From the highest point in the land, my high C rings out over the hills and chalets and lakes below, and I feel a rush of joy.
It's a Saturday morning, and I've just climbed the Giant's Ridge skiing hill, at the base of which is the dorm where I've been staying to play at the Northern Lights Music Festival. Ever since last summer, when I climbed this hill without my french horn, I've planned to return with my horn in tow to play Strauss's Concerto No. 1, which opens with a heroic fanfare.
As I told one of my horn students, when I play this piece I often imagine that I'm blowing from the top of a Swiss mountain. The Iron Range isn't quite Switzerland, but Giant's Ridge is the perfect proxy in my current setting. "At some point while I'm gone and you're working on the Strauss at home," I said in an attempt at inspiration through imagery, "I will literally be blasting these notes from the top of a mountain."
Sweat is running down my face and back by the time I reach the summit, but enough insect repellant seems to remain to ward off flies. I unpack my horn on a rocky outcrop and prepare myself mentally to play the Strauss without blowing any warm-up notes first. I hum the B-flat, take a deep breath — and fail to produce a sound.
This happens to me sometimes, a psychological hindrance that prevents my embouchure and air from working together to begin a note. Fortunately it hasn't been bothering me much in the festival opera orchestra, but part of me must be afraid of cacking the first note in this scenario I have contrived. That's part of the problem, I realize — all this suddenly feels contrived, unnatural, silly. Not glorious and inevitable like I envisioned it. But I'm here, and I must do this. So I shift my bell away from the scene below and play a few soft, low notes. I tell myself to just enjoy the moment. Then I'm ready to try the Strauss call again.
It comes out pretty well, but I'm not sounding as confident and carefree as I know I can. I take a few deep breaths, play a few more quiet long tones, and take another stab at it. "Be bold!" I command myself. And it does sound better. I think about what else I could play — Mozart, more of the Strauss concerto, some orchestral excerpts? Siegfried, of course, would be perfect. My mother cajoled me into playing the Siegfried "short call" (from Wagner's Gotterdammerung) outside at some relatives' lake cabin two summers ago, and it would be even more appropriate here on the hill.
But it's a challenging excerpt, ascending to a high C at the end. My unresponsive first attempt at a note has tainted my mood with timidity, even though I've acquitted myself well enough with the Strauss. I decide to pack up my horn and head back down to the dorm.
I've already zipped up the case when Ian pops into my head. Ian isn't my student back home, but an eighth grader from the Range I've given a couple lessons to while I've been up here. I've been encouraging him to produce a bigger sound, to really blow, to play confidently even if he doesn't feel confident. I realize I can't leave this hill without giving Siegfried my best shot. I can't tell Ian to go for it and behave like a coward myself. So I take my horn back out of its case.
The short call consists of only three phrases: the initial gallant statement, a slightly longer echo, and the final triumphant ascension. Phrases two and three sound great, and as I take a big breath for the conclusion, I imagine my mother standing behind me, cheering me on.
From the highest point in the land, my high C rings out over the hills and chalets and lakes below, and I feel a rush of joy. Now I can leave this place without regret. Now I have played something glorious and inevitable. Now, like Siegfried himself, I have slain the dragon.
Gwendolyn Hoberg is a classical musician and the owner of the editing and writing business Content & Contour. She lives in Moorhead, plays with the Duluth Superior Symphony Orchestra, and writes the Little Mouse fitness blog. She is also a co-author of The Walk Across North Dakota.
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