With my feet and arms spread out from under me and feeling a
bit like an awkward starfish clinging for dear life, I am paralyzed. One more move and I’m pretty sure the only
directions I’ll be going is backwards.
The summit is just within reach, but my muscles are strained from the
athleticism I have suddenly required of them and I am so unbelievably
tired. The loose rock under me starts to
shift and I am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline.
...
Tying our shoelaces for the morning, my brother and I were
getting ready to hike up one of the easiest trails to reach the summit of
Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales.
As official N.A.R.P.s (non-athletic retired persons) we are the first to
admit how out of shape our bodies have become since our college days of
swimming 20+ hours a week. This
backpacking trip through Wales was a holiday for both of us, and while we
wanted the views of the majestic mountain peaks, we were going to take the
easiest way to get up there. No
shame.
All set and ready to go, we met a fellow traveler who was
staying in the same hostel as us. We
mentioned the trail we were going to take, and he looked back at us with
surprise. “Don’t you want a challenge? I
like to feel accomplished when looking back on the journey I’ve climbed.” Well, what were we supposed to say to
that? Our competitive spirits taking
over, suddenly we found ourselves starting our hike on a much different trail
than originally planned. One of the
hardest paths offered, based on the extreme elevation change and loose scree
(broken rock fragments) towards the summit.
As the morning sunlight blanketed the mountains of Snowdonia,
we set off. We basked in the rich
vitamin D soaking into our pours as we crossed through the farmlands and ascended
up to the slate quarry. We paused at the
beauty of the gushing waterfalls and gave our heartbeats a chance to slow down
with the rapid incline. Our thighs
burned, our backs were sore, and our cheeks were sunburnt. And we were loving every bit of it.
Right before leaving, that fellow traveler had asked me how
experienced I was with “scrambling.” My
brother responded to my confused and blank stare, saying I have never done it
before, but I would be fine. It wasn’t
until we were halfway up the mountain that it dawned on me to ask what
scrambling meant. Not a big deal, he
replied, you’ll just have to use your hands and feet to support your weight
because there will be a bunch of loose rock under you.
Right, no big deal.
I am apparently not the best with this scrambling business
and suddenly I am wishing for some solid ground under my hands and feet. The loose rock under me starts to shift and I
am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline…but as I
start to slide down, I am desperate to go forwards. So like a dog on a frozen pond with ice
skates attached to her paws, I literally scramble to the summit.
Hiking has always seemed to carry significant parallel journeys of the
happenings in my life: a descent down the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho birthing
a beautiful friendship, a calm stroll through John Bryant days before
graduation. It all holds special meaning
and allows the opportunity for reflection on how Christ is alive.
On this particular Good Friday, I am able to lie down and close my eyes on the top of the mountain. I reflect the struggle, the
weight, and the paralyzed fear this day holds for Jesus. I think of the struggle, the weight, and the
paralyzed fear this year has held for me.
I think of the new trail I will take to descend, my hike not yet
finished, and the unknown trials and gifts it will bring. I think of the new journey I will take when
this year is finished, and the unknown trails and gifts it will also bring. My brain is spinning, but eventually the
stillness of my body with the calm presence of mountain air takes over, and for
a moment, I am just present.
Looking back on our journey climbed, it was definitely a
challenge, but I wouldn't use the word accomplished to describe my
feelings.
Grateful.
Awe-filled. Loved.
