There he is, way high up on a mountain, leaning into the wind, and into the snow that is blowing around him, an oaken stick in the grasp of his hand, and the hem of his cloak flapping wildly, almost angrily, but him making headway, his bootprints visible, if seen from above, in a long line that the eye can trace back into a growth of timber out of which he emerged at some time earlier in the day.