“Do Hard Things.” The title of a book by the Harris Twins. The principle behind it: if you do something just a little harder than you think you can, you will become a greater person. So said Tony Dungy, the winning Super Bowl coach, in his book, “Uncommon.”
So I did.
I had hiked every trail at the second largest state park in our state, which happens to be pretty close to us. But it had one trail I hadn’t hiked before and, at the age of 53, I figured I wasn’t getting any younger; I’d better get to it. It was the 15.3 mile horse trail that circled the park. I would be able to say I had hiked every trail at Governor Dodge State Park.
Now, I’m an experienced hiker. I knew that the important thing was to pick the right time. So I did: mid-October. I put on my broken-in hiking shoes and my tried-and-true hand-knit alpaca socks, wore layers, packed my day pack with four bottles of water, two big chocolate bars, a summer sausage (carbs, fats, and protein), a knife, a map, a phone for emergencies and timing my hikes and rests, a roll of toilet paper for trailside stops, picked up my trekking poles and my dear husband dropped me off at the ranger station at 7:45 on Saturday morning. I took off.
I was afraid.
I thought I knew what I was in for. And I was afraid. But not as much as I should have been.
The first eight and a half miles were beautiful, cold, and tough. I only saw three people the whole time. I practiced a talk through twice. I walked across an earthen dam I didn’t know existed. By the time my half hour lunch break at the group campground came around, though, I was already broken. My legs and my arms were shaking as I descended the steep hill into the valley, panting in relief to see bright blue tents, my first sight of humanity. My toes were burning and I limped to the outhouse, wishing it were closer to the path. The sign saying, “No admittance except on party business” in Tolkein-esque calligraphy at a campsite was a piece of welcome comic relief.
I laid down on the grass next to a water pump after loosening my shoes and eating my lunch and looking at my map (again!). I so hoped to be able to nap. I never did. I could hear people practically tiptoeing past me. But the tension of having to go on kept me from sleeping. And — there was my alarm.
I gathered my belongings and tightened my belt (to my daypack), picked up my trekking poles and started in on the last six to seven miles. But I was broken, and I knew it. I could not imagine how I was going to finish 15.3 miles. (That .3 is very important!) But an odd thing happened.
I wasn’t afraid.
I knew I couldn’t do it. But I wasn’t afraid.
I thought I would be able to boast about hiking every trail at Governor Dodge State Park? Hah! What was that hymn? “And can it be that I should boast, save in the blood of Christ my king?” I wandered through my memory and found all the words. To the first verse. After a half an hour, it was driving me crazy. Time for a palate cleanser. I sang through the Hallelujah! Chorus.
This was my Mount Everest. This hike. What did Bear Grylls say? The top of Mount Everest is in the Death Zone: just existing up there kills you, sucks the life out of you. “I’m dead.” Step. “I’m dead.” Step. “I’m dead.” Step. “I’m dead.”
If I’m dead, nothing worse can happen to me.
I can’t do this without you, God. “Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi: you’re my only hope.”
I started thanking God for the tiniest things.
“Thank you for the port-a-potty.”
“Thank you for the bench at the top of the hill that I had to stop on twice on the way up.”
“Thank you for the mounting block to sit on so I didn’t have to heave myself back up off the ground.”
“Thank you for the beautiful sun filtering through the golden leaves. The — Golden Wood. What is its name? What is its name? All I can remember is, ‘The Lady of the Golden Wood.’ Lothlorien! That’s it. It looks like Lothlorien.”
“Thank you for the smart horses who made this path. They are smarter than I am right now. I will follow in their footsteps.”
Every time I stopped for a break, I called Steve. “Are you sure you can make it?” he asked at one point.
“I have to.”
I didn’t have to. Unlike Bear Grylls on Mt. Everest, which is too high for a helicopter to function, my trail ran right along the park road; Steve could have come and picked me up. But I wouldn’t have climbed my Mt. Everest.
I thought I was broken at mile 9. I didn’t know from broken. I prayed constantly for 7 miles. By mile 14.5, I couldn’t even see as I hiked into the sunset. My arms were so exhausted from swinging my poles and pulling me up and supporting me down hills that, when I got to the flat, I couldn’t even carry them; they hung from my wrists and dragged on the ground.
“Thank you for the ranger station.” “Thank you for the water on my hands in the bathroom.” “Thank you for the bench outside.” “Thank you that Steve picked me up only five minutes after I sat down.”
Then, all is blank. Until I went to bed. I was physically exhausted, mentally exhausted, spiritually exhausted, and in pain.
I wept.
I got my 45 year old stuffed rabbit, Joana, off her shelf where she watches over me and hugged her for the first time in more than fifteen years. She comforted me the way she did when I was 10 and when I was 15 and when I was 20. I cried and cried out to the Lord and admitted to Him that there was nothing left of me. I died on that trail.
After you have died, there is nothing to be afraid of.
I am not afraid to ask people to help out at church. I am not afraid to send out a manuscript to publishers. I am not afraid to talk to my husband about uncomfortable subjects. I am not afraid to ask questions of small children.
You can do a hard thing. You can be like my friend who is raising her three kids while her husband is in Afghanistan for a year. You can be like my daughter who is starting a business with a lot of knowledge, but few resources. You can be like my son who worked two part-time jobs and studied for the CPA exam, having to re-take two parts of it. You can be like another friend who does not like to go into unfamiliar territory but who is going on a mission trip to Haiti. These are all Mt. Everests.
Mt. Everest doesn’t just affect you in the moment and until you get your strength back; the effects are lasting.
My bruised toenails are just now falling off to reveal smooth, clean nails underneath.
Years of slouching to the right shortened my right back muscle and ligaments; walking perfectly balanced for 15.3 miles stretched them out. When the pain went away weeks later, I found I could sleep on my right side for the first time in more than a decade.
At one point, I stopped for a break and didn’t even take off my pack. I laid back on it with my arms lifeless by my sides and looked up at the sky and cried–and I felt a tremendous peace. I was not alone. Coming to the end of myself, actually seeing the end and knowing I was incapable of doing any more — and then doing it because I wasn’t doing it alone — has made me braver. I will never wonder again if I can do it. I have. And if I could climb my Mt. Everest with God’s help, there is nothing He can’t help me do.
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