a reluctant climb

I didn't want to go hiking on the first place.

I like spending time outdoors, and I want to like spending time outdoors even more than I do.  Despite my atrocious dining habits, good genetics have left me in semi-decent physical shape, so it's not a chore.  But all I do these days is do.  School work, work work, even my leisure time is spent watching TV or playing games.  I'm always doing.  So I saw spring break as a time to stop doing and be.  To sit outside and catch up on all this nature journaling I wasn't doing.  So it was for my friends' sake, and not out of delight, that I pulled on my shoes, tossed on a long-sleeved shirt, and stepped out the door.

Before we ever got to the mountain we were to ascend, the skies opened and began sprinkling the West Virginia countryside with a cold rain.  I suppose I would call it a disappointment, but the kind of disappointment one welcomes--a falling through of plans that leaves you feeling relieved, not miserable.  We'd do some quick shopping at the country store, admire nature from the car, and be back at the cabin in time for lunch.  And then I could go back to being.

I seriously underestimated my company.

It was still raining, albeit lightly, when we climbed out of the car and headed for the trail head.  Unlike my three companions, bundled tight against the cold, I had not brought a coat.  Cold and thoroughly displeased, but (mostly) not wanting to be a killjoy, I resolved that I would make it to the top of this damned mountain, come back, and then go have an evening I could enjoy.

Before long I found myself drawing ahead of my friends, there being an unspoken disagreement on how quickly this hike should be executed.  I pressed on as they fell out of sight, not particularly caring how they felt about being left behind, not angry with them, but neither considering much beyond my own misery.  The top of the mountain was a point I must reach, and getting there in the cold, and rain, when I wanted to be somewhere else, was an unpleasant task, but a task I must complete.  Each step had value in that it brought me closer to getting it all over with.

Of course it is not enough for me just to feel my feelings.  I must also commentate on them, critique them, debate forcing myself not to feel them (and yet feeling them is cathartic enough I never actually make that decision).  So the voice in my head started in:

You're making yourself miserable unnecessarily.  You're choosing to be this way.  You're vacationing with friends, you're out in the wild (which is why you came here)... you could easily be enjoying this.


and (more poignantly):

This, right here, is exactly what you're trying to change about yourself this semester.  You are scurrying, doing, making this walk a means to an end.  This is the opposite of mindfulness.  Your head, somewhere else.  Your thoughts, spiritual poison.  Each step, just a fraction of a percent of the journey.  Why can't you be present, in the moment, observant?  Your belief that you must find some mystical Eden to be mindful is fallacy.  Your need to find that place is precisely why you never will.


I did not overcome my melancholy through force of will or great enlightenment, but because I am as quick to calm as I am to anger.  Before we reached the top I forgot I was unhappy.  Maybe having a bite to eat helped.  We climbed past the sign that warned us against further travel, took some pictures at the top of the world, and scurried cheerfully down.  Before long my chilled body was soothed by wine and a hot tub.  Now I have this blog post and some nice pictures, and nothing negative to show for the whole ordeal.