2 a.m.
It is odd to think how I hated it all that night , how to myself I maligned all climbers , calling them in my haste foolhardy -- senseless -- imbecile , when I had only to go up my first easy mountain to become as keen as the worst -- or the best . Sometimes in those mountaineering excursions with John to Zermatt , to Chamonix , to Grindelwald , I have found it in my heart to envy the unaspiring people who spend long days pottering about on level ground . But looking back it is n't the quiet , lazy days one likes to think about . No -- rather it is the mornings when one rose at 2 a.m. and , thrusting aching feet into nailed boots , tiptoed noisily into the deserted dining-room to be supplied with coffee and rolls by a pitifully sleepy waiter . Outside the guides wait , Joseph and Aloys , and away we tramp in single file along the little path that runs through fields full of wild flowers , drenched with dew , into a fairy-tale wood of tall , straight pine-trees . We follow the steady , slow footsteps of Joseph , the chief guide , up the winding path that turns and twists , and turns again , but rises , always rises , until we are clear of the wood , past the rough , stony ground , and on to the snow , firm and hard to the feet before the sun has melted the night 's frost . When we reach the rocks , and before we rope , Aloys removes his rücksack and proceeds to lay out our luncheon ; for if one breakfasts at two one is ready for the next meal at nine .