Once upon a time, in a sacred land that will forever be,

Sat two young climbers from western BC

High in the Wrangles, so far from the coast

The boys would need skills but, patience the most

For lurking in the mist, a true blessing to see

Was a mountain called Blackburn, which they hoped to ski

Approaching this monster with must lust and vigour

They chose alpine style, which they thought to be quicker

But waiting at seven the ceiling refused to budge,

So they cashed so gear up high, only bearing the slightest grudge

With alpinism abandoned

They descended low to home base

It wasn’t all bad

They got to shred an east face

But waiting at seven four it became apparent

They would need to camp high

The thought of which, they could hardly bear it,

So they hauled their tent, their food, fuel and bags

To the base of the North West ridge, which they hoped to tag

Sleeping near ten thousand feet, one night the weather popped

So they went for a reccy, to gain vantage of the ridge top

After scouting the route, the left a single wand

Then skied back to camp, to eagerly wait dawn

Then to both their surprise, and utter delight

The sky was blue next morning

Suit up boys, take flight

They gained the ridge quickly, but it was not a straight shot

They had to get out their sharps, weather they liked it or not

Weaving through the serrac garden, near vertical they got

On the route proper the route began to make sence

They connected skiable terrain, without getting too tense

Then once again their journey postponed, they were forced to turn back

The storm had come in, plus they needed to dial in the down track

So from thirteen three

They tentatively

Dropped the ridge to the North side

But cracks in a white out spooked them, before they even really tried

Waiting in their nylon dome the wondered what the storm would bring

After all it was June; they were well in to spring

But the snow came down steady, piling up feet upon feet

The youngest yelled out in famished vain,

“Black Bitch, you will be beat!”

The mountain sat in humble silence, immune to their cry,

She was comfortable wrapped in cloud, for the next two days gone by

Then some afternoon clearing revealed the lowers

So groceries from the low cache, were defiantly their orders

Their food barrel now full, their enthusiasm returning

They would not let turbulent skies, extinguish their yearning

Yet again the two wait, at nine thousand eight

Hopping sometime soon the weather would break

So with a line fixed at the crux above

And the luxuries at the camp they love

They  lost between,

In their mountain purgatory

It turns out their route

Was only a small part of life on Black Butte

All that time to think brought on thoughts of great revelation

Perhaps within that realization, lies their true emancipation

Written by: Marcus Waring