WHY I CLIMB MOUNTAINS This day was almost too much anticipated. For seven months I’d planned this and now the excitement had reached an anxious climax with my first steps up the steep, moonlit trail up Handies Peak. But I must digress so you understand what brought me here. Last fall when I was in the throes of a love disappointment, male friends suggested that to move on I needed to throw myself passionately into some kind of martial art or physical program. So for two weeks I beat the shit out of a racquetball, not caring how many times or off which wall or floor it bounced, but trying to literally ruin the ball by hitting it as hard as I could. And I bought bag gloves and pounded and kicked a punching bag until I couldn’t pound anymore. Surprisingly, my anger and much of my pain passed quickly with this strategy. Only then could I hear the words of a mentor, who said, “You will never stick with any program or discipline, no matter how good, unless it is in service of something much bigger than yourself…your Mission.” I had never heard this so clearly before so I started contemplating, “What is my mission?” Clarity there was not, but clues came. When I formulated thoughts or images to express a possible “mission” I could feel in my hara either a soft sense of trust and authenticity…a kind of “yes”, or I could feel a glitch…my shit detector sounding the alarm, a “no”, like I feel when I hear a Coca-Cola ad announcing itself as “The Real Thing”. It was like the childhood game of “warm…warm…warmer…cool…cold”. So slowly, by trial and error, I seemed to arrive at a tentative sort of “working mission”…not a concrete directive written across the sky, but a sense of what brings me closer to my truth. And that included love of natural beauty, the experience of joy, and the service of bringing those to others in ways that help them move their lives in a good direction. I decided then to give myself a physical goal…the climbing of two fourteeners. For you non-Coloradoans, that’s local lingo for peaks more than fourteen thousand feet high. Colorado has 55 of these and I’d never climbed any of them, nor even any thirteeners, of which Colorado has 300. The previous summer, I’d tried to climb a thirteener with a female hiking buddy but collapsed in exhaustion at 12,800 ft. while she zipped on ahead to the top. So I knew this was going to be a challenge and really wasn’t sure, at 58 and at least 15 pounds overweight, if I could do it at all. In the interest of serving something bigger than myself, I asked my two brothers-in-law to climb one of them with me. Though I liked these men, I’d never been particularly close to either of them. They had both had recent health issues and I thought we might inspire and support each other to get in shape and all feel better about ourselves. And if we could do that, I figured it would serve my whole extended family. Winter and spring progressed with less than perfect discipline at the health club, but May came soon anyway and I started hiking. Legs and lungs were weak at first, the heart pounded, and the trails seemed unreasonably steep, but progress came quickly. With persistence and the encouragement of a good hiking companion, each hike was easier than the one before. On July 3rd, I began 13 days vacation above 10,000 ft. I hiked every day, my body started liking the thin air, and my stamina grew quickly. And I basked in astounding beauty everywhere. On July 8, I moved camp to a spot just off a barely passable side road, at 10,900 ft. in the remote valley of the Lake Fork of the Gunnison, on the flanks of Handies Peak, my first intended summit. Full moon had been the previous night and at 1:30 am that first night Grandmother Moon shown brightly into my eyes through my van windows, awakening me saying, “Get up, I want to show you something.” I begged off, complaining that I was tired and cozy and warm, that it was cold outside. She persisted, and I finally had to listen, acknowledging that I had come here not for comfort but for adventure and awakening. Who was I to refuse Grandmother’s gift? I dressed warmly and stepped out of my cozy home on wheels. The only sound was the river’s flow. I was aware as I found my way back to the main road of an aching fear in my gut. It was primitive, wordless, ancestral…fear of the dark, fear of the woods, fear of the unknown, fear of being alone. I walked on anyway, up the steep road, bathed in Grandmother’s reassuring silvery-blue light. In 30 minutes I was at treeline and the views opened. Now I could see Handies Peak for the first time, as well as all its neighbors and the valley between. Now chills ran down my back at the unspeakable dim beauty in all directions…and the aloneness. It was too heart-breakingly beautiful not to be sharing, yet there was no one around for miles…no one to share exclamations with or to hold close in awe…only the silence…and Grandmother. I reached a crossroads I knew only from the map and, not yet ready to turn around, I sat down beside the road to absorb the beauty. I remembered a Tahitian medicine man I met who claimed to gain his power from sitting under the full moon each month, and I imagined I was absorbing her light and beauty in that way. As I sat, I noticed that I was no longer afraid nor cold. I felt entirely comfortable and at home now. This had become my valley, my place. I belonged. Everything