#but on the trek up the mountain there’s a patch of slick rocks

[impossible-rat-babies]

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[cuorepietoso]

Things you said but not out loud

requested by @ivanrahal  /  ft. Alessio Rossi and Ivan Rahal

          I. 2010

     Rana and Rospo stand at the bottom of the trail and peer up for a long while as the rest of them pack, glancing at the surrounding hills and mountains with poorly hidden trepidation. The barrels of their twin M82s tower over their shoulders, the rifles nearly the length of a grown man, and when Rossi meanders close and prods at them over their silence, Rospo only throws his cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the toe of his boot, and muttering, “exposed the whole way. Easy targets for any sniper worth their salt.” He’s the veteran of their unit, the oldest and longest serving, and his grizzled face makes his partner look almost cherubic in comparison, most of the time. Now, Rana only gives their motley crew a nervous glance before turning his eyes skyward once more, and fiddles absently with the straps on his gear.

          It has, unsurprisingly, set a rather somber tone for the trek. 

     The soft shale stone of the mountain crumbles underfoot like sand, treacherous and slick paths leading up a sheer cliff face. The wind against their backs is frigid, smells faintly of acrid smoke. Their entire squad is burdened with gear, sweat clinging to the napes of their necks and drenching their uniforms as they slowly, painstakingly, make their way up to the firebase already nestled in the valley between two craggy peaks. They’re meant to use the hastily constructed base as a touchstone for their next assignment, and bring relief and supplies to the men already nestled away there. It’s a terrible idea-- a terrible location, a terrible plan, but there’s no other way to get there but by helicopter, and the last four that tried were nearly brought down by RPGs and small arms fire alike. One pilot had cheerfully showed Tahan the bullet hole in the bottom of his foot, and called it ‘running the gauntlet’. 

     They don’t speak. It’s bad enough that every rock they send slipping seems to fall forever, and the echoes of them last even longer than that, radiating through the canyon endlessly and announcing their presence to anyone within miles, likely. Tahan, who grew up nestled at the foot of the alps, at least fares better than some, struggling for breath and footing in the thin air. He fares better than Rossi, who grew up on the sea, in the south. They’re supposed to keep a distance of three meters, to make targeting them from a distance just a little more difficult, but as the six of them slog forward, they bunch occasionally, settling a hand on the shoulder in front of them to help keep balance, or lifting the bottom of their pack to help them climb a sheer step without using their hands. 

     It’s lucky that he stops watching how close he’s getting to Rossi, watching for movement on the opposite cliff face. When the younger man’s feet slide out from under him, it takes him only a millisecond to catch his elbow, and the shoulder of his uniform, and drag all 117 kilograms of him and his gear back to his feet with a harsh grunt. The rock he’d been sliding on slips neatly off the lip of the trail, and they listen to it fall for a long time, clutching each other until it finally crashes against the ground below. Tahan looks at Rossi. Rossi, wide-eyed, stares back. 

     Tahan pats his chest, awkwardly, and then brushes some of the dust clinging to his fatigues off. Gunfire echoes in the far distance, but nothing close enough for them to worry about now. Rossi takes a deep breath, eyes him, trailing his gloved fingers over Tahan’s cheekbone for just a moment, and then turns away with a long sigh.

          They carry on. 

-

     II. 2011

     The little black book he carries in his pocket has hundreds of little blank pages. He’s been stuck on how to start it for a little while, ever since Rossi had added to his sketchbook collection by pressing the warm leatherbound thing into his hands like it was made of precious gold, smile light on his face. Unwilling to spoil it, maybe, with the wrong topic. He’s had plenty of others to fill, anyway.

     Until now, at least. He’s half-reclined among some crates, a knee pulled to his chest, the book resting against his thigh. Rossi and Rahal are seated at a rickety folding table a meter away, getting into a rather heated argument over ... something. Tahan thinks it’s probably about the human condition, seeing as Rahal has that ugly, vaguely cruel look on his face, and Rossi’s usually smiling lips are downturned, and they’re both gesturing so sharply and suddenly and often that it’s hard to get more than a gesture sketch done. 

