Dave Wynne-Jones
Denali
At 14,000 feet the Ranger told me
‘Don’t expect rescue,’ the emphasis
on the second word, having just
the day before flown out three Brits.
‘They were high on the West Rib
when the weather turned and
took a minor fall late in the day.
Trying to descend the West Buttress,
two decided to dig in, one
to go on down. Within sight
of Camp 5, on the traverse
from Denali Pass, it was
icy or something, anyway
he fell, breaking a leg,
having to spend a night
in the open at minus 30˚
Gonna lose both legs
from the knee down.’
After seven days on remote glaciers
I felt the need for a telephone.
Back home, my daughter
phoned her mum at work,
my son at school, and my mother
thought her worst fears realised.
The newsdesk would not
release any names
but was prepared to rule in or out
a name that was supplied,
so set their minds at rest
as mine cannot be.
Basking in the heat of an open fire
months later, I crimp my toes
against residual numbness,
remembering the summit day’s
desperate flexing as extremities
went wooden with cold.
The sudden pain of ‘Hot aches’ in my feet
reminds me that capillaries even now
are still re-routing blood-flow past old damage.
My legs tingle from the knees down.