Eyes wide open, counting sheep backwards, I glance at the clock: it’s 4am. Sure, with travel comes jet-lag, and okay, I took an afternoon nap, but this time the insomnia is too much.
We arrived yesterday in the absolute dead of night completely oblivious to our surrounds. Now at 4am, with nary else to do, I’m somewhat curious where we’ve landed. I peek nonchalantly through the French plaid curtains, and then it hits me…
The Matterhorn at Twilight
“Where the heck am I?” I quickly look around checking for strange bedfellows. “Wow.”
You see, when I look at a monolith like the Matterhorn, I’m drawn to a duel. But unlike most mountains, with their soft cuddly white snow, the Matterhorn is black and raw and rugged and terrifying. The engravings in its flanks resemble the scars of an African warlord; both forged in the throes of battle, both representing an impossible summit.
But I can’t help to stare at this vista. It’s terrifying, yet electrifying. It gives me purpose. It helps recount the mammoth efforts of adventurers before me. Instantly, I’m awake.
The Matterhorn massif looks especially demonic in twilight. But with sun, it doesn’t get any better. The blue reflections further chill the sub-arctic air. And the first rays of sun only highlight the petrifying near-vertical face, which stands to separate climber and summit.
I think she’s trying to tell me something.