Read the prequel, The Gilded Labyrinth.
By the time I stumbled into Base Camp, I had already tried to conquer three different mountains.
One was grades and scholarships. Another was prestige: shiny logos, famous programs, clearances. The third was a quiet fantasy of being so far above struggle that nothing could touch me.
All of them pointed to the same distant peak: “If you climb high enough, you’ll finally be safe.”
My legs shook. My thoughts frayed into todo lists and what-ifs. I dropped my pack beside a small fire ring and told myself I’d only rest for a moment before pushing on.
An older traveler sat nearby, pouring hot water into a dented metal cup.
“You look like someone who doesn’t believe in Base Camp,” they said.
“I don’t have time for it,” I replied. “There’s too much to do. If I slow down, I’ll fall behind. If I don’t make something impressive of my life, what was the point of all this?”
They nodded toward the dark valley below. In the distance, I could just make out the glint of the Gilded Labyrinth and, far beyond it, the faint outline of a Tower.
“Chasing that?” they asked.
“Something like it,” I said.
“I used to climb for that Tower,” they said. “Then I realized something: the higher you go in a world built on hierarchy, the more eyes you feel on your back. Envy, resentment, fear. Superiority doesn’t buy safety. It just changes who you’re afraid of.”
I stared at the Tower’s outline, thinking of all the ways people claw toward it: exams, competitions, impossible workloads; sometimes just luck. For a moment I imagined waking up already at the top, everything paid for, every door open—and felt… hollow.
“If the struggle vanished,” the traveler asked softly, “and you already had what you think you’re climbing for… what would you still feel called to do?”
I didn’t have an answer. Without the race, without the fear of being “wasted potential,” the mountain went quiet. Underneath the noise I could feel a smaller, steadier question: What work would I choose if I weren’t trying to stay above anyone?
The traveler poked at the coals. “Base Camp is where you notice whose mountain you’re on. You can keep climbing for the Tower, if you want. Or you can admit that the path you started on isn’t the life you actually mean to live.”
“What if resting here means I never amount to anything?” I asked.
They smiled. “Resting isn’t quitting. It’s the only way you remember you’re more than your altitude.”
Wind moved through the tents. Below us, the Gilded Labyrinth glittered. Somewhere beyond it waited the rough slope toward an Orchard I hadn’t yet seen, on a mountain that belonged to no one but those willing to plant there together.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t tighten my laces and push on. I stayed at Base Camp and let the old story catch its breath long enough to loosen its grip.
⛩️🖥️
