An Adirondacks adventure becomes a useful analogy. On our first – and only – trip to the Adirondacks recently, my husband and I picked up some free local travel guides to help us get a lay of the land. Middle-aged, active empty-nesters, we are always up for a little adventure and the Adirondacks offer plenty of that. In one of the guidebooks, there was a sweet little description under the heading “Local’s Favorite” of a kayak-and-hike excursion that sounded challenging but accessible for us, and since we strive to experience new places like a local and not as tourists, and had brought our kayaks and hiking gear, we decided to go for it.
We pushed away from shore at 9:00 a.m. and paddled 3-miles across a choppy Lake Placid to a small dock at the Whiteface Mountain trailhead. After securing our kayaks, we began the 3.7-mile trek up the backside of the mountain. A mile in we began to really climb, as in stepping up huge rocks. A total-body workout ensued that included hoisting my body weight up steeper and bigger boulders, sometimes spiderman crawling over sheer granite faces where one slip could have disastrous consequences. “Why was this experience in that tourist guidebook?” I kept asking myself. The only people who pick up guidebooks are over the age of 48, and how many of those people could do this? Yet there it was as a casual mention.
We pressed on. I tapped into some reserves of energy and willpower deep within myself. After a couple of hours, I kept thinking, “We have to be almost there.” Quads burning, sweating profusely, a couple of hours later we did finally summit. Lake Placid below and the high peaks swirling 360-degrees around us in hues of blue and gray under a brilliant bright sky filled my parched spirit. It’s one of those views you want to imprint on your mind and carry in your heart forever. I drank it in. All too soon, though, I realized it was 2:30 p.m. and we were only halfway done.
We started down, slowly, cautiously. Going down presented new challenges and dangers. All too soon, my knees and hips were talking to me, followed by my feet. Talking turned into yelling. My husband was faster, so he was up ahead, pausing every 10 minutes or so to wait, making sure I didn’t get lost (as I had once on the way up) or slip. During my alone times, I moaned with each painful step. I had discouraging thoughts about myself and my abilities. I had to dig deep. I thought, “I have to get myself out of here and the only way is through the frustration and pain.” My arms were scratched up from grabbing onto trees for support while climbing down boulders. I was exhausted. I ran into a small protruding limb and cut my leg. This was no longer fun. Like, really, I was cussing out the guidebook people for so casually suggesting this stupid, impossible escapade. I was rationing my water. I hadn’t packed enough because we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, and at this point, down the mountain, I was getting dehydrated. Mentally, I was checked out but willed my aging, aching, depleted body to keep moving.
It wasn’t unfamiliar territory – pushing through mental, emotional, and physical barriers – to complete something I’d set out to do. Endurance is something we’re all taught, up to a point, to temporarily deny our personal comforts and preferences for an expected positive outcome. In school, studying, pulling “all-nighters” to finish a paper, and sitting for hours taking a college prep exam train the endurance muscle, as does competing at sports, some hobbies, and even jobs. I’ve trained for physical challenges such as Ragnar Races, triathlons, and long-distance bicycle ride events. I’ve put myself in lots of uncomfortable situations where I almost bit off more than I could chew but dug deep and finished.
A mental shift occurs when you endure something difficult, survive it, and perhaps are even stronger on the other side of it, if not wiser. As the saying goes, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Perhaps this season of Covid-19 has us all feeling like we’re on an impossible, endless trek. We’re worn out, even grieving perhaps. Dig deep. Stay the course. Stay hydrated and lean on your buddies. Enjoy simple pleasures. Find the beauty around you. You will get there. You GOT this!
So on the side of that mountain, bloody, bruised, dehydrated, in pain, discouraged, depleted, I put one foot in front of the other and made it down to the lake, to the kayak, and somehow paddled my vessel across the rough and rowdy lake to the finish line 10 hours after we began that little adventure. And so can you. And so will you.
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