An hour into our three day hut-to-hut hike in the Dolomites and it was clear that my friend Jill and I were having very different hikes. I watched her glide ahead, her backpack bobbing no matter how fast I tried to catch up. Every break, while she was exclaiming at her energy and the beauty of the mountains around us, I would be lying on the ground, unable to even take my backpack off, wheezing so hard I was barely able to reply.
For the first bit I alternated between feeling bad about myself and being annoyed at Jill for being so good. I was re-learning the same lesson that I’d first faced on a trek to Machu Picchu six years prior—altitude does not care how fit you are at sea level. But this time I had prepared, hitting the treadmill multiple times a week for months, bringing the incline up to max. I had visualized Italian mountains passing by me, my legs stretching far ahead like a cartoon God covering miles of ground with ease. But altitude did not care that I was meant to be good at hiking, or that I was diligent with my training.