We are back briefly in Minnesota before we make the big move to Kentucky. I thought maybe we would write along the way, but we had more fun just doing our thing. Hindsight will make for better word choice, as well.
As much as it irked me to have to change our plans at the last minute, I thought it interesting that we would retrace our steps from last summer...right down to the all-day drive through Iowa and Nebraska, reaching Colorado early in the morning and sleeping in a parking lot.
There is beautiful diversity in this country's landscapes. We dream of hiking abroad someday, of moving somewhere else to learn the language and culture and fall in love with a child. But we realize we could spend decades dedicating our time and resources to finding the wild places of the U.S. and still not experience it all. For every canyon or mountain we've heard of, there are many more that surround it.
I read an essay on adventure in the wilderness recently that centered on the notion that there are two kinds of mountain-climbers: those bent on conquering great heights and those who walk as if they stand on holy ground. I understood this intellectually last year and admired Ben for his reverence, but of all the progress I see in myself from last year to this, it can be encapsulated in the line I crossed from conqueror to pilgrim.
A year ago, I had something to prove. But like so many other things in life, you can't earn your way to a summit. Sure, you might stand on one. I stood on Longs Peak and thought myself rather large, seeing as I climbed it only a couple of days after the elevation made me wretch in our tent and one day after I fought off a fever with no sympathy from my husband. But there's no elevator from the top, and my legs nearly gave out on the hike back to the car. I had conquered nothing. I learned little, except that 16 miles round-trip is easy for some (Ben) and like hell for others (me). Over and over I told Ben to stop glaring at me because at least I'd done it. I hiked the same trail and climbed to the same height he did.
I lacked perspective. I looked around me and believed I deserved everything to get easier because I endured beyond what I believed I was capable of. It turns out that, when you do that (endure), you arrive at the base of another big mountain.
So is that good news or bad news?
I think realizing at the end of last summer that I had proved little as a conqueror set me on a 12-month course of doing nothing but learning. Learning that my perspective was small. Every adventurous idea Ben has seems outlandish to me until we pack up the car and set off, and I realize it's possible for real people. Being a realist will do that to you...it'll fence you in and you'll think that's sensible. People like Ben aren't "realistic" in our very human sense of that word. He believes the world is full of ways to turn crazy ideas into incredible memories - of making every day a great story. Why limit yourself to one thing when you could do everything? Why just get good at hiking when you could also slap on some crampons and mountaineer? Or collect the right equipment and climb straight up the rock, laughing at the switchbacks? Why not try it all? Why not float lazily down the river one day and cliff-jump 60 feet the next? I look at that and the first word that comes to mind is CRAZY. And the second is How many false jumps will it take me to actually leap? Because I want to try.
So as intangible as it sounds, I believe we can choose to see the world differently than we do now. I think I can do that. I think I've started to - I think that's what all my endless ramblings on this blog have been about. I think that's what I've concluded from reading books like One Thousand Gifts (website) and Love Does (video) and Lord of the Rings (“The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places. But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.”). I can retrace my steps over and over again, but unless I see with new eyes, the results are the same. My enjoyment will still depend on the ease.
What should it depend on? I'm with my best friend doing physically, emotionally, and spiritually rewarding things. I'm alive. Creation is all around me. Every moment, pain or pleasure, is a gift to be experienced fully. Tedious or extraordinary. One pitch, one mile, one day at a time.
This year was different for me. I wasn't physically adequate, nor did I put away fear completely. But I hiked all the way up Mt. Whitney with a smile on my face. I was little-kid excited to see everything and just be there. Present. Being winded didn't upset me and seeing Ben hike ahead didn't mean he was calling me weak. And something wonderful happened. My muscles burned in all the right places and we got all the way up at an acceptable pace and we have a picture of the Big Dipper hovering above our tent. We didn't even get to climb Whitney's East Face because we had bad information on how to get there, and I'm actually excited that we'll get to go back and try again some day. It wasn't a failed conquest - it was just fun.
