by Becky Porter
I woke and stared somewhat sullenly at
the sloped canvas roof soaring a few feet above my head. The air in the tent was pleasantly cool, but
my mind did not dwell long on the weather.
Mechanically, I adjusted the pillow that was slipping off the end of the
metal cot, part of my brain noting the morning songs of the varied birds in the
trees outside. I was plagued by that
vaguely grumpy feeling adults get—or maybe it’s only me—when they know they are
about to do something that should be done but that they don’t want to do. This, after all, is what it means to be
“grown-up”.
With
a small sigh and a furrowed brow, I untangled myself from the sleeping bag and
climbed off the bed. My toes curled a
little as they hit the rough wood flooring beneath. I padded the few steps to the tent opening
and, lifting the thick canvas flap, gazed out on the gorgeous cool stillness of
early morning at Philmont Scout Ranch.
The scent of wet earth mingled with the fresh, sharp tang of the trees;
I breathed it in deeply, and with that breath came a deep sense of certainty
and peace.
We had arrived at Philmont almost a week
before, rain coming down in sheets as our minivan full of kids, suitcases,
sleeping bags, books, pillows, Scout uniforms, and excitement (but not a single
working umbrella) pulled into the long, winding drive. The past few days had been a wonderful blur
of inspired training and revelation for Jeff; bonding with new friends for me;
and pony rides, archery, crafts, games, and camp songs for the children. Oh yes—and hikes. Long, hard hikes. Half-day hikes for the little ones and 7-hour
ordeals for the older ones.
“You can do this!” I had told each of
them. “You can do hard things. I believe
in you!”
They had listened. One by one I had encouraged them and sent
them off. One by one they had come back,
flushed with the power of accomplishment, eager to tell me how hard it had been
and how they had persevered. I played my
part well, exclaiming and commiserating and lavishing them with praise.
“I knew you could do it!” I said. “In
our family, we do hard things. It wasn’t
easy but you finished, and I’m so proud of you.”
These were the thoughts I had later that
morning as my sneaker-clad feet crunched across pine needles, leading me up and
over rocks and under tree boughs. It was
my turn to hike. I was backing up my
words with my example, and my middle-aged, out-of-shape body was protesting
almost every uphill step of the way.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up
with the women at the front of the hike, ladies who bounced their way up the
mountain in their hiking boots with backpacks slung confidently over their
shoulders, but I was determined to stay in the middle of the pack. It was sheer pride and grit that kept me
there, puffing like a locomotive, as we climbed steadily. I reveled in the strength of my legs and
thanked God for my healthy body. I gazed
at deer just down the mountain from us, their bodies taut and still. And, at
some point, I thought I was going to die if we didn’t stop soon. I ached to be done.
Why
was I out here?
Sweat dripped down my face and the locomotive was puffing harder than
ever. I began to hate those smiling,
delusional women at the front of the line who acted like this was a stroll down
the street instead of the grueling new form of torture that any sane person
would recognize it to be.
After about an hour and a half, our male
guide stopped. The trail wound up in an
S-curve like some reddish-brown malevolent snake on the side of the wooded
hill. The guide stood above us and his
words struck apprehension into my weary brain.
“We’re almost to the top, but this last
part is the hardest. It’s a set of
switchbacks that climb steeply. If any
of you want to stay here and wait for us (we’ll be coming back the way we came
up), you can do that rather than climb the whole way.”
We had already hiked almost two miles
and climbed close to 1,000 feet and now he was telling us that the hardest part
was ahead? I will be forever grateful to
my newfound friend, Katie, who recognized the moment I began to waver. She played the part for me that I had played
for my kids.
“Come on, Becky. You can do this,” she
encouraged in her soft voice. “You will always regret it if you don’t go to the
top.”
And so I pushed on. I did the hard thing that I had not wanted to
do. I pushed myself up that set of
switchbacks, one plodding foot in front of the other, huffing and puffing but
never falling back. I climbed over huge
rocks, made more immense by my exhaustion.
I moved forward when I thought I couldn’t, and when I reached the summit
I burst into tears.
No words can describe the exhilaration I
felt when, after coming back down and riding the bus back to camp, I looked my
children in the eyes and said, “I did it!
It was hard and I did it!”
I found that doing the hard thing is
just a series of small steps, one after the other, until you reach the summit a
new, stronger person for your effort.
