By Kev Reynolds
Publish yr note: First released November twenty eighth 2013
A stroll within the Clouds: 50 Years one of the Mountains is a heartwarming, inspirational, and evocative selection of stories and brief tales from Kev Reynolds, a prolific and celebrated guidebook writer who has been roaming the mountains for a half-century.
These memories path Reyonlds's;journeys via a few of his favourite and so much memorable classes realized at the mountains. the folk met, reviews shared, and cultures bridged all through Reynolds' travels make for an interesting learn for hikers and non-hikers alike.
Shadowing Reynolds around the Moroccan Atlas, the Pyrenees trails, the ecu Alps, or even the Himalayas provides the reader the sensation not just of climbing the paths, but additionally of forming the relationships and connections during the international that Reynolds used to be in a position to create. This e-book motivates the typical reader to adopt anything they've got by no means performed ahead of simply because, because the reader learns from Reynolds, that's the place the very best studies come from.
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Additional info for A Walk in the Clouds: 50 Years Among the Mountains
We’d climb something else. 26 • A W A L K I N T H E C L O U D S ▲ The longest day When summer climbs are dreamed of at home during the winter months, ideas and ambitions often outstrip reality. Sometimes the weather gods conspire against the best-laid plans, and time runs out before much can be achieved, as Keith and I found in the late spring of 1975. The shepherd’s hut was as squalid inside as it had first appeared from across the stream when we’d spied it through the storm. About three paces long by two wide, it had a low, absorbent roof through which the rain dripped at unsuitably strategic points.
Well, I gave up on sleep and headed for the mountains once more. ▲ Tragedy on Jean-Pierre Mike and I were brought up in neighboring villages, started climbing together in north Wales, and several years later shared a rope in the Atlas Mountains. He had a natural talent on rock, and for a while we planned to open a climbing school in Snowdonia, but our lives took different directions and inevitably that dream faded. However, in 1977 the opportunity came to share a rope once more, so we headed for the Pyrenees with an ambitious list of routes, but from Day One things did not go according to plan.
Suddenly I awoke to a sound made in heaven. Behind the tent a nightingale warbled and trilled its liquid song; a song that had no end, no sign of ending, it rose and fell and rose again and again, tossing notes to unseen stars as the hours moved toward midnight and beyond. I crawled out in a vain attempt to see the source, but all was dark save for the distant flash of lightning behind black, shapeless mountains. The nightingale cared nothing for that far-off storm, but sang as though all of life depended on it.