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I could feel my emotional baggage pulling me down as I maneuvered up a
nearly vertical gully. Gravel slid from beneath my feet as I scrambled to
gain my footing while I dodged rocks kicked down from the patrol members
above me. As I slid down three feet an instructor ahead of me offered his ski
pole for support but instead managed to jab me in the face. It was the
final straw. "I can't do this anymore!" I shouted as the rest of my group
ambled up and over the crest of the mountain. I plummeted down pack first and
cried for the first time in three years.
I slowly composed myself enough to make my way over the crest as
well, ignoring all comfort offered by my comrades. I cried ten more times in
the first nine days of my Outward Bound twenty-two day mountaineering course
in the High Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. Mostly I would cry when I
was writing in my journals. I sat atop boulders thinking through all of the
unresolved issues in my life. Just before junior year I nearly lost my
father to heart disease, and with it lost a sense of stability. I never
emotionally processed that lack of control, which slowly began to show
itself. I let my grades drop because they had become simply letters on paper
to me. Once my grades began dropping I started taking on responsibilities
that I didn't enjoy trying to prove to everyone around me that I had the
control that I secretly longed for. I volunteered to be Vice President of the
Political Science Club, as well as of the Outdoors Club, to practice soccer
everyday, to hold down a weekend job and to manage a youth website at my
community center. I ended up spreading myself thin among causes and people
that I wasn't passionate about. With each day I could feel the ground
beneath me slipping more and more but told no one. That buried anxiety made
my pack heavier than I could imagine.
On the eleventh day our assignment included climbing up and over
Alta peak. As navigator for the day, I examined the peak from below. Rather
than roll my eyes and trudge unwillingly up the mountain, I began to dissect
it piece by piece. To the surprise of my patrol, I began plotting our path
around ridges, contouring up along the face to the pass. I planned out where
we would rest and set time goals. Previously I had seen the peaks as hurdles
that we had to jump in order to get to camp; now I was seeing them more as
puzzles to solve. When solving a puzzle the first two pieces one picks up
rarely fit together. I realized the same applied when my initial path
actually fell through, and many of the assumptions that I had made about the
terrain were incorrect. But that was okay. Maybe I hadn't read the map
correctly, or I hadn't listened when somebody had suggested a different
route. Only a few days earlier I would have cried when that happened, but I
realized I had no time to feel sorry for myself when my patrol depended on
me.
By course end I had fallen 26 times, cried 14 times, and sprained
both ankles twice. My instructors told me they were sure I was going to go
home after the first week. Truthfully, that first week I really did want to
go home. But I knew that I couldn't leave. I signed up for this trip because
I needed to know who I was beneath my façade, and because I knew I
could not learn that in a comfortable environment. I hiked distances and
scaled peaks that I would never even have considered attempting and gained
self-confidence as a result. With each 14,000-foot peak that I conquered I
was able to test my own personal limitations. I know what I am capable of,
and what I am passionate about. I am more at peace than I have ever been
before. I have trimmed my extracurricular schedule down to those activities
that I enjoy. I still play soccer and work on the website at my community
center most days of the week, but now set aside ample time to do my homework
as well as just relax. I no longer view grades as letters on paper; like
those High Sierra peaks that once dissuaded me as well, I see them as
challenges as well as marks of accomplishments.
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