Climb.

I'll never forget the time my wife and I climbed a mountain.

We were in Thailand, and it was 2010. (A lifetime ago!) We'd been told that there was a mountain-top temple about 45 minutes drive from our resort, and that making the ascent was worth the effort. So, we thought we'd give it a go.

There's a scene in an episode of The Simpsons where Homer finally catches a glimpse of the "Murderhorn"; the mountain he is to climb. When the temple finally came into view, I felt a lot like Homer. It was a damned big mountain.

We'd been told that to reach the top, you had to climb about a thousand steps. In truth, it was 1,274 steps, as clearly stated by the sign at the mountain's base. I think it had been rounded down by those who'd misinformed us so we'd feel less daunted. Those who built the steps seemed to share this philosophy, we noted, as we began our climb. At first, the steps were small; only about three inches or so. But after about 200 or so, they changed to being more than a foot in height. This was going to take some doing.

The scenery was undeniably beautiful, and there was wildlife to admire. A lizard almost the size of a bungarra stuck its tongue out at me when I greeted it. Which was far nicer than biting me, I thought.

As we climbed, the need to take breaks became more and more necessary. It's certainly warm in Krabi right now - about thirty degrees - but the real killer is the humidity. It honestly felt like some inconsiderate bastard was trying to make me down a pint of honey whilst not only trying to breathe, but also whilst trying to climb a mountain. It was a gluggy, gasping experience.

After a while - about 800 steps - my body started to protest quite forcibly about what I was making it do. It reduced my step/rest count (the span of steps I could walk before needing to take a break) from at least 150 to about 50. It made my legs wobble. It made me feel dizzy. It made me sweat like the Wicked Witch of the West. It made me doubt my strength, and, honestly (but on a physical rather than emotional level, which is hard to explain), it made me want to cry. I began to doubt whether or not I had the strength - or more importantly, the willpower - to keep going.

But I got there. And it was worth it. Truth be told, I got there about five minutes after my wife. She's always been - and will always be - far stronger than I. She's also thirty-odd kilos lighter, I should point out.

The view was incredible. I'm fairly sure I could see Thailand in its entirety. I also think I could see Geraldton, so high up were we. I mean, when you pass what I'm pretty sure was an eagle's nest, you'd best keep an eye out, lest you get struck on the side of the head by some orbiting satellite.

The temple itself was lovely. I won't describe it. You can either look for pictures of it on the cheater-web, or climb it and see for yourself.

But the climb wasn't about the view or the temple; it was about the effort. I can't recall the last time I've needed to push my body so hard. To push one's body is ultimately to push one's mind. And the mind will doubt itself. But the mind, if you make it, will push back.

Without exertion, there can be no growth. It is essential to find ways in which you can push yourself to excel. It's always worth it.

And spare a thought for those who built the temple. And the monks who trek up it daily. I don't know if I could do that, but I know I'd be a stronger, wiser person for doing so.