You see what looks like a black mountain rising solemnly against the pale sky. It sits like a silent guardian beyond the stretch of icy sea, its peak hidden in a veil of cloud. At first glance, it appears black—solid and almost mysterious. But as you draw closer, cutting through the cold waters, you begin to notice subtle changes. The color shifts under the changing light, and you realize it is not black at all. It is a deep, earthy brown, rich and raw, with veins of red and copper running along its rugged surface. It’s the mountain’s silence that makes it feel powerful—as if it has waited for centuries to be seen.
The sea around it tells another story. Once frozen, it has begun to melt, forming channels of dark blue water winding through floes of translucent ice. The sound of cracking and dripping fills the air, a strange music of thawing. Boats—bright red, yellow, green—dot the water like scattered confetti, each one carrying travelers eager to get closer to the mountain. There’s a sense of shared purpose, of silent determination in the air.
But the journey is not easy.
The wind roars here, sweeping across the open water with a relentless force that makes you tighten your grip on the boat’s edge. It doesn’t just push; it feels like it’s trying to pick you up and throw you into the icy depths. Navigation demands precision, balance, and a steady mind. Every wave, every gust, is a challenge to overcome.
I took this same route home—by sea. It was beautiful, yes, but not without its tension. My fellow traveler, a quiet soul, had fear written across his face. His hands trembled slightly each time the boat rocked, his eyes wide, fixed on the wild, whitecapped water. I could feel his panic growing, like the rising tide. But I spoke to him calmly, pointing to the other boats, to the growing shape of the mountain. “We’ll get there,” I told him. And slowly, breath by breath, he began to believe me.
We made our way forward, one wave at a time. And when we finally reached the foot of the mountain, a deep stillness fell over us. The wind quieted. The sea, though still restless, seemed to pause in recognition. We stepped out, boots crunching on frost-covered rock.
And there, surrounded by raw cliffs, icy air, and the vast open sky, I was overwhelmed.
The beauty was not loud—it didn’t scream to be noticed—but it was deep and unforgettable. The textures of stone, the way the light danced on melting ice, the sound of the wind brushing through cracks in the rock… it was like standing inside a painting painted by nature itself. Words fell short.
Only then did I truly understand— You can read about it, hear stories, even see pictures. But until you stand there, feel the wind, smell the sea, see the colors shift under your gaze, you cannot truly grasp how incredible this world can be.
