Kieran Campbell
La Tournette: (Re-)Conquered
I've posted many shots from last year's week in the Haute-Savoie, but none have yet shown the shy summit of La Tournette, in all her glory free of cloud, never mind from above.
From my aerial vantage point here, there's nothing below my feet for over 500 metres, but in a few seconds I can drift towards the peak of the jewel of Lac d'Annecy and admire the raw beauty of the sheer rock-faces up close. The irony is not lost on me as I feel a certain vertigo-by-proxy on behalf of the people perched on the lofty tors, enjoying a perfect day on earth, while I feel completely at ease soaring over their heads, suspended by a sum total of lines that fit between thumb and forefinger.
People fly for a myriad of reasons, all of which can induce an addiction bordering on the toxic. Our common start is the simple euphoria of flight; enjoying something that is completely unnatural but, ode to the technology, allows us to suspend our disbelief to feel as though it really is part of our physiology to exist for prolonged periods unshackled from the earth below. After that, the most common disciplines involve either conquering the horizontal kilometres - emulating our avian cousins to explore cross-country - or sacrificing the vertical metres as part of mesmerising acrobatic displays. I roughly fit in the former category, but the urge to accrue distance often comes in to conflict with the desire to just witness the beauty around me, and ultimately to capture it for others to see too. This day was definitely one of those days where simply witnessing, and recording, the landscape was the priority; I spent over an hour soaring around La Tournette, starting lower where I really was up close to all the textures of rock, grass and scree, completely in awe of the scale of the mountain, and my insignificance in comparison. Flying close to cliffs, the mountain does demand a certain respect: one lapse in concentration and the transition from aerial to earthling may be abrupt and unforgiving. Once above the peak though, the mountain was tamed, just a little, and I could move in any direction to appreciate it from any angle.
The more I look at the shots, the more I am drawn to the paths that so clearly mark the human effect on the landscape. Now that I've visited it from above, the remaining challenge will be to conquer it on my own two feet.
Edit! How could I forget that only the year before I also overflew a snow-covered La Tournette. I even posted that different perspective here, and funnily enough, I called it The Conquest!
La Tournette: (Re-)Conquered
I've posted many shots from last year's week in the Haute-Savoie, but none have yet shown the shy summit of La Tournette, in all her glory free of cloud, never mind from above.
From my aerial vantage point here, there's nothing below my feet for over 500 metres, but in a few seconds I can drift towards the peak of the jewel of Lac d'Annecy and admire the raw beauty of the sheer rock-faces up close. The irony is not lost on me as I feel a certain vertigo-by-proxy on behalf of the people perched on the lofty tors, enjoying a perfect day on earth, while I feel completely at ease soaring over their heads, suspended by a sum total of lines that fit between thumb and forefinger.
People fly for a myriad of reasons, all of which can induce an addiction bordering on the toxic. Our common start is the simple euphoria of flight; enjoying something that is completely unnatural but, ode to the technology, allows us to suspend our disbelief to feel as though it really is part of our physiology to exist for prolonged periods unshackled from the earth below. After that, the most common disciplines involve either conquering the horizontal kilometres - emulating our avian cousins to explore cross-country - or sacrificing the vertical metres as part of mesmerising acrobatic displays. I roughly fit in the former category, but the urge to accrue distance often comes in to conflict with the desire to just witness the beauty around me, and ultimately to capture it for others to see too. This day was definitely one of those days where simply witnessing, and recording, the landscape was the priority; I spent over an hour soaring around La Tournette, starting lower where I really was up close to all the textures of rock, grass and scree, completely in awe of the scale of the mountain, and my insignificance in comparison. Flying close to cliffs, the mountain does demand a certain respect: one lapse in concentration and the transition from aerial to earthling may be abrupt and unforgiving. Once above the peak though, the mountain was tamed, just a little, and I could move in any direction to appreciate it from any angle.
The more I look at the shots, the more I am drawn to the paths that so clearly mark the human effect on the landscape. Now that I've visited it from above, the remaining challenge will be to conquer it on my own two feet.
Edit! How could I forget that only the year before I also overflew a snow-covered La Tournette. I even posted that different perspective here, and funnily enough, I called it The Conquest!