At the Summit of Windmill Mountain
At minus five degrees Celsius, with a seven-level wind roaring past, our tent stood firm on the mountaintop—waiting silently for the first light to break.
In the muted blue-gray light of predawn, a red-and-black tent anchors itself to the grassy hillside. To its right, a tall white wind turbine towers against a softly clouded sky, its blades turning slowly as if keeping time with the coming morning.
This is not ordinary camping. This is a vigil held at the edge of the elements.
A Shelter Against the Wind
The tent, pitched low and steady in ground mode, holds its place against persistent gusts. The grass around it bends and whispers, but the structure remains—a small, vivid point of warmth and order in the vast, open chill. Through its semi-transparent wall, the shape of a sleeping bag is just visible, a promise of refuge.
Between Earth and Sky
The wind turbine becomes both companion and landmark—a modern sentinel watching over this ancient landscape. Its steady presence is a reminder of resilience; our tent, in its own quiet way, mirrors that steadfastness.
When the Light Finally Arrives
The wait is long, cold, and filled with the sound of wind. But then—the horizon begins to glow. Soft yellows and golds seep into the gray, illuminating the layers of distant mountains and touching the turbine’s blades with fire.
In that moment, the cold recedes. What remains is the clarity that comes after endurance: the profound peace of having weathered the night to meet the dawn.
As morning settles, the tent still stands, a testament to quiet resilience. It sheltered more than a body through the windy dark—it held a space for stillness, for watching, for witnessing the world awake.
This is where adventure meets serenity: on a hill beneath turning blades, inside a tent that became, for one night, a home on the edge of the sky.