Blogospheric absence explained

Dear Blog Enthusiasts:

This message is being conveyed on Markus Nystrom's behalf in order to make excuses for his unseemly long absence and to inform the reader regarding a recent excursion undertaken by Markus. Allow me, by way of preface, to introduce myself. My name is Winston Meriwether Threatte, and it is I who from time to time serve not only as Markus's mentor, but as his factotum. It is in the latter capacity that I pen the following as Markus recovers from recent exertions. Enough about me for now.

Between his most recent post and the weekend just past, Markus's time for creative-reflective activity was cut short by a sudden spike of translation work. Whatever else you may think of him, you must remember that he has certain debts to satisfy. And while it is true that such indebtedness poses an erosive threat to the creative capacity, the satisfaction of the debt, once achieved, will doubtless pay dividends in the form of tempered character. That at least is the nostrum that I peddle to Nystrom when he chafes against the bit.

If the pace of paid work last week was frantic, it was with the definite object in mind of clearing the weekend of any obligations but those he'd set for himself in the way of ordeal. Indeed, by Friday afternoon, all that remained to Nystrom was to pack and to prepare himself for what the morrow would bring. I shall convey the course of his rugged expedition to you much as he communicated it to me, not only because his words (slightly filtered here) would be truer to the spirit of the venture than any volume of polished paraphrase I might offer, but because I know he would despair of such an inordinate stain of what he deems my "prolixity and terminal formalism" spreading over the pixels of his blog. After all, possession of another writer's user name and password confers at least as much responsibility as it does privilege.

So then:

The goal Winston, as you might have guessed from what I've told you so far, was primarily to recover the tent and, if that proved successful, to make a push for the summit overlooking Nelson Lake--and possibly the lake itself. To realize this goal, I prepared exhaustively the night before and set my alarm to ring well before dawn. My packing was as light as I dared make it: A small day pack containing a flashlight, a stove, a tiny aluminum frying pan, a small bag of nuts and raisins, a plastic lunchbox containing 2 turkey sandwiches, a small bag of coffee, spare long underwear and gloves, an emergency "space blanket". To the outside of the pack I fastened a plastic water bottle, a steel bottle of gasoline, and my sleeping bag. In my pockets I carried compass, lighter, watch, map and 3 shotgun shells. My clothing was as follows: A thermal top made from some synthetic material, a heavy wool sweater, snow pants, and a nylon windbreaker. My feet were wrapped up in two pairs of socks, a sturdy pair of boots going on their 13th year, and snow-shoes thoughtfully gifted this past Christmas by my mother and her husband Peter. Rounding out the equipage was my 12-gauge Winchester shotgun, manufactured in the year 1949, and a single ski pole.

I got underway by around 7:30 and was soon privileged with an intimate audience with the sun cresting the ridge behind me. The beauty boded well for the day to come. Initially the way was familiar. Not only was I able to walk in the traces that remained from my previous snow shoe excursions, but successive thaws and refreezes had hardened them, at least at the bottom of the mountain, to where I could get traction without sinking more than a few inches into it. Some parts were steep and icy, but I knew the way well (even having gone to the length of flagging crucial switches with bits of red tape) and had reached the alpine meadow directly below the thicker wood where I knew my tent stood, in a little over three hours. I was still feeling relatively fresh, but I knew that I had to be careful and methodical about my search to avoid squandering the rest of my muscle power, not to mention the day's light, on an aimless bushwhack in search of the lost tent. This task needed not just body, but mind in conjunction with body. I sat down for a minute to mimic the state of mind I must have been in the day I pitched the tent. I would have been heading north by northwest, I reasoned. And it couldn't have been more than 15 minutes from where I stood that I had collapsed and made camp. The course I decided on was to fix a bearing of N by NW on the compass, to follow it for 15 minutes, and, if I saw nothing, to return the way I'd come. After that I would bracket that bearing by 15 degrees, first to the west, then to the east, then increasing my deviation by another 15 degrees in either direction, etc., until I found it. Like I said, the tent was my main objective, and I was prepared to look for it until an hour before sunset. It took precisely two tries. A distinct feeling that I was going to find it came over me about halfway through that second hub-and-spoke stab. The extreme slope of the hill and the murky setting were exactly as I remembered them. Yes, I thought, just let yourself be lulled into a gentler traversing angle here...and there it was, undamaged and erect. There was a considerable layer of ice crusted around the base, but it proved easy to peel off. Nor had any vermin been tempted into trespass by the smell of cashew nuts and coffee. Inside everything was as I had left it: Two sweaters, a spare can of gasoline, my sleeping pad, the food, and a day pack containing a medical kit, candles and some chemical warmers. I took the warmers and the pad, hoisting the rest into a tree for recovery the day after. I was able to affix both the tent and the sleeping pad to the outside of my little day pack. The load was not terribly well balanced, but I was moving very slowly up a mountain, so it was not much of an issue. The tent dangling on the left and the shotgun dangling on the right also tended to equilibrate each other.

