Just a Little Farther
It doesn’t matter how beautiful the scenery is around me. The reality is that I am scared, in over my head, and want to quit.
Looking up I see that the sun is slowly fading behind increasing, ominous-looking clouds. I am absolutely drenched in sweat, my teal sun hoodie soaking with the effects of my effort. My blue Yosemite hat is covered in white patches of bug spray, but provides me no defense against the black flies constantly swirling around my body and nipping at my ears. Every part of me hurts and wants just one simple thing: to stop moving. My toes are in pain, in particular my right big toe after two miles of jamming into the front of my shoe while sliding down slippery rocks. The outside of my right knee is flaring up again, making the most natural human movement of bending my knee to move forward feel laborious. My shoulders ache from carrying my pack, which feels like it is being filled with rocks with each passing step. My face is so sweaty that my “no slide” sunglasses keep sliding off.
Surrounded by pine trees wafting the comforting sense of Christmas towards me, I stop. The mountain’s enormity begins to overwhelm me. Here I am, this infinitely small speck plopped on the side of an ancient mountain that, millions of years ago, was as tall as the Himalayas. This thing has existed long before I was born and will continue to persevere long after I am gone. In the timescale of this mountain, I am nothing. Barely a blink. I am just a tiny, quivering mammal who is hungry, thirsty, in pain, and completely lacking control in this situation.
I stop and try to gather myself. The wind begins to howl, almost blowing the hat right off my head and over the ledge that leads into the abyss. Troy is about two minutes behind me, meaning I have just enough time to center myself and try my best to hide my serious doubts about what we are doing. Tears begin to well. I realize that the section we just went through on this hike would be really sketchy to try and retrace if we wanted to bail. The rock is too steep and too slippery. The clouds thicken and the wind strengthens, as if to remind me once more of how little control I have in this situation. I am miles from civilization and cell service. It occurs to me that we haven’t seen anyone else on this isolated trail. We are alone. I have just enough food to last an expedition that goes perfectly, but nothing extra for a worst-case scenario. Same goes with the water that sits in my overheated rubber bladder with a chewed up, slightly moldy hose to drink through. I hang my head with the realization that there is no other option:
We must continue forward, because there is no way out.
All I can hope is that, like every other time in my life, my dad is right. Somehow he always is, and I am fully banking on that trend continuing today. Because it is his fault that I am here, and it will hopefully be his wisdom that guides me through to the promised fulfillment ahead.
—
Chances are, you are reading this while sitting on some type of comfortable cushion. I am willing to bet that your lower back muscles or hamstrings are not currently engaged in order to keep you upright and that your breathing is currently shallow and haphazard. Your shoulders are probably slumping forward (although now you may have just rolled them back) and you are, presumably, protected from the elements inside a comfortable, temperature-controlled building. You may even have a crisp, refreshing drink by your side to sip on while you contemplate these words.
I am also fairly certain that your day has involved sitting in lots of boxes. Be it your home, your car, or a store, today you are constantly shuttling yourself around from box to box without needing to deal with that pesky “environment”. You are also probably going to eat food that you did not grow or gather or hunt yourself, but instead left that struggle to a willing corporation whom you paid for the privilege of being nourished by their cuisine. It might not even be food you are consuming and instead more of a “food-like product”. If you are really fortunate, you might press a few buttons and have a guy halfway through his two-weeks notice show up at your door with a bag of dinner, just for you. You will be fed without so much as having to lift a finger.
Our society is an absolute marvel of convenience and luxury. And that is becoming a big problem.
Humans in present industrial societies are now able to get far more with far less effort than anyone who has come before. The world has turned into a bastion of convenience in every possible way, allowing us to live fruitful and fulfilling lives without needing to exert much effort. From remote controls to smartphones to car-centric town design, it is entirely possible to wake up, go to work, come home, eat thousands of calories, and go to sleep without so much as raising our heart rate or breaking a sweat.
In the moment this type of convenience feels great. I personally love the fact that I can watch endless shows on my TV without having to get up and move. Or that I can make a comfortable living by sitting throughout most of the day. I don’t think we should reject all of these modern marvels and go back to the Stone Age. But the merchants behind these products and programs that keep us sedentary love that we love them; it’s what keeps them in business. So, the less we move and the more we consume, the better off they are. Which is why they are designed to allow us to easily slip into these comfortable routines of lazy consumption. They have become a trap that we are all susceptible to.
While the powers that be may be better off financially with our Wall-E-esque presence, we are far worse off because of it. Naturally convenience in everyday life is helpful and, in many ways, enhances our experience. But too much of it and we start to wither away physically and mentally. When the balance swings too far in the other direction we become weak, soft, and unable to muster up the gumption to challenge ourselves in any meaningful way. Our lack of physical exertion, and the mental fortitude that develops, is resulting in harmful consequences for individuals and society alike. A life that is too convenient results in some inconvenient realities.
This reliance on ease and comfort explains, in part at least, why obesity rates are skyrocketing in the West as activity rates plummet. The average hunter-gatherer averages close to 20,000 steps per day. The average American clocks in a whopping 4,000, or roughly a quarter of that, all while eating an unbelievable 3,500 calories per day. Maybe if we were getting those steps in, or running marathons, then such a high calorie count would make sense. But activity is hard and takes away from Netflix’s view time, so we are rather aggressively encouraged to stay on the couch, inside, and consume instead of getting the free exercise. This results in those excess calories being converted to fat which, as a pernicious feedback loop, over time makes it harder to get up and get active. Resulting in a downward spiral that is very difficult to break free from.
