Procrastinate Quitting
Last year, along with a group of girlfriends, I started climbing 14ers in the various mountain ranges of Colorado. I ended the season with a total of 11 - 14ers. This number bothered me because it wasn’t an even number and it somehow felt as though I hadn’t accomplished enough.
The last mountain I climbed was La Plata near Aspen. We climbed on a Saturday morning as usual, by the time we approached the false summit, a menacing black cloud moved into sight. We were unsure how much distance we still had left to cover and decided we wouldn’t risk it. Being the tallest thing beyond tree line isn’t something you want to do in a thunderstorm, you automatically become a lightning rod. We had started late that day as well, nearly an hour into my drive, I realized I had forgotten my boots so I had to turn back home. By 6 am I had already driven 2 hours back and forth.
We made ourselves feel better about our decision to descend by committing to an earlier start in the next few days. On our second attempt, we approached the false summit again only this time we were greeted by a clear blue sky. Typically after a false summit, there is a saddle and the peak is in sight but this trail seemed to go on forever. Although we enjoyed the summit, the descend was a torture for me because the plantar fasciitis on my left foot had flared. I had to take deep breaths with every painful step I took. I knew then that it would be the last peak of the season for me. I was no longer enjoying what I was doing, it had turned into a competition and I was too focused on a number.
This past Saturday I climbed my first 14er of the season and claimed my 12th summit. Similar to hiking La Plata the first time around, the sky seemed clear at the base of Mt. Sherman. It was supposed to be an easier hike, but getting to the midway point, I could see a black cloud rolling in. This scenario took me right back to the previous year. I had driven so far to get to Mt. Sherman, the original plan had been to climb Mt. Evans but because of reservations, we were unable to go. We scrambled and made new plans that same evening and arrived at the trailhead of Mt. Sherman around 11pm. I set up my tent on what felt like a 45 degree angle. I slid down to the bottom of my tent the entire night and was incredibly unprepared for the cold temperatures. I woke up the next morning and asked myself, “why do I do this to myself and what do I need to do to continue to make this experience enjoyable?”
The truth is that hiking isn’t enjoyable. It’s painful at times and it’s guaranteed to be uncomfortable. So why do we climb mountains? It would have been so easy at that moment to look out into the horizon at the storm heading our way and gauge the distance between where we stood and the summit and call it a day. Instead, I convinced myself that the storm wasn’t so bad even though it was raining and the wind was getting stronger. I figured that there were plenty of other hikers still continuing to climb, so the probability of getting struck by lightning was at least 1 in 30.
Hiking for me, and particularly walking, has been a way of meditation. At 15 years old, my therapist taught me a valuable lesson. Instead of sitting in her office freudian-style, we went on hikes. Out of breath and panting, I would ramble on about my woes and afflictions. Physiologically this was having an effect. The endorphins that the exercise was producing in my body was teaching my depressed brain that it was possible to feel relaxed and even experience happiness.
During that time, I felt as if my mind was in a cluttered fog, I couldn’t quite make out my surroundings but I kept bumping into everything. Picture, The Room of Requirement in Harry Potter where all lost things end up. That's how my mind felt. I physically had to act out what I wished I could do in my mind which was to organize and declutter. It was important for me that my external world reflected a better reality than the one I was experiencing inside my head.
If you have never experienced mental health disorders, the sensation is comparable to that of treading through mud. Every step feels heavy and the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be moving farther away instead of closer. So when I hike, I visualize this. I imagine myself climbing a hill of sand. I imagine the way my feet get swallowed with each new step. I imagine the sand as my problems and I can feel how the muscles in my legs work to propel me forward. I focus on the rhythmic sound of my breath and the rocks beneath my feet. This is reinforcing neuron connections that remind my body that it can overcome difficult situations. It creates new connections when I am able to surpass a limitation I had deemed impossible before. It teaches me that everything is temporary.
On my last adjustment, my chiropractor told me that I would feel light in my body in this lifetime. This resonated deeply with me. Throughout much of my life I have felt heavy. Yet I’m learning that every time I meditate, make art, get adjusted and hike I am reteaching my body homeostasis. I am reminding my body what home feels like without the constant surge of survival hormones that have kept me in a perpetual state of anxiety. This is such an incredibly long journey.
On our way down from Mt. Sherman after reaching the summit, we met up with a girl who had started at the same time we had. She was sitting on a rock still continuing to make progress uphill. We gave her words of encouragement much like other hikers had done for us, “You’re almost there!” We told her and her response was, “I’m just procrastinating quitting.”
She had set a goal and told herself she would quit once she got there and once she got there, she set a new goal. Little by little she had procrastinated her way up a mountain. Everyone has their own reasons to climb. The stories I’ve heard from fellow hikers all coincide with one thing. The external journey is often a reflection of our internal one. We all have an internal mountain to climb, whether we choose to climb a physical representation of it, the mountains will call to us. The journey, regardless of its length, storms or majestic views teaches us about ourselves, our limitations and our resilience. Ask yourself whether there is love behind the things you do and whether it’s worth procrastinating quitting.
Photo credit: Elisabeth Strunk