As I had suspected when I camped there a month ago, the ridge was not distant. Probably no more than a couple hundred yards as the crow goes, but with several hundred feet of vertical gain. It was tough going. I believe the time was about 1 when I finally reached it. There is no mistaking a ridge, of course, but I knew that it was the ridge because of the snowmobile tracks. My neighbor Steve had mentioned that he'd been up above Nelson Lake on his machine the weekend before. It had taken him 20 minutes to get there. As irksome as the track may have been to my mountaineer's machismo, it had packed a nice rut into the snow that eased my progress considerably.

Having gained the ridge, the whole world opened up before me. I could see the sheer face of Boulder Peak hulking up out of the gorge to the north. I could see the ranches lining the Nez Perce Road reduced to conceptual ribbons on a map. Most impressively, I could see the countless snow-seized summits of the Bitterroots yawing straight up out of the world in all directions but north. I was about two and a half hours in making the summit overlooking the lake. I had passed 7,000 feet, then 8,000. The air thinned and the day was sapped of its warmth. I began to feel the ice forming in my nose as I drew breath. Near the end I emerged into an open area that looked like an old burn. What new trees grew there were stunted by the wind and cold. To the north, the ridge appeared to drop off into a chasm. I approached as close as I dared and looked down to see what looked like a rubblefield, but no lake. At which point I decided that I had the energy to surmount the next knob, but little more. If the ridge continued to rise after that, I would camp. I began counting steps between rests. 50 steps, breather. 40 steps, breather. 45 steps, breather. Finally I was there. It was, oh happily, the summit overlooking Nelson Lake. The lake was very far below. It looked like it would be possible to traverse the face to get down there, but because the face was not very well forested, it also looked like doing so might also be to court an avalanche. Screw it, I thought.

I pitched my tent, melted snow, boiled some coffee, ate frozen bread, raisins and turkey, and swaddled myself in my sleeping bag. It did not take long before the day winked out into utter dark. I huddled and shivered and tried to read. Our Enemy, The State, by the great and largely forgotten eccentric Albert Jay Nock. My hands grew numb as I read about the unbridled greed and rent-seeking of our nation's founders, save Jefferson. Ice began to encroach on my mustache. Eventually I gave it up. Our enemy was very far away, after all. Thereafter I focused on the conservation of heat, chiefly through mummification and utter stillness. I had to be still because the walls of my sleeping bag were thin with age, and to come into contact with them was to be touched by the night's icy tentacles. It wasn't going to work. I am sure there was very little risk of freezing to death (I had collected wood as a precaution, and a hot coffee was always no more than ten minutes away), but the cold was straining my endurance. Then I remembered the chemical warmers. I opened all four packets: two for my feet, two at large inside the sleeping bag. Then, for my coup de grace, I ensconced myself in the space blanket within the sleeping bag before remummifying. It was not comfortable enough for sleep, but it sufficed for a long bout of relatively warm contemplation as falling snow danced against the tent.

The following morning, as I'd been dreading through the night, was arduous. My hands kept freezing to things. Getting my boots on elicited more profanity from my mouth than the morning paper could ever do, even during these grim days of larceny. At one point I had to laugh: What straits must a man be in to be hell-bent on donning two blocks of ice onto his feet? The steely leather gave last, and soon I was ready to make my way down. The day was beautiful, and soon tolerably warm. There were animal tracks everywhere in the fresh snow.

*

That is what Markus reported to me, and what I have attempted to transmit to you, the blogospheric public, as faithfully as possible. Markus will return from his recovery period shortly, no doubt.

With esteem,

W. Meriwether Threatte