Precipice.

My lips are trembling.  My stomach is in knots. Inhaling and exhaling is a struggle.  My mind races and fear has the best of me.  I look down and see a 500-foot vertical drop.  I look up and see a 600-foot vertical climb.  Paralyzed by fear, I cling to the solid rock beside me.   

Feeling extremely vulnerable and at nature’s will on the side of this cliff, I cannot help but wonder 

what if my foot slips on this downward-sloping wet rock?

what if my legs give out and I fall off the side of this cliff? 

My God, what are we doing here?  The conditions are just perfect for a disaster. A snowstorm has begun in Acadia National Park and no one else is on this trail [Of course they’re not on this trail.  It’s off-season. Who would even think to climb this exposed cliff when it’s wet, slippery and vertical?]. I’ve lost all confidence in my footing and my strength.  I’ve lost all trust in the friction between my shoes and the rock. 

I really don’t want to go up.  I’ve climbed this far and it was more than enough exhilaration to fill my adventure tank [that’s the term my husband and I use to gauge our need for exploration — adventure tank]. My adventure tank is overflowing.  I’m dreaming of anything but exploration and I’m craving comfort. //sitting by a fireplace with a cup of tea. putting on warm and dry socks.  And mostly, standing on solid ground. 

I really don’t want to go up but I cannot go down.  People get seriously injured going down this trail in dry conditions.  It would be outrageously foolish to attempt downward motion right now. 

So up we [my brave husband and I] must go. 

After some impressive coaching from my hiking companion and a few minutes of deep breathing [yoga on the rocks, my friends], I take a step onto the slippery and slanted rock ahead of me.  My breath is long and my legs are strong — they must be if I’m going to make it to the next section of this climb.  I inhale deeply.  I exhale.  I take a few more steps to cross to the other side of this boulder.  Just 600 feet more to climb. 

Clinging to every possible hand hold in the rocks and prayerfully trusting I’m in good hands [because I am, right?] I climb on.  Up I go.  One hand hold and one foot step at a time.  I’m focused on the next move, the next few inches above me.  Unbeknownst to me I’ve picked up a lot of speed.  [Jeff said I was like an orangutan-billy goat hybrid, scaling the mountain.  Apparently he could barely keep up with me once I snapped into the focus mode.] 

Just when I think I’m approaching the summit, I see yet another monstrous climb.  The ascent seems endless.  But I must keep moving and breathing.  Up I go.  Hand by hand.  Foot by foot.  Inhale. Exhale. 

After several deceiving summits, we finally reach the last climb.  Yearning to be on top of this mountain and on a flat surface, my pace quickens.  Right hand grasps the very top.  Left hand follows.  I hoist myself up on Champlain Mountain, belly down.  I crawl inward and away from the edge.  Every part of me is eager to fully rest upon this rock. 

Ahhhhh. This rock is solid.  This rock is sturdy.  This rock is safe.  This rock is a refuge, a sanctuary.  My breath gradually slows down.  My limbs begin to unfurl.  I take up space on this rock.  I love this rock.  I lay and breath and be. 

After a moment of just being on this rock [and only after that moment] I turn and look at the view.  And oh my is it ever wonderful — it’s majestic.  The snow has started to accumulate on the mountain below me and its whiteness is revealing the texture of the earth around me.  The blueness of the Atlantic Ocean kisses the blueness of the sky.  Snow is softly falling and I invite it into my palm.  My sweet husband has a large grin on his face and a big hug for me.  We sit and enjoy the beauty //of the view. of our creator. of the journey. of the fact that there is an alternate route down.

After coming down from the mountain [and days after the stress declines] I am able to digest the significance of such a journey.  I learned a lot [beside double checking weather reports and trail difficulty ahead of time] on Precipice Trail.  I learned 

that my body is capable of more than I think //go orangutan arms and billy goat legs.
that I am strong
and I am weak.
that I am more confident when I focus on just the next step
than on the whole mountain.
that i have an incredible hiking companion
who patiently supports me.
that when the journey is hard
my vulnerabilities surface [and that’s OK].
that nature is powerful
and so am I.
that fear protects me from carelessly stepping on slippery surfaces
and it [fear] cripples my ability to see the beauty around me.
that trepidation is heightened when I give in to it
but breathing deeply and connecting to my source of strength [my god] helps.
that as much as I love adventure and exhilaration, i need to be grounded;
i yearn for a solid foundation, a rock on which i can rest.
and 
that only when I have a rock on which to rest, a foundation on which to lie,
can I enjoy the view, appreciate the journey and see the magnificence of my creator revealed.  And this, this is why I’m here.

Photo by Jeff Dollard