'Great things are experienced when men, mountains and a wilderness meet.’
(Unknown)
Between Stones and
Silence
A Walk Into The Berg
Dawn came soft, pale grey
light spilling slowly across the valley, as though the mountains were exhaling
sleep. My boots whispered on damp grass, the world still hushed — no birdsong,
only the distant sigh of a cold wind brushing against the granite ribs of the
hills.
I walked then not for triumph, but to vanish.
To feel my thoughts shrink, one by one, until only the mountain remained.
The path wound uphill, each step deliberate,
measured. My breath came in puffs — mist from my lungs, dissolving in the cold
morning air. My pack, heavy with water and dried food, pressed against my spine
like an old burden begging release. I welcomed the weight. In that steady
resistance, I found calm.
As I climbed, the valley opened like a wound in the earth — exposed slopes, ancient cliffs, stones that had squatted since time before memory. The sky threatened with low-hanging clouds; thunder might come, might not. I felt no hurry: I had nowhere to be but here.
I paused at a rocky ledge and looked down into green
gloom, the world far smaller than the ache in my chest. The wind rose, carrying
the scent of wet earth and old rock, a scent that smelled like truth. There, I
heard the mountain’s song. Not a melody, but a whisper — slow, unending,
ancient.
For a long moment I stood. No ambition, no
deadlines, no blame, no debt. Just me. My thoughts, like wary guests, stood by
the door. I did not invite them yet. I poured a sip of water, tasted cold
clarity.
When night came, I pitched my tent under a
boulder’s lean-to, wind cutting teeth through the thin fabric. The world
darkened, stars glimmering faintly beyond the ridgeline, as if the sky itself
leaned down to listen. I wrapped in a windbreaker, pulled socks tight, lit a
small stove. The hiss of boiling water sounded too loud, defying the stillness
around me.
I ate — plain pasta, salty, unremarkable. The
food was fuel, but the silence was feast. My thoughts came then, creeping,
curious — the guilt, the exhaustion, the heavy weight of old days. But under
the vastness of rock and sky, they felt small. Manageable. Human.
I fell asleep counting nothing but wind-shakes on stone. Dreams came empty. No cities, no voices, only slow drifting clouds. For once, I was not running. I was resting.
In the morning I woke to a world washed clean. Light
brushed every surface; the boulder, the grass, the distant peaks seemed to
gleam with a secret they would never tell. I packed slowly, each movement
careful, respectful — this place had given me clarity. It demanded nothing in
return but quiet gratitude.
I descended then, not with haste or urgency,
but with something soft and stretched: a calm born of distance from old storms.
The trek back to the car was long, but empty. I walked as though I carried
nothing — no resentments, no debt, no unfinished echoes.
When I finally reached the gravel road, the
outside world crept close again — the smell of petrol, the distant hum of tires,
the chatter of radios. For a moment the red dust on my boots felt wrong,
foreign. I paused, looked back at the mountains, their ridges broken by light
and cloud, and carried their silence in me.
I drove away, but the mountain did not leave. Its song stayed,
soft in my bones, a memory I’d revisit on sleepless nights. And I knew:
whenever the world got too loud, I could always walk back to the silence.
Because some of us don’t hike for the destination. We hike to listen.
We as hikers, explorers, and adventurers
have the absolute duty to respect and protect our Wildernesses.
Nobody else will do it for us. Take ownership!
The End.
Safe Hiking.
References and Acknowledgements
Photos – Willem Pelser
