Looking Up

I’ve trekked uphill for what feels like forever, keeping an eye out for rocks and roots, hoping to avoid tripping. Many call this hike “easy” and this makes hitting my I’m done point three quarters up the mountain even more frustrating. I know there’s sunlight, streams, birds, and greenery along the way, but all I can watch are my cursed feet, tender and aware of every stone I step on. I curse the continuing path ahead, doubting the destination merits the remainder of the uphill journey. Someone encourages, “It’s worth it” as they pass on the way down and I silently curse them too.

I want to sit at this point, but I have kids to encourage and the trail is longer backwards, so forward it is. I turn inside my head to distract myself from my feet and unquenchable thirst. Then I recognize – in that classic “hike as a metaphor for life” kind of way – that this represents where I am in my life at the moment.

My life, just like this point in the hike, is full of frustrating contradictions. I recognize that the path we’re on isn’t that difficult, but I’m out of shape. I like the company, but struggle to be good company. I need the exercise, but I’m tired. I want to look around and appreciate the view, but I find myself looking down to keep from stumbling, resenting the view of my shoes.

Then the trail unexpectedly evens out. It’s still challenging because I’m exhausted and hungry, wondering if  I’ll ever reach the top, but I am able to focus more on the path ahead. The kids get out of their own funk and are enjoying the moment again. They reach the boss level of some imaginary video game, keeping their eye out for the promised lake and lunch at the end. I don’t have the heart to tell them the game doesn’t end at the top, so I exit my head and join them in their fantasy.

We reach our destination, catching our first glimpse of the lake, sunlight sparkling on the blue, the mountains a majestic backdrop.  We find the perfect lunch spot on a rock in a place full of important memories. I enjoy my kid’s laughter and discoveries, ignoring the knowledge that soon we’ll go down the way we came, 2.3 additional miles.

We eventually head back and the kids hit their breaking point, asking to be carried, complaining. I can’t hide away inside myself this time. I have to reach outside myself and tell them encouraging truths about how we’ll feel after we conquer the entire hike; how stopping will only make it harder to keep going, how we can make it together, how proud we’ll feel of our accomplishment. As I’m talking, I’m bouyed a bit by my own words and reluctant to be a hypocrite.

The boys remain with Tim, who has the strength to carry one on his back and the patience to distract the other. I walk ahead with our daughter, creating distractions from her aching feet, trying to get her to focus her eyes on the tricky path beneath her, but her mind elsewhere. She makes up a song to the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat – Hike, Hike, Hike Your Feet Up and Down the Mountain – and when that fails to entertain, we brainstorm unique flavors of ice cream. I forget about my own feet and my only goal is to help her make it down without giving up.

We reach the bottom of the hike, a 5 hour, 4.6 mile journey. Before we started, I thought the hike was about reaching the top. I thought the victory came when we reached the lake and the best part would be making it back to the car. In truth, I barely remember the lake or my tired feet.

Instead, I can hear my kids laughter and excitement over the beauty around them.

I see my son waiting for me to catch up and reaching out his little hand.

I recall the view of the kids skipping ahead in excitement, eagerly following the path.

I picture the sweet sight of my husband patiently waiting as our 2 year-old insisted on hiking virtually the entire way up himself.

I can see my daughter running eagerly to her father and brothers, despite her own exhaustion, to congratulate them for completing the hike.

I remember thinking I can do this, It’s too hard, I don’t want to, I have to, This is fun, This is miserable, I love my family, We can do this, I did it all in the same day.

And I felt hope. A desire to stop grumbling at my feet and focusing on the rocks and roots of life. To be in this moment, but realize it won’t go on forever.  To accept that life is wonderful, miserable, joyous, and hard; sometimes all in the same day or week. But I’ll miss out on all the good stuff if I’m only looking at my feet or focusing on some goal ahead.