The backpack lay half-open in the corner of Daniel’s apartment, a jumble of things spilling out: tangled rope, unopened gas canisters, a crumpled map still in its plastic sleeve. The trip was in three days. He had promised himself he would be ready a week ago.
But here he was, sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, convincing himself that “just ten more minutes” wouldn’t matter. Ten minutes became an hour. An hour became a day.
The thought of the mountain—of the cold, the climb, the sheer unpredictability of it—made his stomach twist. So he avoided. He left the pack unfinished, telling himself he had plenty of time.
That evening, his friend Linas called. “Ready for the hike?”
Daniel laughed weakly. “Almost.”
“You mean ‘not at all,’” Linas said. He knew him too well. “Look, if you keep waiting until the last night, you’ll forget half your gear. Remember our winter trip? You brought two left gloves.”
Daniel groaned, covering his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
“Then fix it,” Linas said. “Start with one thing. Just one. Put your stove in the bag. Then text me.”
After the call, Daniel stared at the pile. His chest felt tight with the weight of it all—so many small tasks blurred into one looming mountain. But one stove? That he could manage.
He stood, shoved the little metal stove into the pack, zipped the pocket, and sat down again. A ridiculous sense of victory bloomed in him.
He pulled out his phone and texted: Stove in.
A reply came seconds later: Good. Tomorrow—sleeping bag. One stone at a time.
Daniel smiled despite himself. Maybe the mountain of tasks could be climbed the same way as the real one: one deliberate step at a time.
The next morning, sunlight leaked through Daniel’s curtains, soft and accusing. The pack still slouched in the corner, one stove heavier but no less intimidating.
He made coffee, sat at the kitchen table, and stared at a blank sheet of paper. Lists always felt like traps to him. Too many items in one place, each one whispering: you’ll never finish me.
But Linas’s words echoed in his head. One stone at a time.
So Daniel wrote the first item: Sleeping bag.
Then the second: Headlamp.
Then a third: First-aid kit.
The pen scratched across the page until he had twenty lines staring back at him. His pulse quickened—twenty! It looked impossible.
For a moment, he shoved the list away, scrolling his phone again. News, social media, messages—anything but the paper. Procrastination had a thousand disguises.
Then his eyes landed on the stove already tucked into the pack. Proof. One line could already be crossed. He grabbed the pen and slashed through the word Stove. The small gesture felt louder than the phone’s buzz.
He stood, went to the closet, pulled out his sleeping bag. He wrestled it into its stuff sack, shoved it into the bottom of the pack, and crossed off line two.
Something shifted. The list no longer mocked him—it invited him. A map, not a trap.
By noon, he had three more items crossed out. Headlamp, done. First-aid kit, packed. Water filter, clipped to the side pocket.
For the first time in weeks, Daniel felt the hum of momentum. The mountain of preparation wasn’t gone, but it was shrinking. Piece by piece. Line by line.
That night, he looked at the half-packed bag and the half-crossed list and realized: procrastination was still there, lurking. But he finally had a weapon sharper than delay—progress itself.
By the third evening, Daniel’s list was more than half crossed out. The pack had shape now, no longer an empty shell but a creature slowly waking: stove, sleeping bag, filter, kit, layers of clothes rolled and stacked.
And yet—he sat on the couch again, TV humming, his boots untouched by the door. The last few items still loomed: map, compass, rope, spare batteries. Small things, but his mind twisted them into reasons to delay.
It’s late. I’ll do it tomorrow.
I need to check the weather again before packing.
Maybe Linas will bring extras anyway.
Excuses came easily, like old friends knocking at the door. He almost let them in.
But then his phone buzzed. A message from Linas: Picture it. You at the trailhead. Bag zipped. Nothing missing. See it before it happens.
Daniel leaned back, closing his eyes. He tried.
At first, he saw only the clutter of his apartment, the undone list. But slowly, another picture took form: him standing by the car, morning air crisp, pack firm against his shoulders. Linas laughing, clapping him on the back. No panic about forgotten gear. Just readiness.
The vision felt so clear, so solid, that it tugged him forward. He opened his eyes, stood, and walked to the corner.
Ten minutes later, the compass was clipped in, the rope coiled neatly, the spare batteries tucked into a side pocket. He drew a heavy line through the last items on the list.
The excuses were still there, but weaker now—hollow voices against the weight of the vision.
That night, Daniel slept better than he had in weeks.
The morning of departure arrived cold and sharp, the kind of dawn that made every sound louder. Daniel stood over the pack in silence. It looked different now—full, sturdy, no longer a slouching pile of half-decisions.
He bent down, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and nearly staggered. The weight pressed into him, real and undeniable. But instead of dread, a slow grin spread across his face. This wasn’t the weight of chores unfinished. It was the weight of readiness.
Linas pulled up outside, honking once. Daniel slung the straps tighter and headed down.
When Linas saw him, his eyebrows shot up. “Well, look at you. Packed, on time, no excuses. Miracles do happen.”
Daniel laughed, shaking his head. “Not miracles. Stones. One by one.”
They loaded the packs into the car. As the engine rumbled to life, Daniel glanced at the folded list tucked into his pocket. Every line was crossed out, dark and final. Proof against every excuse he’d almost believed.
On the drive, Linas asked, “So what finally killed the procrastination monster?”
Daniel thought about it. The pile on the floor. The endless excuses. The vision of himself standing ready.
“I stopped looking at the whole mountain,” he said at last. “Started looking at the next step. And the one after that.”
Linas grinned. “Not bad. That’s how you climb the real one, too.”
Daniel nodded, hand resting on the solid weight of the pack at his feet.
The truth was simple: the hardest journey he had faced so far wasn’t on the trail ahead. It was in his own living room, fighting the gravity of delay.
And he had won.
The trailhead smelled of pine and frost. Sunlight slanted through the trees, painting the ground gold. Daniel swung the pack onto his shoulders again—it was heavy, yes, but steady, balanced.
He and Linas started walking, boots crunching against gravel. Each step sent a thrum of rhythm through Daniel’s body: pack weight, breath, stride.
For a while, he thought of the list, of the nights wasted in excuses. He almost laughed at how small the tasks had been, how large he had made them in his mind. Procrastination hadn’t been laziness—it had been fear disguised as comfort. Fear of failing, of forgetting, of not being enough.
But the list was gone now, every line crossed out. And in its place was a trail that stretched forward, clear and waiting.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Linas said.
Daniel nodded. “Better than I thought. The pack’s heavy, but the worry’s lighter.”
They climbed in silence for a while, the mountain rising above. Daniel’s legs ached, his shoulders protested—but instead of stopping, he smiled.
Because he knew how to do this now.
The same way he had packed.
The same way he had killed procrastination.
One stone at a time.
One step at a time.
By the time they reached the first overlook, the valley spread wide below, Daniel set the pack down and laughed out loud, the sound echoing against the cliffs.
The hardest part hadn’t been the climb. It had been starting.
And now—he had started.