4u2rethink

Same socks new day. Clouds wrapped the mountains in mystery. If my memory is right, I was on porridge duty. The fine art of mixing glue without letting it stick. Somewhat successful but not according to the one who cleaned the pot.  Conversations with strangers thawed. The law of six degrees separation tested and proven. People who know someone you know who knows you. In my case it was one degree. Approached by a young woman, twenty something,“Are you Andrew who writes 4U?�A subscriber! Without words we both knew we shared a journey much bigger than the mountains that dwarfed us. Other conversations emerged. Interesting what other people’s perceptions of you are. Remember day one? The race to the first hut? Other groups had their story of what they saw that day. Of our team it was thought - Merchant bankers on a male bonding expedition. 

Weather closing in.  We didn’t carry waterproof gear just for the fun of it. So off on a day tramp, up the Cascades to the Dart Glacier. With only one pack with the days rations between usIt felt like we’d been set free. Free to walk. Free to savour the sights, sounds and tastes of the day. The colour of grey schist changed to a metallic green.  Silver streams were lined with a carpet of green moss. Free to put the world right. If only they would listen.    The chatter and laughter soon turned to silence.  A silence that we would all come to anticipate each day as we entered into a sacred space. It was like walking through the wardrobe into the land of Narnia.  A world never seen before. Rock cairns led the way.

Up the valley carved by glaciation over thousands of years. High above but within touching distance. Glaciers suspended in mid air about to cascade to the valley below but the mountains were unwilling to release their hold. A battle of gravity. I would stand watching and waiting, “They can’t hold on much longer�. But some things even the mountains do in privacy. When no one is looking. 

Reaching the head of the Dart, the glacier shrouded in clouds. The rain fell with the feel of ice. The climb and promised view would have to wait for another day. The hut that evening seemed different. A familiarity. As wet boots lined the deck. Wet socks hung on a line above a pot bellied stove. Familiar sounds of Swiss German and gas stoves igniting. Welcome home