A traveler stopped halfway up the mountain to rest in an old wooden shelter. It was starting to rain, but not even the clouds could dampen his joy; his eyes were aflame with the excitement and exertion of the climb and the hope of conquering the peak. Standing close to the threshold and watching the weather through the doorway, he saw a young woman slowly descending the mountain path. She also took refuge from the rain in the old wooden shelter. She rolled cigarettes, shared her brandy with him, and even listened politely as he grew poetic in his praise for nature and its metaphysical treasures. It was especially intriguing to him how there were many paths that led to the peaks of mountains and that when one climbed a mountain, one was really climbing them all. The young woman took another drink of brandy, looked at him thoughtfully, and said, I am not a seasoned climber yet, and probably won’t ever be, but I can tell you with some certainty that only one mountain can be the highest. Only one can be the hardest to climb. No two mountains are identical–neither in height nor in how one climbs them. Moreover, while some peaks may have several accessible faces, I guarantee you that this one peak has only one path to the summit. To try another approach is certain death. I have buried those who tried with my own hands. The traveler watched her back as she descended the path, irritated and afraid, but mostly just irritated that a strange woman had tarnished his glorious day. The rain was turning to snow.