There's much more to come from our June trip. Pictures from the west will mingle with news as we embark on the biggest adventure yet: Kentucky.
As much as it irked me to have to change our plans at the last minute, I thought it interesting that we would retrace our steps from last summer...right down to the all-day drive through Iowa and Nebraska, reaching Colorado early in the morning and sleeping in a parking lot.
There is beautiful diversity in this country's landscapes. We dream of hiking abroad someday, of moving somewhere else to learn the language and culture and fall in love with a child. But we realize we could spend decades dedicating our time and resources to finding the wild places of the U.S. and still not experience it all. For every canyon or mountain we've heard of, there are many more that surround it.
I read an essay on adventure in the wilderness recently that centered on the notion that there are two kinds of mountain-climbers: those bent on conquering great heights and those who walk as if they stand on holy ground. I understood this intellectually last year and admired Ben for his reverence, but of all the progress I see in myself from last year to this, it can be encapsulated in the line I crossed from conqueror to pilgrim.
A year ago, I had something to prove. But like so many other things in life, you can't earn your way to a summit. Sure, you might stand on one. I stood on Longs Peak and thought myself rather large, seeing as I climbed it only a couple of days after the elevation made me wretch in our tent and one day after I fought off a fever with no sympathy from my husband. But there's no elevator from the top, and my legs nearly gave out on the hike back to the car. I had conquered nothing. I learned little, except that 16 miles round-trip is easy for some (Ben) and like hell for others (me). Over and over I told Ben to stop glaring at me because at least I'd done it. I hiked the same trail and climbed to the same height he did.
I lacked perspective. I looked around me and believed I deserved everything to get easier because I endured beyond what I believed I was capable of. It turns out that, when you do that (endure), you arrive at the base of another big mountain.
So is that good news or bad news?
I think realizing at the end of last summer that I had proved little as a conqueror set me on a 12-month course of doing nothing but learning. Learning that my perspective was small. Every adventurous idea Ben has seems outlandish to me until we pack up the car and set off, and I realize it's possible for real people. Being a realist will do that to you...it'll fence you in and you'll think that's sensible. People like Ben aren't "realistic" in our very human sense of that word. He believes the world is full of ways to turn crazy ideas into incredible memories - of making every day a great story. Why limit yourself to one thing when you could do everything? Why just get good at hiking when you could also slap on some crampons and mountaineer? Or collect the right equipment and climb straight up the rock, laughing at the switchbacks? Why not try it all? Why not float lazily down the river one day and cliff-jump 60 feet the next? I look at that and the first word that comes to mind is CRAZY. And the second is How many false jumps will it take me to actually leap? Because I want to try.
So as intangible as it sounds, I believe we can choose to see the world differently than we do now. I think I can do that. I think I've started to - I think that's what all my endless ramblings on this blog have been about. I think that's what I've concluded from reading books like One Thousand Gifts (website) and Love Does (video) and Lord of the Rings (“The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places. But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.”). I can retrace my steps over and over again, but unless I see with new eyes, the results are the same. My enjoyment will still depend on the ease.
What should it depend on? I'm with my best friend doing physically, emotionally, and spiritually rewarding things. I'm alive. Creation is all around me. Every moment, pain or pleasure, is a gift to be experienced fully. Tedious or extraordinary. One pitch, one mile, one day at a time.
This year was different for me. I wasn't physically adequate, nor did I put away fear completely. But I hiked all the way up Mt. Whitney with a smile on my face. I was little-kid excited to see everything and just be there. Present. Being winded didn't upset me and seeing Ben hike ahead didn't mean he was calling me weak. And something wonderful happened. My muscles burned in all the right places and we got all the way up at an acceptable pace and we have a picture of the Big Dipper hovering above our tent. We didn't even get to climb Whitney's East Face because we had bad information on how to get there, and I'm actually excited that we'll get to go back and try again some day. It wasn't a failed conquest - it was just fun.
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