We live in a world where speed seems to have become a measure of success.
Technology evolves rapidly. Information travels in a second. We are expected to respond quickly, do more and get ahead of everyone else. Almost without noticing, we begin to believe that whoever moves faster also goes farther.
But what happens when you climb so high that the mountain no longer allows you to live at the pace of the city?
I discovered this at over 4,300 metres, at Zheduo Pass on the G318 National Highway in western Sichuan.
The road that climbs through the clouds
Zheduo Pass is one of the gateways to the Tibetan cultural region of Kham. The road winds uphill through green mountains, prayer flags, enormous Tibetan inscriptions and electricity pylons.
From above, it reminded me of Romania’s Transfăgărășan mountain road. Except here, the bends unfolded at over 4,000 metres, among clouds that appeared and disappeared from one minute to the next.
Sometimes the mist almost completely hid the road. Then, suddenly, the clouds lifted and the whole valley opened before me. I could see the road winding between the slopes and wondered how people had managed to build all of this here.
In a place like this, human technological progress seems extraordinary. Roads, electricity pylons and buildings reach places where the air grows increasingly thin.
And yet, right there, surrounded by all these achievements, your body reminds you how simple life is: you breathe, take a step and breathe again.
When Nina Tried to Catch Up with the Group
The group had already climbed farther towards the viewpoint, and Nina decided she needed to catch up.
She quickened her pace. She wasn’t running—just walking a little faster, almost breaking into a jog. At sea level, she probably wouldn’t even have noticed the effort.
But at that altitude, the mountain noticed immediately.
“Suddenly, I began to feel dizzy. There was a tightness in my chest and a feeling that I couldn’t get enough air. Then came the familiar unease I recognised from earlier experiences with anxiety: ‘I can’t breathe. I need to do something now.’
My body was telling me very clearly:
— This is not your pace.
I stopped. I let go of trying to catch up with everyone else. I returned to my own pace, used the oxygen canister I had bought there and drank some vitamin water.
I began to breathe consciously again.
Slowly.
Without fighting the mountain. Without fighting myself.
And gradually, things settled.”
You Don’t Have to Catch Up with Anyone
There, I realised that you don’t have to catch up with someone simply because they started before you.
The fact that someone else is higher up, farther ahead or seems to be moving faster doesn’t mean their pace has to become yours.
At altitude, you feel the effects of comparison in your body almost immediately. If you hurry just to keep up with others, you can stop listening to yourself.
The mountain has no interest in our competition. It is not impressed by speed, ambition or the need to prove something.
The mountain asks you to be present.
To notice how you breathe.
To feel every step.
To recognise when you can continue and when you need to stop.
Perhaps success doesn’t mean being the first to reach the top. Perhaps it means finding a pace that allows you to climb without losing yourself along the way.
How Did I Adjust to the Altitude?
Several people have asked me how I managed to adjust from around 2,500 metres to over 4,300 metres.
My answer is: gradually.
I spent almost a week above 3,000 metres. I went from 2,500 to around 3,000 metres and came back down. Then I climbed to about 3,300 metres, descended towards 3,000 again and gave my body time to adapt before the next ascent.
For much of that period, I stayed at around 3,000 metres. Some hotels even had oxygen equipment beside the beds for guests who found it difficult to breathe.
In China, I also learned about hóngjǐngtiān (红景天), or Rhodiola, a plant often taken before travelling to high altitudes. Many Chinese travellers take it as a preventive measure, but the evidence for its effectiveness is not strong enough for it to replace acclimatisation, medical advice or descent when serious symptoms develop.
For me, the most important thing was not to push myself: to ascend gradually, stay hydrated, eat, rest and pay attention to my body.
My experience with conscious breathing helped me avoid intensifying those sensations through panic. But I also understood that breathing exercises should never be used to ignore the body’s real warning signs. At altitude, dizziness, chest tightness or difficulty breathing deserve careful attention, rather than determination to keep going at any cost.
Where Do the Thoughts Go?
After several days above 3,000 metres, I noticed something I hadn’t expected: a quiet mind.
Especially in places with few people, my thoughts almost seemed to disappear. The usual inner noise faded. My attention was on the mountains, the air, the changing light and my own body.
I no longer had energy for things that didn’t matter.
What remained was the breath, the step and the moment.
When I descended below 2,000 metres and later returned to the bustle of the cities, I felt the difference immediately. The air was different, the sounds were different, and my mind began to fill up again.
It made me wonder whether what we call “normal life” asks us to live at a pace that isn’t really our own.
Can Slowing Down Be a Form of Progress?
Society teaches us to do more, do it faster and, if possible, do everything at once.
The mountain taught me something else.
To do a little less, perhaps, but choose consciously.
To stop rushing simply because someone else has gone ahead.
To know my body well enough to recognise my own pace.
To adapt to my surroundings instead of trying to make them adapt to my wishes.
Acclimatisation doesn’t happen only in the mountains. Perhaps in life, too, we need to climb a little, stay there for a while, come back down, absorb what we have experienced and only then climb again.
Because every pause doesn’t mean we have stopped making progress.
Slowing down doesn’t always mean we have fallen behind.
Sometimes, a slower pace is precisely what allows us to climb higher.