     And so that’s just what he does, for a while, listening absently to their hissed logical word traps and their gotcha arguments and anecdotal and empirical evidence, filling pages and pages with gesture sketches, and then turning back and filling details-- the wrinkle between Rossi’s brows, the sharp bridge of Rahal’s nose, their flared nostrils. The twin looks of triumph as they continue to try and one-up each other, drawing out a trap and then striking ruthlessly, cutting tongues and logic intertwined. 

          He just thinks it’s nice that they’re having fun. 

     Rossi has been looking a little wide-eyed, lean around the edges lately, as he slogs through mountains of intel, risks his neck for secret meetings with informants, trying desperately to keep them on the right track, to keep them alive. And Rahal has been -- not wilting, maybe, but his near-death experience had left him on uncertain footing. Their lively banter is a nice backdrop, where normally there would only be the sound of the wind hissing over the sands, behind the backdrop of daily life on base. 

     It takes him a moment to realize they’ve fallen ominously silent, and when he lifts his gaze to see what the deal with that is, they’re both watching him closely. He finds he doesn’t quite have the piercing quality to Rahal’s gaze down, and without looking away from them he starts to absently erase what he has done of the youngest man’s eyes. Rossi, for his part, seems amused, eyes bright with something like excitement even as his lips remain pursed and his jaw clenched. Tahan raises his eyebrow, a silent, what?

          Rahal’s voice is glacial when he snaps, “Well? What are you thinking in all of this?”

     Tahan slowly, thoughtfully, closes the little black book. He considers the things he’s believed for a long while: the innate dignity in being human, the strong should protect the weak, that cruelty and depravity are symptoms of an illness that’s been eating people alive for thousands of years. A common enemy in greed. The corner of his mouth quirks, and Rossi already looks resigned to hearing whatever stupid joke he’s about to let loose. “Naked women,” he drawls finally, folding the sketchbook carefully into his rucksack. 

     There’s another long silence, though this one is tinged with outrage. When he looks up again, Rossi’s got his hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Rahal’s jaw seems like it’s halfway to the table. He looks like he’s practically trembling with angry disbelief. 

     Tahan tosses his pencil at him, and he swats it out of the air like an angry house cat. When he glances to the side and sees that Rossi is only laughing helplessly, the incense grows, and he barks out, “What the hell is so funny about that?” Turning his pale gaze back to Tahan, he continues, “You weren’t even paying attention?” 

     “I leave the thinking to the big brains,” Tahan replies, settling back into his little nest of crates as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Rossi draws his hand away from his face and gives him an unbearably fond look, and then gently taps the back of Rahal’s hand to get his attention. 

          “Leave him to his fantasies, no? Surely he can only be so creative.”

-

     III. 2013

     The heavy pounding of the chopper blades is both heard and felt. The headsets do well to cancel out the raging noise, but they can’t completely drown it out, not when the metal surrounding them hums with every solid beat. Tahan can never sleep in these screaming metal death traps, no matter how exhausted he is. It feels like his heart syncs with every rapid, measured beat of the blades, like it will burst out of his chest. For him, time slows. There’s nowhere to put the energy. Normally-- well, normally he fidgets. 

     But today, it seems, after their weeks-long and trying assignment, Rossi has no such compunctions about it. He’s not sure when the younger man fell asleep, exactly. Not sure how long they’ve been in the air, not sure how much longer they have left in their trip. His head had fallen to rest on Tahan’s shoulder, and though he’s sure there will be more than one complaint about the kink in his neck when he wakes, he leaves him be. Rossi needs the sleep nearly as much as he needs to breathe, at this point. 

     Tahan stays perfectly still, staring at Rospo, seated across from him. The older man has a lazy, half-smirk on his face, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He gestures, vaguely, to the sleeping man on his shoulder. “Mannaggia is drooling all over you,” it’s hard to hear his low baritone even with the headsets and the mics, but Tahan gets the gist of it when he gestures to his own shoulder. 

     He sighs softly, and when they hit a rough patch he reaches across his own torso to leave a steadying hand against Rossi’s collarbone, to keep him from falling forward and starting awake. Rospo gives the pair of them a fond look, and then closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the cold wall of the helicopter body. Rossi’s hair has fallen into his face, and he can feel the man’s nose and cheeks twitching at the itch of it. Carefully, so as not to scrape his skin with the rough fabric of his kevlar gloves, Tahan brushes the strands off his forehead with his knuckles. Rossi settles back into his shoulder with a quiet sigh, and he remains utterly still for the rest of the long flight, unwilling to stir and wake him even once his arm starts to go numb.

