A scary weather: high stormy cumuluses encircle us, sometimes innocently white, sometimes achieving a hopeless shade of iron blue. A rain comes, but this is not the rain what we are concerned: we are scared of a thunderstorm, roving arond all the time. The higher we climb the bare ridge of the mountain, the more clouds throng aroud us, closer and tighter, clutching us in the invisible embrace, every minute more sultry, fuggy, oppressive. Tremendus roars of storms moving around us can be heard, awhile disappearing, but only to be discovered in another direction before long. We are defenceless on the bare summit, ready for the thunder to uncover us from mists, catch and burn.