There were no curtains in the refugio we stayed in.
In the middle of the night, my friend and I woke up at almost the exact same time, startled by an unbelievably bright beam of light blasting into the room. Half-asleep, I thought someone was shining a giant torch straight at my face.
But when I looked up—it was the moon.
As the clouds drifted away, the room lit up completely, bathed in moonlight. I had never seen moonlight that bright before. I climbed onto the windowsill and looked out. The mountains stood tall and steep, like a wall of shadow. Beyond the ridge, more light spilled in. The stars were scattered across the sky. I scrambled for my camera, but without a tripod, there wasn’t much I could do. So I just stood there, trying to memorize it all.
At 4 a.m., before sunrise, we left the refugio and hiked for half an hour to the far side of the ridge. The world felt vast and still. Only a few people were out.
I sat at the top of the mountain and watched my shadow slowly grow shorter. The sunlight came through the peaks little by little, painting the valley below. The town at the base of the mountain started glowing, softly.
I love standing on mountaintops, where the world unfolds in every direction. No two angles are the same.
Especially during sunrise or sunset—when the light comes in from the side—everything looks more real, more alive.
The mist hangs low in the valleys, moving slowly like a thin scarf in the air.
But midday light? I’ve never liked it.
It flattens everything, makes the world look boring and all the same.
No shadows, no depth. Just too bright, and kind of lifeless.
