A Facebook memory popped up this week with a picture of me
smiling, hiking down a mountain with a pack on my back. This was me 7 years ago, embarking on a
four-day hike down the Grand Canyon. My
first thought as I looked at the picture, as with many of my previous memories,
was envy of my former self—a longing for days gone by when I could wear a pack
and hike a mountain. These days, with my
autoimmune issues and POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) just climbing a set of stairs about does
me in (stairs are my nemesis!).
However, there's much more to this picture than meets the eye. I had no idea of the grueling ordeal that was soon to come in the days after this picture was taken.
I have always had a love for history—there’s a lot of
lessons to be learned and parallels that can be made by examining the past, and this
particular story is no exception. This Grand Canyon trip ranks among the toughest physical challenges I’ve had. I’ve alluded to it a few times in other posts,
and although I could summarize in much less detail, I think it’s a story worth
re-telling to the full effect, so here it goes:
Hiking the Grand Canyon
To set the stage, let me just say that I have never been
super outdoorsy—Yes, I loved to ride my bike on the groomed trails around the
lake, or go for day hikes in the mountains, but camping (and going multiple
days in the dirt without showering) has never had much appeal to me. So agreeing to go on a four-day back-packing
trip through the Grand Canyon was kind of a stretch out of my comfort zone. Also, I had just had a third laparoscopic
surgery a couple months earlier (trying to cauterize my painful endometriosis,
once again). So going into this trip, I hadn’t been
able train as much as I would’ve liked post-surgery and probably wasn’t as
prepared as I should have been.
Things started out fine, but a few miles in to our descent I stepped on a
baseball-sized rock that rolled underneath me.
My ankle went one way and my knee went the other. Surprisingly, my ankle was fine, but my knee
was tweaked a bit. I rested for a few
minutes to “shake it off” before continuing on.
In all honesty, it seemed pretty minor and had I not hiked another 5
miles at a very steep decline with a 40-pound pack on my back, I probably
would’ve been fine. But by the time I
reach the bottom I was cringing with each step.
(A trip to the doctor after arriving home confirmed a pretty bad knee
ligament sprain).
Day two at the bottom of the Grand Canyon was beautiful. Although it had been cold and snowy at the
top of the canyon, it was 65 degrees and blue skies at the bottom. Our party took a day hike out to a waterfall,
but I opted to stay close to camp and let my knee rest. With the beautiful weather, I enjoyed the day
and thought, “I can totally do this camping thing.”
My dad returned from the waterfall hike not feeling well and
shortly after started vomiting—whether a stomach flu or severe dehydration we
weren’t sure, but he continued to get sicker, weaker, and more dehydrated
throughout evening. I was worried. He’d had a heart attack several years earlier;
I was terrified that all the exertion and the sickness would bring on similar
problems. He was still sick when night
fell and had to stay close to the bathrooms (amazingly, and thankfully, there
are flush toilets at the bottom of the Grand Canyon), but they were not very
near to our camp. I was worried about letting
him stay there by himself. What if he
had a heart attack and no one was around? Not that my limited CPR skills would be much
good if needed, but, nonetheless, I sat on the cold ground outside the bathroom
with my dad for the better part of the night.
By day three our beautiful weather had disappeared, and a
cold wet drizzle descended upon us. Although we were supposed to be starting
our hike out that day, our group decided it was best to wait one more day and
let dad rest and recover. We sought out
some park rangers and asked if there were any other options to get dad out of
the Canyon—mule, helicopter, etc. We
were told that unless he actually did have a heart attack, in which case the
cost to be air-lifted out would be an astronomical amount that we’d be paying
off the rest of our lives, the only way out was to hike.
I was dead tired after my night of no sleep. I went back to my tent to take a nap. When I woke up, I was completely soaked! The tent had leaked. Not only were my sleeping bag and pack wet,
but my shoes had filled with water too.
