What is this? Work. A sun that sets at night. A soft bed, hot bath-water, no miles to go before sleep. Reality? I don't know. The mountains were real, and as always they made me feel so very much alive. I suppose it is good to be home, still I am torn by a fierce longing back to that place of timelessness. Where the sun never set, and where my feet would carry me through ever-changing valleys, with rivers running through them and snow-clad peaks standing guard on either side. Those mountains, that even when tired, wet and bruised always make it worth every excruciating step with their dazzling beauty. Even when I stand there on a barely snow-covered skree-slope with hundreds of metres to tumble to my death at the slightest misstep (or so my mind would make it out), with vertigo gnawing at my insides and on the brink of exhaustion, I happily curse their very existence:
Damn it, Nature! You're too gorgeous for your own damn good!
|The last magnificent view on the way to the top, before the clouds rolled in.|
Or my own good, rather. But I survived to tell this tale also, and to long for more adventures of hardship and tranquility. That's the third time I've scaled Sweden's highest mountain, and still I've had nothing but clouds for it. I guess that bastard of a mountain is just asking for me to come back to it. But never mind that, because the journey there was beautiful, and that is what really matters.
|Waking up to a sight like this. I would never tire of it.|
Love and mountains,