On Thursday my two great friends were on the edge of the world, and I was with them. It took a week to get there, mostly walking up and down mountains with shit on our backs. Actually more than just a week- when I really think about it it took 3 years or so (that’s when we did our first trip all together). It’s both a blessing and a curse that you can make a tradition out of anything, anytime, but this was one of the good ideas.
The thing about summiting a mountain, is you have to feel like it’s the end of something, or else you’d go mad. For a second you put aside all the miles of hiking you still have to do, and focus on the success of that view. It’s certainly a nice ultimate moment. No uphill ever again!
That’s what I said to my two great friends on the edge of the world. I had to walk up stairs as soon as I got home.
What I’m trying to say, is the edge of the world was the end for a moment: it was the only moment that mattered, the end of waiting for the sun, of our day, of our trip, of our adventures together for the summer. But not the end for long.
Next time we will hike again and we will wake up on the last morning at 3 or 2 or… 12 and hike in the tense darkness, fueled by adrenaline, fear, and cold cliff bars, for hours, until we emerge above treeline and the stars explode into sight: falling, fallen, scattered in the nearby hills in little magnetic clusters. 50 mph winds, freezing temps, but our hearts will be warm and the sunset won’t have to be “worth it” because, in all honesty, that’s not the main event.
It ends up being “worth it” just to show off.
I love you Sophie and Jordie. Here’s to more epic adventures and good traditions.