Lock, Stockhorn and two smoking barrels

It was an unexpected offer; I can say that at least. A party of powder junkies had struggled the previous evening to acclimatise to the breath-taking altitude one experiences in a place like Zermatt. Whether or not that is mountain code for "one-to-many" I cannot say, but I had somehow managed to be given their place; taking part in a ski-tour led by a renowned mountain guide. A place a city banker would struggle to afford, offered to me for the price of a mountain train ticket.

We set off at 8am, the crisp, Swiss morning air pickpocketing the oxygen from my lungs. We had barely left the 'bahnhoff'. The man taking me, a guide of almost two decades experience in some of the harshest mountain terrain in the world, no doubt wondered whether or not it really had been a wise decision to lead me on something as arduous as the Stockhorn climb. Ability on piste is not always a watermark of ability off it. Not that my guide would let me know. His steely reserve gave way to no concern, and I was the better for it.

We took a cable car not often frequented by the many thousands of tourists who flock to Zermatt each year. Its lack of use was betrayed by its age. Where the majority of modern uplifts in the Matterhorn region feature fibre-glass wind-shields and heated seats, this car was a product of a bygone age. Its steel exterior and single cable gave the impression that every time it ventured from beyond the confines of its port, a monumental war was taking place between gravity and metal itself. The symbolism of this once majestic cable car, its sheer force of will dragging us almost 250m lower from where we were headed, was not lost. Not on myself at least.

When we reached the top lift station, the guide turned and unzipped my tattered jacket. A pocket I had had no use for suddenly found itself filled with a large satellite receiving system. The guide smiled as the test bleep sounded. "If you are lost," he said, "this will help us find you." I doubted he meant in the mountain café.

We trekked the 250m uphill, my boots screaming against my shins, their inadequacy creaking with every un-oiled ankle movement. My lungs were working at a monstrous rate. Each great heave up the mountain was echoed by a wheeze in my chest. I was unfit. But I needed to make it to the top. I needed to summit this smallest of mountains. As I approached the peak, the guide turned and again smiled: "It's time to clip in Paul, that was the easy part." I had forgotten all about the skiing.