Wednesday was supposed to be easy. The First Descents camp directors had scheduled a “day off” the rocks, to give us time to recuperate from Tuesday’s fun, and to give us all a chance to hang out and have some fun (more fun, that is). I’m not sure what “easy” schedule they were working from, but the “day off” started with an (optional) drive to the top of Rocky Mountain National Park to watch the sun rise (freezing; early; stayed in bed). Next was a late breakfast after an 8:30 yoga class.
Yoga – I’ve got this one. While not a tri-weekly practicer, I’ve been known to rock a reverse triangle pose or two. I was excited to 1) stretch out my really tight hamstrings; and 2) prove I wasn’t a total slug decimated by treatments and high altitude. How the mighty have fallen: by the second sun salutation I was gasping in child’s pose on the mat. The (very inspirationally fit) instructor’s breathing directions (“Slow breath in as you rise; exhale and touch the mat in forward fold,”) mocked me, as it took three inhalations and exhalations to complete each bend.
By the end of the practice, I was in corpse pose on the mat, blinking back tears of frustration at my inability to do ANYTHING. How the hell was I going to make a multi-pitch climb up an enormous rock the next day, when I couldn’t even finish a simple sun salutation?
Fortunately, the cinnamon-bread-hot-apple-compote french toast breakfast helped quiet my concerns for a while. The main planned activity of the day was a drive (whew!) up into the Park to 12,000 feet, with an optional hike or two. Since I seemed to have reserved my seat (“Shotgun!”) for the duration, I had an amazing view as the road got narrower and less paved. It’s amazing how BIG everything is in the West. When we stopped above the treeline so the willing (and waterproof) could hike the last thousand feet to the summit, I had a few quiet moments in the van with CMS guide Li’l Bits. He asked me if I was nervous about the “graduation” climb the next day, and I admitted my suspicions about my endurance. He said, “I want you to take some time with the idea of us carrying you up the approach so you can save your energy for the climb.” (My emphasis.)
Here’s my thing. Having grown up as “the one who doesn’t do much,” I’m a little prideful about my activity level, even as a cancer patient. Voted “Class Couch Potato” in high school and known for saying, “I”ll be here when you come down” on family hikes, the picking’s been ripe with me and not-achieving-athletically. So to have people I’ve only known for three days peg me as the physical underachiever in the group, whatever the reason, stung. A lot. Having one of the staff carry my backpack up the hill, or bring an air mattress for me to take a nap (!) was one thing, but letting them take on hauling my sick carcass up the hill to the rock face? Another thing entirely.
I realized, as I found myself explaining furiously to Li’l Bits how uncomfortable the whole idea made me, that no one in this group considered me a slug. No one thought that I was slacking off the climbing so I’d have more energy to… I don’t know, nap later. The longer I sat with the idea of getting a ride (all the way back down the mountain, through the snow and incredible scenery, past rutting elk and moronic tourists), the more sense it made: this was a rock-climbing camp, and the team of amazing volunteers, staff, and guides were doing their jobs by making sure everyone in the group succeeded at getting up that hill. By letting go of my pride, I was offering success not only to myself but to the whole team. (After all, “Life is full of setbacks…“)
After a solid hour-long nap, I was ready for the team outing to the nearby microbrewery (not to mention a diet Coke and some fries. The vegan organic food was DELICIOUS, but after a while a girl just needs some aspartame and some sat fats). In the ensuing three hours (during which I sipped a third of a beer and guzzled water, thank-you-very-much), I laughed harder and more frequently than I have in at least ten years. There were pranks delivered, great jokes told, toasts drunk, patrons scandalized. And we were all home in time for (another outstanding) dinner. By which point I had thoroughly settled into my role as sedan-chair princess: I was even protesting loudly (tongue-in-cheek) that I refused to climb any simple path on the grounds that the First Descents camp was billed as a rock-climbing camp and that hiking was not in my contract – if they wanted me on the rock, they’d have to get me there themselves. During the three days of the camp, I had reached the magic tipping point (or whatever) of First Descents: these people, whom you may only have known for seventy-two hours, care not one iota what you do for a living, what body parts you are missing, how close you are to dying. What they want is for everyone to KICK ASS at the rock-climbing and for the whole team to be up there, together, at the end of the day, cheering on your teammates and reveling in your success.
My battle had become, not pushing myself past the definition society had put me into of “cancer patient”, but holding myself back from doing all the things I wanted to and had hoped to when I signed up, because the destination was more important than the journey.
Photo courtesy Wiki
Next: The Longest Day