She had idea of the first winter. Thoreau better Wi-Fi. Walden Altitude ponds. She shared images of sunrises that seem edited, snow glittered like someone spilled diamonds, loneliness felt chosen rather than enforced. She knew why mountain people are strange by the third winter.
Isolation affects your mind. You give them names. When they don't arrive as planned, you are insulted. Living on a mountain means knowing weather like faith. Four-wheel drive is not elective. Means your social life is whomever can make it up the road, in January, that's nobody. Means silence becomes so commonplace that a passing vehicle is an occasion. Means you gauge distance in terms of gas consumed rather than miles.
Her buddies stopped coming round. Too distant they claimed. Too difficult to reach. What they meant: too confrontable. Mountains force you to confront yourself. No interruptions. No masses to conceal in. Just you and the height and the rarefied air which causes everything to seem like a metaphor. She has arrived five years ago.