Trying to hike Mount Hale in the middle of winter seemed like a good idea when I started driving that morning. The ride up was like it always was. I enjoy the ride almost as much as I enjoy the hike. If I leave early enough, I can watch the night slowly turn into the day. I find peace watching the sun slowly wake up the world around me, first subtle and hesitant, and then bright and full of power and light. Mornings have always been easier for me. The darkness can be terrifying. But light brings safety and hope. Even a dreary, cold and rainy morning is better than the black hole of the night.
I’ve chosen a safe hike. And by that, I mean one that should not rile up the anxiety monster that lives in my stomach. Mount Hale in winter involves two miles of a road walk up Zealand Road, a road that has always led to wonderful memories and happy hiking.
But as I pull into my parking spot among all the snowmobiles and cross-country skiers, I find myself disgruntled and tired before I even get out of the car. I do NOT want to do this. I do not want to put myself through the irritating process of changing my socks, putting on the toe warmers, placing my feet into my boots, tying them up, fixing my pants, putting on my gaiters, strapping my snowshoes onto my pack and making sure my wallet, food, water and spikes are all in the correct place in my bag. All of that and I haven’t even gotten out of the car yet. It would be so easy to just turn the car back on, and drive home, expending little energy and enjoying the audiobook I’d been listening to. No one would judge me except for myself, and I could live with that judgement.
But if I drive home, I can’t check this mountain off my list. And one of my goals this year is to hike three new mountains in the winter. And I’ve only done one. And if nothing else, I am goal-oriented, and I should at least get out of the car, cross the road and make my way over to the start of the hike. I figure I can always turn around once I get there.
I find myself at the start of Zealand Road. I sigh. I have no idea what to put on my feet. I’m feeling lazy and unmotivated, so I choose the easy way. I put my spikes on my boots, even though I know it snowed last night and I most likely will need the snowshoes momentarily. But they are so nicely strapped to my pack and I will probably end up turning around anyway because, as previously mentioned – I do NOT want to do this. I start hiking. I torture myself long enough before I give in and accept the fact that even though I will most likely turn around soon, the road walk will be much easier in snowshoes.
I start walking again. I thought maybe the snowshoes would change my mind and make me realize that I’m enjoying myself and do, in fact, want to be outside hiking. They don’t. I tell myself that I will walk until I reach the Sugarloaf Trailhead, and then I can either hike that trail up to a much smaller mountain, or I can turn around and go back home. I walk the mile to the trailhead, and realize if I’m going to hike a mountain, I don’t want to expend all this energy on something that won’t even let me check off a new box. I tell myself I might as well walk the next mile and a half to the Hale Brook Trailhead and reevaluate my situation.
I get to the trailhead and don’t feel any better about my situation. I still do NOT want to do this. At all. But I’ve come this far and if I turn around now, I’m going to have to do this again someday. So I can check off the damn box. I reason, it’s only 2.2 more miles to the summit, and then I can turn around and walk back to the car. I can do anything for 2.2 miles.
Except for 2.2 miles, the Hale Brook Trail kicks my ass. I’m trudging up this trail and giving new meaning to the term “slug”. I’m hating every step, and the only thing that keeps me from turning around is that I’ve come this far and do NOT want to have to do this again. I’m a prisoner to the damn box, but that’s how my life has always been. Set goals, reach them, set new goals and keep going. Even though every step of the way feels like walking through quicksand. Even though things feel pointless and meaningless, the relentless slog continues until I can check off a new box. That has been my definition of resiliency – to keep pushing forward even when the struggle threatens to bog me down and suffocate me. Mount Hale felt like it was going to strangle me first and then suffocate me with a pillow. My resiliency that day was not pretty. Resiliency that day meant taking ten steps, stopping to rest, convincing myself to take ten more steps, and repeat. Resiliency meant cursing the trail, berating myself for being out of shape and looking up to the sky hoping the weather would give me a reason to turn around. It meant listening to an audiobook to distract my mind away from how much I really did NOT want to do this. Resiliency that day meant a lot of things, but none of those things felt positive. Resiliency is a term we use to tell ourselves that the struggle we are going through will be worth it someday. We use it to remind ourselves that we have strength and courage, and that even though the journey is hard, we will come out of this on the other side and feel better about ourselves. Resiliency is bullshit.
And then there I was at the summit. Mount Hale has no rewarding view. It is a pile of rocks. I knew what to expect. I shrugged my shoulders, took a picture of the rocks, and started back down the mountain. The pile of rocks was my symbol of resiliency that day. Underwhelming and boring. I rolled my eyes, relieved that I had kept walking, and could finally turn around and walk home.