Sometimes the “Hard” is Life-Giving

Climbing a mountain — with a chair

When I was a teenager, I'd occasionally climb the hill behind my house to regroup from my noisy household of five others, or to watch the sunset with a 360 view of mountain ranges. I thought nothing of dragging a chair up the quarter of a mile, straight up mountainside that required navigating sagebrush and bull snakes. Even then, I'd put in the effort so I'd enjoy my surroundings with greater ease.

The chair allowed me a view unencumbered by sagebrush and unhampered by the many ant families who occupied the area. I'd bring my journal, pen, and water while I listened to the speed boats on Perrigan Lake, the motorized fishing boats on Davis, and the rustling of balsamroot, whose yellow glory lasted only weeks of the spring but created a symphony of sound as it dried, until the winter snow quieted it and then the spring once again took hold.

Lessons can be learned from hard journeys

I learned a lot climbing up that mountain — how a more enjoyable climb took longer and had more switchbacks; how beating the sun setting became more important than the easy route; how if I thought about how hard my heart would pound during the climb, I'd be less likely to do it; how if I thought of the view, I'd do it every time; and how thriving (having a chair) felt more motivating to climb than surviving (no chair), so I didn't once question whether the chair was necessary after the one time I didn't bring it.

What mountains could you climb to get refueled? What would help you start? What items could you carry to multiply the enjoyment? How could you keep the "hard" out of focus so you could use all your strength to carry you to the top (rather than constantly needing to give yourself a pep talk = exhausting)?

Let me know the hard journey you're choosing this month and what you're bringing with you.