Waking up after the freezing night wasn’t easy. At times, I honestly thought I might freeze — it was that cold. The sunrise offered some hope, but the strong wind made it hard to leave the warmth of the van. Still, I brewed litres of hot tea to warm myself up. Freja, full of energy and excitement, didn’t let me dwell too long in my hesitation. She was ready for a new adventure — more ready than I was. So I pulled myself together, still half-frozen, and off we went.

I didn’t check the map much this time. I simply took the first hiking trail I saw, one that seemed to promise an easy path and snow not too far ahead. Of course, appearances can be deceiving — the snow was much farther than it looked. We started across small green hills, which gradually gave way to strange, moon-like rocky formations. It was surreal and beautiful, and the wind finally gave up as soon as we passed the first ridge. The van, parked far below, could finally feel the sun.

We kept ascending, warmed now by the sunlight and the rhythm of the walk. I noticed a sign pointing toward Cabana da Yeti. The name alone sparked my curiosity, and with no fixed destination, I headed that way. When we arrived, I found a small mountain hut nestled in the hills. An alpine helicopter hovered above, delivering supplies, and a few hikers were soaking in the sun outside. It was a peaceful moment, but the trail ahead still called to me.

The inviting green hills quickly gave way to vast, barren stone fields — a desert not of sand, but of rock. We passed beneath silent, inactive ski lifts, likely dormant until winter returns. Their stark metal structures gave the place a slight industrial feel. I liked the change — it made the walk more dynamic. We climbed, scrambled, balanced. I love when a trail becomes interactive, when it demands your body, your focus, your whole spirit.

Eventually, patches of snow appeared. The terrain grew steeper, and I wasn’t sure if I should continue — fresh snow after such a cold night could hide dangerous crevasses. But I decided to stick to the rocks, avoiding the snow where I could, and turn the route into a playful climbing experience. Freja and I pressed on, joyful and alive.

Soon, we reached a section where snow could no longer be avoided. We followed tracks left by earlier hikers, which brought me some peace of mind. Carefully, step by step, we made our way toward a jagged ridge known as the Rock of Diabolo. I saw climbers on the rocks above us, and not long after, we found ourselves looking out at the vast views of Glacier 3000. The valley below was blanketed in snow — probably 30 cm thick — and the ski resort stretched out on the horizon.

That view sparked something in me. I felt joy — real, deep, childlike joy. I went into full exploration mode. As we climbed higher, the views opened up toward Adrevolli and down onto shimmering alpine lakes. It was breathtaking.

I sat for a while, just taking it all in. I could see the entire valley, the glacier, the endless mountains. I was so happy I started sliding on the snow, laughing like a child. I must’ve looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care — people from the other side of the valley who’d arrived by chairlift were laughing too, but in a good way. I even saw a snowman standing proudly in the open white field.

Eventually, we made it to the chairlift station. While I was sitting and resting, soaking it all in, a Chinese father and son approached me and asked if I could take a photo of them. Of course, I said yes. As I got ready to snap the picture, they suddenly took off their shirts and posed like superheroes against the backdrop of the Alps. I couldn’t help but laugh — they looked like characters straight out of a movie.

Just then, a member of the snow patrol came over to inform us that the last chairlift would leave in 30 minutes. I smiled and told her not to worry — I didn’t come up with the lift. I’d be going back on my own, the way I came.

When I told the ski patrol lady that I didn’t take the chairlift up, she looked at me with a strange mix of surprise and admiration. I think in that moment, she understood the spirit I carried — something different from the rest of the tourists. She simply smiled and said, “Well then, for sure,” and turned her attention back to the others. She began directing people off the glacier plateau, letting everyone know the last chairlift was about to leave and that the area was closing down due to incoming bad weather.

After snapping a few more photos, I chatted briefly with the Chinese father and son. They were ready to descend and warned me once again about the last chairlift. I smiled and told them, as I had before, that I wasn’t taking it. I had come on foot. Their reaction was priceless — a mix of shock and respect. Suddenly, I was a kind of mountain hero to them. The walk had indeed been long and rugged, so I understood their awe. That moment filled me with joy.

As everyone left, I began my descent — alone, into silence. I looked back and saw thick, dark clouds slowly swallowing the ski resort, the landscape I had just come from fading into grey. Tourists streamed in the opposite direction, and I was the only one walking toward the storm. Their puzzled looks didn’t faze me. I soon crossed paths with the same woman from the ski patrol. She gave me a warm smile and wished me a good walk. It felt like we understood each other in a deeper way — not through words, but through shared recognition of something rare.

I pressed on, knowing I didn’t have much time. The fog crept behind me like a slow-moving beast. Luckily, the sun still shone where I walked — its golden light cast long shadows and filled me with motivation. Just a few meters behind, visibility dropped to almost nothing. I stayed just ahead of the fog, almost like I was racing it, the world behind me being swallowed while I still moved through light.

But the descent wasn’t easy. The sun, though welcome, had begun melting the fresh snow from the night before. The trail grew slippery, patches of ice giving way underfoot. Each step became more deliberate. The terrain looked open and easy from afar, but a single misstep could get me lost in the fog — and out here, that was a risk I couldn’t afford.

We moved quickly through the snowfield, past the barren rock desert, and eventually back toward the familiar moon-like terrain near Cabana da Yeti. By then, the snow had vanished. Only puddles and wet rock remained. The landscape softened again. It seemed easy — but this return walk still took hours. Nearly eight hours in total had passed since we left the van, and only now were we returning.

We had managed to stay ahead of the fog all the way down. When we finally reached the van, the valley was already hidden under thick, cold clouds. The warm light we’d chased had finally disappeared.

I sat inside, exhausted and content. I ate, drank, and slowly recollected myself. Then, catching my reflection in the window, I laughed. My face was completely burned — red cheeks, red nose, sun-touched from hours under a powerful alpine sun. I hadn’t realized how strong it had been. The cold wind and bright snow had masked its intensity, and now the marks of the day were written across my skin.

But beyond the physical strain, this day held something deeper.

Up near the glacier, a realization settled into me — one I feel often in the mountains. As you ascend, the landscape changes. Nature thins out. Trees disappear. Life retreats. The air grows thinner. The world becomes harsh, inhospitable, stripped of comfort. And in that space, something remarkable happens: your problems disappear too.

In the high mountains, there’s no room for worry. The only thing that exists is the present. The views. The cold. The steps ahead. The rhythm of your breath. All those everyday struggles — emotional, material, relational — remain far below, somewhere in the valley with the people and their noise. Up here, you can’t see them. You can’t feel them. It’s like they don’t exist.

That’s why I love the mountains. Because at 3,000 meters, the only thing that matters is the moment. The path. The sun. The snow. The next step. And the quiet need to make the right decision at the right time.

That’s life, distilled.