Ramblings In Hypoxia

Have you ever been able to see something happen before it does?

Standing here on the trail, looking at my route ahead, I can see the whole world open up ahead of me. Snow does that; it shows you everything by hiding it, like a blanket that descends from the heavens, erasing the visual noise around you. Everything becomes straightforward. Minute deviations in the sweeping, cold lines, peaks and troughs highlight the path before you, and the truth becomes absolute. Physically, snowfall is hard to traverse, but mentally it is much less tiresome. You need to concentrate on the path, for it is far too easy to walk off of it.

Psychologically, everything is easier. Maybe that's why I feel I can now see more. I can see what is not there.

I just feel something. Does that make sense to you? Can you understand?

I don't know. Maybe this is a bad start.

I need to explain better, make things clearer.

Also, I know you are not really there. I am not crazy—at least not in that way. But you see, I am a bit of a 'chatty catty'. I project my thinking. To solve my dilemmas, I speak them to the big beyond and that for now is you.

Whoever you are.

The problem is we are talking in English, and some things don't translate.

I think I have been learning French recently. For some reason, I can't remember. I have been walking this route for so long and experiencing this extra everything; all the old paths I walked seem like a distant echo.

Now, you are probably wondering why I am not concerned by this alarming amnesia.

Let me pause for a breath and explain.

It is only when you stop that everything you feel is magnified. Right now, the icy air, which is freezing the tears on my cheek, is coming into focus. The steepness of this slope is why I am having difficulties.

It is not amnesia; it is jamais vu, which is the French for "never seen". Jamais vu is a sense of eeriness and the impression of seeing something for the very first time, even though you should know you have been there before. Rationally, you are certain of it. Not remembering if I have been learning French or even where this trail started is only my mind playing tricks on me.

You see, I know there was an experiment in Cambridge, but I can't remember when or by who.

Some guy got something like a hundred people to write the word door thirty times in sixty seconds. Afterwards, over two-thirds of them experienced jamais vu. They didn't believe the word door even existed.

That is what is happening now; the physical exertion, the steps one after another, crunching through the snow, the heavy breathing. This is mountain hiking, the same movements over and over and over again. All of these things combined are playing tricks on me.

When I stop, it will all be fine.

Jamais vu. It's the opposite of something else. I struggle to think of this opposite phrase. It is important for some reason, but I am stuck in this surreal feeling of not knowing.

It will come back to me; it is on the tip of my tongue.

I must plough on, ever further through the snow.

I trek over the brow and into a valley. On the other side is the most beautiful ascent—right up into the heart of the central peak. As I use my sticks to find my way through the deep powder, muscle memory kicks in. What no one tells you about mountain climbing is how tedious the effort is; when this feeling happens, the automation of the body, the task becomes easier. I feel as if I have taken each step a thousand times before. It is familiar. It feels safe and heartening. It is déjà vécu.

Déjà vécu in French means "already lived". Déjà vécu is an intense sensation. I no longer even need to find the path; my body just knows. I must be careful, though, because déjà vécu is an illusion, a trick of the mind. This memory is a misconception. I keep my eyes and ears open to prevent myself blissfully walking into a crevice unaware. Whatever I am heading towards, whatever I feel is about to happen. It is close. There is that feeling after travelling when you return to base, an excitement of recognizing the landmarks and the turns in the roads. It grows the closer you get back to your nest. I have that exact same feeling.

This is frustrating.

What's this feeling called?

You must help me. Tell me, what am I talking about? What's its name?

I am exhausted and breathless, but the momentum carries me on. The possibility of stopping no longer exists. This is the greatest moment of mountain trekking: when you become lost in the moment and allow it to swallow you whole.

Can you feel that ache in your muscles?

It is more than just the exertion of the climb. They are being deprived of oxygen. We are gaining altitude, and the air is getting thinner.

I stop.

Halfway up the opposite slope, I stop and turn to look at everything I have accomplished.

The sun is catching the white drifts on the opposing descent I have just completed, gleaming like a sheet of shimmering, brilliant gold on the slope, so bright it almost blinds you. The feeling of this sight grabs my entire being, fuelling my purpose and determination. I have never seen this sight before, but I know it with every ounce of my soul.

This is déjà rêvé.

Déjà rêvé is French for "already dreamed". I have never witnessed this spectacle before, but I'm certain that I have been here in my dreams, at this very point in time, looking down in this direction. It is a wondrous endorsement of my life and a memory I will treasure forever.

