The fog descends like a sledgehammer, bringing darkness and disorientation. Minutes earlier, we’d been slathering on sunscreen and snapping selfies by the side of an alpine lake, its looking-glass waters reflecting landscapes redolent of the Swiss Alps – except our photos were dotted with distant yurts and the occasional nomad on horseback, herding cows with the aid of bright-eyed Alsatians. Eagles soared on thermals, silhouetted by the fierce glare of sunlight. Our hiking shirts were bibbed with sweat, due to the blazing heat and the strenuous trek to get there.
Now, scrabbling back down the mountain to tonight’s campsite, we’re instead slick with cloud vapour. The fog rolls through the landscape with the speed and intensity of a malfunctioning dry-ice machine, deleting unnamed snow-capped peaks, smothering the surrounding trees – and enveloping our guide, Vadim, who has vanished into the mist far ahead of us.