This makes sense. Evolutionarily our bodies do their best to conserve energy whenever possible. Using energy unnecessarily could have disastrous consequences when food is scarce. But food is no longer scarce (in the sense of having to forage or hunt for our next meal). And the opportunities to get energy are abundant. Therefore, if anything, we should be more active and fit than ever before given that we have greater access to replenish those lost calories. Fighting evolutionary psychology, though, proves to be difficult enough on its own. Factor in the social structures we have created, which require (or at least strongly encourage) us to sit in front of screens for most of our waking hours, and the task can seem almost impossible without concerted, conscious effort. The issue is this slip into comfortable complacency makes us both unfit and unwell. It’s no surprise that preventable diseases of abundance, like Type 2 diabetes, are skyrocketing at the same time that our activity levels are dropping precipitously. We are in an evolutionary mismatch: our bodies are made to move, eat real food, and experience environmental stressors that make us tougher and more resilient. All but eliminating those needs, while adding their polar opposites in abundance, is a recipe for the health disaster we are seeing. When an increased heart rate becomes an inconvenience, when activity falls by the wayside because we don’t want to sweat, our bodies suffer immensely. And it goes a long way towards explaining what my personal trainer describes as the “embarrassing state of the American body.”
The physical fragility developed by our constantly frictionless existence creates mental fragility as well. When we are always comfortable, we are far more likely to be uncomfortable whenever environmental factors move outside our preferred settings. Take the temperature of our environment, for example. It is very possible to go through a whole day in the dead of winter completely in a temperature zone of sixty-eight to seventy degrees. This is unnatural, of course, but when we merely go from house to car to work to car to store to car to house, it’s the most likely scenario for many Americans. When we get too comfortable with these temperatures, we begin to expect them at all times. So, sure, we are comfortable throughout the day in our manicured, artificial environment. But what happens when we step outside and feel the fierce, cold, biting winter wind? We tense up, shiver, and realize we are wholly unprepared for the reality of life on Earth. We can’t deal with such a wild swing outside of our temperature zone, and so we further resolve to never interact with it as long as we can help it. We are only comfortable in an unrealistically narrow range of existence, and haven’t built up the resilience to not be bothered by any experience outside that zone. We are more uncomfortable than if we built up the resilience to deal with different temperatures.
At that point the discomfort is almost entirely mental. Our body is capable of so many incredible things and adapts to a wide range of environments. To think a human body that evolved running for miles in the tropical heat to hunt down large prey suddenly, in an evolutionary blink of an eye, couldn’t possibly walk a mile or two to the convenience store is absurd. We have the physical capability. It is the mental toughness, grit, resilience, that is the barrier. A weak body supports a weak mind, and vice versa.
It’s not like we have to love being uncomfortable or finding ourselves in less-than-ideal environments. It’s that we have to just deal with it when we do find ourselves there. I’ve always loved being outdoors, but Gab struggles mightily dealing with the bugs at certain times of year (to the point where she’d rather stay inside than go out at all). At one point she asked me why I like being out with bugs so much. My answer was that, no, I don’t like bugs. They suck. I wish they’d all go away and never come back, ecology be damned. But after dealing with them so much throughout my entire life they just don’t bother me much anymore. And certainly not enough to prevent me from doing the things I love outside. After a while, we build a mental armor to deal with the nuisances, the inconveniences, the little pains of life. We notice them, sure, but they don’t pull us off track. So even if it’s hot, cold, buggy, or muggy, we can enjoy ourselves and continue to have a good time. We don’t crumble at the first sign of discomfort. Which means we can have more interesting, fulfilling, enriching experiences in life.
The more we expose ourselves to being uncomfortable, the more comfortable we become.
I have noticed this lack of grit and resilience become increasingly prevalent both online and in schools. Whereas I can’t read someone’s mind as they are walking around town on an exceptionally hot day, I can log onto Facebook for just a moment and be flooded with examples of folks with nothing better to do complaining about the most asinine things imaginable. Rather than taking these little inconveniences in stride as someone with a deliberately developed mental toughness, the average user is so incensed by whatever misfortune has been bestowed upon them that they must alert the masses to the injustice. The world must know that the waiter wasn’t exceptionally polite, or that the person at the intersection didn’t follow the rules of a four-way stop, or that a doctor’s office should never be running even a moment late. Because they are important and should never be slighted or inconvenienced. When our whole day is catered to our needs, our preferences, our experience, it is easy to forget that we are just a small part in, as Carl Sagan described it,
“a vast, cosmic arena.” Our sense of self inflates as we get used to getting what we want. And, when we don’t, we become so frustrated and distraught that the world apparently needs to know about it. In the end, it is all a desperate call for validation of victimhood in order to sustain a fragile and false sense of self-righteousness brought on by an excessively convenient and comfortable existence that breeds entitlement.
Beyond the screen, I have often seen examples of both students and teachers exhibiting a concerning lack of resilience and grit in the face of minor inconveniences. One day, early in my career, I was walking from my classroom to the cafeteria when I saw a coworker standing in front of a seventh grader who was clearly having a rough day. The kid was in tears, sobbing desperately about something horrible that must have happened just moments ago in the cafeteria. I empathized with the kid. Middle school is tough, and we all had a challenging time in those awkward years. As I got closer, I was curious to hear how my coworker, Jack, was going to handle this situation. He had seemingly decided on his words of wisdom to soothe the young boy’s feelings and assure him that everything would be okay. As I passed, Jack dispensed his sage advice:
“Why on Earth are you crying? Your grandfather probably fought in a war. Get over it.”
