Equipoise

I was dizzy on the narrow path, sweat dried in tear shaped crystals blurred my vision through sunglasses. The earth dropped off sharply to my left and I feared I would too. My feet were flat and firm on this shelf notched into the steep wildflower meadow, and the trail was dry, not slippery. But it felt that any second I'd go headfirst over the edge, grabbing stems of lupine and paintbrush along the way, coming to a stop with a fine funeral collection of red and purple flowers in my hands, in exchange for my brains littering the landscape. I'd have grievously violated the national park directive "leave only footprints, take only pictures," but what could they do, kill me?

Those were my thoughts as I caught my breath, heart and head pounding, wondering how much further it was to the ridge. Was it going to get any easier? And was I crazy to be on this switchback trail in my condition? Out of condition, that is.

There was no question that I'd keep going until I got there. And do you know what? Because I didn't know what my destination would look like, I went another mile beyond it.

For weeks, though, my equilibrium was challenged every time I came to that particular place on the trail. It took concentration to resist the downward pull of what felt like a dangerous slope. This was more than a matter of feeling unsteady on my feet--each time I hiked to the ridge, I was given the opportunity to weigh my fear against my resolve to complete something I started.

I own that switchback trail now! Over the summer and into the fall, I hiked it twice a week. The last time I was there, I followed snowshoe tracks up the trail in eighteen inches of snow. That climb took so long, I chose to return to my car by the express route--not zigging and zagging back through my bootprints, but plowing straight down the slope that had once seemed so steep it would grab my life away. I tripped and fell over and over, cushioned by the deep snow, shrieking and laughing all the way.

Since that very first hike to the ridge seven months ago, I'm twenty five pounds lighter, which makes some of what I've done a bit easier, like carrying 40 pounds on my back into the mountains to sleep alone. Like scrabbling on wet mossy rock rainsoaked to the skin, pulling myself up hand over hand, searching for footholds. The mist surrounded me that day, creating a blessedly intimate world, but I could see well enough to know that one slip would have been one too many.

All journeys start with a simple choice. In the beginning, all I wanted was to go to a place I'd seen from the distance. I didn't know I was going to fall in love with the mountains. I didn't know that I would crave elevation. I didn't know what a tingly rush I'd have coming through danger to the other side.

One day when I felt I'd had enough of an especially tedious uphill climb but was still short of my goal, I had a momentary perception that, instead of lifting and planting my feet, the earth was rising graciously to meet them. I knew then that I was supported on my path. And I know this now: I'm going steeper, higher and scarier, one foot in front of the other.