Il Spir, 16:47
From the car park at Conn, it's ten minutes on foot. The path runs through a pine wood that smells of resin and the morning's rain. The platform sits at the end — steel and timber, recent build, jutting over the cliff edge.
Walk to the end and the gorge is straight down. The Vorderrhein turns six hundred metres below us, turquoise and sometimes grey. On the scree cones stand single pines — three of them visible from the platform, like markers along a line that isn't there.
The sound of the gorge isn't one. It's several: the river far below, the wind in the pines, your own breathing, which you notice up here. We stand for three minutes. Maybe four.
The gorge is still young. Nine thousand years ago half a mountain came down at Flims; the river cut through the rubble. In geological terms, that was yesterday. The signboard at the start of the path lists the figures — several billion cubic metres, nine millennia, average water speed here, typical cross-section there. Signboard information that the moment doesn't need.
Three exposures from the same point — wide, tele, one with the platform in the foreground. None of them will carry it.
We walk back to the van. Filisur lies an hour east. We arrive in rain.