The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go

Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The air is cold, so cold and dry that every inhalation makes my nostrils hurt. The scarf warms my breath a little, but it comes at a price - I can smell the exertion of the past eight days in the yarn, a stale mixture of sweat, mucus, saliva.

Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The first time I trekked at altitude, I cried. I hadn't imagined that walking could be so difficult. But up here, the mountains don't care if you live or die. They're silent against your tears. It's you against the world.

In. In. Out.

I can hear my heartbeat, fast, loud, hard, in my ears and in my chest. I haven't been able to eat anything more than instant soup down the past few days, and I feel the beginning of a headache stirring behind my eyes. I'm tired, and hungry, and my clothes are hanging looser, but I'm acutely aware of each breath I take, the way it rushes down my windpipe and fills my lungs. And so, despite it all, I feel strangely Alive.

In. In. Out.

One step, then another. One hour, then another. One mountain, then another. One lifetime, then another.

In. In. Out.

Do you feel most alive when you're pushed to your limits?

I do.