N.V.
I hear rocks sliding and men cheering, and I turned away from the gorgeous view to see the Belgian and the Swede running and slipping down the scree. When they reach my part of the outcropping, I say g’day and nod. The Swede gives a big wave, still laughing and panting and shaking his head. The Belgian ignores me, in the same studied way he did over breakfast at the hostel this morning.
This was as far as I’d been planning to climb, and I’d been immensely proud of my sore feet, sweat-drenched T-shirt and fresh coat of sunburn — until now. Their hiking boots make mine look like sneakers, and they’ve just been at The Summit. I really have no choice; there’s something primal about it. In an instant the cautionary words of the wise old owner of the hostel fade. I pick up my backpack.
The slope feels vertical, and my hands protest at having to grapple with the sharp points I’m using for handholds. The stones are loose, and I take personal offence every time they betray me. I’m Australian, so some deep part of my psyche expects there to be an arachnid lurking in every crevice. The paranoia slows my climb, and it only worsens when I look down to watch every rockslide I create.
But oh, the rewards: scoffing Maltesers at the top without a shred of guilt. Taking my shoes off and feeling the wind cool my blisters. Giving that Belgian less of a reason to be snooty. I feel a surge of energy after envisioning this last one, and I push and pull my way over the final slope.
I lie exhausted and content, and laugh in surprise at the lone sheep munching grass, who bleats jadedly. I sit and look over the view, feeling manlier than I have for as long as I can remember, and wishing that there were other witnesses (apart from the cyncical ovine one behind me) to my triumph.
Alas. If only I’d restricted my view to the microscopic cottages in the village below, or the other climbers struggling below me. If only I hadn’t looked so closely at the neighbouring peaks. If only I hadn’t seen two tiny figures striding up the steeper, meaner-looking crag opposite. I bet he’s planning to plant a fucking Belgian flag up there.
The situation has elevated; I can only follow. This will end in tears, and I’m not going to let them be mine.