Harsh? Absolutely.
Lacking tactfulness? For sure.
But incorrect? I don’t think so.
As a history teacher, I love learning about the incredible feats of physical and mental toughness that those who came before exhibited in the harshest of circumstances. When students or non-history teachers complain about minor discomforts and situations I am quick to remind them that, while this may seem bad, things were always worse before. This kid’s grandfather, or perhaps great-grandfather, almost certainly fought in a war. The Greatest Generation is named as such for a reason: they managed some of the greatest challenges humanity has ever faced and helped create a strong, stable society out of the depths of those crises. Many of them faced unimaginable horrors, tragedies, and circumstances that required every ounce of strength and human spirit to navigate through. From the heroes of D-Day to the deepest fortitude of Holocaust survivors like Victor Frankl to the average families who packed everything they owned onto rust-bucket cars and traversed deserts in search of a better life out west, the citizens of the Great Generation without a doubt earned their title. The grit and resilience remains something to be marveled at.
At sixteen I had the great fortune to come face-to-face with just how comfortable my life was in comparison to those who came before. I was an exchange student in France and had the opportunity to visit some of the beaches at Normandy. It felt like a perfect summer day, even though it was mid-April. A clear blue sky was above me as a warm breeze came from the sea and pushed past me. While wandering through one of the American cemeteries, to my left I saw thousands of gravemarkers in a perfectly mowed lawn whose scent reminded me of long summer days back home. Each marker was pristine and pearl white, with the names and ages of the deceased etched in with great care and precision. To my right, below the cliff, were the sounds of a small beach town full of carefree, happy people relaxing on a beautiful day by the sea. Slowly, I wandered the cemetery in silence, internally marking the ages of the young men etched into the crosses. I thought about how confident, tough, and brave each of these men were. And how they were probably scared out of their minds and wanted to go home to their parents. But they didn’t. They continued forward knowing that their actions could lead to a better world. A world like the one that existed on the beach below me.
Looking up from a gravestone, I saw an old man with a cane slowly making his way towards me. He wasn’t pensively wandering like I was; he was on a mission. And I was his endpoint. I felt a lump in my throat. Am I in trouble?, I thought. Did I accidentally do something wrong?
To show my politeness and deference to age I spoke up first:
“Hello sir, how are you?”
The man continued towards me, his plaid golf cap and sweater vest approaching my personal bubble. He hid behind a pair of Ray-Bans, his right hand resting on the glimmering top of a solid black cane. Finally, a little too close for comfort, he stopped and looked me in the eyes.
“Are you American?” he asked with a thick French accent.
“Yes sir, I am.” I replied, not knowing where this interaction was going.
He looked at me for a moment, then slowly lowered his sunglasses.
“Thank you, son. Because of your people, my people are free. I grew up in freedom, with a good life. And it is all because of you Americans. So thank you, son.”
I stood there, dumbstruck. Never before had I been thanked for the actions of others. My own incompetence and lack of contribution to the world suddenly became apparent. The comfort and convenience in which I was brought up was held to the light against this man who had it far, far worse when he was my age. Unsure of how to respond, I thought about letting this man know what I really thought about his compliment. For a moment, I considered opening my mouth and letting out:
Sir, you should not be thanking me. I have done nothing with my life. I am a moron, a mooch, a parasite, sir. Do you know what I do with my time? I wake up in a nice house and go get a free, world-class education that I whine and moan about every single day. Then I go home, sit on the couch, and drink an obscene amount of soda in order to destroy my one precious body so I can focus on sitting on a comfortable couch playing video games all afternoon before having a nice meal served to me on a porcelain platter. I have contributed nothing to society, sir. So please do not thank me.
These thoughts remained locked up behind my closed lips. Eventually I let out a weak “thank you” before the old man nodded and continued along his way. That was the first time in my life I considered a cause greater than myself. My tiny little bubble that I lived so comfortably in was shattered. Here I was, surrounded by bodies of men much tougher and braver and more significant than I, with nothing to show for it but a sense of entitlement and lackadaisical ambition. The confidence and competence exhibited by the people around me, beneath the ground, helped create the deeply comfortable world I had taken advantage of. But it would have been a shame for them to know just how little I had given back in return.
I never saw that man again, but I think about him often. And, for the record, I have no idea what that kid experienced at lunch that day, other than my coworker making things much worse in the most entertaining way possible. I never asked. Still, to this day, the boy stands out as a representation of any time I, or someone I see, can’t seem to handle whatever troubles life throws our way (which are often miniscule and only made bigger by our obsessive thinking). The man stands firm as a symbol of the realization that the world is bigger and more important than my daily inconveniences and quibbles, and that I need to toughen up and be grateful for what I have and what I am capable of. I try my best each day to be more like the version of me that the man saw on that beautiful April afternoon, and less like the crying child in the middle school that I often feel like inside.
