I SHALL BECOME EAGLES AND FLYHIGH IN THE SKY

Enemy fire echo in the background as Captain Tanner walked along

side the black body bags counting, “Twenty--- shhhh” half way down in the

swing of the count he freeze his right arm in place index finger point down,

”Listen.” The two Marine Private's assigned to assist him heard it too, stand

wide eyed in disbelief for a second then slide in on each side, one reach for

the heavy duty zipper and open the bag, ” The soldier squint his eyes to the

sun as he try to make out the black shadows over him, then spit bloody sand

and say,”What the fuck?” One of the Privates turn his head and say, “He's

alive Sir.” The Captain hands now on his hips in a catcher's stand reply

smiling, ”No fucking shit Sherlock,” turn his head and yell, “Medic”.

The blast from an IED sent the backside of Tao Johnny's lead-man straight

at him with the power of a freight-train, both men flew another twenty feet.

Knocked clean out and completely covered with Tao's blood, somebody in

the chaos of battle mistake him for dead. Johnny still half out of it, think of

home and whisper “Montana” soft as if it were a woman.

Big Sky County is home to the Rocky Mountains, some say it was the best

hunting ground in the whole United States. Known for the Great Indian

Wars and where the buffalo once shook the world, there nature’s beauty had

made its way into man’s heart. A solemn isolated space federally protected,

put aside that God’s grace shadowed in men.

Johnny lived on a reservation. Every morning his father woke him up before

dawn. When the sun begins again he would look upon the mountains.

There he would see Peck’s Peak. The place his Grandfather’s song crossed

into another world. He was seven when it happened. Nobody ever talked

about it anymore, but for Johnny his Grandfather never left. He knew one

day when old enough his Grandfather’s spirit would be put to rest. On his

sixteenth birthday Johnny set out to take the mountain.

The fresh wool still smelled like sheep and made him itch. He leaned back

and stretched his neck. The mountain’s base was gray stone and wet, and

the village only road loop around, maintained without tree or bush. Three

side the mountain funnel where no place close at the bottom gave view to

its top.

Not many could make the climb, the first white-man to try were

European. A bolted route was anchored in the funnel, but the hoist was slow

Johnny would use the best of both ways, the Indian way and the European

way.

The rocks in the Rocky Mountains were formed before the mountains

were raised by tectonic forces. Precambrian metamorphic rock blown

smooth by high wind over ages form the approach, some 200 feet that center

then sheer straight up again. There the gray ran into moss, slime pitched

light green fluorescent in the morning sun. Slippery every inch is made with

all your strength, and is where many turn back. The snow is thick there after,

and pack and pack and pack.

As the sun begin to rise so the temperature, the snow’s skin melted from

those rays, and quick as it warm the cold wind come and turned the skin to

ice, you would step and slide in some areas and other, step crunch through

skin and sink into soft snow, again slowing the progress where time is

everything.

Brighter than a mirror the white cut in and out and then again to blind

the best path. Towering for what looked like miles it tears the blue sky to

grow higher. Johnny pictured he was staking into a giant ice man with many

deformed arms that drew him to hang upside down. His leather gloves froze

hard and his finger tips burned. The flat side of his ax sparks the needle

stakes he pounded into the mountain’s side. He dared not stop; he could not

slow or the wet sweat that dripped and warmed his face would freeze in the

chill from the wind. Breathe deeply in, the cold biting at his chest. Each

step smooth and his pace to pound, stick, reach, pull, lean and step again

gave dance to the song he hummed. At last he could see the three horns that

hold Peck’s Peak, they tear through the ringed clouds that never go away.

Clouds that look like smoke spin up there, blowing slowly, swirling, so

intoxicating, silently hypothesizing, where pillows and fluffy clouds soak in

crystal blue skies softy calling to him. He wants to push off, let go and float

asleep. He hears his Grandfather say where the air is thin death is not far.

He rolls his eyes away and shakes his head to wake, the wind returns and

carry drops of sweat turned white, frozen as they fall.

It was his Grandfather who taught him the technique of “Thought Flash

Movement”. You picture in your mind your body in the place you plan to

move it, already there before you move, then you move as fast as you can.

The result intensifies all – speed, strength and precision. For safety he

hammered each stake twenty feet apart.

His foot touched that count and his hand was in the bag. His mind and

body as one, every move’s end over laps his next. He runs his line through

its eye and then pulls down to test. Over secure his foot had taken the first

of the next twenty and the stake comes out. His body weight shifted

unexpectedly and his right leg twisted. He claws to hold flat as his foot

slides out. It’s too late and the wind pulls him away. One hand pulls the

line slack and the other grips to withstand the weight. When the slack of the

twenty foot of line snap tight, the wind had drawn him level to his last stake.

His roll has turned to a spin, a twentieth of a second later and he is slammed

into a wall of ice.

Dangling, he has nothing to grab and nowhere to place his foot, only his

safety line holds him. He has no way to attached to the wall, to far to hang

belay, no ascend-er to jug, no way to abseil, even if he swing into the face it

is still to wide and high , no free climb, no solo, no cracks no edging no

jams, ax to bash steps, no rappel, no rips, no rope for decent. He must

bivouac, he is gripped and burnt. The only way is that he must pull himself

up the rope and he is pumped and at a crux . He hangs there a minute, then

longer staring up, then down, straight down.

The hands and arms of the ice man he climbed over are now waiting to

shred him apart. He tries to climb up and then gives up. I am cold, he

thought, and his head hurt. He is too weak; maybe later. He hangs there just

staring down.

The sun’s reflection shines hot and he welcomes the warmth. He thought if

too weak to climb up he would freeze dead come night. There to remain

hanging for all his people to see.

What shall I be – a frozen statue of shame and failure? A trophy, a frozen

Indian made to be worn like a stone on a necklace. What, just a piece of

jewelry worn around the neck of the Ice Man? How long my punishment?

All snow is gone come September. That’s when the Eagles return here to fly

high, he thought. Yes, they will come to free my spirit. Yes, they will

rescue me and feed upon my flesh. Yes, I shall become the Eagles. He then

became happy and didn’t care if he died. He yelled loud and it echoed out

and down the mountain bouncing into the valley.

“Yes, I will stay here. I shall become the Eagles.” Again and again he

repeats it, and again and again echoing and echoing out into the valley

below.

Then a clear but very soft voice speaks to him, “You shall not die here.” He

looks around for the person who came to help. There was no one around.

Again he hears the voice soft and clear. “You shall become an Eagle. You

shall be many things. You shall not die this day.” Johnny snaps his head

left, right, up and down, and doesn’t see where the voice comes from. He

didn’t want to know, nor did he ask. Rather it scares him silly and he knows

where the power of superheroes comes from. He feels his first rush of

adrenaline. Hand over hand, quicker than bees on a bear, and faster than a

fox can catch a jack rabbit, Johnny shoots up the rope. Once at the top he

stands to look down for the voice.

Johnny took the mountain that year. He never found his Grandfather’s

remains; he wasn’t supposed to. The men in his family had climbed the

mountain for generations, not as a tribal custom or ritual but to feel it.

Johnny brought that power back home again. The feeling of death was gone

too. When asked of his Grandfather he would say, “He has become Eagles

and flies high in the sky.” Memories of that cold day come and visit him

sometimes. When the air is so fresh you can taste it. A breath so cold it

bites to hurt. A taste he remembers of sweat, pain and cold; one sweet with

mountain air and victory.

Written in Raw Ink Jeff Hairabedian jeffhairabedian@yahoo.com