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Solo Ascent
By the BeRZeRKeR
December 1999
Lying in bed in the morning, I feel its presence through closed eyes. Due west, two thousand feet of earth and rock await daybreak. For two ice ages, it’s been sitting there, defining the landscape, altering weather patterns, affecting the course of history. Today, for whatever reason, I’ve decided to climb to the top.
The journey must be performed correctly, with proper respect. Starting from the bike holy land of the Battlefield, I head south until I leave the familiar bike club roads and travel on to strange highways and convenience stores. Turning off the main road, I climb a series of short ridges. On top of the last ridge, I see the mountain for the first time. It looks a lot closer than it actually is and I’m surprised when it takes another ten miles to get the base.
When I reach the mountain after the thirty-mile approach, the appropriate fatigue levels have built up in my blood and I’m low on water. When you are at the bottom of the rock you need to be at rock bottom. Under the blazing sun, I start the ascent. Head bowed and arms outstretched over the bars; I approach in a position of respect.
At first the climb seems easy, but after the third or fourth bend followed by uninterrupted uphill, I start to realize differently. It’s about noon and there is no shade at all on the road. I drink the last of my water and continue to climb upward.
I look over into the ditch on my right. On the mountain’s exposed granite rocks, it’s a continuous display of America’s respect for the land. Broken beer bottles, Coke cans, Slim Jim wrappers, fast food bags, and cigarette packs cover nearly every square inch.
Cars labor up the hill beside me. I get crop-dusted by a 1977 beige Ford Econoline van. The van’s chain smoking driver holds the pedal down trying to get the four thousand-pound vehicle up the hill in search of a fifty-cent bargain at a yard sale. The exhaust hangs above the road like a poisonous black cloud.
I’m roughly halfway up by this point and I can look down at the base of the mountain. I see the sun reflecting off acres of wrecked cars in a junkyard below. I see exhaust belching from a factory’s smokestacks. I continue to climb into the peculiarly blue sky.
I’ve been climbing for nearly an hour when suddenly, without warning, I’m at the top. The road flattens out and comes to an intersection. I turn right, heading north across the top of the ridge. The air seems cooler up here. Green fields line both sides of the road along with a few scattered houses. For a long time, no cars pass. I roll along in silence.