The reality is, when we are too coddled, too comfortable, too soft, when we don’t do hard things, everything else seems hard even if it’s not. The problem is that doing hard things is, well, hard. It’s so much easier, especially with all of the engrossing amusements available at our fingertips, to simply slip into the easy, comfortable route and go on without trying to toughen up. Doing hard things toughens our resolve, increases our confidence, and develops a greater competence that allows us to navigate the world with less worry about things going awry. Why worry when we have evidence from the past to prove that we can handle a tough situation? Humans need to feel useful, valued, and important. It’s why many of us are so eager to please and why we feel a sense of pride when we do something helpful for others. Agency, or the belief that we can positively affect an outcome, is developed through both the ability to overcome a wide variety of challenges and the eventual belief that we are capable of handling whatever life throws at us, using those previous challenges we have overcome as evidence to support that belief. Whether it’s dealing with a major issue like the death of a loved one or a daily challenge like taking a cold shower, agency can only develop when we push our comfort zone ever so slightly outward, which gives us a greater breadth of experience to draw on when life’s inevitable challenges come our way. Therefore, when a car crashes or the weather turns or we are more tired than expected, we can have the competence to manage the situation and the confidence that we will come out the other side okay. It is agency, forged in fire, that creates a cool, calm confidence in us.
Without this evidence, though, we don’t feel like we can positively manage the situations life throws at us. And so we tend to whine and moan about pointless little things that don’t actually matter, when in reality we should be getting out from behind the screen and pushing ourselves in the elements to develop some fortitude. The people I see complaining on Facebook are facing a lack of agency, otherwise they would not feel the need to gain external validation for their issues and instead would deal with them on their own. The crying kid that Jack reemed into faced a lack of agency, unable or unwilling to manage whatever difficult circumstance he was facing in a meaningful way. In both cases, the challenge is the opportunity to grow. But they, and we, have to be willing to see challenges as opportunities if we are ever to become the greatest version of ourselves.
How, though, can we feel strong, accomplished, confident, and competent if we never really have to be in situations that require us to be those things? If full days, and sometimes months, can pass by without a bead of sweat, an extra beat of the heart, or a moment of feeling out of our element, how can we develop our own “greatest” version of ourselves?
Thankfully, we do not have to charge up the cliffs of Normandy in the face of heavy gunfire in order to end one of history’s greatest evils to do so. Our comparatively safe and comfortable world is a blessing that we should all be grateful for every day. We don’t need to completely toss away our technology, conveniences, or creature comforts in favor of sleeping on rocks or putting ourselves into imminent danger. This is the external world that, albeit imperfect, is what great people struggled mightily to create.
It is how we navigate this world of comfort that determines how far we come as individuals. Laying around in a nice temperature all day while watching content may seem nice at first. But it gives us no purpose in life. No ability to do hard things. No sense of agency. No toughness. And, therefore, no certainty that we are able to capably handle whatever life throws at us. And, when hard things do happen, because they always do, we are less equipped to handle them. Instead, we must mindfully and deliberately insert greater challenges into our lives. We need to push ourselves through our limits and come out on the other side worthy of pride and a sense of accomplishment. We need to do more than what is expected, push harder than we need to, and make life a bit less convenient.
Or, if you ask my father, we need to go just a bit farther.
—
On a cold December morning I stumbled out of my front door for another round of that damned paper route. This morning had a different feel to it, though. The world was quieter, more serene. Orion and Sirius twinkled in the sky above me, dominating the view of the heavens. Most homes had their lights off, the residents remaining asleep in their caves, protected from the brisk winter air. The usual cars and trucks that occasionally passed by on the state highway in the distance were nonexistent. It was Christmas morning, and the world had yet to awake to its annual, ephemeral magic.
I was the only one outside at 4:50 am on that Christmas morning. I had, out of a sense of duty, gotten up earlier than everyone else. It was one of the first moments that my dad’s advice really struck a chord within me, and is a moment that brings me peace even when I think about it now.
At some point in my childhood, I don’t remember exactly when, my dad said without thinking much of it:
“If you are willing to get up a little earlier, walk a little farther, venture out when it’s a little hotter or a little colder, then you’ll have the whole world to yourself. And a much better experience.”
His point was that most of us succumb to limiting our life experience to the comfortable mean. If it’s a bit too hot or cold outside, we stay indoors. If waking up at the crack of dawn promises a fastser, traffic-free journey, we sleep in and deal with the traffic instead of forcing ourselves out of bed. And if a trail offers a longer, more strenuous option, we ignore it in order to stay on the main path with the other multitudes of people. It explains why I’m always alone while walking on cold winter nights or when I’m out for a morning stroll before the sun rises. It’s not comfortable, but in the end the solace and unique experiences make it worthwhile. Sure, we can stay with everyone else and have a fine time. But if we are willing to move a bit more, arrive a bit earlier, or walk a little farther, chances are we will have a quieter, more relaxing, more meaningful experience of whatever it is we are doing.
That serene Christmas morning has always stood out to me as proof of concept. I watched as lights slowly flickered on inside certain homes, aware of the magic that the residents were about to experience. I breathed in the cold air, unshared by anyone else, and felt the magic of the holiday in a different way. Upon delivering the last paper, instead of rushing home to see what was in my stocking or under the tree, I returned at a casual pace. Who knew when I would have the whole world to myself like this again, appreciating what was to come before anyone else was up and aware. The gift of solace was enough to engender patience.
