When faced with a challenging situation, one that feels impossible to overcome, I ask myself what exactly it is I’m afraid of. How realistic are the fears? I also ask myself if the fear is serving me in any way, and if not, what would I be doing, saying, writing if I weren’t afraid. And I remind myself that I’ve been here before, and survived.
Several years ago, Keith and I spent a weekend camping in the San Juan Mountains of southern Colorado. On the Saturday, we had left the campsite in the morning for a five-and-a-half hour trek up the Ice Lakes Basin trail, headed for the terminus at Ice Lake, when I experienced a sudden, immobilizing panic attack. I inhaled, but couldn’t exhale. I could see my feet, but couldn’t take a step. Standing on a narrow ledge at about 12,000 feet next to sharp dropoff, I was terrified of going ahead or turning back. At that point, Keith was slightly ahead of me on the trail, alert to ice or other obstacles. Sensing my fear, he stopped a few paces from me after taking a long stride over a narrow but deep fissure.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I don’t think I can make it,” was my non-answer. I was not an experienced, confident hiker. I didn’t have reliable muscle memory when it came to mountain trails and had rarely, if ever, hiked above ten or eleven thousand feet.
He explained that my brain had probably registered the altitude and lack of oxygen as ”danger” and my body reacted to the signal.
“It’s okay, he said. If you physically can’t go on, we’ll turn around and I’ll help you down the trail.”
I wanted to see the lake and I hated the thought of being the “limiting factor” on any of our adventures. My legs and lungs felt fine. “I don’t want to give up.” I gulped back tears, but I couldn’t move.
“Then let’s try something different. Your body is strong, so we just need your mind to believe it.” I don’t know if those were his exact words, but that was certainly the message. “I think you’re carrying too much.”
Keith encouraged me to remove the daypack from my shoulders and leave it on the trail where we would retrieve it on the way back down. I hesitated, so he reassured me we’d return on the same trail and find the pack right where we’d left it, anchored by a rock. Although he’d never hiked this particular trail, he had studied the trail maps, topo maps, checked weather conditions, and stocked his first-aid kit. I had learned to trust his preparations.
Then he reached out his hand to help me past the scary place—told me to look at him and not look down and I’d be okay. I did so, and joined him on the other side of the small chasm that had opened up in my brain. From there we made it to the spectacular Ice Lake where we rested and nourished ourselves on dried fruit, nuts, and Keith’s special blend of spiced iced tea.
I’d made it after all. And on the way back down to our campsite, Keith handed me my daypack—the same one I’d left behind, untouched. Only now it was quite a bit lighter.
It’s a teeny tiny story in a world where fear abounds, with good reason. But recalling it reminds me of the power of my own mind, of trust, and of determination. And it gives me hope that we will meet the next challenge with strength of will and the support of others.
Fear is a heavy burden. What would your life be like if you didn’t have to carry it?
Hi Andi, The line that speaks to me, and this isn't exactly what you wrote, but the sentiment from Keith, "Don't look down, look at me." Those words are beautiful, really loving; it took me to a memory, a relationship where I had to cross a metaphorical bridge. A person who cared about me helped me cross that difficult bridge. // Referring back to your previous San Quentin comment. Thanks for sharing the book title "Audition" by Michael Shurtleff. That's one I don't know. In my class we are using "Critical Theory Today" fourth edition by Lois Tyson. The humor is in the subtitle, "A user-friendly guide." It's a tough book. Scholarly. Not easy reading, but I appreciate the good index.// It is so true that knowing where I have been, the fears I have faced in the past help me get through new fears that surface. Sometimes they are recycled fears. Letting go of excess weight is an excellent metaphor. I can name things, physical objects and emotions I have released, and then...it's ongoing. Never ending. At least for me. As if the Universe is saying, "Okay, you learned that lesson. Now here's a new one." Thanks for sharing. (heart emoji)
Love, love, love it. You are brave and strong and powerful. Believe it!