Somewhere halfway up Iron Mountain, the air thinned and the world took on that strange, fever-dream clarity that only comes from mixing exhaustion, altitude, and the gnawing suspicion that reality itself is held together by spit and rusted nails. The Three Sisters loomed out there on the horizon, cold, black-hearted monarchs draped in snow, grinning at my fragile meat body clinging to this jagged rock spine.

The wind howled like a drunk at last call, promising either enlightenment or a swift tumble into the tree line below. Out here, there’s no mercy. Just the raw, unfiltered truth of the high country… And the faint lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it back down with your sanity intact.