High mountains belong as much to the sky as to the land. They often meet with clouds in secrecy, their intercourse hidden from us land-dwellers.
I can see the lower edge of the clouds almost boiling up the deep upper gullies, frothing and rolling, but I can’t see inside.
The ridge and its peaks remain under dense white cover, in an otherwise cloudless sky.
No wonder moss forests and Antarctic Beech live up there in this dedicated Wilderness Area, and it seems clear to me that it’s not a place for humans. Gods, maybe.