It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Have to Climb a Mountain)

There was nothing but trees, rocks, and a raging river below. It would take actual blood, sweat, and tears to keep going. Every ounce of strength I had was required. How did I find myself here? What was I thinking? That was inconsequential in the moment. I had to push forward. 

It was the last time I'd ever climb a real mountain. Before the descent, every muscle was jello. I was banged up just from the climb. Minor scrapes and wounds were the norm the handful of times I went on the rocks. I needed to make it 400 or so feet to reach the summit. Physically, it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. 

On the way back down the mountain, I basically skied the backside of the rock face in my rental rock shoes because I had nothing left in my legs. My lead is the only reason I made it down. I remember the descent better than the climb because I was recycling the thought, “don't let go” all the way up the mountain and all the way back down, but in a very different way. 

It took a long time, but I reached the summit of the climb. My body did it. When I was faced with a Goliath of a mountain to climb and the treacherous elements below, I kept going. I didn't let go. It's been over twenty years and I remember how it felt pretty well. I didn't belong on that rock, but not because I have CP. Nobody belonged on the rock. The mountain belonged to itself and everyone was a visitor. 

The demons of self-doubt fade real quick when full grown trees and a raging river start to look small beneath you. The mission becomes climb on to survive, even if it was done for recreational purposes. And, if there's one thing life has taught me besides stubborn persistence, it's that I know how to survive. 

I made it to the top of that mountain that day and I knew I'd done something beyond the bar for me. It wasn't Everest or even the biggest mountain in the state, but that didn't matter because I never gave up. My body did by the time I got to the top, which was a bit of an issue when it started to rain while we were at the summit. Hence, the quick descent down the back of the mountain. 

My lead hustled down the mountain and I basically used my belay ropes to hold onto them and do something I'd done a lot before ski (minus the snow). A lot of that day is a distant memory, but it's an example of the spirit I've used to carve paths and climb mountains in life. 

Here are some key reasons this worked out well. I trusted my experienced lead, I followed instructions, and I took it one footing at a time. I didn't freak out that death or injury was potentially at every move. I respected it. I didn't climb a mountain alone. I did it with support. 

In that respect, the emotional mountains and life obstacles carry a similar tune. Death, danger, and missteps have been at every turn. I glean wisdom from the sources I trust (which are few), I listen (sometimes with hypervigilance), and I take each day one step at a time. I respect the fact peril and pain sit at my table, but so does the right support, and healing has just as many seats at table. 

Physically, I don't know how I climbed mountains. My body isn't up for that today and I haven't done it since then due to an injury that would invite me to reconsider how I did a lot of things. But, mentally, I know exactly how I did it. I did it with the same perseverance that I live my life. I'm still reaching the places I want to go. I've had obstacles, detours, setbacks, struggles, and times where it didn't go down as inspirational as climbing a mountain.

On that day, CP was what presented me the greater challenge on the mountain. I took my body over the limit. I push it daily to do the routine. But sometimes, it's the intersectionality that presents the mountain I have to climb. The goal is one step at a time.