Other Worlds

Climbing Olympus

Climbing OlympusFlorian sank to his knees, breathing ragged as his lungs battled for oxygen to feed his burning muscles. His vision faded, black shapes swirling in his vision, threatening to engulf him.

He slumped to the rocky ground, getting his head as low as possible, downslope. Fingers clumsy in his suit gauntlets he turned up the oxygen supply from the canister on his back a notch. They could barely afford the increase; the supply of spares on the dust sled was already short and they'd need more and more the steeper the climb grew. There were further supplies cached at three points up the chosen ascent route, hauled up by crawler, their only concession to the hostile conditions of climbing on Mars. Dying before reaching the next cache wasn't going to help anyone.

Slowly his breathing calmed and normal vision returned. He lay for a moment, listening to the thrumming pain that was a constant in his oxygen-starved brain.

“I don't think I can do this,” he said into his pressure suit pickup. “I think we should turn back. It's madness. It's too much.”

His father's voice was calm, considered. We're doing well, only half a day behind schedule. Let's camp here and see how things look tomorrow.

The small, cold Martian sun was already dipping towards the swell of Olympus Mons. Night would come quickly and then the cold rather than the lack of oxygen would be the greatest threat. They couldn't begin the descent now even if they wanted to. His father was right.

Nodding, climbing to his knees and then his feet, Florian began to unfold the silvery bivouac that would help preserve his body heat over night.

They'd had the idea together, Florian and his father, lying in their hammocks tethered part-way up the sheer rock face of El Capitan in Yosemite valley. The second night of the five-day climb. Florian had been twenty-two at the time, learning, developing the strength in his fingers and thighs and back. His father, approaching fifty, was still limber enough to attempt such demanding ascents. They were half way through a five year period during which they tackled some of Earth's most difficult peaks, Florian's agility complementing his father's greater skill.

A starry sky blazed above them as they lay four hundred metres above the floor of the valley. Florian could smell the pine of the trees even that high up. The silvery path of the Milky Way cut across the sky, dazzling in its beauty. They were alone on the rock face, but still talked in hushed tones, as if they were within the walls of some cathedral.

“I wonder what mountains there are out there,” his father said. “On all those other worlds. Perhaps we should tackle some of those one day.”

It was meant as a joke. His father was expressing the familiar longing for new mountains, new challenges. All the peaks on Earth had been climbed many times. But it was 2020 and Earth was all they had. Probes and robots were occasionally fired into space but there was no prospect of anyone setting foot on the Moon or Mars or any other rocky body any time soon.

“We'd have to take a hell of a lot of oxygen,” said Florian, continuing the joke. “And some damned long ropes.”

The conversation had soon moved on. But it was one of those moments that stayed with Florian, implanting itself in his subconscious to nudge him from time to time. Something he would ponder as he stared upwards from the tops of other mountains, or whenever he saw the Milky Way sparkling the sky.

The Martian night was about the same length as that of Earth. That always surprised Florian. Mars was hostile, alien, but occasionally you were reminded that it was the Earth's sibling, similar in so many ways.

The lack of tectonic plate activity was one difference, explaining why Olympus Mons was so massive. Thousands of volcanic discharges over millions of years had built up the mountain. On Earth, the moving plates would have distributed the outpoured lava. But not here.

That also accounted for the shape of the mountain. It was, in many ways, the opposite of an Earth ascent. There you walked up slopes to get to the base, and then the real climbing began. Here the steepest cliffs were at the start and the top was one vast plateau. The early stages were the most technically demanding; after that it was more a matter of endurance.

In truth, many of the cliffs weren't that steep. Restricted water and oxygen supplies were the limiting factors, although the lower gravity made hauling the canisters a little easier. The other problem was staying mobile. A broken bone or some other incapacitating injury would be fatal. There could be no rescue party, no help. Commander Valdez had made that abundantly clear.

A damaged suit could be repaired but there was no spare. There were enough supplies if everything went to plan but there was little leeway. Hauling the dust sled was a constant battle, Florian always wary of stepping on some rock and twisting his ankle or knee. The concentration required was almost the hardest part. Long days were spent putting one foot in front of the other, followed by nights of exhausted slumber.

The pressure suits had a flexible airtight head covering that kept the oxygen flowing while making it possible to lie down and sleep. In the attenuated atmosphere sounds from outside – the snap and flutter of the bivouac, the moan of the Martian wind – came tinny and indistinct in Florian's earpiece.

Times like that, drifting to sleep after the exertions of the day's climb, were often moments for reflection. There was something about the shared peril of the ascent, and the quiet darkness afterwards, that made confession easier.

I wasn't a very good father. I'm sorry for that, Florian. I regret not being there a lot of the time when you were growing up.

Florian breathed three, four times before he replied, staring into the darkness. “You had your climbing, Dad. Mountaineering is hard to combine with the demands of a young family.”

