It only provides the means by which we may do these things to ourselves. Mountains sit passively by while we carve our joy and frustration into them. They record our efforts on the trails, which run like veins on their surfaces. They are monuments to our fears, follies and foolishness. They force us to see ourselves as the mad men and women that we are.
Mountains are what they are.
It is we that make them out to be more. We round a turn and think it is the top, only to find that the path continues on even higher. Our hopes deflate faster than a punctured tube. We can almost feel our body hissing its discontent. This is our mind at work.