My love affair with Mailbox is no secret. Like any traditional relationship it's had its ups and downs. (Specifically, 4,114 feet of them each trip.) Generally, I've thought of it as a means of punishment for wrongs of a previous life or at least the previous week. Occasionally, though, one is rewarded for the pain of the climb.
As usual, it was early on a Sunday. Like going to church, I dressed in my finest and immediately regretted it. The zipped up collar choked me like a tie. The long pants chafed like... long pants. And I was wishing I had more coffee. (Especially because I hadn't had any coffee!) And just like at church, I stopped along the way to disrobe and pee. (Don't blame me, I've been going to Lutheran church for so long I've forgotten my manners.) Finally comfy, Treen and I zoned out and trudged up in the dark.
At the rocks, Rainier peeked (peaked?) over the Mailbox's shoulder.
Out of the trees, the clouds hid the valley below and the sun turned their edges orange.
On the summit, a whisper of a breeze shifted the fine snow and the angels sang.
Puffy on, gloves on, hat on, and water poured for Treen, I sat back and reveled in the view. For 30 minutes I rejoiced with hot cocoa as Treen chased birds and enjoyed the views. Too soon it was time to head down, but trips like these remind me why I climb.