On not chasing summits

Mountains life, goals and values.

I stand at 3000 meters, pressing my foot into the metal rung of the via Ferrata; my left foot hovers as I test my balance; twenty or thirty seconds pass. Hands and feet grate against rock, movements jud and jutter. I must slide my foot to the next man-sized rung but am paralysed by fear. I will the March sun to infuse me with courage, to steady my thudding heart and ease the acid that burns through my legs. I measure steps in leaps of faith.

This was my first 4000m peak. I had dreamt of watching the sunrise from the summit, of feeling altitude suck breath from my lungs and legs, but fear had chipped away at my belief. Now, I longed to leave behind the axe, crampons and rope. I wanted to walk unencumbered by fear, but I had not come to feel the warmth of the familiar. I was here to summit the Breithorn to claim my first 4000m peak, so I pushed on.

We didn't make the summit that day; the weather turned, and we turned with it. Unprepared to risk losing our lives for a dream, my Swiss friend and I descended to the valley. I thought often of returning but other dreams filled the gap where the Breithorn had resided, but it set me on a path of mountaineering and sparked the desire for alpinism. It took me years to attempt the summit and many more years to figure out that climbing the Briethorn had nothing to do with making it to the top and everything to do with the process.

I inherited the spirit of the mountains from my Dad. As soon as I could and until age no longer allowed, we walked in the mountains; it is the place where we understand ourselves and each other. We walked many ranges; my sister and I bounded along through many countries, sporting my Dad's old rucksacks and his retired baggy kagools. Year by year, I grew faster and stronger; eventually, my parents weighed me down with water bottles; they said there was little purpose in rushing.

Those years were filled with adventure. We had long days, overnight camps and short trips, but whatever we chose, summits were rarely included. Often, we found shelter just below the col; here, we would tuck into slabbed bread and wedges of cheese, salty chocolate and tepid water before descending at pace. I never questioned it, and I never dreamt of summits.

As a child, it didn't occur to me that others never saw the mountains or that people would choose a beach over the Alps. I was surprised to find out that where we trod, few others went. Even today, I have climbed very few recognisable mountains; I have not summited Snowdon, Ben Nevis, or Scafell, not because I don't have the desire but because my life did not lead me there.

As I grew up, I would daydream about lists of mountains to climb and long-distance paths to run; they pulled me into the fringes of the Alps, to meadows of rare alpine flowers and sharp ridges, to high mountains and wild places. I carried a curiosity about Alpine life that went beyond the act of hiking.

Without my Dad, each beginning was the same; I would set off with the speed and ambition of the modern world before the meditative steps, and the meandering trail would lull me to slowness. The trail seemed to wait until I slipped into natural rhythms, into sunrises and sunsets, until the place called for all my attention and focus, and there it would hold me until I returned home.

During the months of lockdown in the flat lands of Nottinghamshire, I grieved for the absence of mountains in my life, and the knowing became a discordance that proved hard to bear. I dream now of how to be in the mountains and create a life around them; at the boundary of the unknown, I am seeking values over goals. I now understand what my Dad knew, and I have stopped chasing summits.