Easier on the way down...

He stopped abruptly. The narrow stony path to the right disappearedinto the crumbling rocks above. The wider path to the left snakedaround the towering outcrop and dipped gently before disappearing intothe undergrowth. He looked at the crumpled leaflet yet again, at thesingle path marked in yellow leading straight to the peak and he angledhis Ranger compass unable to find North on the sheet. Three hours intoa four hour climb, the tempting summit was near but he couldn't yet seeit. Not a problem, he told himself, draining half of his remaining warmwater. Just keep heading up, bound to get to the top soon. It'll be a loteasier on the way down. He wiped his glasses with a damp tissue,pushed the leaflet back into his shirt pocket, and trudged towards theloose rocks on the right.Ken Walker, retired insurance salesman, occasionally fit, permanentlydivorced, apparently free as a bird, out in the wilds again. He lookedacross the Andalusian mountains trying to steady himself, exhilarated bythe gusting hot wind, the soaring buzzards and vultures, the blue haze ofthe distant hills. That could be Aljibe, or Picacho, or part of the Sierra,he thought. Who knows? The tourist leaflet didn't show contours norany other useful details, but it should be obvious from the top. Helooked back down the serpentine trail and was pleased to see it stilldeserted. If there had been someone coming up, he would have had tolet them pass, and then he would have had to resist the temptation tofollow behind. But he was alone. All alone with the hills. All alonewith himself.He wiped his face and trapped cool air under his clammy baseball cap.His ears were hot, stinging to the touch. A fleeting thought about sun-block pulled his eyes downwards. When the wind dropped, he couldfeel the heat radiating from the red dust beneath his feet, pulsing fromthe baking rocks at his side. Onwards and upwards he whispered tohimself, breathing hard. Not much farther.

He emerged from the gully onto open hillside, the path dissolving intorough loose scree which skidded and slipped beneath his trainers. Hegingerly edged forwards, skirting the ridge above. Each step sank intothe stones as he moved unsteadily into the open space. He adjusted hisbalance and looked up anxiously. He could make out the tangled broomand buckthorn some twenty metres above him and perhaps wild olives.Ahead of him, more than thirty metres of small jagged stones, lyingloose on the open slope. He didn't look down. He didn't look back. Hewas not going back. Press on, he told himself. You can do it. That'swhy you're here. He crouched down catching his breath, and tossed afist of a stone which menacingly gained momentum as it bounced intothe bushes below.“Do you need a hand?” The voice was calling to him in English. Kenwiped the sweat from his eyes and caught sight of a young man in ayellow t-shirt, khaki shorts, walking boots, Raeburn sunglasses, and awide-brimmed canvas hat, skidding across the slope towards him. “It'sdangerous around this way. It's a long way down.” Statement of thebleedin' obvious, thought Ken, steadying himself. There's always someobliging Spanish kid wanting to help, even up here. Ken weighed himup and decided the age difference was more than thirty years. I wasdoing this before he was born, he told himself smugly.“I'm fine,” he called back wearily. “Just need to get back to the path.”The youngster came closer, almost gliding across the slope, athletic andconfident. “You look tired. Are you sure you're OK?”“Look, I'm just on my way to the top. I'm OK, really. I just needed toget across, and now I need to get around you too!” Ken inched forwardsunsteadily and the young man held out a hand which Ken pointedlyavoided and clawed his way up a few metres. As he straightened up, hefelt the twist in his ankle as the ground flowed away and his dead weightplummeted.

Ken's knee caught him just below the right shoulder sending them bothplunging down the hillside, dust and gravel rising in their wake. Theyounger man stretched out his hands to slow his descent and clutchedvainly at the sliding stones. As he slowed and moved his leg around tobrake the slide, Ken again landed heavily on his shoulder, jerking himfrom his foothold, and they rolled another ten metres, hammering every jutting rock. They came to rest in a tangled mass of heather and stones,peppered with the debris following them down. For a few minutesneither could move.Ken gingerly raised each painful arm surveying the cuts on his knuckles,wrists and elbows and then touched the dampness on the side of hishead, the grit sticking to the palm of his hand. Both knees were raw. Ashe tried to get to his feet, he fell heavily again as his ankle failed. Helooked across at the youngster who was shaking his head, trying hard tofocus into his hands.Ken watched him struggle to his feet nursing his scraped right arm,moving each joint in turn and picking the dirt from his wounds. Withoutlooking at Ken, he located his bag.“I was doing fine until I met you!” Ken moaned. “Why did you have toget in my way?” There was no sign that he'd been heard. “What amess!”Mario waited for the adrenalin to subside, checked the ground was firmand safe then cautiously moved towards Ken. “I need to look at that cuton your head,” he said opening his bag. “I have a first aid kit. Myname's Mario.”“It's not serious,” said Ken putting his hands up defensively. “I've hadworse.”“No doubt,” said Mario smiling, “but let me have a look anyway.” Kennodded reluctantly and prodded his injured ankle. Mario moved the foot