The ferry from Faial arrives in grey morning light. Pico rises from the sea, its volcanic peak hidden in clouds. They say you can sometimes wait a week to see the summit.

The rental car is a small white Fiat. The roads are narrow, lined with walls of black volcanic stone.

I drive to Madalena for breakfast. A small café. Pão com manteiga. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

The vineyards of Pico are unlike anything I've seen. Stone walls divide the landscape into tiny plots, protecting the vines from Atlantic wind. The soil is black volcanic rock. Somehow, grapes grow here.

I stop at a cooperative winery. The wine is Verdelho, mineral, salty, volcanic. The winemaker explains: "The roots go deep into the lava. They find water nobody knew was there."

I wake to clear skies. For the first time, I see the mountain. Portugal's highest peak, rising to 2,351 metres above sea level.

The hike to the summit begins at 7 AM. By noon, I'm standing in clouds, looking down at the Atlantic. The islands of Faial and São Jorge float in the distance.

Dinner is at a small restaurant by the harbour. Grilled limpets. Local cheese. More of that volcanic wine. The owner tells stories of the whaling days, his grandfather was a harpooner.

Whale watching at dawn. We see sperm whales feeding in deep water offshore. The guide, a marine biologist, explains their diving patterns.

Later, I walk through Lajes do Pico, the old whaling town. The museum tells the story of an industry that shaped these islands for centuries. Now the same families who hunted whales teach tourists to watch them.

The ferry back to Faial leaves at five. The mountain is hidden again. But now I know it's there.