of snow swirl and furling cloud, it only gives me glimpses of its sharp-cut faces. I’ve watched the weather track between the peaks for days, balcony sprawled, the snow bank ridges change from chalk to rose and black streaks break from the mist. This mountain’s a wonder-of-nature tease, a life’s work of gazing, from my five a.m. wake-up sprint to see it almost clear, just a fig leaf of vapour puff over the last nobble of stark, plate-spawned rock, to the late-afternoon black rains and full vanishing act. The mountain looks nothing like any picture or clip I’ve ever seen. No little box can capture it, no scrap of print or flicker. The mountain is cheek-slappingly mountainish, and like no other. I’d been here five minutes when I knew I’d have to return, sweet inestimable world this is, these time-spat scattered treasures.