-

     IV. 2017

     He’s not sure what he’s expecting, exactly, when he pushes the door open to the Handkerchief that afternoon. He’s never really sure what to expect with Ivan’s mercurial temper, whether he’s going to try and sink his claws into his spine and try to shred him in the name of curiosity, or if he will be all teeth, gnashing and snarling and hard-mouthed and -eyed. He doesn’t know if he’ll get the purring, contented creature that lets his hackles settle under his hands, or if Ivan will want to throw punches, talking with his fists as much as his mouth. He’s never really expected to have a cell phone hurtling towards his skull first thing-- the door isn’t even closed yet when he ducks out of the way. The glass of the thing shatters to pieces against the wall, and he traces its path back to the origin point: Ivan Rahal’s hand. 

     The man is practically shaking with rage, though Battista can tell it’s not really at him. He’s not afraid to ask, he’s just not sure if he should, if it will soothe Ivan or if it will fan the flames of his raging temper and send him up to the ceiling. He takes one step inside, two, and watches the way those silver eyes track him, flinty in his face. “I could have been a customer,” he says, finally just biting the bullet and stepping forward fully, trailing his fingers along the top of the glass cases as he approaches, his other hand loosely gripping the strap of his backpack. 

     “I know. That’s why I threw that, and not this--” his voice is hardly more than a venomous hiss, and he draws up like he’s going to come at him over the counter as Battista approaches, brandishing his knife. Battista snorts, and then he has to dodge the knife, too, listening to it shatter something behind him with a quiet sigh. The pause in his approach only gives Ivan time to dramatically wave his hand, and then reach up and run it through his hair with a snarl.

     Perhaps bravely, perhaps stupidly, Battista comes to a rest with his hip on the counter Ivan stands behind, setting his bag on the glass with a quirked eyebrow. “What crawled up your ass and died, habibi?” 

     Ivan gives him a sharp look, shoulders relaxing at the bit of careful Arabic before remembering he’s supposed to be angry, and he makes an inarticulate sound of rage, teeth grit. “Nothing crawled up my ass and died, you son of a bitch--” He gestures again, this time at the poor, shattered cellphone that nearly caved in Battista’s skull. “Fucking-- Orion Massetti, that prick, that thrice-damned--” Falling silent again, Ivan watches as he reaches into his worn bag and pulls out a pair of wrapped shawarma sandwiches, and a container of rice, and some fattoush. “What the hell is that?”

     Battista watches as he trembles faintly, the adrenaline and the anger still coursing under his skin like magma, and he gestures to the sandwich he’d set down closed to Ivan. “I brought lunch. That one’s for you. No pickles.” The younger man’s brows furrow, like he’s not sure quite how to handle this. “Go on, then. I can tell you haven’t eaten breakfast.”

     Almost violently, Ivan snaps the sandwich up and unwraps it, taking a bite like he’s imagining it’s a piece of Massetti’s flesh. That’s fine-- he’ll feel better with a little food in him.  

-

     V. 2019

          It’s pouring down rain, on a Friday night. 

     Battista is convalescing, and really so is Ivan-- the injuries they’re currently fighting are no joke. Battista had been nagging him so much about being careful of his ribs, no strenuous activity, and Ivan had turned it back on him, with a snapped, what about your leg, hm? And a cold I wouldn’t have to work so hard to get up the stairs at your apartment if we just stayed at my place. I have a fucking elevator. 

          Well, whatever. 

     They’d had a warm meal. Battista can’t really think what it was, drowsing here on Ivan’s couch with his injured leg propped up on a couple of pillows on the coffee table, and the taller man’s head resting squarely on his other thigh. Ivan is flat on his back, face half-turned towards the television, where Our Planet plays at a volume almost too low to hear even in the silence of his apartment. He’s half asleep, hardly paying attention at all. 

