A truce with a mountain.

I climbed a mountain.
A big one.
The second highest in Southern California, to be exact.
And it was pretty grueling.
Pretty darned grueling.
My first top of the mountain ever.
I was operating on approximately 1 1/2 hrs of sleep (seriously).
I sucked in the air but it didn't satisfy my need for oxygen.
I drank water but sweated it out the second it entered my body.
My heart beat through my chest.
My hands were swollen, red, and freezing.
My thighs begged for mercy.
But I didn't stop.
I made it to the top.
Of a really, really big mountain.
15 minutes after sunrise.
And I thought I was freaking awesome.
And I told that mountain I whooped it and that I owned it....
It was my mountain.
And every time I'd look at it from down below I'd remember how I defeated the mountain.
And then we started back down.
And the mountain tripped me.
And I rolled a couple of times.
And as I was rolling I really hoped I would stop sometime soon.
And once I stopped I opened my eyes.
And I was upside-down on my mountain that I owned.
And scraped and bruised from that mountain that I owned.
And that mountain was laughing at me.
And I no longer felt awesome.
And I cursed that mountain that I no longer owned.
I ate a piece of humbled pie, prepared, baked, and lovingly served by that mountain that I really never owned.
And so we've come to respect each other, that mountain and me.
And we smile at each other because that mountain knows that it tripped and bruised me and made me look like a complete moron.
But I know I peed all over that mountain.
So we called it a truce.