Trailblazing

It was supposed to be a challenging trail. We picked the one we thought would be hard, but not impossible for us to complete. Challenging but not overwhelming. Hiking is a natural metaphor for life choices, right?

We prepared the night before, taking every possible snag into consideration—or so we thought.

The sky was a flawless blue stone suspended on the prongs of Rocky Mountain peaks. The lakes below, however, were ice-crusted, colorless, weeks away from reflecting their counterpart above. We guessed at the names of the towering rock formations, wanting to know them, eager to see the world from their perspective. Anxious to reach that arc of azure and sunlight, we did not linger in the shadows below.

Each boy carried his own food, his own chocolate bar, and his own aspirations for making it to the top.

At first, the trail was steep but clear. Stretches of snow bore well-packed tracks of those who had gone before us. Secure, but mundane—don’t we all want to feel we are trailblazing from time to time? At first, the trees and birds were our only company, but a group of hikers from Belgium and a pair from the Czech Republic passed us, letting us know that we were not alone on this quest.

Then, the tracks deepened. We chuckled at how slim saddles of snow rose up between our legs, offering a new kind of ride on the trail. Where was the trail now? Our map said it was close by, but we were definitely on a newly-invented path now, one which had us comically hopping over snow from dirt island to dirt island under the trees.

This trough spilled out onto a glorious meadow of smooth snow. Treetops poked their waking noses from its surface to scent the air. Stillness bloomed into peals of laughter as our Belgian friends delighted in the freshness, like polar bears emerging from months in their dark winter dens. I relished in the contrast of rusty pine needles sprinkling the white ground like a fortune of saffron on creamy foam.

Where was the trail now? We searched, but the snow was soft and often gave way under our feet. The boys skimmed across the surface with ease, a great equalizer to the hour before when our long legs gave quick step on the steep slopes. Now, those legs of ours threatened to sink us.

A thought came to mind—it was clear as we tried to cross the meadow that we were, at any time, going to lose our footing on the surface. Stumbling was guaranteed. Yet, when I stepped with acceptance of that fact and optimism for success, I found myself feeling secure. And when the ground did suddenly disappear beneath me, I laughed aloud!

There were surprises at every turn. At one point, an area of 100 square feet dropped beneath all our feet with a sudden icy jolt, and we instinctively froze mid-step. Nothing was certain except this: we were the ones who put ourselves on this path, and we were the ones to get ourselves out.

First, the Belgians turned back, then the Czechs, convinced they would not attain their goals that day. We questioned ours. Going on the theory that the steeper sections of rock would have slumped off their snow, we pushed on toward the summit.

Frustration overcame us all at some point. There were tears shed for frozen fingers and toes trapped in snowy postholes. But, our perseverance paid off. By a stolid milky blue stream, we found terra firma! Boulders and shale, warmed by the sun! We held the rocks to our faces, kissed them. A place to bare those pink toes, squeeze the water out our socks, and set our pants to dry while we ate!

Now, the choice was to continue on up into the dry scree field with hopes of finding the trail or turn back for what we knew would be a snowy slog back down. With one hour left to safely venture away, we continued up, slipping and sliding over those deliciously hot stones. Sharp, though! Slushy snow may be cold, but it is as soft as walking through meringue. These rocks felt perilous, threatening.

At 3 PM, we knew we had to call it, even though we’d only made it halfway to our goal.

In an all-too-brief moment of weightlessness, we slid down a patch of snow-covered scree—whee!

Then, the long descent from whence we’d come. At one point, I led the way, crawling on hands and knees (even those were sinking in now), head down, hat over my eyes, just fighting against fatigue to gain inches, struggling to keep going. In glorious rare patches of earth, the trees snatched that hat from my head, seemingly chuckling to themselves as they watched us.

At last, we regained the uncovered trail. Walking on solid ground with snow-soaked boots and frigid ankles was as though our feet had been traded for stones. And I thought this would be the easy part! Not so for the kids — but for those of us over forty, each step was a careful calculation to minimize pain. Overarching the rhythm, pole-shift-step, pole-shift-step, hovered a constant tone of faith in the end of the trail, the promise of warmth, of safety.

Mount Temple stands 11,627 feet, the trail is 8.9 miles round trip and gains 5,479 feet of elevation.
In ten hours of exertion, we covered about 10 miles but only made it 7,854 feet.

The day was a total failure. We turned back miles from the summit; a couple of members of our party were reduced to tears from cold, wet, and frustration; towards the end, as the snow softened in the sun, we were reduced to crawling on our hand-and-knees, sinking with every move; our clothes were so wet we stripped in the parking lot and drove home half-naked, cozying up to the air vents in the car.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. We challenged ourselves, learned a ton, and had a good time.

We turned back when the amount of remaining daylight indicated—not when we got cold, tired, or frustrated. We worked as a team, always encouraging and supporting each other. We walked for steps at a time on the crust of snow grateful for every step that held and accepting of each time we plunged into its depths and crawled back out again to continue without giving up. That feels like success.

We all get to define failure and success in our own lives. Is it reaching the summit or doing the best you can with the equipment you have? Is it something else? What is your definition of success? And what is wrong with a little failure?