August 23rd, 2025.
I strained to catch the Morse signals in my headphones, trying
to decode the call signs of the correspondents reaching out to me at the very
edge of the transceiver’s noise. But the wind—rising with sudden fury—smothered
every sound, leaving no chance at success. Only half an hour earlier I’d sat on
the summit in just a T-shirt. Now I was forced to layer on every scrap of
clothing I carried. The harsh northern gusts grew ever stronger, cutting
straight through me.
I managed to snatch a couple more callsigns before the pileup dissolved into silence. Out of courtesy I called a few minutes longer, but no reply came. Enough. With this wind today no SSB. The antenna bent under the onslaught yet held its ground with stubborn resilience. I powered down the transceiver and let my eyes wander over the distant fells. Beautiful. The morning sun scattered its rays across grey-black stones cloaked in sparse, vivid moss, and across countless shimmering lakes and streams of crystal water. I could never tire of these views.
Beautiful. Perhaps that is why the fells pull me back again and again.
Perhaps. Or maybe it is simply the chance to be alone with nature, far from
civilization, far from anyone at all. Perhaps. Or maybe it is nothing more than
the rarity of these journeys that makes them so dear. Perhaps.
I realized I was stalling, unwilling to break the
spell—wanting only to linger in the silence, to drink a little longer from the
solitude and the raw, untamed wildness around me. The dog had curled into a warm
ball at my feet, trembling now and then as the cold wind brushed his fur.
“All right. Time to move, my friend!” The next summit beckoned, relentless in its pull. “An hour, maybe an hour and a half if we cut straight across. The key is finding the right way in—and the way out. Come on, let’s go.” The dog listened as though he grasped it all, his joy shining through as he began to move.
