A Leap of Faith

by Helena Ringström (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Italy

"Two people died last week." I don't quite know what to respond and just solemnly nod. The two men had visited a too popular mountain nearby and crashed into each other. The air grows silent in our confined metal box, which is slowly travelling up the mountain Seceda. Around us the Dolomites spread out, the ragged peaks towering above the town Ortisei which we have just left. Few places have left me as awestruck as the Dolomites; it's as if the pale mountains have scars from growing up. Cracks fill the mountainsides and they look like they could crumble at any moment, yet they have stood here for millions of years. Travelling up the mountain with me is an enthusiastic man from Yorkshire and our Italian guide. It's late September and at the top of Seceda we will soon find frost in the grass. Regardless, the Yorkshire man is wearing shorts, styled back with a warm puffer jacket. Our Italian guide is wearing reflective glasses which he never takes off. I remember his eyes as reminiscent of a beetle; shiny blue and purple. I'm wearing new hiking boots and they're already pinching my toes. At the top of Seceda, 2500m above sea level, I'm given an overall to protect me from the cold. My left leg zips up with ease but my hips prevent the right from being zipped up. Instead, the unzipped right leg trails behind me like a sad puppy until I pick it up and cradle it in my arms. The flimsy green fabric rustles in my arms whilst the strong icy wind attacks my face. We begin our short walk down the side of Seceda, passing by a cheery tourist taking pictures of the landscape. "Have fun!" she shouts to the Yorkshire man and Italian beetle-eyed guide. When she spots me, trailing after the two whilst cradling an overall leg in my arms, she only watches in silence. My thoughts flick to my insurance company who wouldn't cover this activity due to the intense nature of it; prompting a frantic search for a different insurance. Rays of sun are piercing through the clouds on my left, illuminating the valley below. The wooden houses with roofs kissed by the snow are glistening in the sun and I can picture the grazing cows. However, there's no time for landscape admiration. In front of me, Yorkshire and Beetle are descending Seceda faster than a pursued mountain goat. Meanwhile, I struggle in my new hiking boots. Each crunchy step on the frost-covered grass reminds me of my pinched big toes and I descend the mountain at the speed of a limping mouflon. The Yorkshire man is already gone by the time I reach our designated spot. "Are you nervous?" asks my beetle-eyed guide. "Maybe a little." It's a lie. If anything, I'm surprisingly calm. My guide is one of the best in his field; I'd gleaned as much from the starstruck Englishman. Apparently he's been in the equivalent of the Olympics and finished in fourth place, but he was in no hurry to tell me himself. He doesn't seem like much of a talker and with the Yorkshire man gone, it's eerily silent. Beetle smiles at my supposed nervosity and makes sure all the straps are in place. The instructions are simple. Just wait for his signal and then run off the cliff. There's really no room for misinterpretation; just take a massive leap into the unknown whilst placing your life into the hands of a stranger. He gives the signal. I wait just a second too long and the wind fills the thin fabric wing behind me. The strings strain at the force of it. I begin to run down the grassy slope until I find myself leaping off the cliff and running in thin air. Beetle tells me to sit back. Soon the only sound is the rushing of the wind as we soar close enough to the Dolomites to see her scars. When we’re landing we fly in over a grazing cow. She momentarily looks up whilst munching on her grass and probably wonders why there's a piece of green flimsy fabric tucked into my jeans pocket.