They emerged into an untamed and picturesque space, where the only rulers at this time of year were King Wind and Captain Frost. Together they performed miracles, their works visible to the naked eye. They always collaborated intensely, the most striking result of which were the numerous firs encased in ice suits – the inhabitants of this magical space. However, on this day, our travelers, apparently completely unaware, were taking advantage of a small dispute between the two elements. Last night, fog crept over the space. Captain Frost, clearly interested in new forms of Christmas tree oppression, began to play with the fog and, playing with it among the frozen branches, painted all the trees with the whiteness of a fabulous rime. The wind clearly displeased him. First thing in the morning, he dispersed the fog and allowed the sun to deal with the effects of the mysterious games of the two nocturnal allies. And that meant that our tourists could enjoy magnificent views and the welcoming warmth of the January sun that day.
They walked with great perseverance along a path barely visible in the sunlight. In these spaces, it looked like a narrow scar, marring the smoothness of the white, deeply frozen snow. But this scar served a very important function, as it led the tourists to the safe haven of the mountain hut on Turbacz. However, for Krysia and Lucjan, the designated trail was clearly too narrow, and they suddenly plunged into deep snow. As it turned out, both were enchanted by the beauty of a sad fir tree adorned with an icy robe. They trudged through the depths of frozen snow. Lucjan hoped that the hard crust of snow wouldn't collapse beneath Krysia's slender, feminine body, and that she would, like a true Tolkien elf, defy the laws of nature. Unfortunately, it was drowning in a sea of whiteness, which immediately became the subject of his comment:
"You see, you're not an elf."
"Yes, I am," she replied with her familiar firmness.
"Yes, you're not, but..." I'll give you one more chance
. "What chance?
" "We'll see if you can see in the dark tonight.
" "Of course. I'm a real elf after all," she said, and with that, they stood by the tree.
Now they could admire the icy work of winter's elements up close. The fir lady's dress was a masterpiece. In places, it resembled a vast cap of ice enveloping the tree's innocent branches, made of the finest snowflakes imported from the Atlantic, blown several times by the wind, slightly melted in the winter sun, and carefully frozen together. They stood in contemplation, observing the fir's sad life, which offered the casual observer a multitude of unforgettable artistic experiences.
"Position yourselves against the backdrop of this wonder – I'll take your picture," the approaching Tosia interrupted this natural, wild, yet melancholic reverie. She was full of enthusiasm and had been searching for game for her bloodless, photographic hunt for some time. Lucjan spotted one of the branches. It was so frozen, yet so firmly attached to the ground, that he decided to use it as a throne. The choice was a wise one, and a moment later he settled comfortably on his new seat. Next to it, he noticed another branch, which, however, was more snow-covered than frozen. But he had hope. Hope that this time the snowy throne would withstand the pressure of Krysia's frail, feminine body. He called her over, and she accepted this, as it turned out, not-so-successful idea. The slender elf sat down and… failed again. However, he managed to grab her with a masculine arm and hold her for a few moments. This was enough for even the most inexperienced photographer to accomplish their task. Tosia quickly tensed, and the quick snap was a sign of hope that in a few days they would be able to see themselves in a small picture, sipping tea in their warm apartment. After the photo was taken, all that remained was the elf's fall into the snow. Lucjan reacted quickly. He rose from his throne, offered the drowning woman a hand, pulled her to her feet, and began brushing off the snowflakes that had clung to her jacket. He feared the sun would begin to melt the snow, making the girl uncomfortable while hiking in wet clothes. He didn't want that to happen.
They returned to the thin scar of the trail. They penetrated the white ocean between the sparse fir trees. The silence bored Lucjan. The peace of the surrounding nature made him abandon its beauty and venture out into the pastures of his own world, which lived in his head. He thought about the beauty of certain emotions, the smallness of humanity, unemployment, and...
"What a beautiful blue sky," Krysia whispered.
"Yes," Lucjan replied, deeply confused, interrupted by his thoughts. He looked at the sky and decided he didn't like it. It was beautiful, but cold. Lucjan loved the colors of nature, but he especially preferred sunlight. It gave all other colors warmth and uniqueness. However, he didn't share these observations with Krysia, who was still admiring the winter sky.
