I looked at my watch and realized we’d been on the trail for less than 20 minutes—a mere 10% of our planned hike. That’s all? Then why do my lungs feel like they are going to explode? I pushed my palms into my thighs each time I took another step and gritted my teeth.
I hadn’t anticipated such a steep incline so early. Where was the easy part? Was there even an easy part? Looking at the hoards of people around us, there had to be an easy part, right? I recalled noticing kids and senior citizens here when the bus dropped us off.
I’d agreed to this inaugural trip to Yosemite for my friend’s birthday, but had left all the planning to her. I didn’t even know which trail we would tackle first until the day before we arrived, and I hadn't so much as typed the name into a web browser. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn’t.
This is like going up a never-ending set of stairs. I don’t even have a single staircase in my house. Come to think of it, when was the last time I’d gone up a flight of stairs?
As I was sweating through my clothes, I noticed a woman enter my field of vision. She was descending the trail in what could only be described as business casual trousers, pumps, and—no joke—nylons. I lost all decorum and stared at her incredulously the entire time she walked past.
Did the others in my group feel like this already? Clearly nylons-lady didn’t. (Or else there was an elevator up ahead?) Was I a total loser? My muscles screamed. My lungs ached. My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. If this was how I felt 21 minutes into two solid days of hiking, clearly there was zero chance of me completing this trip.
A few minutes later I couldn’t take it anymore and pulled up next to a large tree. “I. Need. A. Break,” I attempted to speak intelligently amidst heavy breathing. No one said anything, but they moved away from the crowds, took big gulps of water, and stood next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered without making eye contact, not yet willing to share my sense of total defeat, especially since they didn’t seem to be struggling like me.
After a minute, my heart-rate stabilized a bit, and I motioned I was ready to go.
Once again, I put my hands on my thighs and ascended the trail. Within 60 seconds, I was breathing heavy again. My brain told me to cry. But I couldn’t even muster the strength to do that. So I stared at my feet and kept going.
As we progressed further up the mountain, the crowds started to thin out. I retrieved the trekking poles I’d borrowed for the trip and put one foot in front of the other. Right. Left. Heel. Toe.
I worked harder to position myself next to my friend. As we came around a bend, I thought I recognized something in her expression. Wait, did she feel at all like I did?
As our eyes met, she offered a weak smile, “Maybe it’s the altitude?” At first I thought she was throwing me a bone, offering an explanation for why I struggled more than anyone else. I looked at the ground, feeling another wave of defeat. But then she stopped walking and added, “Maybe that’s why my lungs are burning so bad?”
Behind us, the other two had caught up and we all drank more water. Someone said her watch indicated her heart rate was over 175! The other confessed, “I’m so glad you said you wanted to take breaks. I thought it was only me!”
At it turned out, all four of us felt some level of significant pain, frustration, fatigue, and overwhelm. We all wondered, at times, why we had signed up for this. Even the birthday girl, who had been hiking in Yosemite at least a dozen times in the past 40 years, admitted she must have blocked out the tough parts because this felt way worse than she remembered.
I cannot put into words how much comfort this knowledge gave me. Just knowing others felt the same was enough to push back the overwhelm.
It is amazing how much easier a hard thing feels with the awareness of pain shared.
Here’s a photo snapped without any warning. (While I’m looking at the camera, I must tell you I had no thought other than this: just keep walking, Wendy. I don’t have any recollection of this photo being taken, and the look on my face is pretty telling.)
And here’s how we posed when demonstrating our thoughts about the trail so far.
Over the next two hours, we gradually made it to the top of our destination trail (Nevada Falls), where we captured this photo. The smile on my face here is completely genuine, despite having just climbed 600 granite steps and 2200 feet to achieve this elevation.
Back at the bottom of the trail, we finally noticed the huge sign advertising the various levels of difficulty. “Wait, which one did we do?” I asked.
“Vernal and Nevada Falls,” came the reply. After finding that one on the sign, all three of us whipped our heads around to glare at our friend. “You mean, the one listed as strenuous?” 😂😂😂
It’s a funny thing. Had she told me beforehand we would tackle a “strenuous” hike (nearly 30 years since I’d done anything similar), I would have balked for sure. No way could I do that! Too hard. Too painful. I shared my thoughts and the others agreed.
But, we did do it!
We did something we could have easily written off as impossible. And when I thought I was alone in my pain? I couldn’t even imagine the possibility of this achievement. But, alongside others sharing the burden and stress of this hard thing? Together, pain became tolerable and success became a reality. And I’m so, so grateful for the experience.
This got me wondering… what else have I written off, that might actually be possible—not alone, but together?
What about you?
This is so wise Wendy, I wholeheartedly agree.