From Orava, the Western Tatras don’t dominate the scene at first glance – they emerge from it. The nearer Orava hills sit darker and softer, like a quiet introduction, and only behind them the white ridge slowly takes over the horizon.

Seen from that distance, the Tatras feel a bit unreal, almost like a painted backdrop: the summits pressed close together by the long lens, the air between you and them washed with a fine bluish haze. It’s the kind of view where you’re not in the mountains yet, but you already feel them in your body – as an invitation, a promise, and a reminder that the high country is just one valley, one ridge, one decision away.