring to let me do the talking. Instead, she grazed on the distance. Watching the man from Maryland drink his Coke, I wanted to tell him that scrambling was an acquired skill, like an acquired taste.

But he was expostulating about the boundless American genius building paved roads up fairly high mountains. High enough that, nearing the summit, car radiators used to boil over routinely; motors stalled. If the Canadians were not up to the task, and he didn't mean any disrespect, at least, surely, signs in the rubble would save time and energy. And it'd be easier.

Easier? I couldn't resist tripping him up. Why come to these mountains? They have wild mountains in the US too. The man from Maryland acknowledged the fact with great pride, as if their peaks had been built by their Corps of Engineers. But he had read online the Canadian Rockies were less crowded than the European Alps and the Rockies in the States. He was after the real
wilderness
experience.

And so, did the man from Maryland enjoy the scramble? Did the place live up to his expectations? He swore it did. Told me he was a cardiologist. This place restored heart and spirit. This spectacular landscape. Uncrowded. We were the first people he had encountered
all day
.

I spoke in as kind a Canadian voice as I could, pointing out, if there were signs everywhere to make his scramble easier, it wouldn't be the same unspoiled, uncrowded place he enjoyed so much, now, would it?

Caught in his faulty argument, the man from Maryland nodded. And stared at what he and scores of others still referred to as the
landscape
. And proceeded to shoot the land
systematically
. I knew he would post those photos online, with a detailed description of where in the
wilderness
his unspoiled experience had taken place.

Gia and I walked a little ways off. Had lunch. Waited until the man from Maryland started scrambling back down. I enjoyed watching that urbanized, educated man get smaller and smaller as he picked his way through the scree. A lone human form in our still (relatively) unspoiled mountains.

LOOKING BACK

When scrambling, from time to time, turn around. Study the land as it will appear on the way back down. Commit distinctive features to memory. You must know that the up and the down don't have the same aspect at all. You would be surprised how different the land looks on the way down and how easily it could confuse you. This morning, did we contour that outcrop? Is this the gully we took on the way up? Or was it that one? Careful. One of them we avoided because of cliffs.

On the way up, the land in your face is foreshortened. You see it in close-ups. You spot a spider scurrying between stones. Kinnikinnik growing close to the ground. Juniper shrubs sending green pollen into the air when you brush against their branches. A fossil revealed inside a stone cleaved by the action of freeze and thaw.

On the way down, the whole land is splayed out in front of you. You see the sheer magnitude of it. Rock faces shooting straight up from the valley floor. Twisted syncline. On your left, a long drop and on your right, disappearing from view, the ledge system you must negotiate to reach the alpine meadows lower down. Or the endless boulders precariously stacked, over which you must descend with half-bent knees, your weight resting on your quads. And still in front of you, several kilometres of incline before you reach the car.

THE INCLINE

GIANNA: I began tentatively. Said it was the incline. Wondered if I was
inclined
to engage in mountaineering. Despite Gregor's tireless incitement. The incline, I discovered, is an amazing thing. It seizes up your butt; it saws across your quads; it triggers cramps in your calf muscles. The incline shatters your knees and mashes the soles of your feet. Pumps masses of blood into your extremities. The incline cuts deep into your lungs. Grips your resolve and crushes it. The incline is more raw than the coldest day of winter. And it plays dangerous games with your head. Makes you angry. Nasty to your partner. Brings you to the verge of tears when you think the end is in sight, but it turns out there is more incline ahead; way more.

In the early years, Gregor would often assess, with confidence, that we were ten minutes from the summit. Relieved, grateful, I believed him with all my heart. But he was wrong. Again, the incline fooled us. Eventually, I learned to ignore his affirmations. Tackled the incline with grim surrender, stopping short of calling him a liar.

One season, the incline caught up with me and reactivated my childhood asthma. The perfect excuse to abandon the activity.

We had met on another incline in the Far East. Ah, those wild days when I was a wig maker in Hong Kong! Mixing Peking opera and Western contemporary performance art, our opera company was preparing a new production of Baucis and Philemon when Gregor happened to be passing through. As a young shadowgrapher, he was offered a gig. We met backstage and ours was an operatic romance. I still see us, Gregor, the Scot with the gruff voice of fatalism and the mesmerizing hands, and me with my Italian genes, which I used to full effect in the best tradition of the tragi-comic. We milked our theatrical selves for all it was worth and we made a roaring good time of it. Then, the heat and the crowds of the Far East got the better of us. We came to Canada to discover ice, to borrow a phrase. I with a suitcase stuffed with stunning hairpieces, but renting them out would not pay the bills. And Gregor with his marketable hands, yes, but how many birthday parties can you book to amuse kids with shadow figures of galloping horses and leaping rabbits when they have video games instead? Of course, we found jobs, we adapted, even if the road was rocky for a while.