Climbing Higher Mountains

As the air dipped to a brisk 30° under Yosemite’s night sky, it hit me: I’d signed up for a weekend of minor discomfort in exchange for extreme beauty. Tents with no heat, bear traps, and a darkness so deep every sound became a question mark. Suddenly, everyone in the Bible who spoke of being in the wilderness started to make sense to me in a new way. Of course, they were talking to themselves, coming up with sermons, and praying, and so was as I climbed the very steep incline up Mist Trail. I had to stop at what felt to be every 10 feet to catch my breath or to remember how my legs worked (and don't). Then, as if dropped into the world by a master artist, I'd look over, up or down, and see something so wildly beautiful that going forward was the only answer because what else might I discover if I don’t give up?

Moving forward was the only way to answer that question, so forward I went.

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I wish I could say it was easy. I wanted it to be easy, and I wanted to be good at existing in the perfection of nature. But then I’d pass a 2,000-year-old tree, with branches veering off in odd directions and roots twisting every way. Yosemite, for all its grandeur, isn’t perfect either—it’s full of struggle as everything tries to make space for the new. So, there I was, trying not to drop an F-bomb every other word or, at least, making sure I was out of earshot of the kids climbing with the ease of people on an airport-moving sidewalk. When we stretch our branches, attempt to move into new soil, and give into the newness of it all, we find added fortitude for the road ahead.

Meanwhile, my breath grew heavier with each elevation marker: 3,000, 4,000, 5,000 (deep breath), and 6,000 feet up. There I was, cursing and breathing in the beauty of all these sights I'd never seen, ways of being I'd never attempted, and even new friends to share it all with. That's life. You keep going to get to the beauty of it all. Up the mountains, down the valleys through places that look like they belong to bears, and so maybe you should turn the other way, but you keep going. Like Moses, you keep going. I didn't need to lead anybody out of the wilderness, but my God, I needed to be led, and I was by strangers who gave knowing smiles that said you got it. Then there was the crew I was with who waited for me. Though I was slowing us down and feeling a tad hopeless, as it has always been true, people who care will wait, assist, and encourage you even when you think the road isn't passable. They never made me feel alone. They reminded me that I had a friend even in the wilderness.

I am changing, and the work to move down this new path isn’t always pleasant, but it’s necessary and supported. On the other side of climbing these metaphorical and literal mountains, I know I’ll look around my life with the same awe and wonder I felt on the trails of Yosemite.

Something new and beautiful is taking shape in this wilderness of my life. My job is to build new muscles for the next climb, one adventure at a time.

Essay 9

Climbing Higher Mountains

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