—
While planning areas of personal growth through strenuous challenges for the year, my mind naturally drifted towards outdoor adventure. While the slower and more cerebral challenges were necessary and inspiring, the thought of a brutal physical experience stood out in my mind as exceptionally appealing. I tend to be the most agitated when I am stuck indoors, unable to move or get my energy out. Which, unfortunately, happens a lot more frequently now that I’m settled down with an adult job and adult responsibilities. In theory, setting out on a massive adventure that would shred my physical limits could provide a mental reset of sorts. I could do something so difficult that I would have no choice but to physically endure the discomfort to the point of being brought back to my core, where little worries and anxieties would be meaningless in the face of the task at hand. Doing the hard thing could humble me, calm me down, and help me become a better, more level-headed person. It could put life back into perspective, making the tiny inconveniences of daily life less annoying and easier to manage. Experiencing something brutally difficult could, at least for a while, make traffic or a long checkout line seem like the insignificant situations that they are. At its core, an adventure like this would require me to put my dad’s advice to the ultimate test. I’d have to go much further than most in order to experience the benefits I hoped for.
The idea for the exact adventure came as I was flipping through an anachronism: a little guidebook detailing with great dedication the most worthwhile hikes in the Adirondack mountains. Near the back of the guidebook was a hike labeled as “Only If You Can”. Intrigued, I stopped turning the pages and began to read about the potential adventure.
The author labeled this as one of the most difficult, grueling hikes in the entire Adirondack Park. It would require starting by climbing two challenging High Peaks (mountains with an elevation over 4,000 feet, of which there are 46 in the Adirondacks). Once those mountains were climbed, however, the journey was just beginning. Instead of turning around and returning back to the start, the trail required eight more miles of relentless elevation change through rocky trails, bald peaks, and bug-filled forests. It would be challenging and relentless, the author noted multiple times throughout the write-up, but if one was willing to endure the suffering they would be rewarded with one of the most spectacular hikes in all the Adirondacks. In other words, to venture a little farther beyond where even only a few people go would guarantee a solace and majesty unmatched anywhere else.
I was sold.
Immediately I began planning out the route. This would be, without a doubt, the most strenuous hike I had ever done. The distance combined with over 9,400 feet of total elevation change would be enough on its own to make me nervous. To make matters more uncertain, however, was the fact that I would have to complete it within a day. Given my schedule (and not wanting Gab to deal with a night alone while I emergency sheltered on some mountain where she couldn’t reach me) the reality would be that I would have to endure the entire trail in a single go. No stopping. No camping. No calling for a ride. Just endless, determined forward motion.
Telling myself that I should wait until I had more time would have just been an excuse to avoid the challenge. I needed to commit to the adventure when it was possible, even if that meant making it more difficult. Waiting for ideal circumstances becomes an excuse for long-term inaction. And so I checked the weather forecast, circled a date on the calendar, and committed to completing the trek through hell, high water, or bugs. It had to be done.
I was ready to destroy my comfort zone in the name of becoming a better, calmer, more confident person.
—
It is a muggy but mercifully cool morning in one of the most beautiful parts of the country. Surrounded by rocky peaks and a pristine lake, Troy and I hoist our bags onto our backs and begin the long journey. He is here because I sold him on the majesty of the hike and the life-affirming benefits of enduring a major challenge. I also may have gaslit his concerns about covering the distance with his bum ankle. But he’s here. Sometimes the ends justify the means.
I am equal parts excited and nervous. My muscles are limber and strong. My stomach is full of oatmeal and peanut butter, the well-known perfect recipe for a great hike. We begin the hike and are immediately met with the harsh reality that lies ahead. The trail, if it can be called as much, is essentially a rockslide going straight up the side of the mountain. Each step is a lunge that engages all the muscles in my lower body, a move that will have to be repeated thousands of times over the ensuing twelve to fourteen hours. Within five minutes my heart is pumping and I’m breaking out in a sweat. Here I was planning this epic adventure and striving towards a personal accomplishment, and in less than half-a-mile I am wiped. This does not bode well for the rest of the day, but I have to remain mentally strong if this is ever going to be completed.
“This is what I wanted” I tell myself in a whisper.
Before we began, I knew that the most challenging part of the hike would not be the physical torment. Instead, it would be dealing with my own head. There are no bears, mountain lions, or (presumably) serial killers on this trail. There are no avalanches or wildfires or murder hornets to contend with. If we just keep walking forward, all day, eventually we will make it to the other side in one piece and end the day at home. The greatest threat lies between my ears. It is the raw experience of my sense of self in a state of suffering, and the emotions that will inevitably consume me. It is reckoning with the reality that I am the only thing that stands between me and the experience that I’m dreaming of. I am the gatekeeper to a magnificent experience and a better version of myself. The secret code being to take a step forward, then another, and another, regardless of pain or boredom or uncertainty or anxiety. It is to continue on regardless of circumstance when I could so easily stop and go home.
Few things are scarier than realizing we are the only thing standing between who we are now and who we want to become.
After the initial climb up the trail, which I assume the mountain put in place to weed out the most casual adventurers, we come to a mercifully flat area of the trail that overlooks the valley and lake below. It is a cool, breezy outcrop that dries my sweat and refreshes my spirit. I put my uncertainties aside for a moment and remember that I love this. Being outside, immersed in nature, away from the stresses and screens of daily life. This is peak existence.
At a certain point the trail reaches above the treeline and becomes a four-limbed scramble up an almost vertical rockface. Small blue rectangles are painted on the ground to remind us that we are in fact going somewhere of note. If this were wet it would be an extremely sketchy stretch of trail and one that would bring up serious conversations about if we should continue. Thankfully, though, this side of the mountain is bone dry and the grip on the rock is fantastic. I have caught my second wind, and the physical training that I have put myself through with this hike in mind is starting to pay off. Now that my body has accepted what it needs to do it calms down and provides the energy I need to move forward gracefully. My mind, frazzled by the initial difficulty, also rests into a steady equilibrium. My state becomes meditative, my breathing coordinating with my locomotion. The world slows down. I turn around to soak in the majestic view behind me, a reminder of both how I am infinitely small in the grand scheme of things, as well as infinitely large and connected to all life that exists. And to think just minutes before I was completely unbalanced both physically and mentally.
