Three Days on the Ridge

For years I have wanted to do a proper multi-day walk, the kind where you carry everything on your back and sleep somewhere different each night. This spring I finally booked three nights in mountain huts and took the train up with a pack that was, in hindsight, at least two kilograms too heavy.

The first day was mostly forest. A steady climb on a wide path, the smell of pine and wet earth, and very few people. I stopped often, partly to take photos and partly because my legs had opinions. The hut that night was small and loud in the best way. Twelve strangers around one table, a pot of lentil soup, and a lot of conversation about boots.

Day two was the ridge itself. Above the tree line the path narrows and the views open up on both sides, valleys falling away into a haze that never quite cleared. The weather turned around midday and I spent an hour walking through cloud, seeing nothing but the next marker post and the occasional silhouette of a sheep. It was oddly peaceful. When the cloud lifted, the whole range appeared at once, and I just sat on a rock and ate an apple and did not think about anything.

The descent on the third day was where my knees filed their complaint. Walking poles help, and I was grateful to have borrowed a pair. I also learned that cheap socks are a false economy, and that a small bag of salted nuts is worth more than any energy bar.

Some practical notes for my future self: pack half the clothes you think you need. Bring a paper map even if your phone has one. Book the huts early, because the good ones fill up by March. And carry a little cash, since not every hut takes cards.

I came home tired, sunburnt on one ear only, and already planning the next one. There is something about walking all day toward a place to sleep that makes everything else feel simple. You walk, you eat, you rest. The rest of life can wait three days.