I leave the village early, silent still, only older people attending mass at this hour. The sound of bells resonates like crystal up and down the narrow valley. I can hear the stream rushing all the way down to the river, far away: icy water polishing ancient rocks. Boots hit the shiny pebbles along the road, soon the climb. I walk past a few farms, beautiful wooden buildings that tell the story of the happy valley…
Now is the top of the valley, the stream is now narrow white water, past the wood-mill and up the narrow track towards the pass. The sky is blue with little white clouds… Such silence, as I leave the sound of the water behind me, and start the difficult climb, in the scree, between the two cliffs. It will take me one hour, and when I get to the pass the sun will already be high.
Suddenly I hear the cry of the eagle, hunting: the King of these mountains. The backpack is light carrying just a few clothes and lunch – sober. There is no one around, I will meet climbers later, on the plateau, people who have climbed the vertical way, the way I will come down, in three or four hours.
When I reach the pass, I look back, overwhelmed by the majesty of the mountain. This land is my inspiration, as writer and as lover. The place where I want my ashes to be thrown to the high winds, when I come to you Lord, in your kingdom.