User:Pyroclastic/Temp

Fiction Writing Ms. Fletcher 2/17/06

We passed them around the seven-thousand-foot mark. They wore glaring red and blue parkas. Yellow rain paints poked crumpled corners out of a few pockets. Each bore a huge backpack, topped with a rolled-up sleeping bag, and tied to the packs were pots and pans that clanged with each step. I drew breath, clear, cold and alpine, and my lungs were pained but there was power in the pain, invigorating and raw. I shivered, not because I was cold, though I wore just a light jacket and khaki shorts, but sympathetically with the team of hikers, gazing upward at the white peak. The midday glare hurt my eyes. I knew we would turn back soon. I was young and my parents complained of weak knees. We had not brought much food. Already we had climbed far enough for the air to turn wintry and fickle. I looked to the left and saw a real glacier, majestic and yet ridiculous, a shrinking survivor filling half of a rocky valley. The real snow line was several thousand feet further up. There was a smaller patch near the trail. I threw my own pack down and clambered over. Christmas in August! I knelt down and quickly shaped a snowball. Placing it over my shoulder, imitating a Yankees pitcher seen on television, I reared back and prepared to throw. In mid-pitch I stopped. There was very little snow left, and the first flurries of winter were at least eight weeks away. It would be a shame to waste it. Some of the hikers below glowered at me. I dropped the ball and went back on the trail.