I balance on the razor-thin ridge of the Seebergspitz. Beyond the one-meter-wide staircase of limestone slabs, the mountain tumbles 1000 meters into an abyss of distant valleys. To the north, conical clouds, the colour of volcanic plumes, gather on the pinnacle of the Rofanspitz. We are only five minutes from the summit when I feel the first droplets of rain on outstretched fingers.
Instinctively we turn, steadying ourselves with our rock-dusted hands. At most, we have two or three minutes. We pivot and wedge our feet into toe-length holds and barely defined ledges. The ground is slick with rain. We cannot fall.
I scramble from the airiest point on the shoulder into the perceived safety of a single line of dwarf pine. Lightning crashes to our right and thunder booms overhead. We continue to run in the direction of the col. Below me, Rob and Juno hide among the tall trees of the Alpine forest. They crouch low in the sodden grass. This is our best hope.
The truth is, I wanted the storm to come, not because of the draw of the elemental force of thunder and lightning or because of the otherworldly transformation of the atmosphere from light to dark. No, it is much more straightforward. I wanted the storm to tell me to turn from the mountain. The edge of the rocks and their deathly drops had forced me to my hands and knees; I was terrified of falling.
To mark Rob's 50th, we had planned a mid-summer ascent to Grand Paradiso, a mountain in the heart of the Grand Paradiso National Park in the Northern Italian Alps. This peak, known to be one of the most accessible and least exposed 4000m mountain in Europe, seemed to be a perfect ambition for this occasion, today, standing on the crested ridge of the Seebergspitz, I knew I would not stand on its summit.
At home that evening, I can't square my lack of courage or accept my weakness. I do what I always do in this situation, I search logic, for a way to rationalise emotion. I work back through my beliefs, questioning their validity and truth, reminding myself that fear is the thief of dreams.
I google the summit and trawl YouTube looking for something reassuring, anything which suggests I would be ok. How do I tell Rob? There are practical considerations like ropes and guides. Repeatedly, the screen tells me there will be no time to clip onto the fixed rope because of the queue of people trying to summit. Queue? There would be a queue. And there are videos. I stop searching.
I have always considered that my most meaningful ascents remain undocumented and invalidated by the outside world. They are the days, the journeys that take me fully into nature and myself. I know that anyone can create publicity around their ascents, but how does that affect experience and meaning. If I go to the mountain for connection, then inner solitude must be the outcome of highest value.
Recently, I have read that in mountaineering circles, there is a groundswell of unreported trips, a return to something unknown. Is there anything more intriguing than the untold story, or a journey that leaves only the hint of the lightest of footprints? Hopefully the world is moving beyond queuing for summits and being pulled by named mountains, for what is in a name other than recognition.
In the meaning-making of my mountain ambition, I aspire to capture only the essence of experience in its fleeting and ephemeral glory. I journal to keep a record of memory, sometimes privately and silently, and sometimes so that when I am home in the flatlands of England, I may still feel the magic of mountains. There is nothing in that hope that speaks of summits or the desire to climb through fear.
Then there is Rob. Before I speak, he tells me that he, too feels the same way, that we will find our mountain, and just like that, we rewrite the plan.
I think back to the exposed ridge of the Seebergspizt. Would I have felt differently on a sunny day? Would I have been more courageous if the brooding clouds had not cast me into their shadows? Did the storm change the course of my life? I hope so, for that is the power of nature and the pull of mountains.
I love the arc of this story. It's so interesting to read the emotions the mountain brings out in you. You don't often see that in travel/adventure writing.
I love that there is a returning to the untold stories of mountain ascents. Quiet achievements, secrets moments of glory. But then I’m also pulled to the documentation of adventures (our bike rides), usually for my own benefit, occasionally for others who ask what we’ve been up to. Always a balance, I guess. Xxx