The Mountains

Reconnecting with the Wild

Months after my breakdown, the days had begun passing without tears. The despair was no longer constant, just flickering at the edges.

I’d decided to walk from one end of the French Alps to the other, but with my own approach. Rather than the popular north to south route, I’d go in reverse, starting in Nice. It made more sense to my pragmatic brain. It was early summer, and by finishing in the north, I could avoid the worst of the mediterranean heat and give the remaining snow further north a chance to melt.

I’d wild camp too, self-sufficient for three to four days at a time, restocking en route where possible. This adventure ticked all my boxes: self-reliance, freedom from societal pressures, and the chance to quietly observe nature.

I just needed to be alone, to ponder and recharge. I had a sense it wouldn’t solve anything. Was I just running away? Maybe. But I needed my thing, something to try and regain some zest for life after years of deep depression.

Preparing to Leave

As I prepared for the trip, I began to notice myself more clearly, my autism. I cut tags out of clothes, partly for sensory comfort, partly for weight reduction. I weighed everything repeatedly, trimming the load wherever I could. I spent hours researching the lightest new gear. I had all the kit, but I hadn’t done any significant thru-hikes for years, not since back problems defined my options. Keeping the base weight under 8 kg before food and water, was a way of reducing risk.

My back had played a significant role in my depression. Even after a disc excision, it remained the bane of my life. But that’s another chapter. Here, it explains the weight pedantry and apprehension.

Into the Heat

I arrived in the midst of a June heatwave. The humidity and mosquitoes didn’t make for the best sleep, and walking through the city, I was already fixed on escaping the bustle. It slowly quietened the closer I got to the trailhead.

After negotiating trams, buses, and the concrete sprawl, I was already wondering when I might refill my three litres of water.

As it turned out, not before I ran out. Legging it up the dusty trail into wafts of hot lavender, I soon discovered that the creeks I had hoped to replenish from had already dried up.

Settling In

The first day is often a bit frenetic. You’re surging ahead with visions of vistas. You’re excited to christen some new kit. All the while you’re stumbling through the process, still finding your rhythm with nature’s beat.

Bad sleep the first few nights is inevitable. It takes time to learn your fuel requirements, pace, and routine. But when it clicks, something settles. You start to feel part of the bigger picture: adapted, intended.

My body began to glide over the terrain in a state of flow. I was averaging over 1,000 metres of ascent each day, covering more than 20 kilometres of ground.

For many, it would be their idea of hell. But I was where I belonged. Energised by the exertion and drawn into the landscape and myself.

The Observing Mind

I noticed myself, as I so often do, being efficient, thinking ahead, not really experiencing the present. My inner monologue was always busy, mapping things out, rather than simply existing in the moment. I made a mental note on my tendency to strive, and never arrive, endeavouring to allow myself the luxury of not really needing to be anywhere.

My desire for smooth, quiet, efficient locomotion gave me access to experiences few people get to understand. By wild camping, I had the rare privilege of watching the world as it existed before cities.

Each evening, after setting up camp off the beaten track, I would head deeper into the wilderness. I moved slowly and silently through the golden hours, entering the world of crepuscular creatures. It became my favourite part of the day. After feeling the scale and awe of the distances I had covered, I’d enter a focused, meditative mode of discovery, looking and listening for the slightest signs of life. A gentle intent of measured discovery.

Wildlife Encounters

Throughout the month, I encountered a full array of Alpine wildlife.

Red deer hinds grazed just feet away. Bachelor herds of stags roamed proud in full velvet. Roe deer often visited camp, barking at the unexpected sore thumb that was my conspicuous tent, before bounding away in disapproval as I tried to take their picture.

A red fox once slinked parallel to my path, seeking a better vantage point to observe the rambling foreigner. A melanistic asp viper rustled through crisp leaf litter. Ibex echoed their clashing horns in rutting practice and even wandered through camp, scent-marking with no concern for my quiet presence just metres away.

When nature called at dawn one morning, I was interrupted by the thunder of hooves and the crashing of bushes as a pair of chamois, spooked from something above, came crashing into camp, perplexed by the unfamiliar fixture pitched at the edge of the forest. They took a moment to make sense of things and wearily catch their breath, only for me to give away my position after a few snaps and send them on their way.

Alpine newts swam in clear mountaintop tarns. Frogs chorused like distant didgeridoos as I drifted off to sleep. Marmots shrieked their alarm calls across granite faces. Hares zig-zagged into the undergrowth and out of sight.

It wasn’t just the wild animals that captivated me. A rambunctious young collie took a shine to my adventure, following me out of civilisation and into the forest. Every time she vanished in pursuit of marmots, I hoped she’d lose interest in my company and return home. But kilometre after kilometre, she’d reappear at my side, now far from the village and clearly my responsibility.

Luckily, there was a number on her tag. Through broken English, her owner reassured me she’d find her way back and not to worry. But as I set up camp, hours away from where she’d joined me, I let her owner know: if she was still with me in the morning, we’d need to arrange a rendezvous. Otherwise she’d end up at the other end of the country.

Sure enough, she spent the night coming and going from my open tent, snatching sleep between energetic patrols of the treeline.

In the morning, her owner drove to a chapel in the next village to collect her, though not before calling her down from the roof, such was her urge to explore. I found myself still expecting her to appear and noticed how much of my mind had been consumed by her presence.

This is why I don’t feel alone in the mountains. It’s groups of people that give me a sense of isolation. When you’re quiet and isolated, away from the noise, nature is humming with activity.

Stripped Back

Life was stripped back to essentials: food, shelter, direction. Ego had stepped aside. Nature had taken the lead.

I had front row seats to wild weather, the scale of which is usually obscured by city skylines. Rivers carved through solid rock. Mountains reshaped themselves before my eyes, as ice and rain dislodged entire faces. Everything was alive and moving.

Winds threatened to knock me off my feet. The sun sucked the sweat from my skin.

As I approached the final stretch of the journey, I was moved by the beautifully haunting sound of a skilled violinist playing in the otherwise silent forest. It was like the soundtrack to the end credits of my trip. The melody drifting on the breeze, unexpected and affecting.

It’s the eccentrics that create a world. The fellow was drying a freshly dunked shirt from a stream, cooling off from a relentless climb and taking the opportunity to use nature’s studio to full effect.

I didn’t stop to speak. I gave the international sign of approval and tried to disguise my overwhelm. He flawlessly continued his piece with a smile.

What was it all about, this beauty and emotion? How could I continue this contentment in my day-to-day life?

I was so familiar with feeling at home, away and alone, that I hadn’t realised why: out there, I didn’t need to be anyone. No role to play. Just me. Autistic or not.

I wasn’t retreating from the world at all. I was returning to myself.