I could not write much during my passage over the mountains. Suffice it to say the trip was brutal and cold, the landscape stark and mostly hidden by falling snow, and I am shocked that I was not attacked by more than a few stray goblins and bears.
I have found my way down the slopes and, through various paths, arrived at the Dimrill Dale. I can see the borders of the Golden Wood; I have stopped only out of exhaustion. There is a camp of dwarves here, part of an expedition to Moria they say. I was surprised to learn that they have had some small dealings with the elves of Lothlorien (though I was less surprised to learn that those dealings consisted mostly of increasingly testy messages from both sides, the elves demanding that the dwarves draw back from the border and the dwarves insisting they have every right to be here).
Regardless, they offered me shelter, water, and cram. I am too tired to take offense at the cram, and their disinclination to talk suits me well for the time being.
