Having awoken at first light, Giancarlo had decided that he and his two sons would climb high into the Alps that day. What greater pursuit could there be? His wife, the mother of his two sons, had been dead for three years, and the mountain had become a place of remembrance for Giancarlo and his two children; a place where they could express their mourning in serene toil. This morning, each of the two boys suggested a route they might take, but Giancarlo wished to tread a path they had never yet climbed. “We’ll need a guide,” insisted the eldest. He was right, of course – they would need someone who knew the mountain and could show Giancarlo and his boys the way up. “I’m sure we could find a shepherd in the village,” suggested the second.
At the foot of the village, each son shouldered his pack while Giancarlo wiped the lenses of his sunglasses. They had brought along some provisions for this Sunday’s walk; a few slices of Parma ham and hunks of parmesan cheese, along with a bottle of water. The shepherd unfolded a map and showed them the various routes they might take:
“This is the road to the village of Bolzano,” suggested the shepherd.
“We don’t want a road, we want to climb the mountains!” one brother interjected.
“Easy now, son,” said Giancarlo.
“Yeah, we want a path that will take us to the top,” insisted the other.
“I could take you along this path...but it’s steep, hard going. You’ll have to follow me all the way.”
And so they made their way out of the village. As they walked its rooftops faded gradually into a blur, their colours dimmed by the thinness of the air. Soon the bell tower was no longer visible, and before long the village would appear no bigger than a fingertip.
It was said that God was the rock in which men could take refuge, and that He could be found by those with the will to scale mountains. Moses climbed to the top of Mount Sinai, Jesus addressed his disciples on the hilltop overlooking Gennesaret, and “if the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.” But mountains also became borders, for the walls thrown up by nature could be wielded to political ends. A border is not the work of nature, nor a self-evident thing, but an imaginary line jealously guarded, paid for with many lives and sustained by the dreams of many men. In the war that was busy tearing Europe apart, the Alps were a coveted prize. But Giancarlo and his sons were only there for the thrill of the climb, and the chance to walk amidst their vast silence. Far from the stifling noise of the city, here the crack of every pebble could be heard, along with every bird’s call and every footstep in the grass. Far from the car exhausts, here they breathed the pure air that nestled between these stone giants. They breathed, meditated, contemplated. They sought harmony. The war was not yet done putting fire in men’s hearts, but here all was calm and splendour. The three men marvelled at the sight. The beauty of the landscape made the prospect of descent seem like a bitter retreat, and drove them to climb higher, higher and higher up to the peaks where stone met sky.
So they walked, and so they climbed. The birds were silent, and a mist enveloped the four men as they climbed ever higher in search of God’s silence. They spurred each other on; they could not turn back now. Ever higher they pushed one another. Here the snow was eternal, and the rocks belonged to creation. The climbers felt themselves shrouded in sacred mystery. This eternal snow would never melt; it rested, waiting and motionless. The mountains did not move but slowly climbed, rising above the clouds to touch the sky, perfectly still. The climbers no longer spoke to one another, saving their energy for the climb. They could barely breathe now, yet they admired.
“If only mamma were with us,” sighed one of the boys.
“She’d have died happy if she could have seen this,” answered the second.
“At least she’s gone to her rest. That’s what’s important.”
“Wherever she is, I feel her here in the mountain. I feel like she can hear us; she hears the echo of our voices.”
“We should go down,” insisted the shepherd. “The wind’s picking up; we don’t want to get caught in the storm.”
“Let’s go!” insisted Giancarlo. “The mountain will wait for us!”
Alan Alfredo Geday
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