Peak vanquished, elation all consuming, a surge of power ran through her like a drug. She titled her head back, threw her arms wide, spun three-sixty, and howled into the sky.
Below, the light fog that had been lying in the valley when she set out had thickened. Wisps of mist roiled, her lodge was obscured, but she could see the necessary landmarks: the edge of the pine forest, the tip of the lake. Warm from the climb, she unzipped her jacket, reached to an inside pocket, and took out her phone. She re-zipped quickly; it would not do to get cold. The phone’s battery was low. How had that happened? She was sure she’d given it a full charge this morning. No matter, there was enough charge to capture the view. She selected PANO, and with a steady hand she moved her outstretched arm in straight line, east to west, a sorceress casting a spell, a deity bestowing a blessing. She noticed, even in that short time, that the mist below had begun to clot, blotting out more features, but she thought it beautiful, normal at this time of year. She checked the photo, it was a good one, one to get printed up and framed. She removed a flask and a two squashed ham and cheese rolls from her bag, and she began to eat.
Above, she counted five contrails heading west. She imagined tired cabin crew passing through with pre-dinner drinks, parents of crying babies wondering how they were going to get through the next five hours, strangers seated uncomfortably close, about to eat some dreadful pasta dish with plastic cutlery. Five hundred people on an Airbus unable to stretch their legs while she stood miles beneath, her feet planted on the good earth, her lungs breathing the pure air. No competition as to where she’d rather be.
She poured the last of the tea onto the ground to keep her bag as light as possible on the descent, and she felt a light twinge on her bladder. ‘Be quick,’ she said aloud, ‘this air’s cold.’ Trousers down, squatting, bum bare to the elements, the idea of four overhead international flights amused her. Was anyone looking down on this mountain range? If they were, could they pick out a speck of red Gore Tex? Doubtful.
Trousers up and fastened, boot laces checked, gloves on, she waved skywards. ‘Safe journey,’ she yelled, and she turned towards her path. The path, where was the path? She had heard stories of a galloping tide, but a galloping mist? This was a hurtling mist, a mist that had ambushed her by charging to the summit, pulling at her ankles, leaving her standing on top of the clouds like something biblical, a wingless stranded angel. And on it charged, fast as Napoleon on horseback. It was at her waist, now her neck, now it was a full shroud enfolding her. There was no world left to navigate. She pulled out her phone for the compass. She clicked the side button. The screen flicked on, showed the date and time, 14:30, then the depleted battery sign, a sliver of red in the corner, flashed three times, and the phone died.
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