the mountain is half-glacier, all trenches raked down the sides of the ice. and it’s raining. or it could be some mad fog, hazy condensation tripping over my eyelashes.
i asked for rain, i know, but i might not have meant so very much. either way, from the top of the mountain, all 4680 metres of stone, i can only see the stairs below me.
everything surrounding is a curtain of cold cloud. no fluffiness to this part of the water cycle, no.
we have cans of oxygen to keep us up the trek, but my sister is cold and soaked (i swear the mist isn’t just mist. it’s mist with a direction), and my dad stays behind to keep her company.
so fine. i’m on my own then, breathing the thin air and trying my best to avoid a headache. people walk slow when they think they’re suffocating.
i rush past, watch my hair shake from side to side with water. everyone wears bright coats, red or orange, and coupled with all the umbrellas (i didn’t bring one, of course.
if i’m blessed with rain, why would i ever hide?), the human race is stretched out across the 300 metres of wooden stairs in the messiest of rainbows. i swear i’m the only colour moving.
when i reach the top, i don’t need any more oxygen. there’s some sort of high from accomplishment and the knowledge that you only go down from here. only down.
the glaciers on either side of this sliver of observatory look even bigger from here. they’d make the wildest slide.
a quick wraparound view with my video camera, to record the image for my sister and dad. can you believe they missed this? for the simple excuse of cold. and wet.
silly, really, but i make it down in the end, with a chocolate bar and my family and a headache that i’ve avoided rather unsuccessfully. and clothes soaked to the stitching.
if i’m cold too, it’s okay. wet dries.