The Gang of Six
Thomas Hally
A string of six climbs--a’ high-soaring soon they will go
To the Peak of Orizaba, albeit thru wind sleet and snow.
With spikes worn on shoe; piolet in hand ready to mount,
Mexico’s highest elevation, almost too lofty to count.
All bundled and warm, sliding up the flank of Gran Mountain,
Eight thousand feet--just eleven thou’ mo’ and still a countin’!
With high hopes envisioned--today seein’ the summit?
Little do they know: three days is usually what’s done it.
Where glorious sun shines, lacking timber leaves men only frozen,
Orizaba’s cold crevices already have silently chosen.
Five men, one woman, wearing orange on a tightly strung rope,
Hearts sing, spirits roar, inching a ‘side, filled with high hopes.
Near fifteen thousand feet--a clarion call rings out!
“Fall!” that most dreaded halloo, a common-unwanted shout.
One creeper springs back to the string, one falls to his death,
Sure takes no horse sense risking it all merely for vertical breadth.
Can it be “One down and five to knock off?”
At four thou’ from the top, still under the trough.
Safety in numbers do count, or so it would seem,
Staring down at a fissure, a brazen man lets himself lean.
Six hundred feet more, inching near to the summit,
Another hapless chap is the next to let go, the next to plummet.
As the going gets tough and the tough get going,
Creeping closer to Hell than to Heaven without even knowing.
Bewildered arrival at the top of Mexico’s number one--the elite!
Just finished a long journey of eighteen thousand six hundred ninety seven feet.
Jaded Gang of Four--blithe, while celebrating their full hearts’ content!
Quartets of termites conquering this noble volcano--great efforts were spent!
Now drunk at last, the time has come to descend,
A word to the wise if an ear he will lend:
Orizaba is king, queen and stern god--nothing to be relished!
Here fools and experts have trod, and many have perished.
