#11 Between Ravine and Reason …

Peeking past the rock in front of me, I see Heidi, far below me, hiking back to our Berlingo. When I look up, I see vultures circling above a mountain goat that’s staring down at me.

Yesterday, fiddling with Google Maps on my computer—for a moment unable to concentrate on my work—I came across a symbol near our cave house in the Spanish town of Antequera. Next to that symbol, I read the words via ferrata, Italian for klettersteig, which, loosely translated, is German for fun. The photos that appeared on one of my screens when I clicked the symbol convinced me I would easily find the start of the via ferrata. Heidi didn’t feel like climbing an unknown via ferrata but suggested driving me to where I thought I would find its start.

No longer able to concentrate on my work at all, I rummaged under our bed for the bag with our climbing gear, in which I quickly found my climbing harness and via ferrata set. Rummaging further, in the bag, I suddenly remembered that we had thrown away the yellow sling I was looking for after using it to keep the rear doors of our overloaded Berlingo half-closed during our move to Antequera, two and a half months ago. After a long drive from Catalonia—where we lived before we ended up in Antequera—the sling turned out to be too badly worn to climb with. Instead of that sling, I clipped four sets of two purple carabiners onto my harness, twenty centimeters of webbing between each two carabiners. Clipped together, three of those sets are just as long as my yellow sling was.

Heidi prepared a spinach salad with turkey as I, back at my screens on the kitchen table—small cave house—continued to comb through the English translation of De holbewonercode, The Caveman Code, looking for changes I had made while editing. Dutifully, I had marked those changes, so I could translate them back into the revised Dutch second edition of the book. Too soon, my dutifulness had found its Waterloo. I forgot to mark changes altogether, and now, line by line, I … whatever.

On the couch in the living room, plates on our laps, we enjoyed Heidi’s salad while watching part of Dunkirk on Netflix. After dinner, a full moon accompanied us as we set out for the wilderness east of Antequera, which begins about five hundred meters from our cave house. Up and down, we strolled along paths through waist-high scrub, and my thoughts drifted to a plot of land in the wilderness near the village of Coín—about fifty kilometers south of Antequera—where I once lived. On that plot of land, I had built two obstacle courses—copies of those at the Special Forces barracks in the Netherlands, where I also once lived—and man, nothing was more gratifying—to me—than running those obstacle courses under a full moon. The nearest habitation kilometers away. No artificial light anywhere. The gnarled shapes of the hundreds of olive trees surrounding me as I ran, climbed, crawled, and swung …

If I didn’t settle on a platform high on one of the obstacles—done running, climbing, crawling, and swinging—to enjoy the sounds of the night, above the olive trees and under the stars, I crossed the suspension bridge over a usually dry riverbed to the petite, private café I had built, a cozy fire pit on its porch. I quickly had a campfire going, and staring into the flames—so much better than Netflix—I usually felt happy.

Last night, strolling through the wilderness east of Antequera, I felt happy too. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was that wilderness we strolled through. Maybe it was the thought of the unknown via ferrata I would climb today. More likely, I felt happy because it was Friday evening. For two full days, I would not be talking to civil servants—all too rapidly turning into tyrants.

Twice before, I lived in Andalusia—the last time together with Heidi. Over the past ten years, Heidi and I migrated eight times between European countries. Of course, it was sometimes difficult to dot all administrative i’s. In Antequera, we cannot even gather all i’s, let alone dot them. No, no, and no is what civil servants tell us from behind the plexiglass screens on their desks, and frustration trails along with us as we journey Antequera’s streets, hunting for the certificates, stamps, codes, and ticked boxes on digital forms that will—we assume—eventually lead to our official recognition in Antequera.

Just before eleven last night, we returned home. Too nervous to sleep—wearing a Petzl on my head so as not to keep Heidi awake with too much light—I read Émile Zola’s L’Assommoir, part of a series Hachette published in the 1970s, which, whenever we’re in France and stumble upon a flea market, I try to collect in full. Early this morning, I made breakfast and brewed rooibos tea and coffee. As we had breakfast, we watched another part of Dunkirk, and before sunrise, we were on our way.

Saturday, October 19, 2024. Finding the start of this via ferrata wasn’t as easy as I had thought it would be. After putting on my climbing harness, attaching my via ferrata set to it, and throwing my backpack over my shoulders, we left the car behind where the road had become too narrow to continue driving. For half an hour, we struggled up a steep slope through tough undergrowth toward a rock formation I thought I recognized from the photos Google Maps had shown me yesterday. For the next half hour, we loitered at the foot of that rock formation until Heidi found a rusty wire rope in a chimney between the rocks, open to one side. I clipped the two carabiners of my via ferrata set to the wire rope and kissed Heidi goodbye.

Surprised by the panic that assailed me, I climbed a few meters up the chimney, clipping the carabiners of my via ferrata set over the points where the wire rope is anchored to the rock. Heidi took a few photos as the sun rose behind her, shouted that I should be careful, and started her hike back to the car. Only a few more meters through this chimney and I can continue climbing via the type of ladder common to via ferratas, consisting of steel rods shaped like staples, anchored in the rock, which function as both steps and handholds. Beside those rungs runs the wire rope to which I will remain clipped until the end of this via ferrata.

My feet against the rock in front of me, my backpack against the rock behind me, the panic wears off. Peeking past the rock in front of me, I see Heidi, far below me, hiking back to our Berlingo. When I look up, I see vultures circling above a mountain goat that’s staring down at me, and grinning inwardly, I think of the saying: never approach a goat from the front, a horse from behind, or a fool from any side. I uh… I grin no longer when I realize how the part of humanity that tries to make something of its life—usually without stepping on anyone’s toes—is increasingly being taken into a stranglehold by fools, and … damn it! Only on Monday will we journey Antequera’s streets again, talking to fools behind plexiglass screens. Right now, the air is fresh. The sun is just above the horizon, and I wouldn’t mind some coffee. What I need to brew coffee I carry in my backpack, and I could still climb down, brew and drink coffee, walk back home at leisure, and … slowly, I move upward until I reach the lowest rung of the ladder. I haul myself up and climb on, sensing it’s maybe wise not to look down for a minute or so. The goat is gone. The vultures still circle above me. Higher and higher I climb, unclipping and reclipping my carabiners, my heart pounding in my throat.

My forearms burn as I reach for the highest rung. Realizing I don’t carry my yellow sling, I reach with my right hand beneath my backpack for one of the sets of carabiners dangling from my harness, and unclipping one, I see confirmed that the steel rod from which the rungs are made is too thick for the carabiners.

“No panic,” I mutter in panic, clamping the twenty centimeters of webbing between the two carabiners under the index finger of my left hand on the highest rung. I clip the two carabiners now dangling just below that highest rung together, grab another set of carabiners with my right hand, clip one of its carabiners into the two I just clipped together, pull and push myself upward, clip the free carabiner now dangling in front of my belly onto my harness, and lower myself until I am sitting in the harness. I let go of the rung with my hands and take stock of my situation.

At a height of about forty meters, I hang against a smooth, vertical rock face. The sun warms me pleasantly, and the view is phenomenal. From here, the rungs traverse the rock face in pairs—one low for my feet, one high for my hands—about eighty centimeters between each pair. Above the pairs of rungs runs the wire rope that safeguards me if I misstep or lose my grip.

After rearranging the carabiners of my via ferrata set, I put my feet back on a rung and grab the highest one. I push and pull myself up before I unclip the two sets of purple carabiners from which I was hanging to clip them back onto my harness by feel before taking my first step to the left. With no rungs now beneath me, the depth is even more unsettling, and hardly able to breathe, the rattling of the carabiners on the wire rope my only company, I step about ten meters sideways until the rungs lead me upward again. Via a slight overhang, I reach a narrow, steeply rising plateau high above the surroundings. No more rungs, just the wire rope to follow. Half walking, half climbing, I make my way up the plateau. I reach its highest point, and looking over the edge, I see two steel cables stretched side by side across a ravine. A third cable, slightly lower, runs between them.

