11th Moanin' of Christmas

September 8, 2025

Greetings from the surprise,

There are some adventures that come like Matryoshka dolls, with one nested inside another, little wonders that imagination doesn’t prepare you for.

For ten days, my friends and I tramped through the mountains, following a trail around Mont Blanc, the highest and most dramatic peak in the Alps.  It was a complex adventure, filled with exhilaration, variety, friendship and beauty.  None of this was meted out evenly, it came at us in waves interspersed with challenges too.  And this other thing.

Somewhere in the early days I asked my group “What has surprised you?”  They dealt the answers out at the table, each sharing their perspective.  The beauty, the people, the physical rigor, the food.  My answer was a little blurred, because in that moment I was still absorbing it, still creating my answer.

Each day we scrambled and climbed and hiked, slicing off a layer of the 110 mile challenge, and  each night we would stay at one of the many refugios that dot the trail.  These hostels have a long history in the mountains, some are in small towns, others so remote they can only be supplied by packhorse or helicopter.  They are places for alpinists and skiers and travelers to shelter in while they explore the mountains. 

We shared this trail through the Alps with hikers from all over the world.  We had this adventure in common, and, for many of them, this other thing.

I wrote in my journal: “Last night I slept with a man from Pakistan.”

Each night we dropped our packs and ate our meal with an appetite we’d forgotten existed. We savored the day’s adventure, toasted our fellow travelers, laughed and planned. And then, we slept with strangers.

I knew intuitively that this was part of the experience, but it took a few nights to realize how it was changing me.  Sleeping is an intimate thing, one of the most personal aspects of living.  When you are asleep, you are arguably at your most vulnerable. It is also when you dream, explore those places in your deepest self.  You are unguarded, your subconscious surfaces, you are uncomposed.  You are as guileless as a child.  So, sleeping is usually a private, protected time, and now, a surprise: I was sharing this time with strangers. And they with me.

Each refugio had its own character, its own charm and quirks.  The space was often modified to accommodate the most people possible, eating and washing and peeing and sleeping. Some had showers, some had a place to wash out your clothes and lines to dry them.  The arrangements were often cobbled together, closets and odd spaces turned into sleeping areas, stairs turned into storage, bathrooms clinging to the outside of balconies, all like a Rube Goldberg contraption waiting to happen.

Usually there were bunkbeds, often the traditional design, others that defied description. On our second night we slept on the top of a three-tier bunk that held over 20 people.  When we woke the next day, we knew each other in a new way.

Sleeping with groups of people you don’t know brings other experiences too. A different warmth, literally and figuratively. The earthy smell of other humans. Sounds; a simple cough, a sneeze, muffled a little late.  People turning to get warm or comfortable, sighs, farts. And a panoply of snoring: the gentle wheeze, the soft whistle, the snare drum, the chainsaw.

Someone gets up to go to the bathroom and has to crawl over you, and there in the middle of the night, when only seconds ago you were dreaming of things no one will ever know, you compare notes on how to climb down from the top bunk in the dark, whisper-laughing as you both realize the outrageousness of the moment. 

We were ‘living’ with people from all over the world, different languages, customs, and of course every human is unique, so there was another multiplier.  Gently, this shared experience of sleep polished off our differences like a soft cloth. The mornings were a prayer of sorts.  We moved quietly, spoke in simple hushed tones, often in the spare light of false dawn.  The day waited patiently as we learned who we were again.  We woke up with these new people we’d just slept with, and then it didn’t seem fair to describe them as strangers.

We stood in the hallways, in the half-light, blinking at each other.  We traded little nods, weak smiles, shrugs and shivers. We waited in the bathroom together, another space where I didn’t expect to share with others in this way.  Quiet looks in the mirror, nods.  Exchanges of ‘bonjour’ or ‘ciao’ or just a silent nod.  Sharing a sink as we brushed our teeth.

Here was a group of Japanese women drying their clothes with hair dryers.  Here was a couple having a whispered argument in German.  A small knot of hikers from Korea gathering at the door of the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew. Bumping shoulders with people whose name you don’t know but an hour ago you were snoring into their dream, and so saying ‘excuse me’ seems silly.

Some are not morning people, some never expected to be seen in their underwear.  It is humbling.  At first there is an awkward modesty, a false invisibility, which dissolves in the face of the reality of close quarters.  There is no choice, the shyness is dulled, and we all become adopted into each other.

We slept together, shared one of the most intimate of human experiences, and when we woke in the morning, we were changed, just a little.  We slept in this trust, this primal, inimitable space, and after we got to live with each other, awake.

For weeks after I returned from the mountains I dreamed of being on the trail, of walking along with my friends and the people who I didn’t know would become my friends.  I dreamed of the meals we shared, of drinking from the fountains, of the astonishing peaks, and the harsh challenges.  And I dreamed of sleeping with strangers, and waking as new people.

Hope this finds you vanishing into something better,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith