There are places we visit. And there are places that remember us.
For my family, the Alps are not a destination. They are inheritance—sacred ground, each peak chosen not by itinerary, but by instinct. We did not find these mountains. They found us.
Stubnerkogel — My Mountain
Bad Gastein, Austria
She doesn’t boast. She doesn’t crowd. Stubnerkogel stands with quiet majesty, a sentinel of steam and solitude.
Here, I breathe. Here, I sit on worn benches and let the fog unspool the weight of years. The path winds gently—not to challenge me, but to accompany me.
She knows me. She remembers my silences more than my footsteps. And I, in turn, remember how it feels to belong somewhere that asks nothing of me but presence.
Tre Cime — Simone’s Mountain
Dolomites, Italy
Simone didn’t choose a mountain for ease. She chose one that stirs. The spires of Tre Cime rise like cathedral towers, unapologetically dramatic.
She doesn’t hike it—she inhabits it. As if its sharp stone and sky-scraping silence echo something inside her.
Simone, fierce and thoughtful, finds beauty in the brutal honesty of the Dolomites. This mountain doesn’t flatter. It mirrors.
And Tre Cime remembers her not as a visitor, but as a soul it was waiting for.
Jungfraujoch — Zak’s Mountain
Bernese Alps, Switzerland
He chose the rooftop of Europe—not for its fame, but for its stillness. Jungfraujoch is vast, glacial, and impossibly quiet.
Zak walks its icy threshold with awe, not conquest. He stands where sky meets snow, not to be seen, but to see.
There’s no noise here, only clarity. And Zak, our gentle thinker, hears everything in that white silence.
Jungfraujoch remembers him as one of its own: a boy who asked for nothing but walked as though the mountain trusted him.
Seceda — Rashid’s Mountain
Dolomites, Italy
Seceda unfolds like a dream in oil paint. She’s not a mountain. She’s a memory waiting to happen.
Rashid walks her golden meadows with a reverence that feels like déjà vu. He belongs here—always has.
There is something tender in how the cliffs rise behind him, as if protecting a love that spans lifetimes.
Where others pose, he contemplates. Where others rush, he lingers.
Seceda remembers him not as a tourist, but as an old friend returning home.
We don’t take these mountains with us. We leave a part of ourselves behind. And they, in turn, keep us in their bones.
All Around The World 