At 4:45 on Wednesday I woke up and drove to Mount Rogers. After arriving at an isolated trailhead after four hours of driving, the hike seemed irrational. Fog was suffocating the mountain. I had no cell service, I wasn’t dressed for the rain, and I was frightened. I’d never hiked alone before.
A fiction teacher I had described the ideal narrative structure of a short story as one where the character ascends a mountain and everything ends right at the summit. I’m inclined to think this story will be boring because I didn’t reach the top of Mount Rogers. I only ended up traveling seven miles out of a twelve mile hike, so I’ll keep this post short as a result.
Around some nameless section of the trail that was almost completely overgrown, I leaned on my walking stick and looked out into the dense fog. I had an authentic opportunity to problem solve and be accountable to myself. Many stressors that come with daily life are only tangentially related to survival. It was a gift to be humbled by the present situation. So, I was honest with myself.
My ankles were blistering badly. I didn’t know it yet, but for days I wouldn’t be able to run or wear shoes from the pain. Breaking in my mountaineering boots for future trips was a good idea, but their firm soles made maneuvering on the rocks difficult. I had already slipped multiple times and the rain was flooding parts of the forest. I thought to myself that having trouble with ascending was only spelling doom if I went further up. After all, going up is optional, and going down is mandatory. The risk of a brutal slip as I descended was increasing.
However, the worst factor was that I was drenched. My tank top and shorts were a good idea, but not for long. All the extra layers I had in my bag to accommodate the elevation were wet and I was starting to shiver. Seventy degrees at the base of the mountain, and I was freezing.
Everything to get a case of hypothermia in the summer was lined up: soaked, stuck in the wind, completely blocked from the sun, far away from medical help, and at an elevation where the weather can change rapidly. I also was fixated on the irony of my situation. Suffering hypothermia in the middle of the summer would be objectively embarrassing.
I suffered a lesser but still grading humiliation as I descended. My mind was flying through justifications for failing to complete relatively simple challenge. Compared to my dream ascents, this was nothing. Even if turning around was the rational and safe decision, it still felt ridiculous. What does this say about me as a person to turn around and “accept defeat?”
Strangely enough, I think this question was answered in a way that only experience can communicate, not artistic expression. As I walked down the trail, something cut through the monotonous sound of the rain. A tree had fallen somewhere down the mountainside. I couldn’t see it, but the crack echoed across the rocks. I paused for a moment to savor the lesson.
That tree was much older than me. It had seen a lot more than me, and to my knowledge, nobody heard it fall but me. Everything made sense after the woods reminded me of my place.
What does it say about me as a person that I “accepted defeat” and turned around? Nothing.
I failed, but that’s it. The forest it still again.
Did the tree “fail” by falling? At a certain point, laughter is the only way this question can be answered.
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