Warriche’s Assent: North Face of Nicolini and the Ethnic Nudes
You are likely to find yourself on a high bluff, alone, in the eye of a storm. Your vision will see beyond,
to a small trail, in which an Indian woman is pulling her family and scant belongings in a dog sled. Your vision will zoom
in to her face, you see the strain. You will want to come to her aid. I caution you, that this will set in motion, a series
of events that may or may not go down, like this or in another order.
You arrive on snowmobile, as you approach, you see her swiftly draw a colt .45 styled homemade pistol, and
a shotgun, typical Wal-Mart variety. She fires, as you start to dive from your ride. The buckshot rips the windscreen and
the engine hood from the snowmobile. Your left shoulder strikes a hidden boulder, and the pain races to your spine. But you
don’t care, you are in love. You cascade down a drift of snow, as you scramble back up, searching for cover, she bull
whips your right arm, and pulls you out, and says drink this. She reaches into her coonskin parka and pulls out a flask of
150 year old Courvoisier.
It turns out you recognize her from a nude spread, she was miss nude native american 2001. But she tells
you not to get any ideas, until you can build a weatherproof lean-to, and bring some meat home. 'Out there' she nods. 'Buffalo'
and hands you a bowie knife. You rig your snowmobile, and head off in the general direction. She says ‘come back, I'm
hungry'. You speed off. You get lost, no buffalo, and wind up back at your motel lodge, wondering if it was a dream.
Back at the lodge, you start warming yourself with baked potatoes, and an old blanket. Rolled up newspapers
burn in the fireplace, and the whine of the turbines persist underground, and never allow you any peace to think. Then you
remember: where is Nicolini? You left the jolly italian point guard somewhere south of Ruel's Bluff, where he stopped to take
a leak. That’s when the squalls started. Did he freeze in his own piss? The thought shocks the imagination. The decrepit
mountaineer behind the front desk claims "he hasn’t returned, and neither has his mule".
Damn! You can’t find your gloves, but you’ve got to search for your cousin. Nightfall comes early,
no moon, no stars, just oppressive darkness coming on like a truck without headlights, without a driver. You’ve got
no time for the snow bunny who offers her pink mittens. What foul choices! "I shall return" you console her, but you don’t
believe it. With the bowie knife between you teeth, you ride away into the night, praying to the mountain.
Miles on your skidoo treads, but you never checked the tank. Will it run on piss? Based on Paul’s predicament,
it’s too risky to try. Anyway, the bitch is mowing along fine, you’ll worry about that some other time. But as
is oft the case when praying to mountains, the space-time-irony continuum plays the dealers hand. No, the moon hasn’t
shown up, but dead ahead, a glary eyed buffalo bull stares into your headlamp. Saliva or what not dripping from his snout,
but why is he holding a martini glass? It hardly matters, as you gun it, and cut his hind legs out from under him. The skidoo
does its brutal work, and now, it’s an easy kill, taking you just under 10 minutes to get the bowie knife through his
massive skull. Spontaneously you yell out "Miss Native American Nude 2001 come get your buffalo hump?" But pine trees don’t
have ears, and she’s miles away. Or was it years?
You don’t want to die out here. So when you hear the wolves howling, probably attracted from miles
around by the smell of blood and rich exhaust, why do you waste your time, trying to tow the carcass with you? Are you after
the Indian princess or your cousin frozen with dick in hand? Whichever comes first. With your blood stained pink mittens,
you rip off a piece of buffalo flesh, and start chewing. GOD! It tastes good. The beef behind tows easily. Because you’re
a quick thinking fellow, in altered state, you wrapped it in a slick gortex sleeping bag. You’re running on nitrous,
and the wolves can’t keep up in the powder.
- - - -
Hours later, and you have a familiar feeling – you’ve been here before. What or who is that?
SHIT, it’s Paul. He’s very still, standing, but you see the joy in his eyes turn to fear. The yellow ice frozen
from ground to his fly is a tortuous trap. If the yellow ice breaks, what will it break off with? It shocks the imagination.
And pity overwhelms you. You turn hard, and come off the throttle. A nice maneuver, but you forget about the tow line. The
meat swings out like a kid on water skis. The ensuing tackle, roping, screaming, fluid-exchanging collision and tumble will
haunt you forever.
Somehow he’s alive, and in one piece, in a sleeping bag with a buffalo that has had his legs sawed
off. But as frozen tears of joy crack on his cheeks, he just says "take me home". "You got it partner – but I have to
make a stop first. Just get nice and close to that carcass, that fucker is still warm, you’re gonna be all right".
What makes you think you can still find miss native American nude 2001, I don’t know. But you tow your
overexposed cousin and a side of buffalo around for hours.
Luckily the last 5 miles was downhill, and you just rode the gortex mother all the way in. The skidoo died
a while back, and you broke it down to sell the parts. Better this way, you could now hear Paul humming his favorite Bad Company
tunes. He was pissed off, and happy at the same time – but who wouldn’t be. He starts to sing "the woods are lovely
dark and deep / but I have promises to keep / and have miles to go before I sleep" to the tune of "Feel Like Making Love".
The trees lean in, to listen. And even the moon gets closer, wedging his way through the thick darkness, to whistle the guitar
parts. It’s what mountain folk call ‘moments’. And why they can’t leave the mountain, and her damn
space-time-irony continuum mean streak.