When we begin something that shocks the system, be it mental or physical, our bodies and brains immediately rise up in a tizzy like a wasp nest that has been stoked from below. Thoughts, feelings, blood, all swirling frantically trying to figure out the best course of action. An initial reaction to this involuntary response is to stop whatever it is that’s causing the frenzy; to stop thinking about that difficult situation, to stop moving, and to avoid this internal discomfort brought on by the novel situation. Maybe we stop moving and lie down. Or we plop back onto the couch. Perhaps we begin scrolling mindlessly or turn on a show. All of these have the same effect: to avoid the situation at hand. If we stick with it, though, just for a moment, the world tends to find a way of slowing down. Our mind and body realize that we are in fact okay, that danger is not imminent. The swirling slows to a churning, then a ripple, and finally the placidity we all seek in daily life. Acceptance breeds contentment. And, now accepting of this new situation, our minds and bodies can move forward in a calm, ready state. Our fitness improves. Our minds become more resilient. That thing that was so scary a minute ago now can be dealt with easily and confidently. It always could have been, of course, but we often need a moment to work through the fear and realize that truth. This is when, and how, we grow. We just need to stick it out through the initial storm. And all will be okay.
The top of the first mountain is a view I had long dreamed to see. This peak in particular was always on “my list”, and to be here is an accomplishment worthy of trekking back down and heading home. I could spend all day up here, soaking in the purple mountain majesty. Time, though, is ticking. Daylight is burning. I stand on the edge and soak in the endless valley beneath me, the cavernous space that I wish I could fly around freely. Within a minute or two the breeze stops and the bugs begin to swarm. The mountain knows: we need to keep moving.
From this point we need to go down most of the mountain before turning our ankles back upwards to ascend the next High Peak. The descent is far gnarlier than I could have imagined. Much of the trail, like the way up, is just sheer rock face sloping down at a concerning angle. This side of the mountain, though, is soaking wet. With each step my feet slip out from under me, my toes jamming into the front of my shoes so hard that the top of my left trailrunner actually starts to rip apart. Most of the descent consists of me sitting my rear end on the soaked rocks and sliding down gingerly, being careful to avoid somersaulting over my feet and down the mountain. At one point I fall at an awkward angle and catch myself from sliding down the granite slope with my left wrist. The joint stings and I know immediately that I have at least a bad strain, perhaps a sprain. It stiffens and swells a little bit, adding another nagging pain to manage with each step. The outside of my right knee is tight and begins to ache with each motion forward. Sweat pours. Bugs accumulate. And we are only about a quarter of the way through the journey.
This sucks.
Companionship is essential when times get tough. Having a tribe, even of just two, allows us to manage our emotions and push much farther than we ever would on our own. Troy was absolutely essential in getting me to confront my fear of heights and go rock climbing. Now, knowing that he’s just as excited about this experience as I am, he’ll be the one to keep me moving forward. Although it’s unspoken, neither of us want to be the one that calls it quits. Beforehand we both agreed that, if one of us couldn’t continue, we would immediately make our escape plans. No hard feelings, no ragging on each other. Now that we are here, though, the feelings are different. We are both willing to endure far more than we would on our own due to fear of letting down a friend. Neither of us wants to be the one to call it quits.
After another grueling ascent up the second High Peak, we reach a stretch of flatter trail. I hit a good pace and end up a couple minutes ahead of Troy. Eventually I reach an outcrop that exposes a sweeping view and precarious drop to the bottom. In this little opening the wind picks up and almost blows the bug-spray soaked hat off my head. My sun hoodie, drenched in sweat, starts flapping aggressively in the breeze. I take a few steps away from the edge and use the massive presence of the mountain to feel a little safer. This mountain is gigantic, and on it I am worthless and invisible. No different than a flea on a Great Dane. It doesn’t care if I live or die. The wind that’s whipping through my clothes has traveled hundreds of miles and covers a vast expanse that my mind cannot even comprehend. Around me are trees that are perhaps hundreds of years old and will be here long after I am gone. Each one is an ecosystem, home to countless lifeforms that require it for survival. And there are more than I could ever possibly count in a lifetime. I realize how far from home I am. How, in this expansive view, I don’t see a single sign of human civilization. I have not heard a car or plane since we embarked on the trail. My phone has no service. If we wanted to turn around, it would be a categorically unwise decision given the conditions of the trail we just descended. It would take at least as long as completing the trail we are currently on, with a known risk of injury. The trail ahead could potentially be just as treacherous. And what if it is? What if we get hurt? What happens if we have to hunker down and shelter for the night, a night with forecasted thunderstorms, with no service and Gab worrying alone in a bed that we are supposed to be in together?
I crack.
My heart races and my shoulders quiver. I feel categorically overwhelmed and alone. The grandiosity of it all is simply too much for my mind to handle. Desperately I try to catch my breath, slow it down, and regain control. I remember how gassed I felt at the beginning of the trail and that, once my body settled into the challenge, it became easier. Now I must do the same with my mind; a much more difficult task.
