A heavy storm cloudbank, pregnant with tempest, smothers the Carpathian sky in a leaden pall, its underbelly bruised with unshed rain. The mercury in my barometer has plunged to 29.73 inches and continues its ominous descent—a sure herald of imminent squalls. West winds barely stir, a mere 3 knots of calm air, yet the stillness carries a preternatural weight, as if the mountains themselves hold their breath. A light mountain mist clings to the lower slopes, and the thermometer reads 58°F, with dew point at 45°F, suggesting that the saturated air will soon release its burden. The waning crescen…