My leg hooked first over the edge, then my arm, and I pulled myself up the last two feet of the hill. Looking around, a wide expanse of level ground spread out before me like a green blanket. Mist shrouded the distance, making it impossible to tell how far my path would lead.

I sat, catching my breath and pulling out the heavy leather-bound journal from my sling bag.

Well, I’m here. I wrote in my pointy script. A second passed.

What do you expect? the book wrote back, the Voice of the Writers impressed deeply into the page in annoyance.

I’m not sure. Not this. I expected to keep climbing.

There was no reply, so I shut the book and started walking. And kept walking. For miles. The mist never cleared. It only thickened, until I stared intently at my feet and the faint path I followed. No doubt a good portion of the day had passed, but with no ascending elevation.

Why am I no longer climbing? Am I going the write way?

Have you observed your surroundings? Keep going, think about why you travel.