The road starts innocently enough. Climbing up the mountain gently, sleepily. Or maybe it's sleepy after the train journey. The road beckons you up, but not too much. You can still turn back.
You haven't been enchanted yet. There is still the city air to breath. You have your ties. You are looking forward to the trip ahead, but a part of you is still thinking about your home, about the goings on the city.
And, then the road turns, and things start falling off from you. Clean air. Fresh smells. Blowing wind. Whipping round your hair. You can take a deep, deep breath in. Your companions fall silent. You fall silent. Having a conversation is pointless, seeing that all we talk about is petty, meager.
You've seen it before, felt it before, but the parts of your mind affected each time is different. You feel it every time, in every which way. The mountains are changing, every moment, they grow, they pulsate, they grow on you. They start looming over the road. Grand monoliths, standing eons before we started crawling, growing taller each passing second.