     Battista’s attention, for once, is firmly on Ivan. His left hand is settled palm-down right over Ivan’s heart, the slow and steady beat of the damned thing and the almost stilted way he breathes through the pain of his broken ribs doing well enough as signs of life, when the man is so otherwise still. 

     His other hand, he’s found, can’t quite stay away from the silken strands of his hair. It’s fascinatingly soft, and every time his blunt nails scrape along Ivan’s scalp, he watches his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile, and he can see his arms break out in goosebumps. He doesn’t want to overdo it, to drag Ivan back into full awareness, but he can’t quite get over how deliciously reactive he is to the contact. When his thumb trails over the shell of his ear, Ivan’s eyes flicker open almost lazily, something like a dazed grin spreading on his face. Battista thinks, briefly, that he looks kind of like a cat with too much catnip, and has to bite back a snort. Then, he thinks, if the angle wasn’t so weird, and he wasn’t likely to get an awful crick in his neck he might just lean down there and kiss him, to see how his smile tastes.

[untrueusername]

The Witch in the Cottage in the Woods

 Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: minor mention of blood, swearing

Summary: After getting hurt while hiking, Dan is found by a friendly witch named Phil, who provides hospitality to him in his home while he heals him.

   Dan didn’t like hiking, but according to his friend Jane, a therapist, he “needed more nature” in his life. She said that spending his whole summer off from university in his bedroom wasn’t good for his health, mentally or physically, and suggested that a nice trek through the woods would help him. So there he was, sweating his tits off in the hot summer sun with a backpack full of trail mix and water going almost straight uphill.

It had been raining terribly for days on end earlier in the week (as per usual in England), but today the sun was out, brightly shining. At first, Dan had seen this as a good thing, but after hiking for an hour in the scorching heat, he was sure that god hated him.

The part he was hiking was supposedly the hardest part of the trail; according to the guide he had seen at the beginning of the trail, it started out flat and then rose to an incline about an hour in, before going downhill for a while and then mostly flat for the rest of it, save a few hills. It hadn’t looked too difficult on the map, but Dan soon realised that it was actual hell.

Because of the rain, parts of the hike had been a bit muddy, but nothing too bad. He had slipped on his bum once earlier on in the trail, but he had learned from his mistake quickly and figured out what to look for to avoid falling again. However, being the clumsy motherfucker that he is, Dan accidently put all of his weight onto a slick patch of mud he hadn’t noticed. He immediately slipped and began tumbling downhill, veering off of the path and hitting trees, bushes, and rocks all the way down.

When he reached the bottom of the hill, his barely conscious self could’ve sworn he saw a boy wearing a funny hat running towards him with a look of worry in his face before he passed out.

  As he woke up, the first sensation Dan was aware of was the aching and soreness all over his body, but more intensely so in his right leg. He opened his eyes, and without moving his bruised and battered body too much, he could see that he was lying down in an ugly wicker bed with a green and blue quilted blanket. The room around him had wooden walls, ceiling, and floors, and seemed as if it was not only a bedroom, but also a kitchen and living room all in one. It was decorated with books, plants, and… is that a crystal ball?

In the corner of the room seemingly dedicated to the kitchen, the boy Dan had seen just before he lost consciousness looked like he was making tea. He was wearing a blue shirt, black skinny jeans, and a rather out-of-place looking hat on his head, the kind that Dan had seen worn in Harry Potter.

Dan, against his better judgement, decided to try and sit up. He groaned as a sharp spark of pain ran down his leg and his head pounded. Hearing him, the mysterious boy quickly spun around and rushed across the room to help him.

“You had a really nasty fall back there,” he said, helping Dan into a sitting position on the mattress. “You’re lucky I was out looking for blueberries when you fell.” He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down next to Dan. “My name’s Phil.”

“I’m Dan. Dan Howell. And thank you so much for saving me.”

“Oh it’s no problem,” Phil said. “It’s not like I have much of anything else to do.” Phil looked down at Dan’s leg, which Dan then noticed seemed to have been wrapped in bandages. He was bleeding through them.

“I’m going to have to redress that soon,” Phil muttered under his breath. “You’ve been out for about an hour. It didn’t take too long to dress your wounds, but it took forever to carry you here. Next time you fall down a mountain, could you do it a little closer to your rescuer’s house?”

