The solitude and remoteness of our mountains will never seize to amaze and attract me. Three hours away from the crushing walls of the Metropolis, there are still stone temples where you can lose yourself.

This was the right time. This was that magic spot in time.

The winter pilgrims are gone, their futility rituals to Old Man Winter postponed for yet another year. The herders still venture on the lower altitudes, their vicious bear-dogs safely away with them.

This is the precious time when the mountain’s heart is shinning in divine emptiness.

Such was my Easter this year.  A timid resurrection into the heart of Silence, in the company of those who matter the most.

Three days out there and not seeing another soul.

PS: Years have passed but I am still looking at those walls, dreaming of fabled paths of least resistance. Closely guarded secret paths. Now, that would make a good book to write…