The sun sets and the blue night begins to cool the narrow mountain streets of Verbier, a small ski-village tucked away within the heart of the Swiss Alps. It's during these couple of minutes where you witness the true force of nature: the transient sweeps of light, clouds, and weather transform the town into a mystical form. Trapped by gigantic mountains from every side, the people of Verbier have no where to hide but under the warm glow of their triangular chalet roofs.
Rain, or no rain, the streets gradually empty except for me– I stay to wander in the blue.
Everywhere I turned those blue mountains stood frozen, and everything else too.
And here I leave you with a passage from A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov which relays all the feelings I experienced by being in the mountains better than I ever could or will:
There was a great peace in the heavens and on earth as there is in one's heart at a morning prayer. Only now and then the cool east wind came in gusts, ruffling the hoary manes of the horses. We set out, the five lean nags hauling our carriages with difficulty along the tortuous road up Mount Gud. We walked behind, setting stones under the wheels when the horses could pull no longer; it seemed as if the road must lead straight to heaven, for it rose higher and higher as far as the eye could see and finally was lost in the cloud that had been resting on the mountain summit since the day before, like a vulture awaiting its prey. The snow crunched underfoot; the air grew so rare that it was painful to breathe; I continually felt the blood rushing to my head, yet a feeling of elation coursed through my being and somehow it felt good to be so far above the world--a childish feeling, I admit, but as we drift farther away from the conventions of society and draw closer to nature we become children again whether we wished to or not--the soul is unburdened of whatever it has acquired and it becomes what it once was and what it will surely be again. Anyone who has had occasion, as I have, to roam in the desolate mountains, feasting his eyes upon their fantastic shapes and drinking in the invigorating air of the gorges, will understand my urge to describe, to portray, to paint these magic canvases. Ar least we reached the summit of Mount Gud and paused to look around us; a gray cloud rested on the mountain top and its cold breath held the threat of an imminent blizzard; but the east was so clear and golden that we, that is, the captain and I, promptly forgot about it . . . Yes, the captain too: for simple hearts feel the beauty and majesty of nature a hundred times more keenly than do we, rapturous tellers of stories spoken or written.