Lava Loft Dispatch

There are places only some should go. The Dolomites aren't friendly, but they'll make an exception if the gear is right.

Lava Loft led us like a dog-eared map: we looked up and saw that mountain is a small word—this open-mouthed beast was something else. Then the cold came in.

More than once the frost bit at our faces, but Lava Loft bit back, our cores and arms warm and kept in working order for the march.

Trails wound through and over rocks as big as fallen ogres. We moved with the urgency the wind pushed at us, teeth gritted, knees high against its current. We fell into a sweat we couldn't feel, moved off the skin before it could settle thanks to down bonded with gold flakes moving vapour outward like a deep, earned exhale. Only salt. Ghost traces of our exertion.

Fog burned off to sun. Ten tiny ounces packed into our bags, pockets, even underneath a hat. Forgotten.

Later, at camp, we'd look back and realise: all that had stood between us and ill fate was this light, pored layer of invincible down.