Disconnected

Rocks, lots of rocks—I’m at nearly 3000 meters altitude, clambering over a massive boulder that looks like Steve Ballmer’s head, bald and imposing. With my walking stick, I can just manage to wedge it into the next rock to pull myself up. Success—I’m standing with both feet on Mr. Ballmer. I catch my breath.

Ahead of me, two friends are clambering along: one with a neat black backpack weighing 11 kg, and the other with a half-sagging bright red backpack weighing 12 kg. They’re faster than I am, but that’s alright. It’s my own fault—I tend to look around too much, just as I keep gazing at “Steve.” To my left, I see the highest peak in the area, the Hochgall, at about 3436 meters. To my right, a gigantic expanse of snow makes me feel incredibly small.

I continue until I’m almost alongside the other two on the slick, damp rock. One of them lets out an ecstatic shout: “The sun is breaking through!” I start laughing and look back to behold the sun, with a rainbow as a gift. How beautiful the world is.

During a trek like this, I forget everything. Nothing exists—only our little group, a few backpacks, and a platvink (a small finch). No Twitter, no Facebook, no troublesome projects, appointments, or cleaning. Only the rhythm of my footsteps and my breath. I live.