The Kind of Lesson Only a Mountain Can Teach

Is the kind that will last a lifetime

By 9:00 a.m. I knew the day would probably end in tears. There are only two good times to be climbing a mountain in the height of the Australian summer; dawn or dust.

It was 11:00 a.m. before we broke camp, and it would be closer to noon before we’d begin to climb. The day’s journey was to take us over a mountain to find camp on the other side. It was possible to go around the mountain, but what’s the fun in that? It would have been three times longer, had no view, and involved the kind of gradual uphill climb that is frankly boring.

The climb over the top of this mountain was shorter in distance but monumentally more challenging, especially for a group of inexperienced fifteen-year-olds who hadn’t spent more than a night away from home previously. And most of those times were likely playing video games in their friend’s basements.

The gravity of looking over the map with them the night before, and impressing the importance of getting out of camp early, never sunk in. Some lessons can only be taught by experience.

A seemingly uninspiring task

Mt McLeod is unnotable in most respects. There is nothing particularly spectacular about it and likely doesn't appear in a single mountaineering guidebook.

The foliage is dense. Its incline is at times forty-five degrees, which is steep enough to be painful, but not steep enough to require equipment or the use of hands. We were each carrying at least 20kg (44lb) packs on our backs. With around three hours of climbing, that was more “leg days” than the group had experienced in their entire lifetimes condensed into one half-day experience.

Climbing in temperatures that felt like 40 degrees Celcius (104 F) makes it extra intense. I had climbed it twice before this day and knew what I was getting myself into. The rest were “blissfully” unaware. A bliss that was short-lived. Once you start the climb, you just need to keep going.

Some mountains provide spots of enjoyment along the way, like perhaps a view or a nice resting spot. Not this one. There were no spots up the mountain where it flattened out to take a rest. The only view and resting spot was the clearing at the summit. A mountain with a singular point of attainment and satisfaction.

It was just one of these straight-up mountains like the hill in the famous children’s books “The Little Engine That Could,” where the little engine would tell itself over and over “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” as a way of convincing itself it could make it.

False summits

Mt McLeod has several “false summits.” You know a false summit when you are approaching what you think to be the summit, only for it to be revealed that the mountain continues and you still have further to go.

False summits can have deep psychological effects on mountaineers as they steal hope and try to inject a sense of failure. It can be much the same in any endeavor in life that it teases with what you think to be the destination, only to discover there is still further to go.

We had been climbing in exhausting heat for at least two hours when the first false summit hit. I knew we were still only about halfway up the mountain. The moment one discovers the expected summit to be false is audible. It is the unique guttural sound of elation meeting devastation.

The first false summit can be explained away. After the first, there is no rationalizing it. It is simply embodied disheartenment. Each subsequent one seems to hit deeper.

It was the third false summit where everything fell apart. We didn’t even make it to the end of the day to experience tears. It was 1:00 p.m. and tears were well-earned.

When failure sets in

Everyone dropped their packs — even the strongest amongst the group. Those at the front of the group wanted a breather and to munch on some snacks.

It was a couple of girls at the back of the group who had more permanent plans for our rest stop. The kind of permanent plans that defeatedly declared, “I’m not going on.”

Yet I had been around long enough to know there was no speaking rationally with these girls or convincing them to keep going. The only way we were going to move was if and when they decided they were going.

I let them rest momentarily but was also aware that the longer they sat there, the inner dialogue would be running the same pattern that would make the Little Engine That Could shudder. For they weren’t saying “I think I can,” they were repeating to themselves, “I know I can’t.”

After sitting for what felt like more than an hour in the shade, the group was ready to keep going. The girls were not. I stood back at first to see how they all would negotiate the continuance of our journey.

Rhythmic motivation

One of the boys came down from above to give them an ineffectual motivational speech. You can imagine how that went down.

Another came to tell them, in no uncertain terms, to get off their butts and move. Nothing.

Then finally —more gracefully — one encouraged them to whisper to themselves, “I can do it.” Only an inaudible whisper. Again. And Again.

“Each time,” he said, “whisper just a little louder.”

“Whisper so your knees can hear you. Whisper louder so your feet can hear you.”

“I can do it,” Faith whispers.

“I don’t think your feet could hear that,” he encouraged.

“I can do it,” she whispered a little louder.

“Say it so I can hear it now.”

“I can do it,” said Faith.

“Say it so that tree can hear you.”

“I can do it,” a little louder.

“Say it so the mountain can hear you.”

“I can do it!” Now almost a shout.

“Say it so the horizon can hear you.”

“I can do it!” Faith was shouting.

The rhythm was building inside her.

“I can do it!”

Her heart was now moving.

“I can do it!”

Her feet were moving.

“I can do it!”

Faith picked up her pack.

“I CAN DO IT!”

And she marched up past the rest of the group, leaving them scrambling to throw on their packs and follow her up the mountain.

Faith reached the top in one swift and unstoppable rhythmic movement. Upon reaching the summit she threw down her pack and danced. She wasn’t exhausted. She was jubilant. Free. More than the mountain, she conquered something more significant — the pesky voice in her head.

The rest of the group was dumbfounded by Faith’s tenacity and the fact she beat them up the mountain. This simple-not-easy act of courage forever changed her view of herself, as well as the opinions of her peers.

What the mountain meant

I kept in touch with Faith. I caught up with her on her graduation day from high school four years later and asked her what her favorite memory of school was. Without hesitating, and with a proud smile, she described the moment on the mountain. This is the kind of lesson only a mountain can give, and it will be one that will stay with her forever.

https://readmedium.com/your-next-mountain-may-not-be-a-mountain-90ae41369dcd