'Crossroads. Badly marked from here on. Naked woodland swatches with blue smoke all about from the woodcutters’ campfires. As fresh as before and, like this morning, dew on the grass. Practically no cars up to now, and just half of the houses are inhabited. A jetblack wolfhound glared after me with his yellow eyes unflinchingly. When a rustling came from some flying leaves behind me I knew it was the dog, even though it was chained. All day long the most perfect solitude. A clear wind makes the trees up there rustle, the gaze travels very far. This is a season which has nothing to do with this world any more. Big flying reptiles soundlessly leave their vapour trails behind above me, heading directly west, flying via Paris as my thoughts fly with them. So many dogs. from the car one doesn’t notice them that much, the smell of the fires, too, the Sighing Trees. A shaved tree trunk is sweating water, again my shadow cowers far in front of me. Bruno flees, at night he breaks into an abandoned ski-lift station, it must be in November. He pulls the main lever for the cable car.'
Werner Herzog, Of Walking in Ice: Munich - Paris: 23 November - 14 December, 1974, translators: Marje Herzog and Alan Greenberg, publisher: Jonathan Cape