Today's post is a bit different. It's a somewhat intense tale. Get ready. And please don't judge me.
It begins after a good dose of "you can do it Deirdre!" pep talks, when I signed up for a race/hike up a big, fat mountain in the big, dry, lunar-landscaped desert known as Anza Borrego.
That morning, we were raring to go as the race began.
[Note: I'm the little one in the middle]
Now, a bit of background. Villager Peak is 15 miles round trip. With the exception of some pink ribbons laid out along the way, there's no trail. And on the list of recommended supplies? Pliers to pull out all those cactus needles.
15 miles up nearly 6,000 feet of elevation. The most I've ever done in a race before was a 10k. And that was on flat land. And that was hard.
Nevertheless, I was excited. I was prepared and had a great partner (who I needed, as a sense of direction is not my strength, and silence can be my enemy).
In order to stay relatively succinct, let's just observe the straight-up facts:
- The trip up to Villager was tough, but also lovely. For 7.5 miles my partner and I carefully made our way through the cacti and up the ridge.
We reached the top wearing big smiles, taking time to celebrate over bananas and PB&Js.
The pep talks came next, as enthusiastic folks told us to just keep going up to Rabbit Peak, the higher option, which came out to 22 miles total.
My partner, recognizing the vast difference between 15 and 22 miles (and another thousand feet in elevation), declined. I, however, decided to go ahead, sure that I could catch my buddy who was said to be "just over the next hump."
He was not over the next hump.
I completed the hike up alone.
When I reached the top of Rabbit Peak I was ecstatic. I had made it! The hardest part was behind me!
The hardest part was not behind me.
I didn't know this yet. I was too busy celebrating and posing.
- I was in the last group to hike back down.
I soon realized that all of that celebrating was a bad idea. It was getting late.
Our small group began to spread out. One athlete named Shae broke into a trail run ahead of me.
I decided I should run, too. So I did, leaving the rest of the group -- including the woman with the two-way radio -- behind. Soon I was alone. I had not packed a flashlight.
Dusk came. I took a weary selfie with it.
- As the sky grew darker and the pink ribbons less obvious, I convinced myself I'd be fine. I was close to the finish line after all.
I was not close to the finish line.
Night fell. Hard. All at once the color of black tar snapped into the place where the sky had been. No moon. No people. No ribbons. I was lost. In this:
But then... up ahead, down the ridge and across the plain I saw a tiny light. I could just make out Shae's flashlight as she sprinted along.
"SHAEEEEEEEEEE!" I bellowed. Shae heard me and waited patiently until I caught her. We were together, but still lost.
I was terrified. Shae was not worried in the least.
A few minutes later a big, beautiful flashlight came racing toward us through the blowing sand. The guy holding it was there to guide us on our mile-long run out of there. Which he did.
I now love him. Even though he's somewhat scary.
All told, I was on the mountain for 12 hours. Once I got down and decompressed, the life lessons from this tale came quickly. Here are a few:
- There's a time to go it on your own. Hiking up to Rabbit Peak alone taught me what I can do. It also taught me that I actually do have a sense of direction, and that sometimes the greatest beauty in life lies in its silence.
There's a time when staying with others is the way to go. Though some in the group were slower than me, sticking with them instead of running ahead was clearly the better move. Sometimes you just need some freakin' patience.
Even in the darkest moments, someone will be there. I had not one, but two flashlight-related moments of relief. And that's because the people around me wouldn't leave me hanging. I also had people who believed in me from the start, who pushed me to do something I didn't think I could do. And that's precious. Make sure you've got those people in your life, too. And then cherish and nurture the heck out of them.
Life is about taking risks, but doing so with a clear head. Explore new things, be thoughtful, and enjoy the ride. And pack a flashlight.
Write a blog. That way when ridiculous things happen to you, at least you'll have a topic for your next post.
Take a risk... carefully.
Enjoy yourself. Enjoy the silence. Enjoy others.
And recognize that sometimes the greatest lessons come when you get lost along the way.