  The last hour was brutal. Mr. Lurie took the lead with Karl and Judy close behind. On hands and knees they crawled over boulders until they secured a foothold. At one spot Judy was left dangling until her father and Karl inched toward her on their stomachs and pulled her to safety. Marian’s role was more passive. The coil of rope that Judy had skeptically regarded as a showpiece for Fran now proved its usefulness. Tied under Marian’s arms, he hauled her over rocks and boulders she pluckily attempted but could not scale. At last they reached the summit. Their salute to the mountain peak was brief. A sharp wind blew through their wet and clammy sweaters. Jackets and windbreakers were pulled from knapsacks. They stood awed and shivering, surrounded by the nearby peaks, silent in the vastness of its forbidding grandeur. Only the cairns, little heaps of massed stones, marked the path of retreat to a world of safety. Mr. Lurie put his arm around Judy and held her close. Fran, as moved as the others, relentlessly pointed to the slanting rays of the sun. Ten minutes later, they began the descent. Fran rushed ahead with Karl and Judy followed him down the dizzying path. It was fun racing down at almost breakneck speed. The boulders that had defied them and were so hard to grip on the upward climb were friendly on the descent. They sat and slid down, the well-padded leather seats of their pants taking the punishment instead of their young, tough bodies. Looking back at intervals, they saw Mr. Lurie patiently guiding Marian down the trail, supporting her as she slid down the slippery boulders. Still high above them on the trail, they looked unbelievably small silhouetted against a background of rock and sky. With high spirits and exuberant bursts of laughter, the three forerunners reached the plateau they had left only an hour and a half earlier and were content to rest as they waited for Marian and Mr. Lurie. “If you’re game, we can take another trail down,” Fran said. “It’s a little tough in places, but much shorter. We’ll see what they say when they get here.” When Mr. Lurie and Marian approached and were within hailing distance, Fran called, “Hurry, I want to—” He got no further. He and his companions eyed Marian with amazement. Her jeans were torn. Long strips of fabric hung in ribbons and light pink stuff showed through the rents of the once slick garment. Her cap was gone and Mr. Lurie’s leather jacket hung loosely on her shoulders. With her rumpled curls falling limply over her brow, she looked like a desperate young bandit. “Well, here I am,” she greeted them, “a thing of rags and patches, minus the patches.” She flopped down beside them with an anguished “Oh!” as her knees crumpled under her. Fran gave her a sad, appraising glance. “I was just saying, there’s another trail down. We’ll have to slide on some ice, but it’s nothing much and we can save an hour, maybe more.” Mr. Lurie shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we better stick to the same trail even if it’s longer.” Marian perked up, suddenly alert. “Fran, did you say we can save an hour? That would get us down by six or seven. Golly, what’s keeping us? It can’t be worse than what I’ve been through already!” “No,” Fran said reassuringly, “in many ways it’s easier. Just a slide or two, nothing to it.” “Good! I’m ready,” she said, getting up shakily. “The sooner this ghastly trip is over, the better.” She tenderly felt her mud-spattered, torn jeans. “If these rents get any worse, I may be very anxious for night to fall,” she said, still able to smile at herself. In twenty minutes they reached a gully, crossed it, and came to what looked like an icefield. At one extremity it sloped precipitously and beyond it lay a stretch of flat land with scrub. “From there on,” Fran gestured, “there’s a trail going straight down. I heard it was once the bed of a river made from centuries of melting snow from the mountain top. Anyhow, the trail’s pretty dry at this time of year. Steep all right, but short.” He picked up a large, sturdy stick that lay discarded among the stones and walked on the ice, hitting it several times, testing it. “Couldn’t be better.” He turned and faced his companions. “Each of us will in turn sit on this ledge of ice, getting as close to the very edge as we can. Then let yourself go. Slide down the ice. That’s all there is to it. I’ll go down first. Remember, the main thing is to let yourself go—easy like. There’s some brush that I’ll grab as I hit the bottom and break my speed. Then I roll over. But you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll be there as you come down.” He threw down the stick, adjusted his rope and knapsack, and sat down on the ice as if on his own toboggan. Without another word, he slid down the ice. It was over. Before they knew it, they saw him roll over, pick himself up, and wave. Mr. Lurie went next, then Karl. There were the three of them waving and smiling, urging Judy and Marian to follow. Judy turned to Marian, “You want to go next?” “No, you go. I want to see how you make