here, bathed in the same light, seemed now to be my friend. I gazed at Handies, wondering if I could actually attain its peak, which loomed awfully large and such a very long ways above me. I walked slowly and quietly back downhill to my camp, returning to bed at 3:30 am. Handies Peaks is a relatively easy fourteener, with 2750 ft of elevation gain on a class 2 trail of 2.8 miles one-way. But make no mistake, there are no easy fourteeners. Lifting one’s own body weight plus pack, food, and water up that vertical distance is the work equivalent of lifting 300 tons upwards one foot. Try that before breakfast. The next night, I prepared my gear and set my alarm for 4:00 am, intending to hit the trail at 5:00 am, but Grandmother Moon awakened me at 3:00 and said it was time, so I rolled out of bed and was on the trail by her light at 4:00. I had the mountain completely to myself. No other people or human lights were to be seen anywhere. Once I saw a ptarmigan, and several times before light I heard picas, but otherwise it was just me and Grandmother…and, of course, the dark mountain. As the trail rose steeply out of the valley, I could see it climb a rock face and curve across a talus slope which appeared more dangerous than anything I’d ever been on. Doubts arose. I heard a voice inside me say, “This could be really dangerous…to be up here alone on an unfamiliar mountain climb in the dark. What were you thinking? I can’t do that!” That was when the Voice came. It was strong, confident, absolutely reassuring, and it said, “We can do this. I will help you.” I realized then that looking at the trail a quarter or half mile ahead was scary, but that all that was required was to look just a few steps ahead, and to be certain that each foot was placed securely before the next foot was lifted. That’s all. In the presence of that Voice, I could do that. Just one step at a time was all I needed to do. I even told myself that if any given step felt too dangerous, I could go back. But each continuing step, one at a time, was fine. And the Voice stayed with me. Once I found myself complaining, “Where have you been all my life…through all of those hard and lonely times?” There was no retort, no defensive response, no excuses, just the abiding presence, and I was moved to realize it was nothing outside me, no God or Spirit-helper. It was clearly none other than myself, a part of me I had had difficulty finding or claiming perhaps, but clearly myself…my Self. As I climbed on, one step at a time, I wondered what combination of factors had prompted this shattering discovery, this end of aloneness. And it seemed that my willingness to face down many of my inner demons simultaneously had something to do with it. Fear of the dark, of being alone, of injury or death by falling, of heights, of extreme exertion, of being cold. I know many others have done far more monumental, courageous, and athletic feats than this. But for me, this was new and a huge stretch. When I was 18 and an inexperienced hiker, I gave way too much trust to a brash older man who guided me off-trail, bushwhacking through Yellowstone Park over dangerous terrain. I fell on steep and rotten rock, broke my leg, and could easily have been killed. The natural fear arising from this trauma rode with me this morning in the dark as the slopes fell away so precipitously below me. There were only two ways I could have climbed this mountain, first…by sheer force of will, subjugating my fears and forcing my body to do it in spite. Though I had lived that way earlier in life, in truth, I had awakened too far now to do that violence to myself ever again. The only other way was what was happening. Though I could not have planned it, a powerful, yet gentle and confident inner strength I had only hoped for was coming forth, making itself known and available. Still, I had to avoid looking off the trail and over the cliff into the darkness below as I walked or the fear came right back. But if I kept my eyes on the trail ahead, and on the next step to be taken, the Voice was there and I could continue safely. As the elevation grew and the air became thinner, I had to take slower and smaller steps, and each step had to be placed carefully to avoid slipping. There were countless steps up the face of that big mountain which made me feel very small, yet very intimate…with the mountain, the dark, the moon, and the dim glow of dawn in the northeastern sky. I was very alone, yet loneliness was not my experience. With every rise in elevation now, the wind also rose. The pre-dawn temperature was close to freezing. I had to stop to don all of my spare clothing. The cold wind made the heights seem uninviting, remote and barren. Still, I kept on as dawn now lit the trail. My breathing was fast and deep as I noted I’d been on the trail 2 hours and 45 minutes. Passing over what I thought was the last “false summit” I was amazed to be climbing at around 1000 vertical feet per hour, far faster than I’d ever climbed before. I could feel adrenalin surge as I formed an intention to make the peak within 3 hours. Panting now, I kept on, excited at how close I was to my goal, the top of this little part of the world. Then finally, there was no more peak ahead or above me. I was alone at the top. I collapsed flat on the ground next to a cairn, as much to escape the fierce wind as from exhaustion, though