From Fionnay, the path climbs steeply. I feel the effort in my legs and find my own rhythm on the slope. Then the path opens out and the lake comes into view. Its blue seems to have been waiting for me all the way up. I take it in as a gift, with no fanfare beyond that final step. The mountain hut sits a little above the water. Behind it, I can make out a small section of the Grand Combin. I stop to take in the view, catch my breath and let the climb fall away for a moment. If the hut is open, a slice of tart or a drink is a good reason to linger. I often find myself looking up on these paths. Sometimes I spot ibex or chamois. Then, without warning, the bearded vulture appears in the landscape. I may have been walking for a while, focused on the path, when I see it pass overhead. It surprises me every time. Sometimes all it takes is a bend in the path and a glance at the sky.

From Bonatchiesse, I head towards the stone barns at Crêt or the alpine pasture of Vasevay and its large barn. These buildings bear witness to a way of life shaped by the seasons. When I stop beside their walls, I think of the people who worked here: those who brought the animals up and lived by the rhythms of the mountain. There is something dreamlike about the alpine pasture at Vasevay: the grazing land, the quiet, the feeling of being high above the valley. Just above it, the Pleureur towers over the pasture. Its sheer bulk commands respect. It impresses me, almost intimidates me, as if the whole mountain were reminding us that this is its home. Higher up, the path opens out onto the Plan des Lires. The slope eases, the landscape widens and I notice the water flowing down. It grows thinner, breaks into little streams and winds its way across the flat ground. I could spend a long time following its course between the stones and the grass. I often want to photograph those winding streams, but the pictures never quite capture what I see. They show the water without its movement, the Plan des Lires without its sense of space. Here, everything seems finer, more alive. It is one of those landscapes you have to see for yourself. On my walks, I also come across goats or sheep. Their presence changes everything. The mountain is not just a wild expanse: it is lived in, travelled through and worked. By the end of September, the flocks and shepherds have already left the pastures. Even so, when I pass through, I think of those who spent the summer looking after them, of their hard work and their days lived up here.

In autumn, lingonberries redden among the stones and the last bilberries catch my eye. The paths can be steep, and sometimes they traverse the slopes; I climb at a pace that suits me that day. When those little berries seem to wink at me, I stop. I taste a few, then set off again. A little pause, a little top-up of vitamins, and the pleasure of not rushing towards the summits.