Instead of feeling intimidated by the wind, I try my best to simply feel it. It is strong, biting, irregular, irrational. It keeps the bugs away, which is polite of it. In a way, it’s refreshing more than it is scary. I realize it is not out to get me, and that it would be whipping across this mountainside regardless of my presence. The wind becomes the wind. Nothing more, nothing less.
The same becomes true of the trees. They are here, always. When it rains, when it snows, when there are government overthrows and human atrocities around the world; these trees remain here, undisturbed. They’ll be here to guide me on my hike. And they’ll be here when I am back home sinking into a soft mattress with a good book. I am no better or more important than these trees, it is true. But I am also no worse or less important, too. Here we are equals. Alive and present at the same time on a timescale of billions of years. That’s pretty remarkable.
Grounded, the view remains expansive but becomes more friendly. Like the wind and the trees, this landscape exists as it is. There is no need for me to label it as scary or overwhelming. It is all okay.
While calmer, I still feel a deep sense of uncertainty about what is to come. We have one more push to the summit before beginning the “true” trail that we came here for. This trail consists of three more summits, each slightly lower than the previous, with more unforgiving uphill and downhill. It might be dry and easy to traverse. Or it could be steep, soaking wet, and sketchier than where we just were. The only way to find out is to be there.
Troy approaches from behind and takes a rest. He is sweating and downs big gulps of red Gatorade. I pull out a protein bar and begin munching, struggling to find the energy to break apart the chocolate chips with my jaw. Unaware of everything I just experienced, Troy sighs and looks up.
“You good?” he asks with a sense of exhaustion that lets me know that he already knows what I will say, and what the truth actually is.
“Yeah. You?” I ask without looking up.
Troy finishes another gulp of his Gatordade.
“Yeah, I think. This is hard.”
“I know,” I say passively, looking forward on the trail, “and we haven’t even hit the main part yet.”
A moment of silent recognition, followed by packs being hoisted back onto our packs and continuing forward. A friendship forged in suffering.
We reach the summit of the second peak after enduring another grueling uphill section consisting of nothing but rocks vomited by the glaciers that left this area thousands of years ago without cleaning up their mess. At the top we take a well earned rest, and the rocks that I lay down on feel more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever owned. In between strong gusts of wind the sun peaks through the clouds and warms me up. After dozing off for a moment, I sit up and replace my hat (which keeps getting blown off my head from the wind) with a sweatband. Troy pulls out his peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. I realize that I have not packed nearly enough and would quite literally kill for the satisfaction of a juicy orange or a chocolate milkshake. Instead, with no opportunities around, I munch on my homemade mix of almonds, blueberries, and dark chocolate. The sugar hits like a drug.
I look out to the Great Range of the Adirondacks, a view that rivals any of the National Parks that I have been to. Looking to the left I see the gradual descent of the mountains into the Champlain Valley, with Lake Champlain beckoning in the distance. What I would give to just jump in the lake and float right now, I think. My gaze lowers from the lake to the trail that stands between us. A rollercoaster of brutal geological forces with a trail so overgrown that it is clear not many people, if anyone, has been on it for quite some time.
Discouraged, I think about my dad’s advice. If conditions were better and this was the goal of the day, we could turn around and check two High Peaks off the list. There are some people who do just this. The mindset would be completely different if this were the case. We would sit here for a long while, enjoy our food, rest up then head back the way we came (mostly descending) knowing that we were halfway done already. This would be done, preferably, in drier conditions in order to decrease the risk on the way back. In that case it would be a tough but very manageable day.
Where we sit now, though, we are roughly one-third of the way through our journey. And the rest is completely unknown and impossible to plan for. There is far more elevation change than if we simply turn around. It is farther than most ever go, as evidenced by the lack of use on the trail.
In this sense, we will quite literally be going farther, longer, than most. We will, presumably, see more and have a unique experience that only will be shared between the two of us. Up to this point, we haven’t seen another person. So far my dad’s theory is holding true. Challenges aside, it has been incredible and unique. I have to trust that it will continue to be if I am going to get the gumption to actually finish this thing.
After some brief stretching and heavy sighs about what is to come, we hoist our sweaty, dirt-covered bags back onto our sweatier but less dirt-covered backs and continue forward. In spite of the uncertainty, the crushing realization of how far we have to go, and the pain in parts of my body I haven’t felt in years, we push forward. The curiosity about what lies ahead and the adventurous spirit that lies deep within us overtakes the worries, even though those worries and fears still swirl inside our minds. I don’t know if those ever truly go away, no matter how hard we try. Yet I am developing a certainty, as we take the first steps on the trail towards the unknown, that pushing forward anyway leads to the better, more fulfilling, experience of life.
The trail begins its gradual descent in a non-linear fashion: up, then down, then back up, and back down. We are above the treeline here, and the area is a barren alpine landscape full of tossed rocks and forgotten lichens. The wind continues to howl but is now pushing from behind. Looking forward, it appears that the Earth may be calming down a bit. This provides me some solace since it is hard to have a calm demeanor when the wind is whipping through my body and making it impossible to think straight. We push forward, mindlessly chatting about the view at the summit and what the strategy should be for our food and water supplies, given how much we have already consumed and how long we still have to go. Then, after a quarter mile of a rocky rollercoaster of a trail, something magical happens.
