Far Above the Clouds

Ever since I first discovered the Himalayas in the mid-nineties, I’ve been a little obsessed with mountains. Whether it’s the space, the fresh air, or simply the lack of people, I always feel completely at one with myself there. Perhaps it’s also the sheer scale of them, the way their immensity humbles me and brings me back to the roots of nature itself. There’s something almost enchanting about these great rocks, as if they are living, breathing beings, silently observing as I pass tiny beneath their gaze. For the past thirty years, I’ve been on a quest to explore as many ranges as possible, hiking sometimes fifteen miles a day. I am never more at peace than when I walk with jagged peaks at my side, so close at times I feel I could reach out and touch them.

I suppose my thirst for high places began in childhood, wandering the hills of England and Wales. Back then, I never imagined I’d be lucky enough to stand in the places I only knew from adventure stories or the pages of National Geographic. Looking back now, I smile at the regions I’ve been blessed to visit: the Dolomites of Italy, the ranges of Austria, Germany, and Switzerland, the towering Himalayas of India and Nepal, the breathtaking vistas of Spain and Portugal, and the magical landscapes of Iceland, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Kenya. I continue to dream of so many more destinations and my bucket list grows.

Perhaps it’s the unpredictability of these regions that keeps pulling me back; the sudden turns of weather and the sense of adventure they spark. I’ve wandered woodland paths in search of summits, felt the blistering sun on my back one moment and shivered in icy winds the next. Just when my legs were ready to give way after hours of relentless climbing, a shelter or small eatery would appear as if by magic, offering brief respite. Yet no matter how many photos I take, I can never capture the true magnitude or immensity of the scenes that unfold around every bend, as if these scenes were for my eyes only. From high vantage points, I’ve looked out across miniature towns carpeting valleys, onto sparkling waterfalls cascading into forests, and sapphire lakes and emerald rivers shining in their unspoiled beauty.

But it’s not always the paths and trails that provide a picture postcard slideshow. Often, it’s various forms of transportation that open my eyes wide to an alternative world of dreams. Funiculars and cable cars glide silently through the clouds, pausing for breathless views; trains carve their way at the feet of snow-toothed peaks. When not on foot, I probably enjoy car or bus journeys the most, especially traversing looping roads that snake their way to and from towns and villages nestled deep in the heart of mountains.

One of the scariest and fastest gondola rides in the world is the old coffin lift, which took my wife and I up to the Forcella Sassolungo from Passo Sella in the Dolomites. There was no idling when it came to boarding, we had to run, jump and hang for our lives as we were transported into the heart of the mountain. The tiny cabin, barely big enough for two people standing, swayed like a pendulum in the high winds and would often pause for heart-stopping minutes at a time. It was claustrophobic, nerve-racking, and utterly unforgettable. Once at the top and we stepped on solid ground, the incredible adventure getting there was worth every second. It was like arriving on another planet. We were among the clouds with eerie bird calls and wind echoing all around us.

The highest I’ve travelled by road was along the Tanglang La pass in Ladakh, at an astonishing 5,328 metres, where I was greeted in Leh by the jaw-dropping Zanskar Range, dotted with ancient Buddhist temples and gompas carved into the face of the mountains. The most dangerous route I’ve taken was the Leh–Srinagar Highway, which cut through Kashmir during a period of devastating conflict. At times the roads were so narrow and unmaintained, they literally fell away as the bus travelled treacherously close to the edge, all the while a breath away from a crushing avalanche that could hurtle the vehicle to a pulp thousands of feet into a valley below. If it wasn’t that, it might be a blizzard or a thick fog that would ground the journey to a halt for hours on end. And yet, the scenery was unlike anything I’ve ever seen – otherworldly and spellbinding.

I remember waking in trepidation on my first morning in Srinagar, only to step onto the veranda of my houseboat and be silenced by the sight before me: the chocolate-velvet Zabarwan Range rising above shimmering waters dotted with houseboats and shikaras. It was hard to imagine the troubles suffered daily in such a beautiful land. With so many more places yet to discover, I wonder if I’ll ever return. Something inside of me says that I will, though I cannot say when.

I often dream of the mountainous areas I have visited. They appear as alternate versions, as if they were deleted scenes. Sometimes I arrive without a camera and feel the frustration of having only memory to rely on; other times the dream is cut short just before an enchanting view reveals itself. As long as there is air in my lungs, I will always find a way to be amongst the lands of giants, I will always go that extra mile to be rewarded by these incredible natural marvels with their tall trees shooting out of the sides to meet the veins of snow that lead to the pure white blankets of the sky-piercing peaks above. Nowhere else on earth captivates me so completely as standing above the clouds, on top of the world.