The trail wound upward along the ridge, gaining elevation slowly but steadily. The view, even through the developing whiteout, remained magnificent. Grey clouds clung to the peaks; the valley below faded into a misty blur. Snowflakes drifted sideways, driven by wind that grew stronger with every step.
Decision at the Highlands
By the time they reached the highlands—a plateau overlooking the glacial lake—the storm had fully arrived. The wind howled with a force that nearly knocked them off balance. Snow raced across the open expanse in sheets, reducing visibility to a few dozen meters. The lake below, usually a rich turquoise, had vanished beneath the white fury of the storm.
Devon shouted over the wind, “Are we still doing this?”
Melissa pulled off her hood, her hair whipping wildly around her face, and looked at the landscape surrounding them. It was harsh, wild, and awe-inspiring. There was something thrilling about the raw, unfiltered power of nature—a sense that this moment, however difficult, was utterly unique.
“Yes,” she said. “This is our place. This is our moment.”
And with that, the ceremony began.
But Melissa shook her head. “We came all this way for this moment. This is our wedding. We’ll go slow, we’ll stay safe, but I don’t want to turn back now.”
And so, just after sunrise, they set out.
