We lost the trees a few miles and about a thousand metres ago, the tough, battle weary grass losing its quiet war with the terrain not long after. Now it’s just lichen and rocks, the top of this mountain a bare tooth in the jaw of the world, biting into the clouds. Those clouds are dragged low, wreathing the view in soft crowns of fluff, blurring the edges of the landscape.
This far up there are no birds, and the shy marmots we saw earlier – podgy little mountaineering beavers that they are – don’t bother with these elevations, mainly because there’s nothing to eat but gravel, and you can’t survive winter on the fat of pretty vistas.
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