I looked down at the leaf-littered ground as I trudged foreword. I cringed as streams of sweat poured into my eyes, stinging them like little needles. My lungs threatened to burst, my hands were scratched and red, and I still had to conquer the huge mountain in front of me.

On the small Island of Bora Bora, there is a mountain called Pahia. It's not exactly Mt. Everest, but I haven't heard anyone call it a hill. It's lush and green. Its size is intimidating. My Dad, Jeremy, Finley, Casey and I were climbing it.

We'd been at it for about an hour, huffing and puffing. Comments like, "I'm so *gasp* out of shape." and "how 'bout another break guys?" were not uncommon.

Jeremy, the most organized among us, had it all figured out. He'd planned that if we hiked for seven minutes (which was just about all your body could take before collapsing on the spot) and took a break for three, then we'd get to the top around noon.

I climbed slowly on. It wouldn't be too bad of a hike if the mountain wasn't completely vertical and the folk song "she'll be comin' round the mountain when she comes" wasn't mercilessly stuck in my head. I'd adopted a routine: Step. Moan like a soldier with his legs chopped off. Gasp like an old man having a brutal asthma attack. "She'll be..." Step. My limbs are on fire. Pant like a dog. "...Comin' round the mountain when she comes..." Step. I hate this stupid mountain. Suck in air like a vacuum cleaner on high power. "...Yeehaw!"

I grabbed onto another root. My handhold. It seemed to have grown there just for me to use. The dead leaves crunched and crinkled under my shifting feet. I grasped another root and pulled myself up.

"She'll be ridin' six white horses when she comes..." Smart woman, bringing six horses. I wish I had a horse right now. I wish I had six. And a slushy. "...Yeehaw!"

"Alright guys, break!" Jeremy's voice boomed through the still trees. A sigh of relief escaped the lips of all the weary hikers. These breaks were a good idea, but I couldn't enjoy mine with the thought of having to get up and start moving again in a measly three minutes. Who made up this time limit anyway?

I took a gulp of water through my hyperventilation and looked around the group. Everyone had beet-red cheeks and beads of sweat streaming down their foreheads. Their hair was matted down and drenched. Everyone sounded like they were having panic attacks. Jeremy lifted his wrist like it weighed a hundred pounds and read his watch. He grimaced. Everyone else grimaced at his grimace because they knew what was coming. "Okay team," he tried to sound encouraging even though he sounded like a suffocating fish, "time to go."

As I climbed, I had a sudden flashback to the Tahiti guidebook. "If you're experienced and determined, it's possible to climb Mount Pahia in about four hours of rough going..." Me? Experienced? Not a chance. Determined? Maybe. Four hours? Four hours... I stopped hiking for a moment to have a silent mental breakdown. Then somehow I moved on...

There was no wind. We were all aware that there wasn't even a slight breeze. The air was thick and humid. Or was that just the sweat running down our backs? Also, it was dead still. No sound. Just the common rustling of leaves as we climbed. The trees blocked out the sun and gave us the pleasure of shade. We hiked in silence, with the occasional grunt from a climber in extreme pain.

I was desperately trying to motivate my body as I clambered forward. I told myself that whatever I wanted at that moment was at the summit. A slushy. A massage. A cold shower. They would all be waiting for me at the top. I climbed foreword choosing my path carefully.

Pretend, I commanded myself, that there's an army of deranged islanders out to kill you with their spears and the only way you can escape them is to get to the top, where a rescue helicopter can bring you to safety. They're right behind you! You'd better climb faster! I shook my head. Now I just sounded crazy. Delusional. I decided to just climb.

Jeremy and I had taken the front of the group. We hiked as fast as our legs would take us. The trees were clearing and a whisper of wind became somewhat apparent, cooling our skin and making us less pink. The beaten trail was getting flatter now and our legs were under a slow flame instead of complete hell.

Soon, after we'd climbed the last rock wall, there was an open space. A clearing, where the grass was smashed down, probably from hikers that did exactly what I did when I got to the top.

I didn't do a victory dance; I didn't have the energy to do that. I didn't toss my hands in the air and yell "we made it!" I threw myself down and promised never to get up again. I came round the mountain. Except I didn't do it with six white horses like that wuss in the folk song. I hiked, I climbed, I had dirt on my face and I wasn't just round the mountain, I was on top of it.

After a small lunch we were off back down the mountain, despite the solemn promise I made to myself. I slid down mostly on my backside and my shoes. It was sort of like skiing without skis. I just shot down without stopping, grabbing onto trees and roots, hoping that I wouldn't trip or die.

When we all were down the mountain, Jeremy took us to The Saint James Restaurant for a celebratory round of drinks. We toasted to our victory, the mountain that we'd conquered and (secretly) the fact that we'd never have to climb it again.