Hiking, Giacamo thought as he stepped up the granite stairs of the mountain, is a metaphor for life. Cooking, for him is metaphor for sex. He has many theories, but this philosophy of his on hiking is firm.
The mountain climb is a long one. His destination is a bivouac at 2100 meters, a crude shelter of three wooden walls and a corrugated steel roof where he will cook his dinner and soon after sleep.
The pace he has set for himself is his own slow rhythm. His feet move at a tempo set by the thudding heartbeat in his chest, like the large gear of a clock.
A man passes quickly on his right, in a slight jog, with white earmuffs blazing a rapid-beat music one hears in an aerobics class.
Hiking, Giacamo reassures himself, is a metaphor for life.