ABSTRACT

I am no climber. Though I deeply respect and sometimes even admire the brave souls who put their lives on the line for the sake of mountaineering glory and obsessive goal-achievement, I have always enjoyed my mountains better from the comfortable distance of a beer-serving hut conveniently located halfway up a slope. This probably has a lot to do with my background. I grew up near the Italian Dolomites and every summer my parents, friends, and I would hike and enjoy Alpine trails almost daily. Our trips were always a perfect combination of onus and pleasure. We would never willingly endure risk, sacrifice, or serious challenges. We made sure to stay close to our cozy cottage on days when the skies were cloudy, and even on the sunniest stretches of weather we would carefully plan our outings in order to be back home by dark, just in time for supper. While our walks might have been long at times, our backpacks would always be filled with delicious picnic treats and our canteens would be replenished with good-tasting spring water at every clean creek we crossed. And we nearly always made sure to stop for ice cream on the way home.