refuse to go on, as if they were commandeering a mutiny. Yet only an hour has passed. I ask myself the same question: Why am I here? I moan, tired of this endless, purposeless march up the mountain. Hmph. Even before the trip, at home, the moment I heard “Maine”, I had a premonition that something ominous was hanging over our trip. I was right. Even its name strikes fear into the bravest souls, haunting anyone who dares to climb the mountain. Towering overhead at a height of 1,530 feet, Mt. Cadillac seemed to lord over its surroundings, challenging the bravest to come and take its crown. The trail is treacherous; with thorny bushes and long, protruding, jousting branches guarding the trail. Yet again, the same tormented question races through my head - “Why am I here?” This meaningless, endless, hopeless endeavor dulls all of my senses and death seems near at hand.