I clamber two meters down into the ravine, clip each of the two carabiners of my via ferrata set onto one of the two high cables, and place my feet on the lower cable. I take a deep breath, and with my hands on the high cables, I shuffle across the ravine, which uh… which is a deep ravine. Fifteen, sixteen meters to the other side, where the cables end at a rock face with rungs anchored in it, and man, I don’t feel well. My heart races, my mouth is dry, and I'm fed up with my own spinelessness. Ever since I discovered this via ferrata—on a screen, of all places—I've been nervous, and the last half hour of my life has been dominated by fear, even though I know nothing can really happen to me. Emotion, fear included, I lecture myself, gives color to life. Once emotion dominates, life is over.

Halfway across the ravine, I halt. Under my feet, the cable sways back and forth. I look down, look up at the vultures, look down again, promise myself not to shuffle another meter forward until the last remnant of fear has ebbed away, and think of the Italians who, just before the First World War, built the first via ferratas in the Dolomites so soldiers could move quickly through that mountain range. 1914! Life changed fast, but it was still impossible for almost anyone to develop into a tyrant, although we are taught the opposite. We are taught—and gladly believe—that tyrants made life hell until humanity embraced democracy, and … what we learn is worthless if we are not interested in who exactly teaches us and why. Only a handful of tyrants flourished before 1914—and then only briefly—because humanity was resilient. Only individuals with a well-developed sense of reciprocity could rise to a position of power or wealth—or maintain such a position—and everyone around them benefited from their power or wealth. Democracy put an end to that. Democracy thrives on emotion and provides individuals who do not know the word reciprocity—whisper, “Philanthropy,” instead—with the means to amass more and more power and wealth. In addition, democracy gives fools the opportunity to tyrannize their fellow human beings, and I think of Zola, who once remarked that the truth, if we bury it, will only grow, and … shyly at first, then less shyly, I grin inwardly for the second time today as I realize that despite the nonsense adrift in my head I feel like the zen dwarf I feel comfortable being. A zen dwarf balancing on a steel cable above a ravine, alive because the depth beneath him scares him—and because reason keeps him from surrendering to that fear any longer.

The vultures circling above me, the fresh air, the sun warming me, the phenomenal view I have. Slowly, I shuffle forward. Then, leaning against the rockface where the three cables across the ravine end, I clip the carabiners of my via ferrata set onto a wire rope that begins here. Higher and higher I go via rungs and climbable sections of rock until the wire rope ends at a place where the chance of a fatal fall is no longer plausible. I ignore my longing for coffee and walk five, six hundred meters through steeply rising wasteland to another rock formation, where, at its base, I quickly find yet another wire rope. And although the state of that wire rope does not evoke much confidence, I clip myself onto it. The climb—mostly via rungs—is not difficult but goes vertically upward. After half an hour of steady going, I unclip myself at more than thirteen hundred meters above sea level and gaze around breathlessly. The vultures are gone. No higher peaks than the one I stand on. Far below me, I see Antequera. I see what is called the Lovers’ Rock—which, in a previous life, I used as a landmark when I flew here in my ultralight—and uh… sure, I’m not standing on the top of K2, but I feel good.

My back against a boulder, my legs stretched out in front of me, I sit in the grass and stare at the Mediterranean in the distance. The sky is deep blue, and the air carries the faint scent of approaching rain. My gas burner snores beneath a kettle of water. Healthy food and exercise outdoors, learning from those who truly have something to teach, thinking with a mind as open as can be, wilderness, a campfire now and then, some emotion to deal with but mostly reason, and the certainty that I do what I can not to step on anyone’s toes. Man, it's so simple to make something of one’s life …

More than five hundred vertical meters I guess I covered. It’s half past ten in the morning. At one o’clock Heidi and I will meet at El Sombrerillo, a mushroom-shaped boulder Heidi will walk to from the parking lot in the Torcal, a tiny but wonderful nature reserve. From where I sit, I have ten kilometers to go, four hundred meters down, two hundred meters up. But now it is time for coffee! I pour boiling water into the filter on the rim of my Stanley thermos, enjoy the smell of approaching rain mixed with that of coffee, and feel happy …

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