out.” Judy sat down as the others had, closed her eyes to block out the steep drop. She shot out like an arrow and before she knew it, she felt her father’s powerful arms grasping her. She stood up now and waved with the others. “Come on, Marian, it’s nothing.” “What’s she waiting for?” grumbled Fran. Marian stood there, Fran’s discarded stick in her hand, looking like a statue contemplating the ice. All yelled together, “Sit down! Slide! Don’t keep standing there!” She heard them for her answer came clearly. “No, I can’t sit down on that cake of ice! It’s too cold. I’ll go down standing. I’ve got the stick.” “You’re crazy,” Fran shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure his voice carried. “Sit down! Don’t be an idiot! Sit!” Before he could shout another warning, she stepped firmly on the icy slope, took another step—a terrifying shriek tore the air! They saw the stick fly from her hand. She pitched forward, doubled over, then rolled down the other side of the precipice. Judy couldn’t look—was afraid to look. Fran’s practiced eye marked the direction and he and Mr. Lurie ran to where she fell. Karl and Judy, panting with fright, followed. She lay there stunned—or dead. They didn’t know which. They could only hear their own heavy breathing. Fran was bent over her. Mr. Lurie was on his knees with Fran. They touched her hands, her face. She opened her eyes. “That you, Professor?” She tried to smile but the pain in her badly bruised face made the smile a grimace. “You see, I got here on my own after all.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She tried to turn her head. “I just want to investigate—the damage.” “Don’t move, Marian!” Mr. Lurie said quickly. His face was pale, his voice tense. “You may be badly hurt. At first one can’t tell ... shock, you know—” “Nothing hurts, except—all of me.” Again, that grimace of a smile. “Ouch! My ankle!” Fran looked stern. “You’re mighty lucky! If you’d rolled another hundred feet—there’s a sheer drop over there.” He shook his head, the picture of misery. “I’ll never understand why you did it.” There was no further talk. Mr. Lurie and Fran made a carry out of Fran’s rope, cutting it and weaving it like a basket. They spread their jackets over the rope and carried Marian gently to a spot where shrub and a huge rock gave some shelter from the wind. Her ankle bulged big over the sneaker, which miraculously held together. Extra sweaters were piled on Marian, whose teeth were now clattering like castanets. “I’ve got something to fix her up,” Karl said as he took a large thermos from his rucksack. “Hot coffee! Uncle Yahn’s idea.” It was a godsend. Marian sipped it as if it were nectar and immediately felt warmer. Judy and the others had a few good swallows and nothing ever tasted half as good. Mr. Lurie now took command. “Fran, go down the trail. Make as good time as you can and notify the ski lodge of the accident. They’ll send up relief. They always do. That’s the unwritten code among mountain climbers. Judy will go with you. Karl and I will remain with Marian. After the ski lodge has been notified, try to get Judy home. Her mother will start to worry. Oh, yes,” he said as an afterthought, “have you the keys to Marian’s car?” Fran nodded. “Good! That will help rounding up volunteers.” Fran stood irresolute. “I think maybe you should go down the trail with me, not Judy. We can make better time and you’re the one who can get a rescue party together.” “He’s right, Father,” Judy broke in. “Let me stay with Marian and Karl.” After a moment’s hesitancy, Mr. Lurie agreed that this was the wisest thing to do. Without another word he took off his sweat shirt and made Judy put it on. Fran did the same, giving his to Karl. Neither of them now had any protection against the increasing cold and wind except their thin cotton shirts. Judy protested but Mr. Lurie said, “Don’t worry about us. At the speed we’ll be going, we’ll keep warm enough.” He stood there for a moment thinking. “It’ll be four or five hours, if we’re lucky, before anyone can get here. The cold’s going to get worse. Keep close as you can to each other. Your bodies will provide some heat. So long, kids. Keep your chins up!” With that he and Fran were gone. It was a long vigil. Judy and Karl sat huddled together close to Marian. Darkness fell quickly. They tried to pass the hours talking of school, their plans for the future. They sang snatches of songs and discovered to their surprise they dozed off while they thought they were still singing, only to wake, cramped and stiff with the cold. They had no watch by which to measure the passing hours, but when the moon lighted up the dismal, fearsome darkness, they cheered! They knew how much the moonlight could ease it for those who, guided only by lantern, must make the steep, hazardous climb to reach them! In one of the quiet lulls between sleep and wakefulness, Judy, no longer able to bear the increasing pangs of hunger as well as the weight of silence said, “I know a poem. It’s called ‘The Trail’ and it’s symbolic too. My grandfather wrote it