Regret
By CHRIS CROSSEN

I left my toes up on the mountain. They're up there, frozen, somewhere on Green Butte Ridge.

Ten of them numb, gone. I sit in the sun outside the tent, down from the gullies and rocks and gendarmes, resting in the warmth and stillness with the stove melting snow, drinking water to quell the dehydration and weary bones. I sit here looking back up the ridge wondering where, exactly, I left them.

I knew I was in trouble. Without gaiters (forgotten in the gear room back home), my boots became wet in the deep, soft snow approaching camp. Up at 4 A.M., boots on, and right away the toes froze. But I took the chance and climbed, believing the exercise and eventual sun would bring them back. When they did not return, I kept on climbing and plodding, pushing forward, reaching the crux and summit, then suffering the long, paranoid ski back down to camp.

And now they're gone. And it seems that the only way to retrieve them is to get the pack on again, climb up that ridge, and look for the damn nubs.


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