Nothing to write home about

This year I got carried away planning my first major trip to the Alps in two years. After my May walking holiday I knew I had the energy for the mountains, as long as I played it right.

I’d been building up to it with plenty of exercise that included a running plan that got me to the stage of running 5k 3 times a week. I was doing well. So when I looked at the guidebooks and consulted the maps, I was overwhelmed by the possibilities.

So much potential: the visits to mountain huts where I could watch the sun set over icy mountain summits, so many glaciers to explore, even a few easy 4,000 metre peaks to climb.

I took it easy at the start, nervous that too much, too fast would lead to a spell of chronic fatigue and I’d be spending the rest of my holiday too tired to do much more than crawl out of my tent at the camp site to admire the view.

I kept my bargain to myself: I visited mountain huts, saw those beautiful sunsets, explored glaciers. I ever tried one of those 4,000 metre peaks. And I stopped when I needed to so I didn’t get sick.

In the process I learned that though I am mountain person, that day at least, I wasn’t a mountain summit person.

I also learned a thing or two about failure. I hated failing - I cried when half way through the climb, suffering from the altitude and unable to overcome my fear of heights, I had to give up. I cried some of the way down. And I shed a tear or two later in the privacy of my tent.

But looking back a month later, the failure is unimportant. Oh, I know I would still feel elated if I’d made it all the way to the top, but the important thing is that I gave it a try, and I carried on trying long after I wanted to give in.

That mountain’s not going anywhere. I’ll be back another year. And in the mean time, I can look back on all the memories of the mountain huts, the glaciers and the sunsets. And feel proud of all those things I did.