Then my family should have come first. You should have come first. I sometimes think climbing … that it might have been a way of escaping my responsibilities. It's all so simple on the mountain isn't it? You fall off or freeze and you die. Or else you put one foot in front of the other and you live. Real life is messier than that.

“You wouldn't have been happy tied down, Dad.”

Happy is … a slippery word. When we make commitments, when people depend on us, we accept being tied down. When you're roped together on a climb you don't resent the rope. I should have welcomed my new life. I see that now.

“You climbed less. You provided for us.”

I think I did both badly. And if I had fallen or frozen to death that would have left you without a father and Lilith alone. I mean, she was alone a lot of the time, I know. None of that was fair. You were right. She didn't climb much after you came along while I just carried on.

“It's funny, I don't remember you going away each time, just the joy of seeing you come home afterwards.”

Then I'm still being selfish, wallowing in my own regrets as if they're all that matters.

“We were happy, Dad. We were. I wasn't sitting at home pining. Mainly I remember the adventures and the fun we had, the stupid little things. There were no terrible childhood traumas of loss.”

Perhaps. And sometimes you aren't aware of the crevasse gaping beneath the surface of the ice. That day on Denali, when everything changed between us. I wonder if that had to do with me not being there. Perhaps that was the real reason for … what we said.

They hadn't talked about that day since. Florian took a moment to reply. “I was growing up, Dad, growing away from you. It's natural to war with your parents sometimes. It's an evolutionary thing, the separation process.”

Perhaps. It isn't always quite so … brutal.

Their five year climbing spree was supposed to be longer; they'd planned a decade of ascents, of firsts for the both of them as well as peaks and routes his father had scaled as a younger man and that he now wanted to share with Florian.

Florian's mother, Lilith, had died when he was nineteen, killed not by an avalanche or a fall onto jagged rocks but by her own blood cells revolting against her. Florian's father was climbing remote Andean peaks at the time and didn't hear the news for two weeks.

The plan to climb the high peaks together was, perhaps, a way of coping for both of them. But everything changed on Denali, a week into their ascent of the tallest peak in North America, two years after their climb of El Capitan.

They'd exchanged few words during the day, apart from a terse disagreement over the best route to take up the West Buttress. His father returned to their disagreement as they sipped the soup they'd heated up that evening.

“Lilith and I used to argue a lot when we climbed together. She usually had a good eye for a route.”

His father's comments about his mother often annoyed Florian. In his father's mind she was always the young, vibrant woman he'd fallen in love with, shared climbs with. It was as if Lilith the mother, Lilith the older woman, Lilith who battled leukaemia had never existed.

“I know,” said Florian. “We climbed together a lot. I think she taught me most of what I know.”

His father looked surprised. “She did?”

Florian's anger appeared from nowhere, a dormant volcano raging into life. “Of course she did. How could you not know that? She was an incredible climber.”

“I know she was. She could have done anything, gone anywhere if she hadn't turned her back on it all.”

Florian found himself standing. “How the hell can you sit there and say something like that? That wasn't how it was. She was looking after me, Dad. She loved the mountains but she put me first. And how do you think that makes me feel? Knowing she stopped climbing because I was there? I used to see her staring upwards, sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. She never said anything, but I knew. I always knew.”

“I … I'm sorry.”

“Are you? Forget it, Dad. Let's give up on Denali. I don't think I want to follow your route any more.”

His father looked shocked. “You're sure, Florian?”

“Yes. I'm sure. I think we're done. It's not like you really want to be here, repeating climbs you've already made.”

“I do, of course, I do.”

“You don't, I know you don't.”

The following morning, at first light, they packed up their gear and began the descent.

Florian gave a cry of surprise as the dust sled skewed from the narrow edge and began slanting down the steep slope to his side. It set off its own mini avalanche of Martian dust and rattling rock. He'd lost concentration for a moment, his thoughts wandering to past events.

There was an instant, a brief instant, when Florian saw events unfold and he knew what was about to happen. The tether would go taut and drag him down the slope. The cliff edge was thirty yards away. He would be pulled ragdoll helpless over to plummet to the rocks below. He had only a few seconds to live.

His father's voice came to him, unflustered, calm. Loop the tether around that rock. Hurry. Then brace yourself against it to take the strain.

Florian did as his father instructed. Panicky, he looped the tether two, three times around a basalt outcrop protruding from the floor at his feet. He angled himself into it, holding on, ready for the jarring shock.

When it came he was jerked forwards, but the tether gripped and held. The sled ceased its slide. He imagined the precious cargo of oxygen, water and food thrown loose, rolling away over the cliff. Gloriously they all stayed in place.

Grunting with the effort, Florian began to haul the sled up to the narrow edge. It took him the best part of an hour.

He often thought about their first climb, Ben Nevis in the Highlands of Scotland when he was fourteen. In hindsight it was barely more than a scramble, although there was snow and ice and they stayed away from the tourist paths. It was a delight simply to be out with his father, sharing the load of carrying their supplies, studying the maps together, walking in silence or exchanging occasional words. A team.

