Augustine Answers
He who has an ear for steam, let him hear.
By A. STIASSNY

Augustine Island rests on the western side of Cook Inlet, 60 miles from Homer Spit. Longline fisherman escaping southerly gales, volcanologists keeping watch, and native Alaskan seal hunters were the only visitors until recently when ski tourers learned of the spring secret. The easiest way to get there is by boat, but there are many foul dangers and few good anchorages once you arrive. The northern side of the island is scattered with boulders and debris from an eruption in 1986 and looking on a chart, it is a place that most captains would steer clear of. That is unless you know the hidey hole.

We wake early, still dark dusk. Augustine remains hidden and we are left using our 1964 topo map to best guess our approach. We row to shore listening to the lap of the tide and to the morning birds rejoicing over a new day.

On land, each step feels a fraction steeper as if we are climbing a gradual bell-shape-curved mountain. We follow the quiet, empty stream beds. I am unable to determine if they're the result of winter melt-off underneath, summer downpours, or lava. We avoid the random mosaics of rock and boulder and continue slowly for two miles up to snowline where with skins and smooth, spring-hardened snow we climb faster.

Morning clouds disperse as we approach, showing us the northwesterly ascent. Augustine sends us reminders that he is not dead. Boulders and ice chunks break, tumble, and crash, all free, sending echoes into the ocean. Upward we climb. There is no wildlife, no vegetation, no chairlift, nothing but the rawness of a mountain still young.

We intrude only because we want to hear what Augustine will tell us. We skin as far as snow allows. Fumaroles litter the upper ridge emitting steam and leaving neon green sulfuric streaks at their openings. Precariously scrambling in ski boots, we trudge to the misty crater and peer inside at a snow and ice canyon full of a thick misty fog that you can see in but not through, as if you are trying to find the end of a winter kaleidoscope.

We remain quiet as if there is some unwritten rule when climbing a volcano that you don't want to wake it. Nothing need be said for we are listening: to wind sweep through Augustine's crater; to steam and gas released free; to rocks knocked loose trundling to a further resting place; to snow soaking in the sun; to our thoughts.

I close my eyes and listen and imagine and capture all that I can. And then I realize we have yet to ski. Anticipation brews within me, my body jitters, my mind flashes blankly, now ski.

The sun is up high and has just softened the snow. Quickly skins peel off. Click...click. This is it, my first turns, questions dash through my mind, it is time to let Augustine answer.

The mountain whispers go, and I push off.

Perfection descends. I have entered an illusion where I have become so alert I can not only see the ski in front of me, but the mountain behind me as well. Once again I am a little boy who refuses to listen to his parents and come home, because the mountain calls my name and I have no thoughts or concerns but to simply ski forever. All consciousness evaporates, lightness transcends, I am afloat chasing after this permanent calm called happiness.

I hear Augustine whistling behind me and I laugh with him.


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