“It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”
– Sir Edmund Hillary

I strap on my old tennis shoes. The ones that used to be as white as Jesus Christ’s Sunday School robe, but now are dingy, torn, and stained – shoes that smell like earth that’s been left out of the refrigerator too long.

These shoes have one purpose now – to hike, for hike-sakes. To get away and stand on top of at least one peak, since life’s mountains have seemed all but unscalable.

One afternoon my shoes decided to go further, longer, and higher than before, passing all the previous spots that had been full of well, this is far enough. In two hours, I ended on a peak, a nameless spot that turned my usual magnifying glass view to that of a blimp.

I stood proud on my peak, looking over sprawling Los Angeles and the sporadic pockets of green where someone forgot to build houses and highways. And looking to the right across a small valley, I saw another hill – one I’d never seen before, slightly higher and more rugged. A hill without the three-foot wide path to the top like the one I’d just courageously scaled.

From my hill, I could see the winding snake of blazed dirt of those who had climbed before. The next time I come, I thought, I’ll climb that hill.

So that’s what I did. It wasn’t as straight-forward. It took more sweat, strain, and improvisation. But the view – even better. The peak – a greater victory.

Than the same thing happened. I looked across the next valley, to the next mountain, and again from this new perspective I could see the path to the top. “Next time I’ll climb that mountain”

So I came back. Climbed. Sweat. Stood at a higher peak. Looked across. Saw another mountain…etc…

This happened five successive times. Each mountain I climbed, giving me the view I needed to climb the next.

So as I climb through this life wanting Everest, where I can stake my Paul Angone Did It! flag, leaving a mark as far as my view.

Maybe I’ll only be able to see how to climb Everest, if I first start with the hills.