Strangely I feel a sensation of satisfaction, like when you place the few remaining pieces in the jigsaw, knowing that the anticipation of that final piece is close—that perfect moment of completeness. I don't think I have ever experienced this sensation quite this strongly before.

I do hope you don't feel I have been ignoring you

This last hour has been challenging. The path was hard to stay on, and we were hit with that brief storm. I had to fight with everything I had. I left my pack.

Can you believe that?

I just took it off, laid it down in the snow, and carried on without it—crazy! I don't know why, but I am sure it will be waiting for me at the end. Silly, I know, but I am so sure. It is a truth that seems impossible to question.

What was that?

I must be tired. I thought you asked me a question.

I seriously believed you turned around and told me to stop and rest for a minute.

But that would be impossible because you are not really here.

Madness.

Anyway, I can't rest. If I stop, the danger is I will not be able to continue. I have my crampons on, and I am making progress. Slow and steady catches the day. Mentally, this is the most demanding section because the doubts of failure are now screaming the loudest.

You must stop listening to them.

Your mental reserves are spent; let me guide you, let me help you.

Walk your steps in mine and remember the goal.

Part of me, the part of me that does not know you are not really there, knew you were going to tell me to stop and rest.

That is déjà entendu, which in French means "already heard". It is the experience of feeling sure you've heard something before. It is the feeling where you don't know what someone will say, but when they do it is all so familiar, almost obvious.

This climb has been much harder than I imagined, but they always are. Never fear; when we complete this, all the hardship will be banished from our memories. We have to help each other. Even now, with the snow falling, I can almost see you walking in the mist alongside me.

Thank you for that; thank you for keeping me company.

You can feel it, too; I recognize it in the way you look at me.

Something is about to happen.

Look at our destination! No, really, look.

Can you see that rigid pinnacle of rock and snow? The mountain spearing up into the clouds?

The freezing wind whistles down from the mountaintop and wraps around both of us; our lungs close shut, and we both gasp for air. It is a worthy payment for entrance to the promised land. You can see that opening between the rocks, the pass, the final ridge. It is there we will experience it. I just know it.

I am nauseous with excitement.

Isn't that mental? The feeling of wanting to vomit fills me with anticipation.

My legs feel like they don't work anymore, but the end of every climb feels this way.

It's fantastic.

I know I am overreacting, and yet I feel as though I am standing in a waterfall of euphoria.

The last steps onto the ridge are extraordinary.

I am slipping, stumbling my hands glide along the rough ice; my coordination is off. Nevertheless, I dig deep and power onwards. Then I see it. On the other side of the pass, the slope descends through gravel and shale. A hundred meters below is a huge frozen pond. To me the name is a disservice. It is a lake, caught frozen in time shimmering like a jewel in the sun. Sitting at this height, it is hidden from the world inside of the crater within the mountain peak. The crystallized snow sparkles in the fluorescent rays of the sun.

Isn't it glorious?

I had forgotten the destination, the purpose of the endeavour. Upon seeing it at last, I weep in the most uncontrollable, childlike manner. My whole being feels as if it is on the brink of a powerful epiphany. There is a revelation to behold just out of my grasp. For some reason, it is tantalizingly close, but this perfect moment is incomplete.

Something is out of sync.

This is presque vu, the French word for "almost seen," and it is the cruellest form of torture.

My head is throbbing; it feels like it could explode. I have not travelled far enough. The answer will be at the lake; I will walk down to it, break the ice and drink its water. That should be enough, should be the answers to all questions. The problem is, even though I have finally stopped the formidable climb, I can't catch my breath. I am panting. It is like I am still moving upward. Pulling off my jacket and outer layers, I strip to my waist. Flurries of snow are descending, but I still feel hot. Stumbling over to the wall of the pass, I lean against it to ground myself. Staring at the frozen oasis below me, I mentally try to take control.

The world does not spin, but it feels like its very axis is tilting like a see-saw. I am standing upright, held up by the mountain wall, yet it is almost as if I am lying on the ground. My vision is grey and spotty; I can still see the lake. Except now, instead of being below me, I am staring up at it.

I look for you, but you have left me.

I close my eyes to try and calm my breathing.

Swirling around me, I hear the angry wind.

The grip I have on reality is too tight. I release it and let the world around me find its own centre so I can stand again, so the compass needles can stop spinning.

The darkness enshrouds me, swallowing me in its warmth.

There is nothing to be afraid of. I have been here before.

I know this.

It feels like home.

Written for Vocal August 2021