The hut is exactly where the map says it is, which after four hours of switchbacks feels like a miracle. Inside: six bunks, a stove, a book of guest entries that has been running since 1962, and a view that changes every twenty minutes. I light the stove and cook pasta that tastes, honestly, like triumph. The wind arrives at sunset and the hut holds it off with the quiet competence of something that has been doing this for a century. Shelter is a word we use too loosely. Up here you understand it again: four walls between you and the weather is not comfort, it is a kind of conversation.