He'd always known that he'd conquer The Mountian.

He'd been born at its foot and raised partway up its slope. As a child he'd gazed up at its peak, knowing inside that someday, somehow, he'd stand there, his skin raw from the touch of the ice particles whipped against his face by the incessant wind.

And now he did so stand. Years had passed, but his dream had never died. Years of toil, years caged in the city, years chained to mere commerce, years spent a-massing, the world too much with him -- except for The Mountain and the dream.

And now he stood on the summit, bent with years and toil. He had perservered, and he had ultimately conquered The Mountain, the nay-sayers, himself. He gazed around him, turned, reentered, and as the helicopter blades bit into the air reflected that it wasn't at all what he had thought it would be.