Never measure the height of a mountain until you reach the top. Then you will see how low it was. — Dag Hammerskjold.
A famous person, ok, George Mallory (1886–1924), has been attributed to saying he climbed Mount Everest because “it is there.”
We all know that people who climb mountains are high achievers, yes, game for anything, yes, and maybe, just maybe, like to torture themselves. Just a little. (Leave a comment if you disagree.)
I have friends who trek hills and climb mountains. I would rather go for a five-day shopping marathon with them than climb a hill, even if it’s an anthill. So yes, I have gone shopping with them, and now it appears I must go trekking with them too.
Sure, I have a choice. Go with them, or go with them.
Tomorrow, we head north for a day trip. But we are not day-trippers, we are day-trekkers looking for action in the form of 1670 feet of pure trekking heaven in the Malaysian tropical jungle. We will ascend the hill at the most glorious time of the morning, which is around 10 am, when the sun is itself slowly ascending to the heavens and will reach it’s zenith when we are (hopefully) at the top of the hill, at noon, no doubt.
I will be wearing dri-fit, my most favourite fabric in the whole world, the kind that doesn’t let my skin breathe but will wick away moisture. I will spray myself with an atomiser which will put OFF the mosquitioes. It does not help that my last experience of climbing a hill was a dormant volcano in Bali a year ago, the memory of which did not grow dear with the increasing distance of time. That time, we climbed for almost two hours in the dark, on gravel that made each step slide backwards two inches every time.
I know. Climbers are positive thinkers. Think, think, think.
I’m still thinking.