As my fingers fell upon this galaxy of molten rock, only one who rises, committed to the mountain, may be able to comprehend or appreciate the unfamiliar formality; that is the marriage between grip and stone, and how they both complement each other almost harmoniously. Looking upwards, a glistering flare of light bleached this immense horn, this pinnacle renowned with nobility, stained with death.
A shaft of light broke through the cloud laden sky singling us out, signalling that day had been chosen for us, us for that day. As the ascent began, a precise flow, a drift of tension, contraction and relaxation lifted us into its prominence. A true sense of satisfaction washed over us, as though the reins of the universe were dropped and the balanced alignment of stars perfectly lit the path ahead.
The glazed eyes of wealthy tourists gazed up at us with admiration for the capabilities of man; simultaneously looking down at our raw simplicity. Decorated actors that inexpertly explain our procession to an engulfed Zeitung correspondent and whose hubris confident that worldly wealth set them apart. Everything grew quieter as the light slowly dimmed and retreated into itself as though the curtains on Oberammergau retired by an integrated stitch. Their senseless gurgle from below expanded upwards until it melted away into a hollow whisper upon contact. That same whisper drew a smouldering flake of snow dancing across the weathered palm of my mitten and I, hugged against the icy rock, until my consciousness dripped away into the caressing of night with the ice surrounding.
That morning a burnished bronze brush had already swept its way across each crevice leaving behind only caramelised patches of dripping powder and so the ever-changing, constant steeple no longer glowed. As each door of the route continued to open, I couldn’t help but feel that one would suddenly be locked- the key tantalisingly out of our peripheral of sight. An ongoing sense of expectancy following an unjustified appreciation for the night before. Hotel Grindelwald had never seemed more desirable, the idyllic setting of warmth and security brought me to the bare thoughts of natural instinct that in everyday life, cease to exist. Yet still we moved on against the current of human intuition in a sort of drunken addiction, honour-bound as climbers of the north face.
Gaining altitude, the air sharpened as our senses dulled and so I began to question the possibility of success. A winding meander of rocky folds were painted upon by our serpentine of alien tracks. The distance from the top subdued but the exposure shrieked ever louder. A constant drag that has no weight, nor causing any harm although surpassing the limits of human perception. The wash of a fixed frozen ocean continually ebb and flow beneath and above our minute cotton bodies. With every piton we kept chapping, chapping at the door of death itself and so the history of that day really began from the first step of passionate curiosity that we unwittingly pursuit.
A rising flood of indisposed mist started to submerge our conviction of thought- skewing both landscape and senses. The feverish white heat of midday electrified the struggles of our grasps as though glittering grey of granite moulded to…