The vastness of the world can really take your breath away.
Here's a mountainside. From three quarters of the way up the peak, you can see the whole of the valley laid out below you, the morning mist rising from the treetops, the sun quietly sliding closer to the foot of the mountain. It's fall, and the leaves on the trees are crimson and ochre and gold. The wind blows fit to slide cold knives under your neck, promising a sure frost and perhaps a snowfall, and the friends of that gust rustle the treetops and make them dance. You can see the river wind its way south, peaking out of the trees here and there when it goes so slow and wide that the forest makes way for it a bit. Uphill there's still the peaks, strung out with bare rock breaking into a high glorious stretch of openness. There's nobody around for miles except two lone figures walking along a bare ghost of a trail, drinking in the view.
And sometimes the vastness takes your breath away in an entirely different manner. Some scant motion, be it the breeze or a passing animal or something else, has dislodged a small stone. In the way of things that stone dislodged another stone, and then three more, and then a larger stone, and soon there are tons of gravel and scree and boulders bounding down the slope towards the two hikers caught in the open. They've drilled for this but there really aren't good answers for this situation. It's an acceptable risk. That doesn't mean they don't try to get to cover before the rockslide shoves them right off the ledge.