There still are rushing rivers in my dreams;
There still are grinding boulders in the streams;
      There still is mountain madness,
      Thund’ring down in reckless gladness
—Tho I’m safely in my bed in town, it seems.

There is still a shining world of ice and snow;
There still are steps to slog and miles to go;
      There still are fragile bridges,
      And windy fearsome ridges,
—Tho the city sounds about me all say “No…”

There is still a threat’ning avalanche to round;
There still are blinding fog banks, summit bound;
      I can find no safe belay
      Yet the suns ays “Do not stay”…
—Then I wake to find I’m home on level ground.

I’ll be toiling up sublime eternal heights,
I’ll be threading huge seracs by candle lights,
      I will pause where none may pass
      By some bottomless crevasse…
—I’ll be dreaming that I’m climbing… many nights.

by Clark E. Schurman

If the conquest of a great peak brings moments of exultation and bliss, which in the monotonous, materialistic existence of modern times nothing else can approach, it also presents great dangers. It is not the goal of grand alpinisme to face peril, but it is one of the tests one must undergo to deserve the joy of rising for an instant above the state of crawling grubs. On this proud and beautiful mountain we have lived hours of fraternal, warm and exalting nobility. Here for a few days we have ceased to be slaves and have really been men.

It is hard to return to servitude…

Lionel Terray was one of my first favorite climbers, simply because of his ability to convey such familiar feelings about the sport so eloquently.

It is impossible of course to provide an entirely satisfactory explanation for any recreation. The predominant motive in any human activity varies according to the temperament of the individual. Mountaineering provides good exercise in pleasant surroundings, a sense of satsfaction in overcoming difficulties, the joy, akin to dancing, of controlled rhythmic movement, a stimulating contact with danger, a wealth of beautiful scenery and a release from the tiresome restrictions of modern life. The expert likes to practice or display his skill. Some confess to having been drawn to climbing by a physical inferiority complex engendered by their failure at school to hit a ball straight and far. These motives are probably sufficient in themselves, and they certainly form the basis of many other sports. But in the deep devotion to any form of active endeavor there is generally something else we seek. In the case of mountaineering it is a kind of personal identification with the hills themselves, which comes of intimate understanding and strenuous contest and which brings with it a wealth of philosophical content. Above all, in my view, the attraction lies in the memory of those rare moments of intellectual ecstasy which occur perhaps on a mountain summit, perhaps on a glacier at dawn or in a lovely moonlit bivouac, and which appear to be the result of a happy coincidence in the rhythm of mind and scene.

From Upon That Mountain.

Pretty much sums it up.

Have you gazed on naked grandeur
where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Have you strung your soul to silence?
Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you.
Have you suffered, starved and triumphed,
groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things
Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.

- Robert Service

A little Friday inspiration for you. Robert Service is one of the poets I grew up with. He was one of my Grandpa Gene’s favorites, and even Mom could throw down at least most of “The Cremation of Sam McGee” at the drop of a hat. I’ll have to pull out a book of his and earmark a few for memorization this winter.

Snow has fallen in Jackson – it won’t be long before we’re dusted as well.

“Mountains,” said United States Supreme Court Justice William Douglas, “have a decent influence on men.”

I would have to agree. Mr. Justice Douglas spent more time on the US Supreme Court than any other Justice, and and in his autobiography “Of Men and Mountains”, he shares a lifetime of stories and anecdotes that probably put him in the lead for the Justice with the most amount of time outside as well. His ties to the Cascades are what initially piqued my interest, but he’s actually quite a character worth spending some time reading about. Consistently liberal, he became known on the court for his fervent support of civil rights and liberties, particularly the First Amendment guarantees of freedom of speech and press.

I am particularly impressed however, with his commitment to the environment and outdoor conservation, in an era when it wasn’t yet at the forefront of the public consciousness. His prescience in making the environment an important part of the issues of the day helped preserve access to wilderness areas that otherwise might have been lost. Regardless of his politics, his eloquence in writing about the relationship between men and mountains is enough for me to keep him on my bookshelf.

See also: Time Magazine’s 1950 review of the book…

Tom Bourdillon on reasons for climbing mountains:

One reason is never given openly, rather is disguised and hidden and never even allowed in suggestion, and I venture to think it is because it is really the inmost moving impulse in all true mountain-lovers, a feeling so deep and so pure and so personal as to be almost sacred – too intimate for ordinary mention. That is, the ideal joy that only mountains give – the unreasoned, uncovetous, unworldly love of them, we know not why, we care not why, only because they are what they are; because they move us in some way which nothing else does; so that some moment in a smoke-grimed railway carriage, when in the pure morning air the far-off cloud of Mont Blanc suddenly hung above the mists as we rounded the curves beyond Vallorbe, or, still fairer, from the slopes near Neuchâtel, the whole Bernese range slept dreamlike in the lake at our feet, lives in our memories above a hundred more selfish, more poignant joys; and we feel that a world that can give such rapture must be a good world, a life capable of such feeling must be worth the living.