When I finished college, I found myself standing at the edge of a great, yawning nothing.

No plans, no job, just me and a diploma that didn’t seem to have any real purpose. So I figured, if I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, I might as well do something I enjoyed. “Ray,” I said to myself, “you like hiking. Why not tackle something big? Something you’ve always wanted to do.” That’s when I decided to hike Yosemite. Seemed like a fine way to clear my head.

I arrived at Yosemite feeling like an explorer of old, armed with a gallon of water and some snacks—because, of course, a man needs sustenance for his great adventures. The trail to Eagle Peak was crowded, people bustling around like ants on a log. Up and down they went, and I stood there at the base of the mountain, looking up at the path and thinking, This’ll do just fine.

Now, I don’t want to brag, but I set off on that hike with more enthusiasm than sense. The sun was just getting comfortable in the sky when I started, and by the time I came back down, it had long since packed up and gone home. But after six hours of climbing, I finally reached the top. I was dog-tired, but the view—oh, the view! It was the sort of sight that makes you forget your feet are aching and your legs are turning to jelly. I plopped down on a rock, pulled out one of my snacks, and sat there like a king surveying his kingdom.

But here’s the funny thing. When I looked around, I realized I was alone. I’d passed all sorts of folks down below, but none of them had made it to the top. The crowds stayed at the base or turned back somewhere along the way. And it hit me—how fortunate I was to be sitting there, looking out over the valley. Most people don’t get that chance. Some can’t even afford to reach the base of the mountain, let alone climb to the summit. And others? Well, they’re happy enough looking at a picture of it on their phone.

But me? I made it. Now, coming from a busted-up home and with my pockets usually empty, I wasn’t supposed to end up on top of any mountain. But here I was, sitting in the clouds. And I knew I didn’t do it alone. If it wasn’t for the people who helped me along the way, I’d still be at the bottom, looking up.

As I sat there, I thought about all the folks who’d quit before the peak, who gave up when the trail got rough. Some of them probably felt good enough just getting to the halfway point. And maybe they were satisfied with that, but it got me thinking—how many times do we settle for less because the rest looks too hard?

I’ll tell you one thing, though. Sitting up there, with the whole world spread out beneath me, I knew the climb was worth it. Sure, it was tough, but the best views come after the hardest climbs. That’s how life is, isn’t it? We all have our own mountains to tackle. The real question is, how far are we willing to go to see what’s waiting for us at the top?