As Long as There Are Mountains to Climb

by Gene Bourne

Age is not a number, but a state of mind.

The rhythmic ring of Lola’s phone pierced the early morning silence. Juana was calling with an update. Since her sister’s fall fourteen years earlier, illness was normal. Some days one call, on others two and three. Soon there won’t be any.

In January 2023, Lola and I planned a trip to climb Goatfell, on Scotland’s Isle of Arran. We attempted the trek of the island’s highest mountain back in 1991, but fierce winds forced us to turn around. Both of us had unfinished business.

In December Juana was relatively healthy, but everything changed at the beginning of March. A foot infection generated talk of amputation.

In mid-March Lola’s Nature Spirits told her Juana would hold on long enough for our trip. Two weeks later she visited her sister in New York and found her condition was stable. However, upon her return home Juana’s condition changed dramatically. Gangrene set in and she was ordered to the hospital immediately. 

They spoke the following day and afterwards Lola said, “That’s it. Doctors said she’s waited too long. There’s nothing they can do.”

Our trip now felt like an apparition, but she reminded me of what her Spirits said. I didn’t feel reassured.

The infection did not spread and at the end of April Juana was discharged back home. Lola returned to New York, this time to say goodbye.

On May sixteenth the two of us were air born to London. Charged with energy at having made it this far we took to the streets like two teenagers on their way to Coney Island for the first time.

Fatigue set in, in the late afternoon as we approached the Princess of Wales pub. Well-dressed men and women, pint in hand surrounded the front, engaged in lively discourse. Lola and I squeezed inside and became engulfed in a swarm of humanity. We were fortunate to find a vacant table, but patrons deep in conversation made it difficult to talk over their clamor. 

“Get me a chardonnay,” my travel mate shouted in my ear. 

At the bar I pointed to an ale on tap and called for the wine, then returned to Lola and collapsed in a chair. It felt surreal, seated in a pub, thousands of miles away from the stress of our Santa Fe lives. 

Too tired to talk over the din, the two of us sipped our drinks happy to be insulated within the pub’s busy environment.

When my mate surreptitiously lowered her gaze to the right, I followed her eyes to a table less than two feet away. Two young attractive women were deep in conversation and oblivious to our presence.

The woman facing me had long brown hair, well-groomed eye lashes and delicate facial make up. I lowered my gaze to her low-cut blouse and was stunned to see two large, barely covered, perfectly round breasts. It looked like they could roll free at any moment. I looked back at Lola and we both smiled. 

The crowded streets of London reverberated with a heightened sense of madness. That night, as the two of us made our way through the city’s highly charged, crowded streets it felt like we were in a Fellini fantasy. 

Seated at a window of our favorite Soho restaurant, Lola and I felt like voyeurs to the parade of fascinating, colorful people that passed by our front row seats. The ultra rich exited from a Rolls Royce, while the young, the gay and everything in between pranced and preened across the stage in front of us. 

A homeless woman passed by with a man, and they stopped to talk. When he left, she sat down on the sidewalk with legs widespread, then fell over. Crowds walked around her, as if she didn’t exist.

On our late-night stroll home, the energy and sound levels remained heightened, like a repetitive Phillip Glass aural tapestry.

After three days of debauchery, we departed for the Isle of Arran and our date with Goatfell.

The window of our second story room overlooked placid bay waters anchored with sailboats while swans floated serenely by. The impressive presence of Goatfell loomed in the distance. 

On the day of our ascent, we walked along the coast for two miles to the trailhead for our 2,867 foot climb. In the beginning birds serenaded us on a wide dirt path through a thick forest and when the trail joined a gurgling stream, I heard passages from Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. Our idyllic walk quickly vanished when the gradient steepened, the way narrowed and raised tree roots and rocks slowed our pace. 

Further on we exited the trees, crossed a bridge and proceeded through a gate. Ahead I saw walkers slowly pick their way over jagged stones in a long rock field. Our pace slowed further when Lola and I entered the rock field, and hikers quickly overtook two slow pokes. 

The temperature was in the mid-fifties, while ominous clouds swept towards Goatfell’s peak off in the distance. When the two of us stopped to rest I saw the route up the mountain far away. It climbed to a saddle which led to a narrow ridge and beyond the ridge the grade increased dramatically. However, the distance was too great for me to see anyone on the trail. The top of the mountain was now engulfed in clouds.

