Oddly enough, the hardest part was at the beginning. The road very quickly grew steeper, rockier. Before long, it wasn't a road at all -- just rocks to clamber over, rocks that grew closer and closer together, until they weren't really separate rocks at all. The poet was climbing a cliff.
She kicked off her shoes, so that her toes could find a better purchase in the rocks. She used a rock to chisel handholds into the cliff face, and then closed her eyes and hoped that they would hold her. Once, she had to gather her strength, her balance, and then leap up and across, holding her breath until her fingers jammed into the next crevice, until her toes dug in. The poet hung there a long time, just breathing.
Then she started climbing again. She wasn't the sort to give up.