A Walk in the Clouds: 50 Years Among the Mountains
A Walk in the Clouds: 50 Years Among the Mountains is a heartwarming, inspirational, and evocative collection of memories and short stories from Kev Reynolds, a prolific and celebrated guidebook author who has been roaming the mountains for a half-century. These recollections trail Reyonlds' journeys through some of his favorite and most memorable lessons learned on the mountains. The people met, experiences shared, and cultures bridged throughout Reynolds' travels make for an engaging read for hikers and non-hikers alike. Shadowing Reynolds across the Moroccan Atlas, the Pyrenees trails, the European Alps, and even the Himalayas gives the reader the feeling not only of hiking the trails, but also of forming the relationships and connections throughout the world that Reynolds was able to create. This book motivates the common reader to undertake something they have never done before because, as the reader learns from Reynolds, that is where some of the best experiences come from.
chimney. With that the smoke billowed into my face. “Thanks,” said Keith. “That’s a great improvement.” Seconds tediously multiplied into minutes, and the minutes slowly drifted into hours. The fire flared and settled; it crackled and spat. Occasionally a downdraft blew smoke into the room. Sheep dung was fed onto the slow-burning wood, and our clothing took on its odour. Outside the storm showed no sign of easing. Morning reached maturity, became mid-day. We would eat. Keith was fastidious
brighter than twilight all day, and now the air was growing much, much colder. Perhaps it would snow overnight. I looked at my watch and announced it was time to eat. We’d prepare a decent meal this time, subdue our despair with something tasty—something that didn’t have the flavor of monosodium glutamate. But in the middle of our fantasising, Keith suddenly said: “Hey, have you considered where we’ll sleep?” “No.” Neither of us had given a thought to night’s approach, being fixated by the
warm glow lasted all of two minutes until the penny dropped. I wondered then how many times that tin of milk would be sold and bought back in just one day. Enough, of course, for it to be the only item in the shop not covered with a layer of dust. A beggar would have been satisfied with a few rupees, but I’d just forked out a hundred times that amount. Another mug had been sucked in. Clever little sod! THE WONDER OF A BLUE FRONT DOOR It doesn’t take much to lift a man’s day, as became
Dorje, Pemba, Maila, and Co; sharing stories and dreams with Kirken; the sound of creaking dokos; the epic laughter round a campfire. But it would be heaven to lie in a bath, to wear clean clothes, to sit at a table and eat a meal with vegetables straight from the garden—not to mention the luxury of being able to drink water straight from the tap . . . The loud throbbing of the plane’s engines defied conversation, and I was aware of Kirken’s head nodding with sleep. Dorje’s was pressed against
the horse with real gratitude, and watched as they turned for home, slithering downhill. With perhaps 500 vertical feet to climb the 17,100 foot pass, I plunged a foot into the snow, gasped for breath, then tried another. Then another. My chest heaved as my lungs felt tight and far too small for the job they were called upon to do. But slow and steady progress was made, and at last I staggered onto the Larkya La, where colored prayer flags exercised the wind. A short walk to the west I knew the