Winter in the mountains is an unusual time. Nature has frozen in stillness. The trees and the ground are covered in a white blanket of snow. This whiteness makes the landscape seem unreal. It is not the view we know. This is a different land. Outlined with specks of color peeking out from under the snow. These tiny elements are arranged in patterns as if woven by a great weaver. He has woven this winter carpet by breaking up successive snowfalls. He spreads it wide, over peaks and valleys. The peaks poke through it and the valleys allow themselves to be covered. Streaks of snow-covered valleys wind their way down the slopes, crossing them in their own way, as if arbitrarily.
The pattern of the carpet unfolds over the chain of mountains. One can read their shapes through their arrangement. High peaks force us to look up at the irregular line of the horizon. The horizon is always a special place for our eyes. It is where something ends and something begins. The straight line of the horizon is reassuring. The jagged line of the mountain horizon disquiets, but it also calls out and promises us something. That is why we go to the mountains.