Dan chuckled. “Yeah, sure thing. I’ll try to aim a little better next time.”

Across the room, the kettle began to whistle, startling the two men. Phil jumped out of his seat and headed over to the stove. He grabbed some oven mitts and poured the tea into a black mug shaped like a cat before bringing it over to Dan. Nodding in thanks, Dan took a small sip of the tea and was surprised at how much he liked it. He could taste a number of herbs, but the only one he could easily identify was peppermint.

“This is incredible,” Dan said, taking another sip. “I’ve never had anything like this in my life.

Phil smiled. “I’m glad you like it. Peppermint and clove are good natural painkillers and I added a touch of goldenseal to increase your white blood cells to help you heal a bit quicker.” Phil paused a moment, before continuing. “Why were you out there, anyways? I assume you were hiking on the path up the mountain, but you don’t really seem like much of a hiker. No offense. It’s just, you’re wearing skinny jeans and converse, Dan.”

Dan looked a bit embarrassed. “Yeah. You’re absolutely right. My friend told me I needed to go outside more, and suggested I go hiking. I thought ‘wow this’ll be easy’ and decided to go on one of the more advanced trails. That was obviously a mistake.”

Phil tried not to laugh. “Yeah. I’ve got to admit, I’ve been out here for a very long time, and I’ve never seen someone like you around these parts.”

“And what about you? What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Well, that’s a long story. I, ummm… Well, to put it short, I really like plants and don’t much care for people.”

Dan laughed, nodding his head. “I can relate to that.” Dan took the last sip of his tea before setting it down onto the nightstand next to him. He tried to readjust himself in the small bed, and winced in pain.

“Yeah… I’m definitely going to have to redress that for you,” Phil said, and then hesitantly continued. “The first time I did this you were unconscious, so it was a lot easier, but this time, it’s going to be a little… strange.”

“What do you mean by ‘strange’?” Dan asked, suddenly a bit alarmed.

“Well… I guess you’ll see in a moment.”

Considering Dan didn’t have much choice (I mean, he couldn’t exactly run or anything), he nervously sat still and waited for Phil to go get some supplies. However, Phil did no such thing. Instead, he scooted his chair closer to Dan’s leg and put his hands just above it. Without touching him, Phil closed his eyes and began to whisper something that sounded like gibberish to Dan.

Suddenly, Phil’s hands began to glow a neon green color, Dan’s leg totally illuminated by it. Dan gasped, but stayed still, totally captivated by the light. His leg immediately felt much better, and Dan was shocked to see the blood that had gone through the bandages disappear before his eyes.

After about ten seconds of this, Phil stopped, and leaned back in his chair, panting, as if it had taken a lot of energy out of him. He blinked, before looking back over at Dan, waiting for his reaction.

“Um. Well. That was, um.” Dan looked shocked, his eyes wide and his mouth slack. Hesitantly, Dan went on. “Are… Are you like, a wizard or something? If you are, please don’t get offended or zap me or anything, I was just-”

Phil laughed. “I’m not a wizard.” A look of relief spread across Dan’s face. “That’s a common misconception. I’m a witch.”

Dan spluttered.

“Don’t worry! I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I’m just helping you out here. I’m not evil.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good, I guess,” Dan said, obviously on edge. He paused awkwardly for a second. “So… Do you, like, have a black cat or something?” Dan glanced over at the black cat-shaped mug that Phil had presented his tea in, which suddenly held a whole new meaning.

“I’m more of a dog person, really.” Phil looked at the mug too. “That was a gag gift I got from my ex.”

“Oh thank goodness. I hate cats.”

 “Me too.”

  After Dan and Phil woke up the next day, having shared Phil’s small bed all night, Dan had been healed enough by Phil that he could walk on his leg without too much discomfort. It had taken quite a few healing sessions to get that far, though; Phil said that performing powerful magic like healing spells took a lot of power and energy, and he couldn’t do a lot of healing in only one go. However, after a good nights sleep and one final spell, Dan was ready to go.

Phil packed Dan a small satchel of supplies with some water, a snack, and a map, making sure to tell him to be careful on the steep parts this time. Just as Dan was about to leave, however, Phil stopped him.

