The climb is steps. Sherpa-built, 1,978 of them, and every one of them has a view that makes you stop, which is the only reason anyone finishes. At the top there's a ridge the width of a sofa and a drop you don't look at.
I set the recorder on a rock, put the windshield on, and sat down. What you hear first is yourself: your breathing, your jacket, a zip. Then that goes away and the place arrives.
Wind, but not the aggressive kind — the kind that's just air moving because it's a big place. Gulls, far below, sounding like they're in another room. A boat engine, one, crossing the fjord, taking eleven minutes from left to right. And under all of it a hum I couldn't place until I realised it was the sea, everywhere, all at once.
I kept forty minutes. I've listened to it maybe thirty times since, mostly on the U-Bahn, mostly with my eyes closed. People probably think I'm asleep. I'm on a hill in Norway with cold hands and no need to be anywhere else.
