Deep dark deathlike solitude

These days I find myself wondering if I take everything from the Alps that I must. I find myself literally documenting moments, feelings, realizations in my journal and to others. My good comrade Chad and I have been meditating together; having wholesome discussions on the Alps, what they mean, what they signify to ourselves and those who have come before us. Lately, we've been discussing Percy and Mary Shelley, Lord Byron, and the ideal of some higher power in relation to these beautiful creations brought before our very eyes. We discuss what it means to be alive and young just below Mont Blanc (where  Mary Shelley's creature retreated during times of persecution), and just below the Jungfrau (where Manfred considered diving to his certain death). At the end of my nightly contemplation I find I relate to both the creature and Manfred: I understand the mountains becoming modes of solitude, methods of escape.

How could these mountains not be considered refuge? How could this fresh air not provide necessary means for health, for understanding, for hopefulness? Personally, I came here seeking these same truths. I understand Shelley's creature's plight, I understand his need for seclusion, for aloneness, his need for acceptance. And it's easy to become lost in these caves, these mere rocks with snow.

However, these mountains provide more for me than romance and great, clean air. Just the other night, a few of us fixed dinner together. We popped a few corks, ate amazing soups, and watched the sunset reflect from the Dent du Midi. The sheep's bells were going nut and the rain had just put the most perfect chill to the air. There wasn't much but great conversation, the smell of fresh roses, and the occasional twitter of the BVB's horn signaling another trip up the mountain, another trip down...