Sport 2: Autumn 1989
Climbing
Climbing
For my father, who wanted to be forever young
We walked miles that day — my sister and I.
It was summer; we were not
ourselves —
were what we could be
at our best; free
and with different names
in the mountains, tramping
over gravel track and swingbridge,
past forty Japanese tourists wearing white,
cameras swinging at their necks
like baby monkeys
walked nine kilometres
to the base of the mountains,
there stopped by the fear
that any further
would be called
'climbing':
a thing we could not do,
at least not without
crampons
pitons
swiss climbing packs
two hundred feet of rope
two pairs of socks
in well-worn boots
strong legs
confidence
page 116
no fear of heights
(in other words —
whole other lives)
so we two girls
stopped and had our picnic
while a party of young Aussie men
swum in the nearby Hooker
yelling, white-lipped, at one another:
'Its not that fucking cold!'
and our father's ghost
ran swiftly past us
with a crate of beer (taken on a bet)
for urgent delivery
to the admiring ghosts
of other
strong,
young,
forgetful
men,
high in the mountains overhead.