There is a rhythm to a switchback that no other trail has. You climb, you turn, you lose the summit and find it again, and somewhere between the second and third hour the mountain stops being a destination and starts being a conversation.
On the cedar switchbacks above the valley we walked in the long light of late April. The snowline was high, the mud was honest, and every turn opened a new frame of the same ridgeline — proof that the slow way up is rarely the wrong one.
This story is a record of that season: of the people who keep the paths clear, the boots that outlast their owners, and the quiet arithmetic of elevation gained one corner at a time.