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There: we notice the things that exist, and not the ones that aren’t there, usually.
Not always though, because sometimes certain absences, certain emptiness, are so intense that they capture our attention like a light attracts moths. There are absences we notice more than a hundred thousand details, more than deer and curious choughs, more than an elegant and bold line never climbed before.
"Can you hear me?" Simon Gietl murmurs into the wind, on the peak of Cima Scotoni. There is nobody, nobody answers. Only the wind, delicate and constant, it collects the sound of that question, carrying it everywhere and nowhere.
"Can you hear me?" repeats Simon, slightly raising his tone strained by emotion. "I’m here. You’re not here, but I respected our pact. I didn’t open this route with anyone else, even if you’re not here. This is our route, Gerry".
AARON DUROGATI - ARNAUD COTTET - ERIC GIRARDINI
WHY NOT?
There was a time in which snow was fundamental, here. It was a dream: if there was no snow, everything was missing.
His mind wanders, when he stares at something – or someone – who is not here. A point on which to fix one’s stare is missing. “It was 2015, it was February>> Simon mumbles, while he starts to get ready for the descent. "Do you remember? We had gone up to climb Waffenlos, nearby. It was so cold, that night, do you remember?"
Simon laughs to himself, raising his eyes to the sky. He checks his abseil carefully, before throwing his ropes out into mid air with a measured and aesthetic gesture. "Of course, it wasn’t one of our best ideas Gerry. But in the end it was worth it, wasn’t it? At the end of the day, what are the things you remember? What days truly count in someone’s life?"
The ropes slide through the belay device, while Simon’s last words are lost in the air, which is now still.
"You remember the special days" Simon continues. "You remember the unique days, those in which you worked hard, those in which you gave yourself an objective and you even reached it. You remember those days…" Simon sighs, with an oblique smile and his eyes moisten "…spent with special people, people who understand you straight away, almost without the need to talk. And I remember the days spent with you Gerry, I remember them very well and I remember every single one. Patagonia for example Fitz Roy in 21 hours, do you remember? Non-stop from the bottom of the valley to the summit, what a ride. Do you remember? We felt immortal, that day".
Simon is silent, surprise of the bitter taste that memory leaves him. His descent continues, long, solitary and solemn, just like this new route opened, those 21 brand new pitches on the bizarre, fragile and beautiful rock of Cima Scotoni, all the way down to that incredible basin in which you can see the lights of the mountain hut.
"When I found out about the accident, Gerry" Simon picks up again, talking out to the silence "it was just like when a hold breaks off in your hand on the crux move of a pitch. Yes, I can say that is exactly what it felt like, feeling that emptiness. I didn’t want to believe it, because I couldn’t believe it. You were my friend, Gerry, one of those friends whom you feel good with, one of those you trust one hundred per cent. We still had so many things to do together. Opening this route for example".
The silence does not answer back. It never answers. Silent and shy Simon opens the hut’s door. He picks up the route log book, looking for a page in particular, the last he could sign with Gerry Fiegl. He stares for a long while at the weaving of ink on the paper, before scribbling down something and putting the volume back. He walks out, under the sparkling light of the stars.
"Can you hear me Gerry? I kept faith to our pact. Now it is “only” a matter of freeing it". Simon sniggers: “only” is not the appropriate word, referring to the 21 pitches of 8+ grade opened in nine days using only trad gear.
"I so wish you could see it. It is amazing."
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
There: we notice the things that exist, and not the ones that aren’t there, usually.
Not always though, because sometimes certain absences, certain emptiness, are so intense that they capture our attention like a light attracts moths. There are absences we notice more than a hundred thousand details, more than deer and curious choughs, more than an elegant and bold line never climbed before.
"Can you hear me?" Simon Gietl murmurs into the wind, on the peak of Cima Scotoni. There is nobody, nobody answers. Only the wind, delicate and constant, it collects the sound of that question, carrying it everywhere and nowhere.
"Can you hear me?" repeats Simon, slightly raising his tone strained by emotion. "I’m here. You’re not here, but I respected our pact. I didn’t open this route with anyone else, even if you’re not here. This is our route, Gerry".
His mind wanders, when he stares at something – or someone – who is not here. A point on which to fix one’s stare is missing. “It was 2015, it was February>> Simon mumbles, while he starts to get ready for the descent. "Do you remember? We had gone up to climb Waffenlos, nearby. It was so cold, that night, do you remember?"
Simon laughs to himself, raising his eyes to the sky. He checks his abseil carefully, before throwing his ropes out into mid air with a measured and aesthetic gesture. "Of course, it wasn’t one of our best ideas Gerry. But in the end it was worth it, wasn’t it? At the end of the day, what are the things you remember? What days truly count in someone’s life?"
The ropes slide through the belay device, while Simon’s last words are lost in the air, which is now still.
"You remember the special days" Simon continues. "You remember the unique days, those in which you worked hard, those in which you gave yourself an objective and you even reached it. You remember those days…" Simon sighs, with an oblique smile and his eyes moisten "…spent with special people, people who understand you straight away, almost without the need to talk. And I remember the days spent with you Gerry, I remember them very well and I remember every single one. Patagonia for example Fitz Roy in 21 hours, do you remember? Non-stop from the bottom of the valley to the summit, what a ride. Do you remember? We felt immortal, that day".
Simon is silent, surprise of the bitter taste that memory leaves him. His descent continues, long, solitary and solemn, just like this new route opened, those 21 brand new pitches on the bizarre, fragile and beautiful rock of Cima Scotoni, all the way down to that incredible basin in which you can see the lights of the mountain hut.
"When I found out about the accident, Gerry" Simon picks up again, talking out to the silence "it was just like when a hold breaks off in your hand on the crux move of a pitch. Yes, I can say that is exactly what it felt like, feeling that emptiness. I didn’t want to believe it, because I couldn’t believe it. You were my friend, Gerry, one of those friends whom you feel good with, one of those you trust one hundred per cent. We still had so many things to do together. Opening this route for example".
The silence does not answer back. It never answers. Silent and shy Simon opens the hut’s door. He picks up the route log book, looking for a page in particular, the last he could sign with Gerry Fiegl. He stares for a long while at the weaving of ink on the paper, before scribbling down something and putting the volume back. He walks out, under the sparkling light of the stars.
"Can you hear me Gerry? I kept faith to our pact. Now it is “only” a matter of freeing it". Simon sniggers: “only” is not the appropriate word, referring to the 21 pitches of 8+ grade opened in nine days using only trad gear.
"I so wish you could see it. It is amazing."