28 km from almorah 0722

The hills are old. Cobwebs of mist cling to then. Some spill over on road. We are following a mountain river mostly dried up with white rocks strewn. Slices me rocks jut out 45 degrees to ground. Signs of landslide. Now the mist is rolling down the slopes. Now it is the rock face on one side. And a grey oblivion on another. Its like silence. The absence of sound does not mean there is nothing. Some white plaster me paris pieces tinged pink amidst a cape of silver mist. The Himalayas. Proud majestic serene pristine in defiance to the world around.

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