I knew Klaus was more than just a workshop companion, but you never really know a soul until you’ve faced a mountain together. Our recent hike was a journey of pure discovery, especially for him. The world outside the toolbox is very, very big.

From the moment we left the car, everything was new. Klaus was mesmerized by the rough, grey bark of the pine trees, so different from the smooth metal he knows. He kept trying to gently “grip” the blades of grass at the trailside, his jaws opening and closing in silent wonder at their springy resistance.

But his greatest discovery was his new friend. While resting by a small stream, I pulled out a small, bright white rubber duck from my pack—a silly little morale booster. Klaus’s attention snapped to it instantly. He didn’t see a toy; he saw a companion. For the rest of the ascent, the duck would peek out from his jaws, a cheerful white beacon leading the way. He was so careful not to squeeze too hard, treating it with a reverence usually reserved for a perfect, unmarred bolt.

The higher we climbed, past the tree line into the rocky, wind-swept terrain near the summit (which stands a breathless 1,800 meters high!), the more his protective instincts emerged. He saw a few tired hikers resting on the rocks, and I could feel his concern. He nudged my leg, his polished finish glinting in the sun, as if to say, “Are they okay? Can we help? Can I hold something for them?” He truly believed his purpose on that mountain was to ensure everyone was safe and secure.

On the very top, with the world spread out below us, we shared a sandwich. He watched with intense curiosity as I ate, and though he couldn’t taste it, he seemed to understand it was a ritual of celebration. He stood proudly next to his duck, looking out at the vastness, no longer just a precise instrument, but a brave little explorer.

He didn’t just climb a mountain that day. He explored a whole new universe of textures, friendships, and responsibilities. And I didn’t just carry a tool; I guided a curious heart.