A Walk in the Clouds: 50 Years Among the Mountains
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
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.
the dark winter months, he regularly evokes the mood and majesty of the mountains to spellbound audiences. In this book Kev tells how he set off, aged 21, to explore the Atlas Mountains of Morocco—and never looked back. He abandoned his desk-bound local government job to pursue a life in the mountains, living and working in Britain, Austria, and Switzerland before finding his true metier as a writer. Kev’s first book, Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees, came out in 1978. Now in its fifth edition,
the vortex and would have shaken to its very foundations, if it had foundations, which it hadn’t. Instead, it appeared to rock with every thunderous eruption. Glistening lines of water ran down the walls to form rivulets on the floor; the ceiling dripped and our misery increased. And it was then that we received a visitor. Out of the smoke, down the soot-blackened chimney, emerged a rat. With sorrowful eyes that pierced the gloom it pleaded for mercy. The hell in here, it seemed to say, is
Lötschental lay far below, nearly 4,500 feet below the great white ridge on which we stood; we could not see into it, but then we were content with the world as it appeared from here. The Lötschental could wait. For now we were happy to forget our plans. Without discussion we dumped our rucksacks and sat on them. Roland lit his pipe, and for a whole hour we had no need for words. The sun rose higher, the air warmed; I removed my down jacket, applied more suncream. And dreamed into the view.
entranced. Rows of monks both young and old electrified the air with their chanting, bodies swaying to and fro under the hypnotic power of prayer. Deep growling voices boomed around the shaven heads of those seated in front, silver bells rang, puja sticks tapped out a rhythm, brass cymbals clashed, then long clarinet-like trumpets were raised and the whole building trembled at the tuneless eruption of sound. Then silence. In the place of honor sat an old man wearing a pair of wirerimmed
on top of my rucksack and, looking back up the slope towards the summit cliffs (so different this side of the mountain), we noticed that the sky had disappeared and a gray wash of mist was spilling over the ridge. Morning’s promise had run out. But we were past caring now. As the snow softened, thinned and turned to mush on our continued descent, we knew the day was ours. There were more ice-coated tarns, easy to avoid with water showing round their edges; there were streams and marshy areas;