My eyes go wide as London saucers when we ride through a trimmed standing of colossal birch trees. This high up on the mountain, alpine scapes here must be hundreds of years old to combat and adapt to the high winds. Perched on the edge of my seat, looking up through the slit of my window, I can barely make out the tops of the trees. They form a gigantic canopy that blocks out the sun before it ever hits the ground. Like a fist of some earth deity rising up the ground. Through a level path running right into the woods, the horses clop until we clear into a small village.
The sign cut right up a tree's branch says, High Garden.
Looking closer, I discover that each letter is boughs of green leaves, sheared and styled to form the very words.
