One, two, three, four, five. I counted each step just like during my first ascent attempt climbing Mt. Hood two weeks ago. Stringing together forward, upward momentum. I had to focus all of my attention to ensure safety. But as I looked down at each step—just a toe box of boot in each snowy hole—the fear started to creep up like the shadows moving across the snowy incline and I lost sight of the big picture.
This weekend, I ascended Unicorn Peak near Mount Rainier National Park with a team of four other Mazamas that I met in the parking lot early that morning. Initially, this climb seemed easier standing at just 6,971 feet (over 4,000 feet shorter than Mt. Hood), and yet there were three steep inclines, two snow traverses, and actual rock climbing up the horn in order to make it my first summit.
Again, I counted each careful step. But, I remembered my insight from the crux on Mt. Hood, right after we decided to turn around: Consider the whole. Step back to see connections and the big picture.
This time I paused every once in a while to look back over my shoulder. Looking down the slope, I reoriented and reassured myself: Oh, that’s not so bad. Whoa, look at Mount Rainier over there. Hey, I’m doing this!
I’ve been drawn to the ocean since I was a teenager. Feeling the pull of the tides, captivated by the wisdom in its ebb and flow. Yet, in recent years, the mountains started calling to me.
And, I followed.
Without even knowing it I was preparing for mountaineering.
“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” wrote Lao Tzu.
Each hike, each backpacking trip adding steps toward “10,000 hours of mastery.” Actual steps paired with the complex combination of intense concentration, genetic factors, natural talent and dedication now enabling me to excel in mountaineering. Not that I’m anywhere close to mastery yet. I’m maybe 1,000 hours in.
That is if I only count those specific sports:
- What about all the hours kicking soccer balls?
- What about all the hours traversing steep ski slopes?
- What about all the hours running hilly half-marathons?
- What about all the hours racing down Portland’s bike boulevards?
And that’s all physical muscle memory. What about all the times I’ve mentally explored way past my comfort zone all the way to the edge of my courage zone*? And all those paralyzing times in my terror zone when I went too far. Didn’t those count?
Could I have come this far without everything that came before?
I only needed to take a step. There was only one more anchored carabiner to clip through. And then I’d be on top. And yet I was stuck.
We had finished the three steep inclines and the two snow traverses and I was actually rock climbing up the horn in order to make it my first summit. Not hundreds of feet like on Mt. Hood, just inches away this time. Literally standing on the edge, leaning against the side of a rock wall—I knew where to put my foot, but I couldn’t see anywhere to put my hands. How could I go up if there was nothing to hold onto?
I was tired and I was teetering on the edge of my courage zone.
And so I asked for help.
Our climb leader secured himself to the anchor at the top and leaned way over the edge to see my position. Heeding his gentle nudges to keep exploring with my hands—to feel what I couldn’t see—and be confident in my ample footholds, I took the tiniest leap of faith. I grabbed the edge and then pulled myself onto the summit.
The reward: a five mountain view.
And a sense of self-actualization.
There is a reason why living our fullest potential is called a “peak experience.”
We know what we’re made of.
Even if we can’t understand how much we’re made of.
Even if the only answer to why is because.
May you take steps into your courage zone every day this week.
Love,
Jules
*Or growth zone. Or learning zone. They’re all the same thing!
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