Climbing his way up to Mont Blanc. No wolf in sight, however. Photo: Liam Heffernan

There are a lot of stories that happened before I was born. My dad told them to me at the kitchen table. We had a cup of tea and a sandwich with butter and honey each. I know that he exaggerates when he tells stories. I am his son. I exaggerate when I tell stories as well. I lie and make stuff up and distort the truth. But it is my job. Dad probably just thinks it's great when people are listening to him with wide-eyes.

When my parents were young they were mountain climbers. There are countless stories of friends who have fallen down into ravines and policemen who chased the revolutionaries into the mountains but lost the speedy youths after a few hundred yards. The mountains were a refuge. Gays and rebels. Artists and poets. They all gathered in the mountains to escape the rules and prohibitions.

Once my dad and his friends were caught in a snowstorm. It became colder and colder. The temperature fell, it got colder still. In the end, his lashes began to freeze and the saliva chafed sharply against his palate. My dad was getting worried that they would freeze to death, with no shelters or caves that could keep them warm. There was no way out. They thought they would die. But then one of the climbers was able to see a wolf dog that had strayed from its flock. The wolf looked lost and was unusually tame. When it came close enough my dad's friend grabbed the wolf by the scruff of its neck and took a steady grip of its head. The sound of a neck breaking. The sound of a sandwich breaking in his mouth. I looked at my dad. I knew he was making it up. But I listened. And I enjoyed every minute of it.

The three mountain climbers cut the wolf’s belly open and put their feet inside. The hours went by. They were cold but did not die. The storm subsided. The sun lit up the white mountain peak in Iran. The world was huge. Mountain climbers sat high on top. They were invincible.

Text: Navid Modiri