I burst into tears! I was so
tired and cold. My knee still throbbed,
and now everything I owned was soaked through and there was little chance of
being warm or dry for at least few more days.
That evening the park rangers sought us out to tell us that
a huge storm was heading in and they wanted everyone out of the camp as soon as
possible. Due to the steepness of the
trail, we had planned to take a longer, somewhat less steep, trail out of the
canyon and to split that hike up into two days.
However, with the storm, we decided that it’d be best to make the
two-day trip all in one day, leaving the following morning.
The rain continued to worsen throughout the night. We had to double up like sardines in the
remaining “less wet” tents and, needless to say, it was another long sleepless night.
Morning finally came and we packed up our muddy tents in the
rain, put on our sopping gear, and started our trudge up the mountain. The trails had turned into little streams,
with the water carving them down into a V shape with steep sides. We had to hike with our feet awkwardly
sloshing and slipping at odd angles through the mud on either side of the
V-shaped trail. You can imagine how
great that was on my sprained knee. At
times we had to wade through calf deep streams that had completely washed over
the trail. Sometimes my foot would sink
so far into the mud, I had to physically use my hands to help pull my leg up
out of the mud. More than once, my foot emerged,
but my boot stayed firmly rooted in the sludge.
(I won’t even go into detail about the blisters and lost toe nails from
that day…)
About half way up, we stopped to eat soggy granola bars for
lunch. After resting for those 15
minutes, I tried to walk again, but my injured knee had locked up. It refused to go any further and every step on
the muddy trail was torture. I burst
into tears once again. How the (insert
expletives) was I going to get up this mountain? I was so tired, so wet and muddy and cold, and
my knee hurt so bad!
After letting myself cry for a few minutes with my husband standing by
trying to be reassure me, but with little he could actually do to help (he’d
already taken much of the weight from my pack for me), I finally had to pull it
together and remind myself that there
was no way out except to hike (trudge, trod, slog). So I finally took a deep breath, told myself,
“I can do this,” turned on my iPod, and started back up the trail.
Not much further up the rains turned to heavy snow and ice—a
blizzard. As everything we owned and
wore was already soaking wet, we pretty much turned to ice as well. The mud mixed with slush and patches of slick
ice. As we hit the last few miles with endless
steep, icy switchbacks, I tried to keep my eyes on the prize. “I just have to make it to that next bend,
then I can take a little break.” And at
the next bend, I’d look to the next bend and repeat the same thing. Most of the time when I looked up, I couldn’t
see the top—just more endless rows of switchbacks. How much further did this mountain go?! Would it ever end!
At one point my iPod shuffled to the Matchbox 20 song, “Let’s
See How Far We’ve Come.” I stood at a
bend in a switchback. While I couldn’t
see how far I had left to go, I looked down the mountain and could see how far
I’d come—miles of trail unwound below me.
Wow! Had we really come all that
way? I took courage and strength in that
sight while my own personal sound track was playing. Instead of focusing on what we had left, I kept
repeating over and over again, “See how far we’ve come!”
As we hiked I thought a lot about the pioneers. I suddenly had a much greater empathy for them. This was just a four-day trek. I couldn’t imagine the feats they had been
through over weeks/months. Additionally,
I knew that I had a restaurant and a hotel room waiting for me at the top of
the mountain with a juicy burger and a warm shower. The pioneers had arrived to an empty valley
where they still had to build their own homes and grow their food. If they could do that, I could certainly do
this!
As long as this blog post is now becoming, it is not nearly
as long as that 10-hour hike up the canyon.
But, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I did eventually make it out alive (and, in case you are wondering, so did my dad, who later confessed to me that he was, indeed, having chest pain
for most of the trip. Thank heavens
nothing major happened!).
Lessons Learned
For the sake of brevity (oops, sorry, too late for that!),
I’ll just point out a just few of the lessons I’ve been reflecting on as I’ve
revisited my Grand Canyon memories.
