The Joy of Mountains 12 December 2025
I participated in the Alpine Association's writing competition, and yesterday the winners were announced. I didn't win first prize, but my story was good enough that I received an invitation to present it myself and read it at the gala event.
Since the journey is simply more than 1300 km away, my story was read by someone else. Still, I'm really proud, and I'd like to share it with you here:
The Joy of Mountains – or how I brought them to Denmark
Sometimes, or so they say, the greatest adventures happen when you're not even looking for them.
Take me, for instance—someone longing for heights, for snow on mountain peaks and the echo that dances between rocks—I suddenly ended up in Denmark.
A country so flat that a molehill counts as a viewpoint.
How did that happen?
Well, sometimes you have to follow not just your heart, but also the call of work.
Suddenly everything moves fast: a job offer, a move, packing boxes—and before you know it, you're in a different country. In a new life.
At first, you're in an incredible euphoria.
Everything feels exciting, new and shiny, like freshly polished silverware.
But eventually, the rude awakening comes.
One morning I woke up, looked out my window and saw: the sea.
Wide, calm, endless.
No mountains, no valleys, no climbing trails.
Just sky, waves and a few very content cows.
"Alright then," I thought, "I'll take coastlines instead of peaks."
But every night I dreamed of my mountains.
I could see them so clearly: the sun disappearing behind jagged edges, cool stone beneath my hands, the cheerful whistle of marmots—or maybe it was just my snoring neighbor...
Morning after morning, my heart grew heavier.
And evening after evening, I looked forward to my dreams. Then I'd climb again over steep rocks toward the summits and forget the flat Danish everyday for a few hours.
And then something strange happened.
I woke up one morning and before my window stood ... a mountain!
Well, almost.
It was more of a very ambitious pile of sand that the wind had blown together overnight.
But in the morning sun it gleamed golden, and I swear it looked at me as if to say:
"Well? Satisfied?"
I was thrilled—and named it "Viking's Wall."
From then on, I built a little more each day.
A bucket of sand here, a few shells there, some gravel and a few decent boulders.
This went on all spring. After work, I dragged earth, stones and rubble and let the mound grow.
And I kept building through the summer. Day after day, while summer guests lounged in their beach chairs, I enlarged my sky-bump.
How wonderful were those autumn storms, their winds bringing even more sand and gravel for the project.
The neighbors thought I was a bit crazy at first, but soon they came with their shovels and helped out.
So the year came to an end, and on New Year's Eve there stood a quite impressive mountain at the coast in the northernmost part of Denmark.
The steadfast neighborhood brigade arrived with their carts and took care of our physical well-being with pølser and mulled wine—called gløgg here.
One even brought a Danish flag, which we proudly planted on the dizzy summit, right next to the mountain cross made of driftwood.
And when the bells of Copenhagen announced the "New Year," we all sat on top of my little mountain, looked out over the sea and laughed.
That's when I knew: the joy of mountains isn't in the height.
It's in the racing heartbeat, in laughing together—and sometimes in a pile of sand that's high enough to see the world from above.
