Ascent into madness

This past weekend I took it upon myself to climb Mt. San Antonio, the highest mountain in the world. "Why", you ask? "Because it is there", I say.
Not only would I climb it, but by God I would find the most challenging route up to the summit. Ride the ski lift halfway to the top? I scoff at your ski lift.
Because I am a genius, I discovered a little known trail that cut straight to the top, with no need for those wimpy switchbacks or gently sloping ridgelines. This "Ski Hut trail" is difficult to find, and even more difficult to master. But master it I did. All 4 and 1/2 miles of vertical goat-path. Lubricated by the sweat of my brow and the secretion of all manner of bodily fluids, I propelled myself to the summit on quaking chicken legs.

Here, we see our hero beginning the treacherous ascent, armed only with his wits and 2 litres of water.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I began the climb in high spirits, as I had previously sacrificed 3 orphaned Tutsi children to Moloch in hopes of fair weather, which he granted me. Emerging from the parking lot, I had an urge to purge, but I was thwarted at the port-a-potties by a group of hippies dressed as hikers, who loitered and pooped with abandon, hogging the facilities. I forged ahead, squirrels chattering in wonder at the dashing figure blazing up the mountain. After approximately 500 feet I realized that my blistering pace was unsustainable, and I wisely slowed to a mincing helf-step to conserve energy. I found the trail, a 12-inch path cutting up the slope, and began my ascent.
The view.

I immediately began breathing heavily, but not due to exhaustion. I blame the breathtaking vistas around me for literally "taking my breath away", and not the fact that I have the lung capacity of an asthmatic smoker. As I climbed, I realized that this was not going to be a pleasant experience. I wasn't even at the halfway point, and already my romantic notions of solo climbing were evaporating like the briny liquid that covered every inch of my upper body.

The sunscreen coating my face began to trickle down into my eyes, blinding and enraging me. I stumbled on, bellowing and weeping as I labored to the "Ski Hut", the halfway point. This edifice was constructed by demented sherpas who took it upon themselves to fabricate a hut at 8,000 feet with no doors or windows. I'm serious. No doors or windows. It's beyond me. I did, however, avail myself of the "facilities", an outhouse filled with wasps.I live a charmed life.
I rested, munched on trail mix, and attempted to compose myself. I struck up a conversation with an older gent who seemed knowledgeable about the mountain. He advised me cheerfully that the "worst was yet to come", and recommended that I look sharp because the trail is easily lost in the rocky area. Charmed, I contemplated what kind of death would overtake me as I blundered, half-blind, among the sharp rocks. This is the f*****g trail.

I pressed on. The next 2 hours were a blur of pain and hyperventilation. As my hip dislocated with each step forward, I begun to believe that my head was inhabited by gold-mining dwarves. Their incessant hammering between my ears drove me nearly to distraction. My greatest regret is that due to the state I was in, I didnt stop to appreciate the gorgeous scenery as well as I should have. The last mile was the hardest. I felt sure that heart failure was in my near future, and I finally staggered gasping onto the summit.
I rested for about 1/2 hour, and then made my way down the ridge leading to the ski lifts.

What did I learn from this adventure? Absolutely nothing. My legs feel like i was set upon by Tonya Harding's goons, and it hurts to sit down. Still, I would recommend this climb. I laughed. I cried. I vomited. I voided nearly all producible bodily fluids. I am a new man.