1 1. Rose Colored Glasses
So back to the present day, as I mentioned, when my Grand
Canyon Facebook photo popped up, my initial thoughts were of envy with the
reminder that I once had the ability to hike, walk, climb, run, etc—something
that I can no longer do (at least not without constant fear of passing out). Yet in reality, that was a harrowing
experience and not a challenge that I would ever like to face again.
Sometimes when looking at the past, I find myself looking
through rose colored glasses. Because
I’m still grieving for all the things I can’t do now, I often only see the
“grass is greener” things from my past.
I forget about the struggles I dealt with then. At the time of this hike I had actually been
dealing with a lot of other trials. I
have already mentioned my multiple surgeries for the crippling endometriosis I
dealt with. I had also been struggling
from years of infertility and failed treatments, and some intermittent depression
as a result as well.
My life in the past
wasn’t as perfect as I sometimes remember.
Yes, I had more physical abilities than I do now, but I also have some
things now that I didn’t have then (perspective, stronger faith, deeper
friendships, greater awareness of others, time to write really long blog posts…).
I can
learn from the past, but it doesn’t do me any good to dwell on the things I
can’t bring back or change. I have to keep moving forward.
2. If They Can Do It…
As I thought a lot about the early pioneers on my hike, I
similarly gain strength today by knowing that “others have done it.” Maybe they don’t have the same problems I have,
but since my illness, I have become so much more aware of the trials that those
around me have. I am in awe of the
strength I see in my friends that are battling cancer, other health problems,
financial struggles, or loss of loved ones.
Their fortitude and courage in the problems they face help me in mine… if they can do that, then surely I can do this!
3. I am Stronger Than I Think I Am
From that hike, I found strength in myself that I didn’t
know was there. It was one of the
hardest things I had done, and I survived.
It was a testament that I really could do hard things. Additionally, in remembering the dozens of
silent prayers I sent up with each step of my journey, I would be foolish to
not recognize that it wasn’t just my own strength I was relying on, but the
strength of the Lord to help me through that ordeal as well.
Doing hard things is
not just about physical strength, but mental and spiritual stamina as well. One of my favorite talks of the same title, “Mountains
to Climb,” by Henry B. Eyring, reminds us that “If we have faith in Jesus
Christ, the hardest as well as the easiest times in life can be a
blessing. In all conditions, we can
choose the right with the guidance of the Spirit. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ to shape
and guide our lives if we choose it… We can live with perfect hope and a feeling
of peace… The Savior has promised angels on our left and on our right to bear
us up. And He always keeps His word.”
I have felt those angels, both heavenly and earthly.
4 4. Let’s See How Far We’ve Come
Today I still climb mountains—my mountains are just
different. My mountains are making it
through a painful and lousy day/week/month while trying to hold on to a
positive outlook and not lose hope or faith.
There are days where I break down and cry, “How the (many expletives) am
I going to make it through this?” But
just like on the trail of the Grand Canyon, I realize that I don’t have many options. I can
sit down and wallow in the mud, or I can keep trudging, keep trying, keep
seeking out something that is going to help as I continue to work on my faith
and endurance.
And some days, I can only look as far as the next bend and
tell myself “I just have to make it through today!”
Although I can’t see the top of the mountain or the end of
this journey, I can look back at the
path I’ve come and gain strength and hope from seeing the trail I’ve traveled. It’s been a rocky road, but I’ve come a long
way. Although there have been a lot of
ups and downs, I have seen improvement since my first diagnosis (when I
couldn’t even walk from my bed to the bathroom without collapsing, and I
certainly wouldn’t have had the cognitive ability to write this ever-increasing
lengthy post). I have also made progress
on the road to acceptance and emotional healing. Although there may not be a true summit and
complete physical healing for my condition in this lifetime, I can keep
climbing, have faith, and try to take heart in the plateaus and vistas along
the way.
