Climbing

"Good day to you," one would say.  "The boy sure can run, no?"
"He sets the pace," my father would reply.  "I just follow."
"What I'd give to have legs like his."
"That's right.  But we did have once."
"Oh sure.  Decades ago maybe.  Are you going right to the top?"
"If we can make it."
"Good luck," one of them would say, and with that the exchange was concluded."

This trail-side banter, between one hiking group being overtaken by another, rings true with anyone who hikes.  Here, it is reported by eleven-year-old Pietro, hiking with his father to the summit of a lesser mountain to the south of Monte Rosa in Italy.

In a few lines, the conversation suggests the camaraderie between mountain hiking groups, the edge of competitiveness between them, the envy of youth, the regret of advancing age, a father's pride in his son, and the optimism by climbers already tired that they would reach a distant summit.

I've experienced them all.  And, most notably, I now experience the frustration with declining ability both to climb long distances and to function efficiently at high altitudes.  The frustration is made tolerable only by the memories of climbs done when younger.  On the other hand, it is intensified by the thoughts of climbs left unclimbed, hikes left unhiked, views left unviewed.

Like the Ancient Mariner, therefore, I wag a bony finger at the young and urge them never to put off climbs and hikes until a more convenient time.  It will never be easier than now, and when you're older there will be other, possibly more insistent, demands upon your time.

These thoughts are inspired by, and my initial quotation drawn from, a novel I've just begun reading -- The Eight Mountains, by Paolo Cognetti.  The book was reviewed in this morning's New York Times.  It reads so beautifully, and so truly, that I hate to finish it too quickly.

I suspect a review will be forthcoming on this blog.