At five in the morning, before the alarm even rang, I was already awake. The city still slumbered, with only the occasional sound of cars outside the window. I rose quietly, checking my backpack, which had been packed and ready for days: water bladder, trail snacks, rain jacket, headlamp… Each item had been carefully considered—they were my pass to the mountains. Today, no KPIs, no meetings, no endless stream of messages—only a winding path ahead and a soul yearning to rediscover itself amidst the mountains and wilderness.
After a two-hour drive, I reached the mountain’s base. As my feet touched the soft earth and my lungs filled with the fresh scent of grass, trees, and soil, a long-forgotten familiarity washed over me. The city’s clamor peeled away like thick oil paint, gently stripped by the mountain breeze. For the first few kilometers, my body adjusted while my mind raced—work worries and life’s trivialities flashed like uncontrolled bullet hell. I tried to dismiss them, but to little effect.
Until I began focusing on each step beneath my feet. I noticed how tree roots coiled like twisted dragons across the path, how moss draped rocks in emerald velvet, how sunlight filtered through layered foliage, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. My breath gradually synchronized with the rhythm of my steps, and the weight of my worries seemed to be crushed and digested bit by bit by this steady cadence. The “me” wrapped in layers of social roles—the employee, the child, the friend—began to slowly shed its outer shell.
On the ridge line, I stopped and gazed into the distance, facing the howling mountain wind. The mountains rolled like waves, stretching to the horizon. Before such a vast and ancient creation, the daily anxieties over gains and losses, the tangled web of relationships, suddenly seemed utterly insignificant. I was not escaping, but returning. Returning to a more essential state: a simple living being that feels fatigue, hunger, and tears welling up at the sight of breathtaking beauty.
Hiking alone in the mountains is the most honest conversation with oneself. Without external voices defining your success or failure, you can only listen to your inner voice: persevere or give up? Fear or courage? After a near-vertical climb, I collapsed onto a boulder, sweat soaking my back, heart pounding wildly. In that moment, there was no applause, no witnesses, yet deep within, a pure, self-generated pride welled up. This power of self-affirmation proved far more enduring than any external praise.
The descent felt light-footed. My body was weary, but my spirit felt like a thoroughly cleansed blue sky—clear and boundless. What had I rediscovered? Perhaps not a specific answer, but rather the ability to feel—to feel exhaustion, to feel beauty, to feel tranquility, to feel the raw authenticity of my own existence. My backpack no longer held heavy gear, but the emerald hues of the mountains, the crisp breeze, and a self reassembled into a more composed whole. My hiking journal records not just miles and vistas, but one reunion after another with my true self.
