by Kay Anderson
Winner – PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
I did my first abseil when I was four years old. It was sixty feet. I did it because my father did it. If he could do it, so could I.
I expeditioned to unexplored Greenland when I was eighteen. The azure ice landscape, even now, leaves me breathless.
Today I am thirty. Today I climb mountains.
The odour wafts from my body. It’s been a week since I showered.
I pull my clothes tight, checking the zippers and buttons. I inhale a breath of oxygen from the canister and sit at the bottom of the mountain. Waiting. Waiting for the fog to clear.
The air brushes my cheek and a tingle spreads through my fingers. A bird chirps in the distance. There are no trees. Everything is brown and grey and white, sharp surfaces and barren edges.
Slowly, slowly, the mist blocking my sight eases and sunlight shines through. I see the path ahead and hesitate. My muscles ache and the fatigue congeals like mud in my skull. I’ve climbed a thousand mountains, do I need to climb this one?
A part of me wonders if I should stay where I am. One day of rest wouldn’t hurt. It is the easiest thing, the safest thing.
But I have always pushed myself. Always.
I pull the blanket aside and cool air shivers along my skin. I tip my feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for the stone floor. I stand and my balance wobbles. Legs that once ran marathons are skinny and weak, but they hold me.
I step to the door and the fog returns, brimming my vision black. I want to lie down, to rest, to ease the suffering, but I keep going. I open the door and I hear them in the kitchen. The clatter of spoons and the rustle of cereal boxes.
The hallway stretches before me, mile upon mile upon mile.
It is too far.
My head falls forward as if the hand of a giant is pushing against me. My muscles tremble. My eyes drop to my feet, cold and bare against the slate, pyjamas flapping around my ankles.
All I have to do is lay down. I could close my eyes to the stabbing light and whirling fog. I could breathe oxygen and rest.
Rest.
All I have to do is lay down.
I shut my eyes and a vision of them flashes before me. They are sitting at the bench. My partner is reading an article on his phone and my daughter is in the high chair, her head frizzy with hair. It’s my hair, the same fine brown that knots in the wind. She has my eyes too, green and speckled hazel. But most importantly, she has my determination, my stubbornness.
My will.
If she can do it, so can I.
I take a step, hand against the wall for balance.
I stop to breathe.
I take another step, slowly, trying to keep the dizziness at bay.
Breathe.
Step.
Breathe.
Step.
Breathe.
I keep going. I step past the hall and I cannot use the wall for balance anymore. The land is vast and terrifying and there is no rope to stop me falling. I should have brought my walking stick but it is too late to go back for it. I shuffle the last miles with ragged gasps and fall onto the high chair, wrapping her in my arms.
My partner glances at me, milk dripping from his chin.
My baby squeals and starts telling me a story in eloquent toddler babble. My partner smiles at me and asks if I am ok. I nod. I put my brow against my daughter and let the spinning in my head ease at the touch of her. I stay like that, savouring the view.
It doesn’t matter that I cannot explore the world as I once did, hiking in blizzards and climbing sand dunes, swimming with whales and diving to the inky blue depths. As long as I have her, my world is complete.
I have reached the top of my mountain.
Judge’s comments: I’m so intrigued by this piece. I love how elusive it is: what is wrong with the person describing this moment? Why are they struggling just to get out of bed aged only 30? We are never really told, rather we are almost forced to sketch the picture ourselves, to join the dots. But even as we do so, we realise that what is important here is not what’s wrong, but rather what is right. I love that triumphant ending: “I have reached the top of my mountain”. A really clever, quiet, raw piece of writing. A clear winner for me.
Photo by Martin Jernberg on Unsplash
