Shrived and geared, in beads of trepidation, a lone adventurer sets out today in gusto and in anonymity. Others' families wave to others from the bottom of the mountain; he has none to watch him, blow across their hands as he proceeds. Nevertheless this is a thing he’s wanted to do—had to do ever since childhood when his family teased and coddled him about his dreams. Hero to no one but himself-- yet heroism cannot be applied without a saving involved, so this can only be called guts, determination, folly. Sure he'd rather have his family around and risk his life to save them all. . . .
Now, the inheritance of solitude and funds put to this use, he is alive at last, a short while only, possibly, but as a silent testament to them and to his braver self, and to control what he can control. He will make his own opportunities now. He clicks his belt, rechecks the carabiners, takes a swig and through the stile proceeds up, up, and on, no longer thinking—no longer looking—back.