“Wait! One more thing before you go.” Phil handed Dan a small slip of paper with series of digits written on it. “It’s been really fun hanging out with you, and I was thinking if you’d like we could maybe… see each other again soon? Like on a date? Maybe?” Dan could hear how nervous Phil.

“I’d love that,” Dan replied, grinning. “Goodbye, my witch.” Dan leaned in and kissed Phil on the cheek. “I’ll see you again soon.”

[elephantshatebees]

Mountain Log

7/28

We got up early for to drive south to Kasese through the pre-dawn dark, pausing for goats and baboons as they crossed our path. The gate to the park is at the end of a long road, winding up through the foothills of the Rwenzoris following the river Mubuku past lively villages and thatch-roofed ecotourism lodges. There, we signed into a log book and chatted with the armed and uniformed UWA officials. The Ugandan Wildlife Authority is pretty ubiquitous throughout the region, and I’m told they’re as—if not more—heavily armed as the Ugandan Military. We finally met Lazarus, our guide, and paid him for the upcoming trip (naturally, entirely cash). After counting and recounting the ludicrous stacks of shillings, we strapped on our packs and headed up into the mountains. 

The Rwenzoris are constantly misty and usually rainy, even in the dry season. To ward off a trip-soaking storm, there are several precautions hikers are advised take. Firstly, under no circumstances must one utter aloud the name of the Mountain King (which I promptly forgot to prevent that occasion entirely), nor eat any of the berries found on the mountain—both signs of disrespect in his realm. Secondly, one must always keep a sharp eye out for three-horned chameleons sunning themselves on branches. These perfectly camafloagesd reptiles are signs of good luck and—more importantly—fair weather. They’re also remarkably friendly. Finally, one must keep a Lucky Leaf, picked from a convenient bush at the trailhead, on their person at all times.

We performed each task dutifully and were rewarded with a mostly dry ascent. 

Because of our slightly hurried time-frame, we skipped the first resting point on the first day, opting to travel all the way to Guy Yeoman Hut. This required a dawn-to-dusk hike through several incredible floral zones. We climbed through steamy rainforest and misty cloud forest with ferns taller than a man and canopies like cathedrals. We wove through magnificent bamboo forests cast in filtered golden light, stretching up like misbegotten jungle gyms of perfect slitted shadows. We scrambled over boulders and trudged through marshes. At one place, some geologic shift must have brought a bog through a tall broadleaf forest, creating a scene of total carnage: bare trees stood up at varying angles like the forgotten masts of ghost ships on a rolling sea, with tattered sails of Old Man’s Beard and Hanging Moss. Their fallen comrades stacked and cluttered like some maniacal, infinite driftwood fort, constantly collapsing and reforming far off in the distance. 

None of it was easy going. The mountains are so steep and wet that any slope is washed clean of scree (leaving only endless boulder fields to mount over), and any flat stretch becomes a bottomless bog. Some parts of the climb were so precipitous that a single misstep could send you tumbling for three days, eventually landing with a splash in Lake George. However, there was one section more precarious than all the rest named, in the English translation, Carry-Up Slope. Here, as legend has it, the Strong Men from foothill villages would camp and wait for intrepid mountaineers. The climbers would be daunted by the sight before them: five hundred meters up a narrow gulch between two bluffs, sheer rock with no hand holds and constantly slick and slimy from waterfalls pouring in. After a few failed attempts to scale the slope, the climbers would be forced to cut hard deals with the Strong Men. They traded their watches, houses, and even daughters to have their packs carried up and out of the gulch. 

Fortunately, the mountaineering services recently installed five hundred meters of army surplus iron ladders in the gulch, so we were able to make the climb without loosing custody of any heirlooms, or indeed, any heirs. 

We reached Guy Yeoman shortly after, to a much-deserved rest and hot meal. We had just scaled two-thousand meters and had another two-thousand to the peak. Here we got acquainted with our porters. Freeze-dried food is hard to come by, so it’s easier to hire porters and a chef (as we did) to bring and prepare real meals. Had we been less sturdy young bucks, they would have also gladly taken our packs. 