“We should climb more together,” his father said as they descended. “Would you like that?”

“I want to climb them all, Dad. I could come with you when you go to the Alps or the Andes. Or the Himalaya. I want to find new routes no one has ever climbed before. I want to climb them with you.”

His father laughed. “Excellent. You're growing quickly. Once you're stronger we'll do it.”

It hadn't worked out like that. Florian climbed more and more, but with his mother or his friends. His father, always, was away on an expedition to some new peak, or else preparing for or recovering from a climb. The peaks Florian could manage – higher and more difficult all the time – were always too easy for his father, routes he had taken decades before.

After the schism on Denali Florian turned his back on climbing as a profession and pursued geology, his second love. Although often there were climbs and hikes to study scree and schist, and he was always grateful for such opportunities when they came along. He and his father never climbed together again.

He stayed busy. He was lucky, found himself in the right place at the right time when the United Nations Space Agency was formed. Seeing new possibilities open up, Florian studied the geology of Mars, learning everything he could. Two decades later it paid off and he was added to the crew of the fifth manned mission.

He was three months away from the launch when the call came through from his aunt in Quebec.

“Have you spoken to your father recently?”

He hadn't. They hadn't conversed for two years, hadn't seen each other for five. Martian volcanism had absorbed him completely.

“Not recently. Why?”

“You should go and see him. Now. Florian, there may not be much time left.”

Commander Valdez had looked puzzled, like she hadn't heard Florian's words properly. They sat together in the south observation pod of H. G. Wells Base on Utopia Planitia. She'd done some climbing herself back on Earth. He was relying on that.

“Sorry, did you just say you wanted permission to try to climb Olympus Mons?”

“I did. I do.”

“You're not serious.”

“I am.”

“Florian, you're the geologist here. Surely I don't need to remind you of the facts? Olympus is nearly three times higher than Everest upon a planet with no breathable atmosphere. Just walking that far on Mars has never been done before; the dome is hundreds of kilometres across. It's the size of France for God's sake.”

“Everything is impossible until someone does them.”

“No they're not, Florian. Only the possible things are possible.”

“I'd do geology when I'm up there. And you said we needed the new suits testing. This would test them.”

“This would kill my team's geologist.”

“If things go badly I'll turn back. This is a great opportunity, Commander. The atmosphere's too thin on the plateau to aerobrake a lander, but I can walk up there. We might find all sorts of new stuff.”

“And is that the only reason you want to try?”

He wondered how much she knew about his family background. “It would be cool to be the first. The highest mountain in the solar system conquered; that could play well with the media back home, right?”

Valdez studied him, not speaking for a moment, making calculations. He knew he had her.

Florian, exhausted, sank to his knees while the swirling black shapes in his vision faded. The throbbing pain in his twisted left ankle subsided a little when he took the weight off it. His breathing slowly calmed.

He stood and surveyed the Martian landscape around him, although he could see only the plateau of the great mountain stretching away in all directions, seemingly flat. As predicted, the haul to the summit hadn't been the treacherous climb to the peak of an Everest or a Matterhorn. Or a Ben Nevis. It was a long trudge, a matter of endurance rather than skill. An oxygen-starved, muscle-screaming, pain-wracked trudge.

Identifying the precise peak of Olympus Mons was surprisingly difficult, but they'd picked as their target a point on the edge of one of the collapsed volcano craters that lay scattered in the heart of the vast mound of rock.

Finally they were there. They'd achieved the impossible. Florian's GPS unit, syncing to satellites in areostationary orbit, flashed the precise coordinates so long pursued. A new climb, made together.

He felt he should say something profound, but somehow the emotions were too big to fit into something so small as words. After a while, he pulled the sealed aluminium cylinder from his backpack. Unscrewing it, he paused for a moment, and the words finally came.

“You weren't always there for me, Dad. But later on, I don't think I was always there for you. Perhaps that was intentional on some level, or perhaps I'm simply more like you than I thought. Or perhaps … perhaps we all just muddle along with no great plan and it's only when we reach the summit and look down that we can see the shape of the mountain we've climbed. I don't know. But it's funny, despite everything, it's your voice I hear in my head, guiding me.”

He lifted the flask and tipped it to scatter the ashes it contained to the thin Martian atmosphere. He watched as the grey dust met with the brown of the planet, mingling with it. Some of it settled to the ground around his feet.

Kneeling, he poured the rest of the ashes onto the dusty surface. The tiny mound would be their own summit. His father's final resting place.

Once he was ready, Florian turned and began the long descent, alone.

Climbing Olympus was originally pubished in Analog in 2017. I haven't climbed Olympus - not yet anyway - but the story was inspired by a walk up a (much smaller) mountain, with my own father. I'm happy to report that we both came down.