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He was alone. He was unheeded, happyand near to the wild heart of life. He wasalone and young and willful and wildhearted,alone amidst a waste of wild airand brakish waters and the seaharvest ofshells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.James JoyceCould it be that the Alpinist is searchingfor his identity in the things thathe does? Does he test his bravery byclimbing the sheer faces of Dolomitecliffs; or his physical fortitude byscrambling to the upmost pinnacle on afourteen thousand foot mountain; oreven his intestinal fortitude by taking oneternal nature with his minutely finitebody? All these are true and valid tests inthe search to find oneself.The one thing, though, that the personwho communicates with nature seeks isthe essence of his soul. Why he doeswhat he does. What makes him him. Andwhat the hell am I doing on top of thismountain?As I was leaving the lrishmans roof afterthe rain, bending my steps again to thepond, my haste to catch pickeral, wadingin retired meadows, in sloughs and bogholes,in forlorn and savage places, appearedfor an instant trivial to me whohad been sent to school and college; butas I ran down the hill toward the reddingWest, with the rainbow over my shoulder,and some faint tinkling sounds borne tomy ear through the cleansed air, from Iknow not what quarter, my Good Geniusseemed to say . . .go fish and hunt far and wide day by dayfarther and widerand rest thee by many brooks and hearthsideswithout misgivings ...On the Loose-The Alpinist is searching ...301