They slowly began to approach the forest wall. But before they plunged into its depths, or rather, before they began walking along its edge, they passed a cabin. An off-road vehicle parked next to the cabin. This surprised Lucjan somewhat, but after a moment, he realized that their narrow scar would soon connect with a wide road suitable for off-road vehicles. A small child played next to the cabin, struggling with the excess snow. All this took place under the watchful eye of his parent – his father, who was probably the driver of the car. They passed the pleasant family in a great hurry. After a brief stroll along the wide road, they found themselves back on the narrow scar, amidst deep snow. Suddenly, the narrow path intersected with a wide winter track. It was through this path that the weekend vacationers had made their way to their own cabin. But it wasn't the road that intrigued the hikers, but the violent noise. It was a terrible stain marring the whiteness of the local silence. It lingered in the tourists' ears like the buzz of a fanatical fly that had invaded the silence of a room filled with the breathing of vacationers relaxing during their Sunday afternoon nap. They didn't belong here. And yet, they were created to bring help, joy, and adrenaline to an even greater wilderness than here. But they quickly departed. The snowmobiles, for they were the ones in question, passed very close to Tosia, Lucjan, and Krysia. Despite their intense curiosity about their appearance, the shroud of junipers prevented them from seeing these snowy steeds; they were forced to savor their unpleasant growl, which suddenly cut off so abruptly that it seemed as if nature itself had intervened, capturing the noise and drowning it out with silence.
They continued their journey. They made their way through the first depths of forest shadows and reached the place where the rest of the group awaited them. At a large boulder – the altar – they immersed themselves in midday prayer, praising the One whose colors today's vault of heaven bore. Their prayerful whispers were torn from their lips by the wind, which carried the sounds far from their ears, occasionally robbing individuals of the words spoken by the companion standing next to them. Fortified by spiritual nourishment, they continued their journey. And again the group split in two, and once again the open path, as if ashamed of the ugliness it created on the white surface of snow, hid itself in the forest thicket, until finally it appeared. It wasn't very high. Its allure tempted many, but perhaps most of all Peter. He surrendered to it completely, sliding down its very short but steep slope and rewarding his sensations with a feeling of increasing humidity. It was a very small hill, but it soaked the clothes of many. Lucjan, however, didn't take advantage of this form of debauchery, choosing instead to drink. He emptied thermoses of hot tea and, far from being treated like Judas robbing the community's purse, was like a Saint Bernard dog from the Alpine Red Cross pouring drinks down the chilled throats of those struggling up the hill. And so, after the relaxing descents were over, the last stop before the mountain hut ended.
The narrow path betrayed them. It led innocently into the forest again and there "stood up," forcing the hikers to sweat profusely. Only the shadow of the merciful forest hid their efforts from each other. Lucjan walked, working his way through the sweat of his brow. Below, he again heard the roar of snowmobiles returning to civilization. Ultimately, however, the effort bore fruit, and they were able to reap their well-deserved harvest.
