In the mountains, summer doesn’t arrive all at once. It climbs. It melts upward. What starts as a trickle in the valley becomes green trails on alpine slopes, then wildflowers blooming at impossible altitudes. And with the rising warmth, wildlife follows — upward, always upward — chasing food, space, and brief shelter from the heat below.

Ibex emerge from rocky outcrops, hooves steady on ledges barely wider than a boot. They move in slow, confident lines, climbing to where the grasses have just appeared. Marmots whistle from stone burrows, sunning themselves on boulders between bouts of foraging and alarm. Tiny pika dart across meadows, gathering mouthfuls of plants to dry and store — already thinking of winter.

Birdsong echoes off cliffs and trees. Golden eagles ride thermals, scanning valleys from above. Ptarmigan and snow finches blend into scree and bloom, almost invisible unless they move. At dusk, red deer climb higher to graze, their coats now sleek and reddish, blending with the summer light. Bears may pass through, unseen but present, moving with the rhythm of berries and open paths.

The melt unlocks more than movement. It awakens. Streams roar with snowmelt, carving fresh lines down the slopes. Insects rise, frogs reappear, and plants bloom in fast-forward — alpine poppies, gentians, edelweiss — everything condensed into a few short weeks of growing time. The high country doesn’t waste time. It lives fully while it can.

To walk in these mountains in summer is to witness constant change. Nothing stays in one place for long — not the weather, not the animals, not even the rocks, shifting slowly with thaw and time. Life here is always adjusting: to wind, to light, to altitude.

And yet, for a moment in summer, it all balances. The air is clear. The trails are alive. And if you stand still, you’ll feel it — the quiet pulse of a landscape that doesn’t seem busy, but is always in motion.