Until we arrived at California’s Mount Whitney, the biggest mountain in America.

And yeah, if you want to be a smart-ass you might be like, “But, Doc, isn’t Mount McKinley in Alaska bigger?”

Then I’d laugh viciously and be like, “Everyone knows Alaska isn’t really America. Also, shut up.”

This mountain was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life. And at ten years old, I’d been around. We’re talking purple mountain majesty—WOW. We’re talking jagged cliffs with sheer drops of fourteen thousand feet—WOW. We’re talking snowy crags and lethal pines and snarling rabid wolves howling into the infinite blue sky—WOOOO-OOOOOOOOOWWWWW!

I knew, right then and there, as I looked up from my Game Boy—this time dominating Castlevania, another pretty sick Game Boy adaptation—that I was going to climb that mountain. I was gonna make it all the way to the tippity-top. And I was going to do it alone.

I waited till later that night, when we’d all bunked down in our tent. My folks were snuggled into their matching goose-down sleeping bags, me in my He-Man sleeping bag, which didn’t match a damn thing because I live life on my own terms, baby. They fell asleep at like 9:15, because they were lame and old, though I obviously loved them dearly because, you know, they did give birth to a man-god.

I looked one last time at my snoozing, snoring parents, turned to the fabric He-Man on my bedding, whispered, “Keep an eye on ’em for me, buddy. I might not make it back,” and escaped into the night.

My heart was pounding like the drum of a Celtic shaman. The stars shined brighter than the eyes of a cosmic eagle. The sky was the blackest black I’d ever seen. Blacker than coal, blacker than slate, blacker than the mood of my defeated enemies. Blacker even than my hair.

Just kidding, nothing is blacker than my hair.

I began my ascent. Even at a young age, I had the preternatural speed of a killer cheetah, so I moved quickly, confidently, never tiring, barely breaking a sweat, and always smelling great.

I could hear the animals of the ancient wilderness all around me. The guttural growls of the mountain lions. The subtle slitherings of the snake. The ghostly hoots of the owls. But none of them felt threatening to me. Instead, they seemed like kindred spirits. My wild warrior family. A source of additional strength and ferocity as I climbed higher and higher, hour after hour.