We continued on and I asked a hiker on his way down if he’d reached the top.

“No, I stopped when I reached the drizzle line.”

A while later we donned our slickers in a steady light rain. Eventually we crossed the rock field and started towards the saddle. Now I saw tiny creatures inching their way across the boulder strewn ridge. 

We reached the saddle and began to climb over and around the rock masses. Soon more people were going down than up. The gradient increased dramatically at the ridge, and it became difficult to find a secure place to plant our poles. A slow, tedious effort was required to step on a higher rock, push down on our poles and propel our bodies forward.

Lola and I kept climbing one step at a time until only the final, steep ascent remained. The entire mountain and summit were now consumed in mist and fog.  

Both of us leaned against the rocks when a woman going down needed to catch her breath. “It’s gonna get a lot harder up there,” she warned. 

The limited visibility played tricks with my mind. In the gray veil that consumed us, shadows merged with the fog. By late afternoon the last couple picked their way down and over the enormous rocks and disappeared into the mist. We were alone on the mountain.  

Neither of us wanted to quit. I looked into the gloom again for a glimpse of the top but could not see anything. Then we made a turn, and like a mirage I saw a silhouette of boulders against a blanket of gray. We were there. 

The small pinnacle included a sign and a 360-degree placard detailing what you could see in all directions. We only saw a slate-colored wall of fog.

Alone in the murky soup, there was no time to celebrate. The ominous sound of subdued silence surrounded us as we descended into the void.  

Going down was more precarious than on our way up. We still had to plant our poles, but now we swung our bodies forward, balancing on our walking sticks and for a brief instant hovered in the air. 

“Baby steps,” I told Lola.

The two of us crept down through the shadows. At the end of the ridge three hikers appeared on their way up.

“I hope there’s a tea room at the top,” the older one jested.

“There is, but it’s closed now.”

Both parties continued in opposite directions and quickly disappeared into the elements.

We rested frequently to avoid an accident. Eventually the two of us left the boulders on the saddle and descended to the rock field. It wasn’t as steep, but the rugged path kept our pace slow.

I turned and saw the trio. 

“Next time we’ll have to give you a two-hour head start,” our friend joked, and then they were off. 

As they ‘sped’ ahead the older one turned occasionally. I sensed he wanted to make sure the two elders, the last ones on the mountain, were O.K. By the time they completed the long walk across the rock field they were the size of ants, and I saw our friend turn one last time. 

Lola and I were alone in the vast, gray, silent emptiness. 

The two of us remained focused on the path ahead and slowly made our way across the rock-strewn damp earth. Eventually we approached the gate and crossed the bridge. When the path widened, we walked with our hands entwined to the bottom. Lola and I had safely completed our way to the top and back. It was too soon to grasp our remarkable effort. Our way back to our room led through an almost deserted, dark parking lot where two young men appeared from a car and congratulated us.

The both of us turned and followed the path down to the beach, through a golf course and across the wooden walkway back to our room. 

Later, Lola spoke with her sister while I sat with my feet up sipping a gin and tonic.  From our window Goatfell didn’t look as imposing as when we crossed each rugged, rock filled section.

Snippets of their conversation floated in and out of my reverie, “It was brutal, a nightmare… I knew it was the only reason Gene came here, so I couldn’t stop.”

Lola and I began long distance walking later in life and over the last two-and-a-half decades we’ve completed many treks in England, Europe and Ireland. It is humbling when I realize that our extraordinary effort on Goatfell is only out shone by completion of our initial walk of one hundred-ninety-three miles across England.

Our descent was difficult and most of the time we were alone on the mountain. The intensity of our task never allowed fear to enter our minds, but over time we’ve recognized the potential for danger that existed.

In the pictures the two of us took of each other on top of the mountain, standing by the weathered stone marker, we are encased by fog and drizzle, but despite the grim elements, we stood strongly, with our walking poles in hand and beamed a triumphant smile. 

“We did it,” I said. 

The morning after winning an Oscar, Jon Baptiste stated, “It’s hard to conceive what’s happening at the moment.”

It took some time before I understood the faith and perseverance that was necessary for our success. The images I have in my mind, and the enormity of our effort, remains surreal.