roll down the valley, ten hours of rain and the mountain lurks in the whiteout. But you can never forget it’s there. It’s one of Jung’s islands, massive all the way down to his seafloor of collective myths and memories, a weird and vast spirit symbol. The wood nymphs dart and twist and dance between the tree posts on its slopes, flashes of fire and spark silhouette them. I might see the same figures dancing in the Pollock, some trace of Swiss-born Jung, this mountain, my own Zermatt gazing.
