VOLUME 5
Echoes by the Fire_
Among silent peaks and blackened stones, the old rituals remind us we are never truly alone.
The backpack pressed against my shoulders like a quiet companion, marking each step along the trail. The pace was slow by choice: I wasn’t chasing the summit, but listening to the breath of the mountain, absorbing the rhythm of the wind through the larches. To climb was to give myself the rare luxury of slowing down—of looking closely, of feeling time stretch across skin and stone.
The old bivouac awaited us at the top, its weathered outline etched against the ridge, as if it had always belonged there, resisting the forgetfulness of centuries. Crossing its threshold felt like stepping into another layer of time: the present folding into the echo of those who had come before, who had lit fires against these same blackened stones, seeking warmth and company in the solitude of the heights.
We lit the flame. At first a shy spark, then a steady tongue of fire that grew alive among the ancient rocks. The meat hissed as it met the heat, filling the air with smoke and hunger. In that simple act—meat over fire—something primal stirred. I thought of how many times, across different ages, men and women had repeated the same ritual: wood gathered, rough hands striking flame, eyes stung by smoke, hunger transformed into a meal. Years pass, centuries dissolve, but the need to circle around fire endures—the need to turn effort into sustenance, solitude into communion.
The mountains turned to dark silhouettes, carved sharply against a sky bleeding from gold into indigo. In the silence, I felt the presence of others—unseen yet certain—whose thoughts lingered still, etched into the walls and the air of this place. The solitude was not empty; it was inhabited, layered with stories of lives that had paused here, if only for a night, just like mine.
I sat by the stones, watching the horizon fade.
The descent was a gentle unraveling. The fire left behind, the smoke and its memory carried away by the wind. My legs moved lightly, following the path back into the valley. Step after step, I returned to the everyday world, but something essential remained with me: the quiet knowledge that to walk, to stop, to cook, to gaze at the horizon are gestures as old as humanity itself. In them, we continue an unbroken dialogue between who we once were and who we still are.