A couple of weekends ago we hiked up Big Windy in Black Mountain, North Carolina with a group of 38, mostly 19-20 year old college students and a handful over 30.
We began this hike with the knowledge that the only other folks we knew who had been up the mountain before were over 60 and from the South. That last part is important because Southerners are NOT known for their exercise or health habits. These folks fit that stereotype to a T.
My sweet husband says, “It’s 3 1/2 miles round trip. They said it should take 2.5 hours tops. Let’s shave off time because of how slow they are + it should take 1/2 that.”
Off we went.
As the trail rose before us – we were climbing a mountain after all – we pass a group of hikers from a local assisted living facility’s hiking group. The man leading the way was 92.
Let me spell out what everyone was thinking: “If people 2-3x our age… if people out of shape… and if people that eat trash diets… have no problem with this mountain… we’ll be fine. No big deal. How hard can it be?“
Then the forest opened up for a brief moment to a clearing with a dilapidated storm shelter and a fork in the road.
Both trails led to Big Windy. The only difference between the two was a sign that read “Extremely Difficult” to the right.
The lead gal (after my own heart) went right without a second thought. We all followed like sheep.
During the next 1/2 mile everything fell apart for the group. The first challenge was what looked like a 200 stair climb in a rock bed trail. The group began naturally separating as we climbed at our own paces.
The trail must flatten out at the top for a bit…
But every climb merely cleared the way for more climb. Every bend in the road only revealed another incline that neither gave way in steepness nor length.
Some of our group were not only not in shape, but probably hypertensive to boot. The relief was palpable when they turned back to camp.
I found myself walking alone (fine by me) because I am not a rester if I know the hike is short, no matter the difficulty. Instead of dwelling on how I am feeling or how hard this is, I do two things:
- Focus on my breathing (aiming for a 2:1 exhale:inhale pace)
- Put one foot in front of the other
If I stop once, I’ll stop twice. If I stop twice I’ll stop four times. So I do not stop till I reach the top.
I’m happy to say that mostly everyone made it.
And then we discovered what we suspected during our trek – the trail was longer than expected by 1-2 miles (2 1/2 miles up instead of 1.5).
Expectations drive experience
If we know what and when to expect difficult things, they are much easier to endure than when we have no idea how intense it will be or how long it will last.
Getting a tattoo and getting stitches are both painful, but you willingly, joyfully opt in for one and avoid the other.
I’m down for adventure any day of the week, but adventure I choose is different than the unexpected adventure. When I “plan” to go on an adventure, I know there will be unexpected things, I am here for it, and I take it all in stride.
When the adventure chooses me, the experience often is not so fun anymore.
But this is life… one big, twirling, whirling, unpredictable adventure. If I can choose to have fun, go with the flow, and enjoy the unfolding of the adventure I choose, can I also have this same perspective for The Adventure that is my life?
So here are some life lessons I learned from this unexpected adventure.
- Seeing in part is better than knowing the whole.
- Your focus determines your experience.
The Part is Better Than the Whole
If our group had known the whole journey before beginning… the length of the trail and the level of incline, 80% of them would not have started.
The amazing thing about hiking in the woods is that the trail twists and trees cover so that you only see the path in pieces and parts.
A small segment of incline is much more manageable than a path straight up. I can climb 20 more stairs. I can get to that tree. I can get up to that curve.
When it continues to rise like this, the segments are manageable bits that take you closer and closer to the goal of the top. It’s just one more hill, one more switchback, one more incline, and then there will be rest. Even when this is not true, it’s easier to keep perspective when the climb is broken up into bits and pieces.
I often want to see the entire trajectory of my life – the whole thing laid out at once. If I only knew what I was supposed to do and where I was going, then I can prepare to endure the difficult times (and get through them with more grace and ease).
But that’s not true at all.
If I saw the entire trajectory of my life, I would be too defeated to even begin the climb. That’s too hard. I don’t think I can do that. If I’ve got to go through all that, why not stay here where it’s safe (“the devil you know”)?
I know this is true because I’m committed to growth. Growth implies discomfort, challenge, and expansion. And my trail is going up, Up, UP. If you are reading this, yours is too.
So, as much as I want to see the entire adventure, to know what to expect, and to know where I am going I know that seeing the manageable part is much better than knowing the whole.
Focus determines experience.
I tried to start running in junior high. My driveway and the adjoining streets were long and hilly. Every time I ran the .5 mile out to the main road, my heart bang into my ears, I gasped for breath, and knew I would die for certain this time.
The pain in my lungs and my legs made me stop and rest. I simply could not go on. Whenever I started again it immediately came back and no matter what I tried, the pain never went away.
I stopped running.
People willingly, joyfully, pay-lots-of-money-for the pain of getting a tattoo. The pain is the price of the outcome. Since the pain is part of it, focus shifts from the pain to something else.
This is true for hiking also.
Now I can hike straight up for 2.5 miles not because I hurt less than anyone else, but because I know the discomfort of climbing is the price of the view from the top.
Accepting this fact lets me shift my focus from the thing I cannot do much about without stopping mid-trail – how my body feels – to something I can control – how I’m breathing.
I like to play with two breathing ratios while hiking – 2:1 and 1:1. This does improve my discomfort level because it regulates my heart rate and creates a sort of meditative state in my head.
In a 2:1 ratio, you exhale for 2x as long as you inhale. For example, a 3-second exhale is followed by a 1.5 second inhale. As long as you can maintain this, your heart rate is going down (so your muscles are burning less”) as you climb. You can play with different ratios… I like 4-sec out : 2 sec in for as long as possible and then adjust from there based on the demands of the trail.
In steep climbs, the 2:1 ratio becomes a 1:1 ratio. Exhale the same amount of time that you inhale. For example, 2 sec out, 2 sec in; 1 sec out, 1 sec in. The more you can control your breathing in this way, the less you’ll need to rest.
I used to focus on how my body felt and let that determine my experience, but now that I know the pain is the price of admission into this game of breathtaking views, I shift my focus to something that will help, my breath.
This is just like life. Personally I have a history of letting myself get frustrated and knocked down by life’s curve balls. I question, blame, criticize, and try to make the discomfort of the experience stop.
I’m here to tell you that is a miserable way to live life. I was cynical, critical, and condescending.
The unexpected events of life are part of the process. The discomfort of growth is the price of entry into this grand adventure. And you and I have an opportunity to accept it or deny it.
If we deny it, it’s like focusing on how your body feels while climbing a mountain. All you can think about is the pain and how and when can you make it stop.
If you accept it, you can shift your focus to something useful, like your breath, your attitude, your response. You can ride the wave and go with the flow.
And have a very different experience.