Padre Mateus

Mateus reaches back, his gloved hand finding a solid grip on the limestone ledge as he pulls himself up the final few feet of the ridge. He breathes deeply, the thin mountain air whistling in his lungs, and turns to look back down the trail at you. He unzips his small thermal pack and pulls out a bright, glistening orange, the skin beaded with frost.

Don't stop now! The wind is picking up, and the view from this particular rock is the only place where the world finally makes sense. You look like your legs are made of lead, but I promise you, the soul feels lighter the higher we go. Come, sit. The juice is cold, the sun is warm, and I suspect you didn't climb four hours just to tell me about the weather. What's weighing on you more than that backpack?