From June to July, my family is never in the same spot for more than three days. Ever since middle school, I have spent my summers road-tripping, traveling from campsite to campsite across the country. At first, that drove me wild. I hated camping under the stars in a sleeping bag, preferring to be in my own bed, safe and comfortable and – most importantly – home. I couldn’t stand that our activity of choice was hiking when all I wanted to do was read on the couch. When we first began to road-trip, I was too accustomed to the ordinary to truly embrace the new, extraordinary opportunities that were laid before me.
That hesitation followed me for the first few summers. Once, my family members collectively decided it would be a fantastic idea to jump into the freezing water of the Yellowstone River. I disagreed. When it was my turn, I took a few running steps, my muscles coiled to jump, and proceeded to bail at the last second. While everyone else piled in, I balked time and again at the prospect of submerging myself into its glacial depths. Finally, the shame of my sister’s teasing proved too much, and I squeezed my eyes shut and threw myself off the edge. The water was just as cold as I had imagined, and swimming the five necessary strokes to return to the shore was just as miserable as I had feared. But when I had a fresh, comparatively warm towel wrapped around me, I was forced to face the fact that my family was right; I was glad to have jumped in. The fear in the moment faded away once I took the necessary leap of faith. That was perhaps the first time I learned that what was uncomfortable in the moment was worth it in the long run. I’m proud to say that now whenever we are faced with glacier rivers or lakes, I am the first one to jump.
I had just started admitting to myself that spending my summers in the woods was fun when our adventures became more extreme: we started backpacking. We would pack all the bare necessities for surviving four nights in the wilderness into one massive backpack, which stretched from my neck to my hips. I enjoyed the Tetris-like process of arranging my tent, sleeping bag, clothes, dehydrated meals, snacks, and many water bottles to perfection in the one backpack. I dreaded actually using them. Once the bags were packed, we would leave the car (and its air conditioning) behind, and hike for days, only stopping when the sun began to set so we could pitch our tents. The worst part wasn’t even the achy hips and feet after a long day’s miles, nor the fact that I would have to do it all over again if I ever wanted to get off the trail. It was the food. Tasteless, powdered meals, rehydrated with hot water that never quite got the job done, greeted me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If I hadn’t missed home thus far into the summer, the second day of backpacking food usually did the trick.
But even the torture of backpacking was surmountable when I reached the top of the mountain, my breathing shallow, and looked down on the world. Even the most painful climbs to the peak dimmed in the glory of the views that awaited me. Yet again, I found that the discomfort during the moment turned into sheer satisfaction after it was over, and pushing myself to accomplish something I hadn’t wanted to at the time was always worth it. I enjoy the journey to the top even more when I am the one setting the pace. I generally maintain the lead when we hike because I have the freedom to go as fast as my legs can carry me, and it is my own motivation and drive pushing me to do so. I am not following anyone else’s pace but my own, and when I summit the mountain, that fact makes it even more rewarding. With the unfortunate exception of when I walk through spider webs, and have to endure the paranoia of something crawling all over me. I regret my choice to lead every time that happens — but even that hasn’t fully deterred me yet.
Last summer, my family and I backpacked the Maroon Bells via the Four Pass Loop in Colorado. It is infamously challenging, though absolutely stunning. The hike involved summiting four mountains in four days, each soaring over 12,000 feet into the air. The day we were supposed to launch, helicopters were circling the peaks overhead, looking for a person who had fallen. I remember thinking, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” But from the wildflowers to the wildlife, to the blue lakes and the rolling green hills, the physical difficulty of the Four Pass Loop was outshone by the beauty of the outdoors. It was overwhelming to turn around and see the expanse of the mountain I just climbed, and often the tiny figures of my family still winding their way up the trail. And after the final mountain, when we returned to base camp, the feeling of accomplishment was unparalleled…at least, after twelve hours of sleep when emotions besides exhaustion became possible again.
I have become entirely too accustomed to the extraordinary. Why climb a hill when it is possible to summit a mountain? My incredible summers spent in nature have spoiled me to the mundane things, because I now constantly crave the feeling of falling asleep to the rustling of trees in the wind, and waking to the sweet melodies of songbirds. The boundaries of my world are no longer restrained to the physical walls and ceiling of my house, but have broadened to mountains and rivers and forests. Even now, as I face the unknown and overcome what began as uncomfortable, I find myself constantly pushing the boundaries further to pursue the extraordinary in my life.