it took 5 minutes for my breath to slow. I found myself feeling, “This body loves this, was made for this!” I had envisioned resting at the top at sunrise, admiring a quiet dawn across the vast mountainous expanse in every direction, but due to the wind and cold, it was not to be. After a small bite and a short rest, I headed down a different, slightly more difficult route. Again the Voice was there, again I took the steeper stretches one small, careful step at a time. I made my way safely down through glorious alpine meadows full of wildflowers, meeting the first people on the mountain of my day, a family with 3 young girls. The youngest, about six, precociously met me on the trail with, “Did you summit?” “Yes”, I enthusiastically replied, and she raised her hand to high-five me. In her short life, she’d already summitted four fourteeners! That could be the end of the story…but it’s not. Now happily hooked on adventure and eager to know that Voice better, I climbed another fourteener in the same valley, Redcloud Peak, two days later with similar success. Afterwards, back in camp midday, I was napping in my van when awakened by the soft strains of Native American flute, barely audible over the distant roar of the mountain river. I could hardly believe my ears. I was not in a campground and I had seen no person near my camp. My curiosity was piqued and my sense was that this sound had a feminine source, which also drew me. I eventually arose and walked up the road to where I found an empty camp…the flute still playing down by the river. I returned to my camp and several hours later again walked up to her camp, where this time I found a lovely woman. We proceeded to get acquainted and find quite amazing coincidences and similarities. Living 50 miles apart, we have similar professions, are both very interested in shamanism and the Goddess, are both nature photographers trying to go professional, were both climbing both of the nearby peaks, and knew at least a half dozen of the same people! We’d even both slipped on ice on recent climbs which resulted in small wounds in the same place on the heel of our left hands, my wound shaped precisely like a heart. Neither of us quite knew what to make of it. I certainly hadn’t come out here to meet a woman and was particularly content with my own company. But her presence was very pleasant. We spent the next two evenings together “at my place”. She showed me her photographic portfolio on the first evening, which was truly lovely. The next morning, still in that peculiar dreamland before awakening, I felt the Goddess speaking to me, saying, “You’re doing beautifully seeing and photographing beauty in my flowers. But I showed you these photos to give you a vision of shadows and forms and abstract shapes which you are still missing. Open your eyes further. See still more of my beauty!” And then she was gone. After that, I was unsure whether this woman was real flesh and blood or not, or whether I had dreamed her too. After dressing, I walked up again to her camp and sure, enough, there was her Subaru, and the thought came to me, “Well, what do I know? Maybe the Goddess drives a Subaru!” On the second night I proposed we do a ceremony honoring the Goddess and the beauty we had been gifted with. We designed the ceremony together, each contributing something from our spiritual lives and traditions. I began by encircling the ground sprinkling a thin trail of cornmeal. I drummed, we honored the seven directions, she played flute, good words were spoken, and we watched the dying embers of our sacred fire. I contemplated the message the Universe was sending me. I had been experiencing a great deal of joy and contentment in the several days previous. I was struck that the power of such joy could attract such a pleasant (and logically improbable) meeting of the masculine and feminine. Though the woman was flesh-and-blood, the experience energetically seemed more than earthly. In the next 7 weeks, I went on to climb 5 more fourteeners, including some much more difficult, and I lost 12 pounds. My confidence, strength, and stamina grew steadily, my fears diminished. Both Brothers-in-law came for the “men-only” climb planned last February, and we had a delightful time getting to know each other “in manly ways”, telling stories around the campfire and philosophizing on the trails. Still experiencing health issues, Stan had to refrain from the mountain climb, but managed lesser trails, proved an incredible chef, and declared Colorado altitudes to be a new part of his therapy. Greg had trained with discipline and lost weight in preparation and was proud to make it to the top of Bierstadt with me, in spite of still being acclimatized to Kansas, not Colorado elevations. To receive their gratitude and see that my vision and action had made a positive difference in other men’s lives was a dream come true and has given me new confidence to continue to define my Mission in ever more powerful ways.
Can I find a practical path to these bigger, much more important goals than mountain-climbing, where I can apply the same learnings, where the strong Voice will guide reassuringly, and where keeping my eye on the trail and placing one careful step in front of the other will dependably bring me to fulfillment of my desires? I don’t know. But the Voice is saying, “We can do this, I will help you.” |
