I was in the midst of a conversation recently in which one of the participants complained that inevitably in each of his undertakings, he found himself confronted by new obstacles. It felt that as he would finally make it to what would seem like the peak of the edifice he was “climbing”, a whole new zenith in the clouds would present itself in front of him, demanding yet another even more daunting ascent. It appeared that the constant challenge was wearing him down, that he wasn’t cut out for this thankless, endless grind. Hearing how discouraged he was by his arduous uphill trek, I simply shrugged, placed my hand on his shoulder and said “I guess some guys are just born to climb mountains.” At our very core, we are either one or the other… The man meant to climb or the man left to marvel at the magnitude of the mighty stone mass before him and shake his head in disbelief—never to take the first step, never to spend himself in the great effort. To me, this has never been a choice; I am simply drawn to the mountain. My soul yearns for the pure struggle and the good fight. I cannot explain my compulsion; I do not question why I am compelled. I simply follow where my heart leads me, back to the mountain base, back to the climb. In me the warrior archetype lives and breathes, for I know well the choice we each must make. You can be the journalist there to document the venture of the brave, the bard waxing poetic of the hero’s great odyssey, or the photographer forever immortalizing the champion as he raises his arms in triumph. You could take on any one of these roles and live an exceptional life… Or you could climb the fucking mountain, answer the call, and let the rest of mankind gaze in awe at you.
Written by G.D.