Text & Photos Jasmine Deporta

Walking through the mountains is a way of noticing things: the shift of light on rock, the silence of a ridge, the small details that escape the eye from a distance. Every step becomes part of a conversation with the landscape. As John Muir put it, the mountains are places where “one learns to see slowly.” As I walk through these peaks, pen and camera in hand, I notice the subtle changes in colour and light with each step, and I find myself pausing to capture what seems almost too delicate to describe. As I move forward, the sun travels across the sky, painting the summits with shifting shades of beige, rosé and deep anthracite.

Here, the journey is not measured by speed or distance, but by attention—by the quiet observation of stone, shadow and gradual transitions of tone.

Between the jagged crests and vertical cliffs that rise thousands of metres into the sky, small patches of green appear—sometimes just a lone tree standing against the rock. These sparse touches of life give scale to the vast surroundings, highlighting their sculptural forms. Each ridge seems carved with precision, forming a landscape that is both powerful and intricately abstract, yet deeply personal. Along the paths, I encounter other people, equally small against the towering backdrop, and horses that move quietly through the terrain, living in harmony with these heights—companions in a world that feels both immense and quietly human.

Growing up nearby, I learned that these are called the pale mountains. Their surfaces, composed of countless shades of grey, resemble a natural paint-by-numbers canvas. Walking here becomes a gentle exercise in noticing: the incline of a rock, the way sunlight lingers in a crevice, the steady presence of the peaks themselves. They are not just scenery—they are companions, guiding the eye and inviting reflection on forms, colours and the rhythms of this remarkable landscape.