St. Vrain Mountain and Collateral Shame
A lifelong friend and her son came out for a camping trip with me here in Colorado in August of 2017. On that trip we had planned to hike St. Vrain Mountain Trail. In preparation for the event, I washed down breakfast with a couple of high-powered beers. Gatorade, or water, is for the weak. After hiking for a mile or so, I really started to agonize over pain I was feeling in the ankle and arch of my right foot. The injury had been nagging me for a few months, and on this moderately steep trail, it was especially aggravated. I pushed through the pain and just took breaks when my friends wanted to catch their breath. At three miles, my stomach decided it wasn’t having a good time either. It was in knots, and I had not prepared myself for any “emergencies”. Suddenly, it was amateur hour, and I needed an exit strategy. I started conjuring up worthy excuses in my mind.
We sat down for PB&J sandwiches for lunch, and a young couple in their 20’s strolled by with camping gear on their backs. “You’re almost at the top,” one of them said. “Great views from up there.” I looked up at the horizon of scrub cedars and mountain grass scattered amongst the tannish-gray boulders, and decided there wasn’t enough of a view for my suffering to continue any longer. I told my friends that I thought we had gone far enough and still have 3 miles back to the truck, so if they didn’t mind, we could head down and go relax back at camp. They didn’t know any different, and had gotten some great looks and pictures over the valley and terrain we had already covered. To my relief, they agreed to head down. I sped ahead, knowing if I got to the truck first, I would have the proper material and time to relieve my issues and no one would be the wiser. My foot pain was the least of my concerns at this point, if anything, it helped me up the gear, and any shame in this would just be a drop in the bucket. Par for the course for my daily denials regarding the poor health conditions of my body and mind.
I got to the truck, ducked into the woods, and was back by the time they “completed” the hike. We exchanged high-fives, and I said to them, “Well, we can head into Lyons and hit the liquor store before we go back to camp, how does that sound?” They were on board, and we added a point to the adventure score for their trip. Collateral shame was all I had gained, and I added it to the pile.
Three years later, and about 5 months after getting sober, I went back to that hike. I developed a curiosity for what we had missed by turning around before topping out that day, so I returned to the trail at daybreak one morning to find out. I got to the 3 mile point this time with no foot pain, no stomach issues, and no excuses to turn back. On the way up, I was playing leap frog with a couple that were a few years older than me, and I told them I had never topped out. They told me it had been several years for them.
Just above tree-line, they peeled off for a small peak, and I continued on my course. Less than ten minutes later, maybe a half-mile at best, I crested the hill to reveal the most spectacular view I had ever seen on a hike in my life. Miles and miles of mountain peaks stretched the horizon that had been blocked from view during the entire ascent.
The Continental Divide in it’s overwhelming stature was just paralyzing. I literally stopped in my tracks and was blown away. The wind was howling, and the hairs on my neck had become electrified. I could not absorb what I was seeing with my eyes and experiencing in my soul. Right then, I felt the warmth of shame wash over me. My unhealthy condition had been limiting not only my productivity, but my overall life. Not just for me, but for the people that care about me and put in the effort to show up and stick around. It was an uncomfortable reality I had to face. I suck, we should go.
The extent of my selfishness, I realized in that moment, reached far beyond the beginning and end of that trail. It had infected every area of my life that I had quit or turned around on. Everyone around me was being sold short, and it all started with me. That is why I hike and take pictures along the way and all the way to the top. The pictures are my expression of a new view on life and my contributions. The best version of myself doesn’t quit, or drum up excuses. The best version of me continues to climb against all struggles to turn back, and leaves the collateral shame to settle in the dust kicked up from my boots.
