It rained when we arrived. Slow pattering on the train that wound between mountains to bring us out into the fresh air and a view of bright blue pools. Still so saturated in hue, the ground saturated with rain. Mouths open, we looked up out of our little hostel window, eating Laderach chocolate and drinking wine, a makeshift table and cheese plate. You pointed at a little light at the top of an adjacent mountain and said we're going up there.
Caves flooded, waterfalls overflowed, a gush of water so strong it almost blew my phone away. Everything was closed except the pizza and green pasta covered with little edible flowers. We looked out over the lake, hiked through the woods, and ran across a road to catch the bus back. Laughing the entire time about close calls and closed caves.
When the rain stopped, this incredibly beautiful region sprang to life. Mid-summer and we were hiking on snow-covered glaciers, walking on sun-covered cliffs, next to rock-covered cottages and wool-covered sheep.
Tricycles swerving down winding mountain paths beneath us as we rode in a cable car, rising slowly up one mountain as others grew before us.
We were enveloped in giants—peaks white, melting. Running off cliffs attached to parachutes, floating like birds, winding down. Melting. Like my heart was melting. Like my mind was melting. The images I was seeing felt unreal. And so clean, so pure, that even the fish couldn't stand it. Perhaps too much of a beautiful thing can be too much.