for my grandmother.” “Good,” Marian drawled from under her heap of jackets. “We’re the helpless victims. We’ll listen.” “I’m not sure I remember it exactly—” “So you’ll skip a few lines. We won’t know the difference.” “Want to hear it, Karl?” Judy asked, suddenly feeling shy. “Of course I do.” “You know,” Judy said half defensively, “my grandparents climbed mountains all their lives, even went up Mt. Rainier.” “Never mind the build-up. Just begin,” Marian ordered, like a stage manager. Judy cleared her throat. The rocky trail Steep-periled cliffs and far below The deep ravine where mountain torrents flow. Stay for a moment on this extended ledge. Look back the way we’ve come. Far, far below the starting of The Trail The distant lakes that lie like mirrors To the Heavens. The hush of silence, the stillness of the scene, The circling hawk, the woods, the valleyed hills A panorama of the world. One seems enchanted in a land of dreams Come, come away. I ask no better trail than this; Thy voice, thy love, thy hand in mind, thy kiss. “It’s beautiful,” Karl whispered. “Do you think I’ll ever meet your grandfather?” “Yes. He knows all about you.” “But he left out a lot of things a realist like myself would have included,” Marian said with a sigh. “That’s the trouble with being a poet. What would rhyme with broken ankles or shredded pants!” “I suppose,” Marian went on, as she cautiously tried to change her position, “you’ve sharpened a carload of pencils to carry on and maybe even snatch the mantle from your grandfather!” Embarrassed, Judy muttered, “I’ve never been able to write even a jingle!” She impulsively put her hand on Marian’s. “I know how you must feel, all that pain and probably starving too. Why don’t you lay your head on my lap—you tell her, Karl! That rock must be cutting ridges in her scalp!” Marian took the proffered hand. “Why stop at the scalp?” she said lightly. “I’m certain it’s penetrated deep below the bony structure. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the brain was in danger! At least it certainly feels addled. No thanks, Judy dear, I’ll stay as I am. Besides, one pain offsets another. I didn’t know I was hungry until you mentioned it.” It was the first time Marian had displayed any affection for Judy. There was a significant pause. Then Marian went on. “I have to get something off my chest. For weeks I thought of you as an insufferable brat and,” she went on quickly before Judy could interrupt, “I know what you thought of me—a vampire trying to ensnare Karl! Don’t deny it! You gave yourself away more than once,” she gloated happily. “Stop talking such rot!” Karl said, bristling with suppressed anger. “Between the two of you—” But Marian went on serenely. “Now I take it all back. I like you, Judy, and I hope you like me.” “Marian, you’re just the most,” Judy gulped. “I guess I was—I don’t know—maybe I didn’t take the trouble to understand you. I was awful,” she said, on the verge of tears. “As for Karl,” Marian continued in a voice as if she had already joined the heavenly choir—“I have a Karl of my own. His name happens to be Charles, which is close enough. He’s very sweet—too much money for his own good—too much of a playboy—but very sweet,” she repeated sleepily. “And now I think I’ll take a little nap.” With that she closed her eyes. When the rescue party arrived, they found the three fast asleep, fallen on each other, in a state of complete exhaustion. Awakened, they were given hot drinks and food. Marian was lifted onto a stretcher and covered with blankets. There were sweaters and coats for Judy and Karl, and friendly hands helped them down the mountain. By midnight they reached the foot of the trail. An ambulance waited there and in less than an hour Marian was in Pitkin County Hospital. Her mother and the impeccably dressed Charles flew in from Chicago the next day to visit the invalid. They found her holding court with two Appalachian mountain climbers, visitors in Aspen, a reporter from the Aspen Times, a photographer, and others. For two issues the Aspen Times featured the story as “Dramatic Adventure Up Maroon Peak.” Marian, looking very chic in her elegant lounging robe, was photographed with her broken ankle, chipped knee, lacerations, and bruises under the caption, “Lucky Girl.” Fran, Karl, Mr. Lurie, and Judy also came in for their share of glory. But the real heroes, the Aspen Times noted in its editorial, were the six volunteers who reacted immediately to the plight of those on the mountain. “... there are no tangible rewards. No law requires them to undergo the physical hardship and possible danger to aid the injured girl. “We are proud of the men who answer to an unwritten code, always present in the mountains, to go to the aid of his fellow man when in danger. The men who participated in the rescue are the real heroes and merit the gratitude of all.” None subscribed more feelingly to this sentiment than did the little band of five who were the principals in this adventure on Maroon Mountain. |
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