Lovesnaps, eleven
It was a perfect late october day. Bright blue sky, pleasant temperature. Perfect to live a night alone in the refuge But life is filled with surprises. Was it my imagination, or was it really a cat's moan?
Abandoned, a black sweet feline was running towards me. At first I decided to proceed, trying to bring it up with me, but suddenly I realized how wild can become a cat in a closed unknown place; and I was sure to avoid myself a B-class horror movie adventure. Feathers and claws don't go along so well.
In the car, the cat stayed on my lap for the whole driving hour, curled and completely serene. I knew Maria's house, owner of more than 15 cats, was the perfect place for Uja, meaning the piedmont's toponym for peak, a name I gave it the same moment of its materialization. And so it was. I quit my wild spirit, happy for the purring thing, and I spent the night in the apartment, waiting for the next day to repeat it.
The refuge reveals its solidity. Nevertheless it looks like a children toy compared to what I see: an impeding triangle of rock right behind, an immense pale green and dark gray basin, and a limitless blue ceiling, where newly born cotton clouds move too fast to seem nice.
Darkness falls. Silence get even more thick. The few stars disappear. Ears whistle an omen.
Night passes too slow, and my sleep is far from being serene. Outside of the little window on the left of the plank-board where I choose to rest there's only one colour: black. Sounds are just memories of ago, air is totally still. Frequent wake-up acts induced by a quiet yet uncontrollable sense of detention.
As a tail of night, morning comes too slow. The glow I now can see speaks of something I hope not to see, and that I see: the white lady has fallen, hiding every possibility of turning back.
Five in the morning. After a cup of snow-tea all I want is a rocky perch to look straight at my destiny. I stand there, almost hopeless, smoking and scanning landscape with binoculars to search traces of the world I once knew.
And finally, when some warmth begins to melt some flake, after three infinite hours of attention, I spot the first red sign, the first possibility to find the path.
I've always thought mountains are my elected, elevated church, the petrified measure of a sense of awe that makes me constantly think, like a child in awe, to some God's love.
Lovesnaps, eleven
It was a perfect late october day. Bright blue sky, pleasant temperature. Perfect to live a night alone in the refuge But life is filled with surprises. Was it my imagination, or was it really a cat's moan?
Abandoned, a black sweet feline was running towards me. At first I decided to proceed, trying to bring it up with me, but suddenly I realized how wild can become a cat in a closed unknown place; and I was sure to avoid myself a B-class horror movie adventure. Feathers and claws don't go along so well.
In the car, the cat stayed on my lap for the whole driving hour, curled and completely serene. I knew Maria's house, owner of more than 15 cats, was the perfect place for Uja, meaning the piedmont's toponym for peak, a name I gave it the same moment of its materialization. And so it was. I quit my wild spirit, happy for the purring thing, and I spent the night in the apartment, waiting for the next day to repeat it.
The refuge reveals its solidity. Nevertheless it looks like a children toy compared to what I see: an impeding triangle of rock right behind, an immense pale green and dark gray basin, and a limitless blue ceiling, where newly born cotton clouds move too fast to seem nice.
Darkness falls. Silence get even more thick. The few stars disappear. Ears whistle an omen.
Night passes too slow, and my sleep is far from being serene. Outside of the little window on the left of the plank-board where I choose to rest there's only one colour: black. Sounds are just memories of ago, air is totally still. Frequent wake-up acts induced by a quiet yet uncontrollable sense of detention.
As a tail of night, morning comes too slow. The glow I now can see speaks of something I hope not to see, and that I see: the white lady has fallen, hiding every possibility of turning back.
Five in the morning. After a cup of snow-tea all I want is a rocky perch to look straight at my destiny. I stand there, almost hopeless, smoking and scanning landscape with binoculars to search traces of the world I once knew.
And finally, when some warmth begins to melt some flake, after three infinite hours of attention, I spot the first red sign, the first possibility to find the path.
I've always thought mountains are my elected, elevated church, the petrified measure of a sense of awe that makes me constantly think, like a child in awe, to some God's love.