Johnny Kasson and Professor Hornbeam.

Rising up out of Forkston to the southeast is a tributary so sacred that only the most grizzled of alpine adventurers dare seek the fruits that hang there. Men that very well may be made of that mountain themselves can handle the trek, but only if the mentality about the journey is as sharp as the ridgelines to be crossed. Of course, when the snow is deep and the ice hangs sure, you will find Windy Valley's favorite sons stomping up through this canyon. The punishment to get there and back is just as rewarding as the holy sights to be seen, and be sure to know that aside from all physical and mental strongholds that even the hardest of alpine men have, it will be the holy ghost alone that you call on to guide you back down through this deep fisher of earth.

This a peek at the long and epic story of Johnny Kasson and Professor Hornbeam, names that echo through the hills like a hawk's scream and fade just the same. Where they live is the wilderness, under the mountain ice, nestled in the duff of the forest floor. There is no map for the trails they seek. It is the wild world in which they live that they play. And although adventure is most times painful, it will tell the truth of a man.

Johnny Kasson was light headed and soaked with sweat. Five miles now of high-stepping through a foot of snow or more, he was seeing things in the landscape that weren't there. He was not hydrated properly, and his accomplice, Professor Hornbeam, walked on up ahead, unassuming and almost bored with the trip so far.

"What do you think bud?" Kasson chirped. He had little faith in Hornbeam's navigation, yet knew it was only Hornbeam that held the key to unlocking this route.

"Just up here, over this next bench we will drop into the next canyon and that's where we want to be," Hornbeam said from the corner of his mouth over-shoulder.

Three more benches and now they were standing at the top of the canyon starting to cut downgrade and lose some elevation. It was the wrong canyon.

"It's the second one we want bud," Hornbeam exclaimed with a sickening excitement.

Johnny Kasson sunk more and more into a state of depression. Both the back and front of his legs were tightening now with cramps. Vision was blurry, but vision was less critical than the muscles needed to move over the hills. For Kasson, both were fading fast with the light of day.

Up and up they stomped to the very top of the tributary.  Now on top of the mountain they could swing east and gain properly on the second cut in the landscape. It was here, in this second cut, that hid the jewel of the journey.

Kasson had called upon his friend Hornbeam some weeks ago to guide him up the mountain to a fabled ice route. Hornbeam responded that he would, but it would be no easy task.  

"Hah!" Kasson said. "No task is easy if it's done right!"

"Just remember Johnny, these hills are no friend of yours," Hornbeam's words rattled like the tail of diamondback.

And now, weeks later and only a few hundred yards from the pitch Kasson was dealing with the reality of that warning. Down one more ravine he followed Hornbeam until finally, at last, Hornbeam cackled with excitement.

Tucked deep in the mountain was the falls. A beautiful wall of shiny white and blue and was silent with all the sounds of nature. Kasson dropped to his knees as a feeling of ecstasy rushed over him. Finally he could swing his ice axes on such a magical line and feel the exhiliration of trying to send this frozen route.

"Feast your eyes on that Bud," Hornbeam said with the intimidation of the sight in front of him.

And feast they did, and climb he did. Kasson tried with all the energy he had left to put up the route, but he was tired and weak and fell short of the mark time and time again. Hornbeam looked on with no expectation but rather pure observance of nature and all it's might and beauty. For you don't venture into nature for pride, you come here for humility. It's in the wild that you learn about your weakess, not your strengths. Afterall, it's the weakness, not the strength, that makes the difference. Hornbeam had given Kasson his chance. Kasson had taken the chance and was left cold and wet and no more a man than before this hike into the hills. But he had tasted that water on the verge of freezing, and although he had failed the route, that holy water was forever in him. It is a taste that lives forever on the palette.

Another two hours and they were down the mountain, back in the homely valley where the chimney's bellowed with smoke. There was no talk as dusk approached, only the sound of feet pressing a path through deep snow. Kasson was beaten badly, totally gummied and hurting down in the soul somewhere. His heart was not broken, it was his spirit that needed mending. Hornbeam was up ahead floating over the landscape like an angel floats through the gray light at the end of a day. Here was the great Johnny Kasson, alpinist, adventurer, patriot, at the end of his line and at the end of his wit, beaten down by the wild hills of Windy Valley. And afterall, Hornbeam thought, he asked for it.