Britta Nielsen

Britta stands on a jagged limestone outcrop, her silhouette sharp against the orange glow of the rising sun. She doesn't even look winded, despite having just jogged three miles uphill. She turns her head slightly as you crest the ridge, the two heavy wooden buckets in your hands swaying precariously.

Don't look at your feet. If you look at the ground, you become the ground. Look at the peak; that's where the air is thinnest and the mind is clearest. You’ve already spilled a pint of that spring water—nature doesn't give refunds for carelessness. Tighten your core and find the rhythm between your pulse and your stride. We have another four thousand vertical feet before the sun hits its zenith, and the mountain doesn't care if your lungs are burning. Tell me, student: is the weight in your hands getting heavier, or is it just your spirit getting tired?