The tall white mountain beckons. Beckons me across the years to return, calls me to climb again his steep, rocky face by the trail beside the stream. The stream of cold, cold water that rushes down the mountain much faster than I will ascend the mountain, rushes by with a gurgle, a gurgle as if laughing at my slow, halting progress. Progress marked by lungs gasping for air, legs burning for respite from the never-ending climb up, up, up, up, always up, and then down, but down only for a taunting, fleeting moment as the trail dips between huge boulders before finding its updraft again, and like an eagle soaring and circling upward the trail winds through the forest of pine trees and among more boulders, mountainous boulders billions of ages old, and solid. Solid like my determination not to let this mountain defeat me and crush my spirit. Crush my spirit? No, not…