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The mountain looms ahead, its slopes jagged and unyielding—but your wheelbarrow waits, its worn handles familiar under your grip. The track winds upward, a serpent of crumbling edges and sudden drops, rockslides disguised as gravel, roots that snatch at wheels. Balance is everything: lean too far, and the load tips; hesitate, and momentum dies. Each push forward demands precision—adjust your grip, shift your weight, read the terrain like a map. The air thins; muscles burn. Yet with every careful step, the peak draws closer. Crest the ridge, and the world unfolds beneath you—vast, untamed, a reward carved from sweat and focus. The wheelbarrow rests, steady as your breath. You made it. The view was worth the climb.
