Icarus flew too close to the sun, and since then, it has been a cautionary tale both in the allegorical and literal sense. Trekking along the mountain range of Mount Baldo, despite the sun beheld in greater proximity such that it seems that its effulgence might scorch trekkers, the temperatures up above are sufficiently cold to see thick, escaping breath as the dance of 1, 2, 1, 2, puts a rhythm into inhaling the slightly thin but good beans and exhaling the bad beans. Perhaps it is the very mild oxygen deprivation at such altitudes, but from the path that is both craggy and with some green growing out of, seen from such great heights, the floral rich slopes that sink far below into Lake Garda, is almost quintessential to the elevation of the human understanding of what sublime entails, and just gazing at such magnificence of manifold elements, is just as nourishing to the brain as is the sweet, crisp untainted air. Past the floral slopes, and there is Italy in panoramic view, for the taking; surreptitiously, while they sip on their wines and eat their pasta, spending their time in recycling the commonplace lofty Italian lifestyle at the same street cafe, up, up above are people living an adventure, also sipping on wine and eating pasta, but with an unquantifiable, uncontainable spice of nature’s wonderments that can only be harvested by expending the physical effort of climbing up Mount Baldo.