7/29

Things got colder and harder from there. As the altitude increased, vegetation shrank to a few succulents, scraps of orange and blood-red moss, and the pervasive heather. This left us vulnerable to the constant wind and misty rain as we ascended another two-thousand meters up a rocky pass to Fresh Field, before plunging 600 meters to the two Kitandara lakes where we would pass the next night. Here, our Lucky Leaves really saved us. As soon as we reached the shelter of our hut an incredible rain storm passed overhead, shaking our plywood walls and tearing loose from the slopes huge chunks of the hearty vegetation. It was beginning to feel like a trek into Mordor.

7/30

On the third day we made a go at the summit. We crept up on the peak for two hours, sticking to the bogs and gulches to avoid its watchful eye. Once we finally made our way around to its blindside, we ventured up the ridge of the spiny peak. While it wasn’t a technical climb, we certainly bouldered over countless obstacles, needing both bands to haul ourselves up to ledge after ledge. During this ascent, our meteorological luck finally ran out. At this altitude, what was surely rain in the valley below turned solid, giving the landscape and our party an aesthetic dusting of equatorial snow.

We finally reached the summit of Weismann Peak, at 4620 meters (over 15,000 feet). There was fresh snow on the ground, craggy rocks, a few patches of orange moss, and five exhausted, smiling mountaineers. As we sat, resting and admiring the view, a pair of eagles effortlessly buzzed the peak, congratulating us for the climb (and surveying for casualties). Clouds stretched out infinitely beneath us, a cotton blanket stretched tight over the gently-curving horizon. In the distant West, a strong equatorial sun shone over land belonging to the DRC. Craggy peaks pierced through all around us, marking Mt. Baker, Mt. Luigi, and Mt. Stanley with the last true glacier in Africa. 

The path back to the Kitandara Hut was a blur. Our excited porters lead the charge in a heedless, bounding rush, but it was all I could do to stagger along behind. Once cresting the peak, altitude sickness began to set in. By the time we were returning, I had a skull-splitting headache and was wrestling to keep a hold on consciousness. After some time, I gave up and thoroughly checked out of the situation, leaving my body to pilot itself to the valley below on instinct alone.

After arriving back at camp, the rest of the day was spent on the floor of our hut, packed in sleeping bags and dozing in and out of sleep as rain came and went and we listened to The Dead on a portable speaker. A few hours’ rest and some Ibuprofen abated my altitude sickness long enough to join the porters, chef, and guide at a campfire for our celebratory dinner. 

7/31

Stricken with altitude sickness and exhausted from the past three days’ effort, we made our weary way back. To be honest, most of the two-day descent was a tedious , slippery drudge. While we returned through all the same terrain, being turned around and random weather events ensured we saw all the landscape differently. Or at least we could have seen it were we able to pry our eyes from the muddy slopes and rain-slick rocks long enough to steal a glimpse without stumbling and crashing to the ground with heavy packs and unsteady legs (and there was quite a lot of that). Little was said between any of us, which left ample time for reflection and personal thoughts whenever the pervasive headaches slackened to allow for that sort of effort. 

We made it all the way past Guy Yeoman to the midday stop on the first day of our ascent. A hellish first day rewarded by a short and pleasant hike on the final morning. This left plenty of time for goodbyes, victorious photos, handshakes, and all the usual pleasantries. Our driver arrived on time to the minute, and the porters dispersed, following the river down to their various villages of residence tucked in the foothills of the mystical mountains. 

Like any wild area, you’re supposed to pack out everything you pack in. But I can guarantee we all left with much more that we brought, in a (forgive me) more mystical manner of speech. Bumps and Bruises, sure; a thousand and one photographs; an extra-long cassette tape of memory already twisting and transmuting, becoming faded in some sections but growing more vivid in others—in the surreal extra-sensory dimension unique to that tricky storage medium. 

Lazarus sent me an email a few days later. He had just picked up his first cellphone a day before our trip, so he’s certainly in the early stages of figuring out this incessantly intricate communication technology. It’s not unlikely that it was the email he ever wrote. Completely candid and free from the usual salutations, patterns, and expectations unconsciously present in every other email I’ve read or written. Not soliciting any service or following up on a request, but simply wishing me a safe journey and sending his regards to my friends and family.