Without even realizing how we got here, we are suddenly surrounded by an outrageously lush, green landscape. It is as if we blinked and opened our eyes to a completely new paradise that plopped itself on this mountainside in that brief moment of darkness behind our eyelids. The sun breaks through the clouds and shines on vibrant green bushes, low grass, and small pine trees that stretch as far as our vision can muster. The wind is now completely blocked by the rocky peak behind us, allowing for a deafening silence that allows us to actually hear our breath and take in the beauty without being thrashed around by the elements. Birds provide the soundtrack for the landscape as dozens of butterflies float about from flower to flower. Colors pop like a poorly edited Instagram photo with the saturation pushed all the way up; except this image is the real deal. A warmth radiates from the clear blue sky above, lessening the chill that seeped into us on the summit. And we are totally, completely, absolutely alone and away from all human activity. Despite the vast landscape not a single road or highway is in view. No planes circle overhead. Our feet are the only ones marking the trail. The loneliness on the other side of the mountain created a tornado of anxiety and insignificance. This, however, is not loneliness. Rather, for some reason I can’t explain, it is solitude. Knowing how isolated we are in this spot, unlike just an hour earlier, fills me with a deep sense of presence and unexpected joy. My joint pains are anesthetized as I follow the paths of the butterflies and grin stupidly and involuntarily at the beauty being injected into my soul. I have never been in a landscape this lush, this vast, this profoundly and wickedly beautiful.
Spontaneously Troy and I begin to laugh. He lets out a guttural yell that echoes into the vast expanse of ancient landscape that encases us. I begin looking around for a hidden home made out of stone and covered in moss, where I am certain that a forest sprite who has the secrets to life and enlightenment lives and is waiting to make us anew. In a daily life of emails and bills and stale air the idea of magical spirits seems silly, naive even (nevermind how we talk to our seemingly sentient AI assistants). In this landscape, though, not believing in these whimsical forest spirits would be the naive choice. I see how the legends of the past were formed. I understand the belief, the real, raw certainty, that other beings in different planes of reality live with us and have the potential to influence our lives. Out here, at the will of the elements and feeling safe and comfortable beneath an ominous and howling behemoth to our backs, I can sense their presence. We are not alone. The spirit of life and love and the universe is with us, embodied in each breath we take and every form of life that meets our field of vision. And I am not uncertain that a gnome isn’t crawling into my backpack to provide me protection and guidance throughout the rest of the journey. I choose not to check and take comfort in my belief that he’s in there, somewhere.
Further down the descent we reach a rocky outpost that jets out from the lushness and overlooks the valley below. I work my way gingerly out to the edge and, once I plant my feet, take a deep breath that relieves much of my tension. I smile as my heart fills with joy. To my right is the Great Range, those epic and foreboding mountains that simultaneously beckon the curious adventurer and warn them to stay away. On the left is the remaining landscape we must traverse, filtering out slowly and gradually into the Champlain Valley. And in the middle of all this, tucked away on a mountainside that almost nobody travels, is what Troy and I dub the Garden of Eden. For it has given us new life, new perspective, and a new appreciation for what we are doing here.
Staring into the vastness, I think about my dad’s advice. To this point, we have gone much farther and much longer than most people ever will. And even with that, we still have a significant distance to cover. Going the extra mile (or eight) is not easy. At its most extreme, it may take you to far and dangerous places with no guarantee of survival. Sometimes it leaves you internally panicking on a mountainside contemplating your own powerlessness and insignificance in the face of an all-powerful, indifferent landscape. Or, you may shiver on a desolate peak thanks to the violent wind that rips through your soul and threatens to take you off your feet and into the abyss. It could also, like what happens as we finish our adventure later on, lead to running out of food and water, being on the verge of cramping, dealing with significant knee pain, and pushing forward despite all ten toes aching and wishing they were face up relaxing by a poolside instead of being jammed violently into the front of a sweat-soaked, bacteria-filled shoe step after step after step. These are all possibilities of the life lived a little farther than most.
But those realities are counterbalanced by what happens while we are in that untrodden world. Being in a place that is farther, colder, or earlier than where most people choose to venture changes us. It provides space to think about the bigger questions in life, and the solitude to quietly and presently develop some possible answers for ourselves. It pushes our boundaries and develops a meaningful sense of pride in our abilities. We become tougher, more resilient, more adaptable and antifragile. We learn that our limits are in fact self-imposed. And that our greatest obstacle is not the landscape or wild animals or the weather but rather our own willingness to persevere and continue forward when the easy thing to do is to stop and retreat back to the mean. The obstacles we face along the way all provide the same lesson that we need to learn over and over again: that we are, in fact, the greatest obstacle we face. And if we practice overcoming those doubts, fears, and worries then we develop the consistent ability to overcome ourselves and be reborn on the other side of our old comfort zone. A farther boundary. A new frontier of the self to explore and discover.
Breathing in the clean air as the butterflies swirl behind me, I am keenly aware that I am not storming the beaches of Normandy or taking the first step on some distant planet. There are no grizzly bears here and I even notice a bar of cell service on this little overlook. Realistically, I am not in danger. I will be home tonight. I will get to down a chocolate milkshake and drift off to sleep in my comfortable bed. Many people have done many more impressive things than Troy and I thru-hiking this trail. For me, though, this is the frontier of my abilities. It forces me to reckon with my own insecurities and beliefs that limit my experience of life. It pushes me to, through, and beyond my physical and mental limits. And that is what matters. Those limits may lie far behind one person’s and miles ahead of another’s. What’s important is that I am finding those limits, feeling scared about being with them, and pushing onwards anyway.
Because that is what leads to a more interesting, more meaningful, and more fulfilling experience of life. Bruised toes and all.
