The Night is Young
There is no greater motivator for moving quickly than being scared. I try to drown out the noises of the forest by listening to podcasts at an unnecessarily loud volume but the occasional unexpected sound effects or moments of silence during the 'The Moth' or 'Desert Island Discs' are startling me at an embarrassingly frequent regularity. It doesn't help that I am in a place called Valle dei Ratti (valley of the rats).
An old fashioned and perhaps not politically correct term comes to my mind as I yet again turn around to look for the creature or ghost that has been following me; I feel like a big girl's blouse and fully comprehend why I have been avoiding these solo night time adventures. The primal fear of the dark and of the creatures of the night is still deeply instilled in us. Yet I argue with myself that, as I often tell others, it is only our own kind we should be scared of. This is not exactly a city park where the likelihood of running into some no gooders at one in the morning is likely.
It is a huge relief when I am finally high enough on this mountain to be on open ground. Nature is distinctly more quiet up here and my field of vision is certainly not obscured by trees and vegetation. I notice my arms feel sore from pushing my poles into the ground much more vigorously than usual. Or perhaps it's from holding on too tight to them, as they are my only means of self defence. I can finally appreciate where my body has allowed me to get to yet again. I lose interest in Stella Mc Cartney's choice of songs and my senses are overwhelmed by the noise of silence. A wisp of cold wind and a rushing stream nearby are the only sounds I can make out. When I switch off my headlamp and let my eyes settle, the milky way is so bright you can almost hear the stars buzzing away, much like the sound of electricity flowing through a high tension power line.
My obsessive need for vertical gain, testing gear in different situations, running through the night: these are all reasons that have brought me here, or so I thought. The emotional chills give way to the very real stinging cold of an exposed ridge line. Looking at my watch I realize I must be close to my destination, yet I almost hope the trail goes further as I find peace in the alpine solitude.
The bivouac comes into view. 1800 metres higher than my point of departure, it has a simple light reflector to assist modern day pilgrims to find it. It is not immediately obvious whether the strength of a titan is needed to open the latch to its door or if in fact it is shut. As doubts start creeping in about the latter option, my now freezing fingers manage to work out the mechanism and I am greeted by the site of an austere room with a stove and 20 odd bunk beds. The simple routine of lighting a fire and cooking a hot meal soon take over and after I have one last look at the chiaroscuro festival outside, I settle in for the night. The excitement of the day ahead and the euphoria of the endorphin rush hardly let me sleep however. Anticipation for the sounds and sights of the morning are all encompassing and in the end I can only think of where next my fear of the dark will take me.
