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Séme Beach, Cameroon At 4:05 am the hotel made 9 wake up calls, but only 4 of the young women received such a call. The previous night had been eventful. We went dancing at a nearby club only to find that our individual suites (the ones we practically begged staff to let us have) had been inhabited by local waterbugs. This was normal for a rainy season in Cameroon, not so much for 9 girls from various cities in the United States. As a result, we ended up sharing rooms after all- to "protect each other". Within the next 24 minutes, we were ready for the task of the day: climbing Mount Cameroon. "You don't have to do it, you know because of your asthma," said our delegation leader. I didn't really want to. Yet something was pulling on me, calling to me almost. I opened up Snapchat and told my followers: "Gonna go climb this mountain...gonna go find myself". A quick call with my mom persuaded me even further. After an hour-long bus ride, we began our trek up the face of the mountain. Initially, I had my headphones in, listening to afrobeats. The beginning was nothing short of pleasing: various flowers in yellow and white hues lined the worn pathway. The sun had just risen above us, warming our determined faces. We passed a small community of goatherds. For a moment I considered what it would be like to wake up to such a scene every morning: I’d probably wear the color tan often and have my morning cup of tea on the porch with a baby goat. (Fun Fact: I actually got such an opportunity the following year when I went to the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania) I might have missed the memo that we were having a little race to see who would make it up first. It was then that I realized: “holy crap I’m out of shape”. There was only one other girl behind me. Once I learned that she turned back I wanted to as well. I turned around and then turned around again. I kept going. My body was giving up on me. A light rain began to descend upon us after the midpoint, changing the air quality from something pleasant to something triggering. Unfortunately, I had already reached the limit on how many times I could use my inhaler. I began to pray. Let the record show that I was not very religious. I said little prayers occasionally: before tests and the such. I was raised Rastafarian, so eighteen-year-old me felt removed from any kind of religious body. I did, however, know the Psalms well enough. I placed myself into a state of prayer. Not even aspiring for anything other than the tightness in my chest to subside- miracles, sights, and wonders manifested. Every Psalm that I was ever forced to learn as a child came rushing forward. My phone connected to a mysterious wifi source (no really, there’s no such thing as mountain wifi) that allowed me to open the bible app. Somehow, I accelerated from ninth place to second. The clouds parted, the fog settled and a perfectly positioned sun between the mountain peaks was exposed. The air was sweet and cool. If one could see heaven and live, this would've been it. As I approached the flatland at the top of the mountain, I sat down on a rock and cried a little. I do believe this is the first time I met God on my own.