Andrew Terrill - The Earth Beneath My Feet: A 7,000-Mile Walk of Discovery into the Heart of Wild Nature (A 7,000 Walk of Discovery into the Heart of Wild Nature Book 1)

ON THE SECOND day of June, 1993, I fell down a mountain. It was a spectacularly unpleasant thing to do. As an experience it is n t something I d recommend, but for the way it changed my approach to life I remain eternally grateful.

The accident took place in the Bernese Oberland, a mountain range on the northern edge of the Swiss Alps. Rearing 10,000 feet from gentler country, the range forms a startling wall of snow, rock and ice. In the Oberland there are sharp pointed peaks, mighty glaciers, sheer-sided chasms, and soaring rock precipices. There are shadowy forests and sunlit meadows, sparkling rivers and deep blue lakes. The Oberland is a landscape as unlike my suburban home as any place could be, and that was why I went.

At twenty-three, I lived for mountains, and for long journeys on foot through them. Ordinary life did n t compare. How could waking indoors in the same bedroom each morning compare with waking in a tent somewhere new and wild? How could catching the same cattle-truck commuter train each day compare with striding off alone into the wilderness? How could the same view through the same office window compare with a panorama never before seen from a summit never before visited? Ordinary life was predictable, comfortable, limited by rules; mountain life was mysterious, challenging, unshackled. London was where I lived, but the high places were where I went to live . In the mountains life could be everything I felt, deep down, it was supposed to be all the time, and so I escaped to them as often as work allowed.

The plan for this escape was to walk for seven days beneath the Oberlan d s highest peaks, crossing several passes, camping high and wild. In summer thousands of hikers followed the route I d chosen, but I wasnt going in summer. I wanted to escape my own species and choose my own path. Most of all I wanted adventur e an experience not possible for me following a crowd.

To begin with, the journey was exactly what I wanted: uncluttered, wild and free. For three idyllic days I wandered through wildflower meadows and forests scented with pine, and slept in glorious solitude beneath glacier-capped peaks. But on the third night a storm erupted with idyll-shattering violence: clouds clashed, lightning flashed, and rain pummelled my tiny one-man tent. Sleep was impossible. All I could do was cower and hope for the best. Some mountain nights last longer than others, and that night lasted longer than most.

Weary from it, I slept later than planned the following morning and didnt strike camp until noon. Ahead were the highest miles of the wee k s route: the lofty Hohtrli Pass, the kind of Big Mountain Pass one should n t treat lightly. Its crossing demands a good nigh t s sleep, an early start, a full da y s labour, and perfect conditions underfoot. I had none of these things.

I set out beneath a fierce sun and sweat came streaming within minutes. Tatters of cloud hung about the walls and glaciers of surrounding mountains, revealing and then hiding the scenery I d come so far to see. The summits were n t often in view, but when they appeared they were impossibly white and pristine, more like fantasy peaks than real mountains. Such glaciated giants were clearly beyond my solitary reach, but I still wondered which I could climb. I ached to stand upon them.

Although it was the first day of June, snow still lay deep above 6,000 feet. The snow was why I was here and other hikers were n t. It made progress harder, the high places higher, the wild places wilder, which was how I wanted it. Of course, it might also make the pass impassable, but not knowing the outcome was n t a bad thing.

Progress above snowline was slow. I wallowed, sunk, gasped. My shirt clung to my back and my legs quivered. Thoughts were n t focused on the banalities and stresses of everyday existence, on bills unpaid, chores not yet done, on other people and the demands they made. Instead, my thoughts were fixed entirely on the present moment, on the sensations of it: the burning sun on the back of my neck, the sugary taste of snow scooped into my mouth, the heaviness of legs pushed to their limit. This was n t like my job, repetitive and tedious; or like my home life, easy and bland; this was new, engrossing, difficult, thrilling. I dug a thigh-deep trench-trail upwards through unbroken snow and celebrated every challenging step.

Hours passed. Rising heat gnawed at the snow, softening it horribly. Slowly, pleasure in the climb faded and concerns grew. Each step triggered small snow slides that accelerated towards the valley thousands of feet below. The situation soon seemed precarious: could the entire slope give way? It felt possible, and I paused many times, debating the wisdom of pushing on, but each tim e rightly or wronglythe desire to achieve what I d set out to achieve kept me climbing. Soon, all I could think about was reaching the pass and descending safely from it. I could only hope the way down was going to be easier than the way up.

My relief at the top felt overwhelming, but it lasted seconds only, vanishing when I looked down the far side. The route fell away with intimidating steepness. It was so steep I couldnt even see the first 500 feet. In summer, wooden steps and a rope handrail eased passage, but they were buried beneath snow. One look down was enough to confirm I was n t going that waynot with the snow so unstable. But neither could I safely head back the way I d come.