I thought I had prepared. Layers upon layers of fleece and down. Gloves thick enough to smother my fingers into numbness. A balaclava that left only my eyes exposed. Yet, none of it mattered.
At 12,000 feet, the wind didn’t just cut through me—it claimed me. It howled through the valley, slapping my face raw, seeping into every gap I had failed to seal. I tried to walk faster, to generate warmth, but the air was thin, and my lungs had turned against me. Every breath felt like drinking through a straw.
This wasn’t the first time I had fought my body on a trek, but it was the first time I felt utterly powerless. No amount of willpower could change physics. No positive thinking could summon oxygen. I was a prisoner to the elements, shackled by forces against which I had no defense.
A gust nearly knocked me off balance, and for a brief moment, I considered turning back. But then I saw my trek leader, standing steady ahead. She had faced this before. She knew how to endure. And so, I did what I always do when I can’t trust my body—I borrowed strength from someone else.
One step. Then another. And another. Until the wind was still screaming, but I was moving through it.
Maybe that’s all survival is. Not conquering the elements, but refusing to let them conquer you.
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