My ode to the mountains

I point on a peak on the map and say: let’s go there.

We pack our things in the car, not much, just some clothes and food to fuel the long days out.

We’ve been exploring a lot lately. Italy last weekend, Switzerland this weekend. If the title of Certified Peak-Bagger existed, I’d proudly and shamelessly accept it.

Truth be told, it’s rarely about reaching the summit. It’s everything that happens in between: exploring a new destination, pondering about the mysteries of life during the ascent, soaking in the miles and miles of views of over the Alps. And then, each evening, the physical tiredness and a mind fully at peace. How incredible the 3-minute pasta pesto tastes.

This Saturday I was running back to the village of Stans after a 1400 m ascent of the Stanserhorn.

It’s warm — I am wearing only my T-shirt and shorts. It’s 8.30pm, still bright outside, the comforting smell of Swiss grass and dung and the birds are singing. In town, there’s a festival with live music going on.

I’m running back to my car, the last meters to the finish line after a long day out.

And in that moment, I feel it, again, suddenly, after months of waking up in the mornings and wanting to pull the covers over my head.

That I am okay.
That when I am out there, chaos does not become order, but it becomes understandable.