Father's day

A "serious" responsibility that makes me hold the handholds like I’ve never done before as I look aroudn, hearing all there is to hear, making slow, calculated moves… so much so that I almost feel I’ve gone beyond, past "knowing" that nothing can, nothing must happen. Why am I doing this, for him of myself? I should… I’m flooded by meaningless questions, as meaningless as what I’ve been doing for many years now. But today is different, mixed to, gripped to doubt these an immense, indescribable joy, that type of happiness that makes me want to cry with excitement; tied in to the other end of the rope there’s my son, the boy I jokingly call my heir, and not in rock climbing. Yes, because I don’t want, wouldn’t like him to inherit his father’s love for climbing. But destiny will decide!

It’s a blue-sky day and He asked for a summit, not the usual crag to play around it, but a summit comprised of a highest point, where you need to sit down and look at the sky. where there aren’t any cows and flowers, but air and the void. My lost habit of looking for domesticated routes forces me to buy a series of guidebooks, read pages and pages searching for the "line" that perfectly suits him… and me.

The wether is good when we get out of van, after a hearty breakfast we get our rucksacks, packed the day before, and say goodbye to Mummy and his sister. This one is great but too difficult, this one is great but too long, this one doesn’t lead to the summit.. The route that fits the bill is on Mount Falzarego, with all its prepared lines. He walks quickly, almost effortlessly, with mountain boots, technical clothing; a small alpinist afraid of nothing. I on the other hand am tremendously relaxed… in my fear! A pleasant sensation, perhaps, but one to be hidden behind a smile or below the weight of my rucksack.

We reach the base an He begins to talk, actually he never stopped. Harness, helmet and so forth, then I set off on the first pitch, I become light and start to protect myself like never before, years of solo climbs and long routes with friends willing to play the game had made me forget that at the end of the day the game is always the same, it just depends on how you want to play it.

He follows every pitch, talks ceaselessly, takes out the gear and comments about what he sees. I’m his father, life has decided things this way and now I’m also his "guide", his "example" (poor man!!). His eyes are full of joy, carefree, he’s happy to be up here, showing me, proving to himself, what he’s capable of. Four pitches later and we’re on the summit, a warm wind keeps us company, I shake his hand and He, smiling, says "That was Beautiful Dad, d’you think Mum will be watching us?"

We sit there, sitting next to each other, more tension has dimished but hasn’t disappeared altogether, my heartbeat has slowed slightly. I’d like to scream, perhaps swear a bit, but this doesn’t seem like the right thing to do so I smile and give him a big hug.