There are mountains...

I've never been one really into climbing mountains. As a child, I was encouraged (read: forced) to hike with friends, girl scouts and uncles chasing their youthful years up hill and over dale. I participated in many an orientearing experiment gone horribly wrong. "This way is north. No, wait, over here is north. No, wait, I was right the first time." I was generally ill prepared for these excursions - wearing the wrong shoes, socks, pants, shirt, not bring enough (or any) water, not sleeping the night before.
Even in college, I headed up a trail with friends only to discover approximately halfway through that we were not on the "Beginners" gentle winding trail, but on the "Advanced" trail of death that threatened to kill and maim me.
As an adult, fully in control of where and when she faces nature I, by in large, avoid hiking. Mountains are nice to look at. I notice them when I drive: "Hey, isn't it nice that the scenery is not all the same and that it is not all flat?" I like pictures of them. I like hearing about other people climbing them. But I am content not to.
Which is, perhaps, why I find myself wholly amused that I currently work with people who love to climb mountains. In fact, they will travel great distances, looking forward to the hike up the mountain (whereas I will travel great distances if promised a nice hotel room, a few museums, dinner and a trip to a spa). They take pictures at the top, tell stories about the craggy pathways, rain and muck that they encounter, and compare scars, triumphs and failures.
I suppose I've grown accustomed to not having to deal with mountains. There is generally a way around them.
Me and the elements? We're not close, and I'm mostly okay with that.
Unless we're talking about an organic seaweed facemask - in which case, count me in.