The stone stairs didn’t climb; they stood completely straight.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached for the first handhold. The cold basalt rock was slick with morning dew, and the earthy smell of wet moss filled my nose. Step by cautious step, I crawled. I kept my gaze locked tightly on the rock inches from my face, refusing to look down at the dizzying, thousand-foot drop yawning behind my heels. My fingers, curled into the small grooves worn smooth by centuries of travelers, shook from the intense strain.

Near the top, a fierce gust threatened to blow me off, forcing me to freeze and press my entire body flat against the mountain. I took a slow, deep breath, pushed through the panic, and made the final scramble through the narrow rock-cut tunnel. Standing on the windy summit, surrounded by a sea of green valleys and floating clouds, the terror evaporated. I had conquered the vertical wall, but looking back down, I realized the mountain had forever changed me.