I Know How to Climb a Mountain

The moon rising over "my" mountain
Snowbird, 2008
("my" peak is the one on the left)

The year was 1981. My parents were living in Portugal. Before they had moved there they had purchased a time-share at Snowbird. I was going to college and was the only one around at the time so I would go to Snowbird during our week and take different groups of friends.

The summer of 1981 I went up to Snowbird on my own for a few days and then some newly-married friends were going to come up for the rest of the week and I would leave. Being a poor college student I couldn't afford a nice wedding gift for these dear friends, so I "gave" them part of my precious time at Snowbird.

But while I was there alone I felt drawn to climb the mountain that I would sit and stare at from the balcony of my room. So I did. I put on my swim suit (the better for tanning as I climbed) and my 1980's style running shorts (emphasis on "short") and my running shoes, of course, and off I went. I found a great stick to use, because that's always what we did on hikes when I was growing up. No water. No food. No notification to ANYONE that I was going up the mountain.

No idea what I was doing.

I just knew there was a mountain calling to me and I needed to climb.

And this is what I learned:

Climbing a mountain is hard work. It is harder than you think it is going to be.

And it usually takes longer than you think it will take.

As I climbed, in my stripped-down unprotected state, I realized that it was just me, the mountain, and God, so I talked as I climbed. And I listened as I climbed. And I kept climbing

Abbie sitting on the balcony in front of "my mountain"
2006

My way of going up a mountain is pretty much straight up. None of this zig-zagging back and forth to make it easier. No. I had a mountain to climb and I wanted to get to the top, so I went straight up. And as I pushed through the scrubby brush, and climbed over rocks and boulders I realized that I was being taught some interesting things about life and obstacles and hard things that can hurt and bruise and my journey of choice, which was to just get over-through-on top of the obstacle and to keep going. There was a mountain top I needed to reach and I wasn't stopping, waiting, or meandering my way up.

It took me a long time to get to the top. I was surprised at how much longer it took than I had anticipated. And it was harder than I had thought it would be. And there was a time, after I had scrambled up the shale to get to the tippy-top, that I realized I couldn't go down the way I came up, it would be too dangerous with all that loose shale. And I wasn't sure how to get down. And I thought about how nobody knew I was up there. And gosh, could there be wild animals up here? (yes, in fact there were.) So I picked up my conversation with God and explained my situation and asked for help figuring out a way to get down. The way down was around the other side and then back around to the front of the mountain.

When my friends came the next day I told Lorraine about my climb and what I learned. She wanted to take my picture so had me get back into my "climbing gear" to memorialize my achievement.

Every year that we go to Snowbird I sit and look at my mountain and I think about that day when I climbed, and how that mountain became a part of me.

I know how to climb a mountain. I have done that. I know how to work hard and how to keep going and how to reach the top. I have climbed mountains.

I am climbing a mountain now. It is a big mountain. It is a mountain of sorrow and sadness, of perceived failure and failings. It is a mountain that has been trying to overshadow me.

But I know how to climb a mountain. I've done that before. And I believe that once you have climbed a mountain that mountain lives in you and the mountain's strength becomes your strength.

I know how to climb a mountain.