A swarm of people milled about in front of the shelter. Everyone was grooming their shoes, brushing off the excess snow, which was no less daring than mud. He would innocently sneak into their boots and then, taking advantage of the victim's personal warmth, flood the interior with his own personal liquid substance. Lucjan was intrigued by the fact that the virtue of keeping shoes clean had developed so strongly in this shelter. However, he would soon learn the truth about this place. They decided to go inside. Before entering, Lucjan had managed to experience the unforgettable artistic experience of seeing the jagged tooth of the Tatra Mountains against the backdrop of the Italian azure in the Polish sky, bathed in a sea of January sunlight. And then darkness fell. Upon entering the dark hallway, their eyes, previously fed by a sea of whiteness, felt incredibly helpless. However, a mere few seconds of accommodation resolved the matter immediately. They passed through the hall, climbed the stairs, and everything became clear. It was cleanliness and care, the original hosts of the guest room at this shelter, that were the main culprits behind the excessive zeal for the appearance of each guest's footwear. Decency demanded that every shoe be free from the insolent mud and the cunning snow, two culprits that marred the purity of this place as sin mars the purity of the soul. Without much hesitation, the travelers sat around a wide bench, next to a slightly steamy window, which offered the same panorama that Lucian had marveled at outside. However, within these window frames, the jagged tooth of the mountains became an even greater manifestation of mysticism. With such visions, consumption became an activity ranked far higher in the hierarchy of needs than simply repressing hunger. Squashed sandwiches, bloody with jam, began to appear on the table, canned goods of all kinds began to rapidly lose their lids, jars began to lose their caps, and thick fumes of escaping water began to escape from the few cups, preferring freedom to the uncomfortable journeys through the recesses of the human body. The attention of those seated sporadically focused on the opposite corner of the room. From there, all manner of dishes set sail on their final voyage, eventually landing in the waters of the tourist's stomach. Our travelers also visited this port, ordering tea and boiling water. Lucjan wanted some too, but the experience of the morning paralyzed him. He stood in the pastry shop with Piotr, buying doughnuts for everyone. The view was magnificent. White icing pouring like lava over various cakes, dark chocolate adorning the smiles of wrinkled buds, a rose fragrant with summer, the cream cakes Lucyna loves so much, a plump lady filling the ordered sweets into packages and punching in the price at the cash register, and... Yes, he remembered his helplessness. It was worse than the noise of the morning terrorist – the alarm clock, brutally summoning him to an expedition after a sleepless night.worse than the view of gray Krakow from the windows of the MPK bus and the sight of Piotr, sleepy as a badger in the middle of winter, arriving at the agreed meeting place.
"Unfortunately, I'm not supposed to spend it," he recalled the ominous words of the shop assistant and the strange looks
from the other participants in the expedition. Piotr had done well then, but now... Where could he place his hopes, since tea was disproportionately cheaper than doughnuts? He felt like a penniless millionaire, an egoist possessing so much yet snatching every last penny from a poor man. Who could he place his hopes on among the living? In all those few tourists he'd met today, bearers of a small penny, who, with their small steps together, had ensured their owners had enough income to give Lucjan the change? This young boy had always lived for ideals, wanted to take great things, but he was soon to discover that...
Without knowing what spirit had inspired him to take a small step. He went to ask and... He returned with tea in hand, change in his pocket, bringing great joy to many souls with this small act. And he understood everything. He began to appreciate smallness. He already knew that anyone who possesses the ability to strive for the ideal through small victories will also be able to avoid faltering and slipping even when taking a great step. He who looks only at the great, and relies on the great in his desires, and fails to take the small, may hesitate at the moment of the great step, for how can he leap skillfully when he doesn't know how to tread carefully and slowly on the ground? Better a penny in his pocket, which will water a thirsty person, than a million in the bank, which at the same moment will do nothing for the same poor soul in his hour of agony. Every person carries within himself a small good. The sum of small things is a great good that adds up to a great profit. Whoever looks at the great ideal should strive for it by dividing himself into small things. He knows this evil, too, because he benefits from it. For as it was in the morning, when they climbed with sweat up the first hill. Lucjan and Karolina walked, looking ahead in great amusement. Rysia and Dorota climbed ahead of them. Rysia's actions were a great courtesy. She had seemingly innocently and lightly sprinkled snow on Dorota for fun, but snow is a traitor! He had sent one of the stars on a suicide mission for Dorota's scarf and turtleneck. There, despite her death, she managed to freeze the girl's back and arouse a desire for revenge. This small courtesy ended in open warfare, terrible suffering from the damp, and although everything concluded in an atmosphere of friendship, the event made Lucjan realize that everything begins when a small thing becomes a deed. Now he knew everything.
The return to civilization was a true idyll for everyone. Lucjan finally saw the snowmobiles, talked with Dorota about literature, the sun treated them to a magnificent spectacle as he went to bed, and during the journey through the darkness of the winter world, they proved once again that they were not elves. Eventually, however, they found themselves on the bus and fell asleep in the few seats and on the floor of the vehicle.
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