Forever Upwards.

As I reach the halfway point of Piton des Neiges, the inconceivable pain that reverberates through my body is what keeps me from laughing, thinking back to those truly lackadaisical runs I took myself on as ‘preparation’ for this gruelling trek. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a comparable dormant volcano on which to train instead.

I continue up, tripping on roots that have broken free of the forest floor to live a life above ground, using felled tree branches as stairs, clutching ferns for balance, and testing the strength of my Achilles tendon at every turn as to not slip and go tumbling back down the mountain. Suddenly, a herd of crazed mountaineers charges past me, clambering up the mountain as though it were a sprint and not a marathon. I inch towards the edge of the trail; the edge of abyss; hugging a tree so passionately I swear I can feel it hugging me back. Piton des Neiges is all of 2 million years old, which I guess explains its inclination to occupy such a beguiling trek, abundant with such unforgiving terrain.

Hours after predicted, I reach the Gîte; the hiker’s haven, and lapse into a coma. The next morning I awake before dawn, with only the starlight and the headlamps of my fellow trekkers to light the path up to the summit. To climb the last leg on my last legs; you don’t recover from a hike like that after only one night’s sleep. To reach the peak of the mighty Piton des Neiges and watch the sun first rise from its slumber and gently kiss the surrounding expanse of valley, Good Morning.

Ah, if only that were the case. I reach the summit before the starlight has faded into sunlight, only to be greeted, not with the sun’s kiss, but with a slap, courtesy of Mother Nature. Gale force winds whip dust and stone into my eyes. Not that the encumbered use of my vision is an issue at this point as the fog that is engulfing the entire valley prevents any view worth seeing from being seen. The temperature is near freezing and by the time I have finished forming a fabulous complaint letter in my mind to the manufacturer of my thermals, I am too preoccupied with my disappointment to realize the sun has risen and the faintest glow of light is seeping in through the fog.

As the fog dissipates in the sun’s warm breath, so too does that burning despondence, as the valley below is revealed and with it, a peace like no other I’ve ever known. Never in my life have I felt so tall, and so small, as at that moment, 3069m up, on top of The Piton des Neiges.