What I carried, carried me

A young Australian, climbing with his father, said that if he made it no higher than Kibo, at least he would feel that he had accomplished more than he thought he was capable of doing. Perhaps we were all there to learn that we are capable of something more.

I was still trying to sort things out when the call for the final ascent came. The temperature was cold enough to freeze the water we carried in our packs.

Bundled in enough clothes to weather a high-plains blizzard, headlamps burning, we left in the dark of midnight.

The goal was to reach Gilman's Point at 18,500 feet in about six hours, sunrise. Then, if still of sound body and mind, we'd continue another one or two hours to the summit, Uhuru Peak. I decided that I was there to honor the mountain, not myself. I was there to learn whether I might be capable of more than I thought I was.

There was no moon, but the heavens were brilliant, ablaze with stars. Ahead and above us, groups of climbers moved up the steep slope, flashlights twinkling, miniature earth-stars on the side of an ancient volcano.

Climbing in silence, as if in a candlelight procession, we ascended, each one honoring the mountain in his or her own fashion, one step at a time.

Over the years, I have planted many trees on my farm in Michigan - hand-planted more than 35,000 trees, to be exact. Planting trees is a solitary exercise, too. When you plant trees all day, boredom and fatigue may set in. At those times I have questioned my endeavor. Why am I doing this, when I will never see the full fruit of my labors?

So I occupy myself with planting trees for others - my wife, children, grandchildren, relatives, friends. "This one is for so-and-so," I say. "This one is for so-and-so."

The day goes faster. I feel better; it keeps me planting trees. I have planted a forest in the names of others. Even in your name, whether I know you or not, because the trees are there for your benefit, too. In the process, I have learned I can do things for others that are hard to do for myself, and that it is often easier doing things for others than for oneself.

Something like that happened on the climb. It was a solitary exercise. No one could do it for you. The final eight hours gave plenty of time for reflection. In that time I recalled all those who had helped me get there - my wife, my children, my friend Dave - and all those who, in one way or another throughout the years, believed in me, who thought I could do challenging things.

Some are no longer with me - my parents, a brother, and a sister - but they were there, too. The inspiration of everyone was there with me, encouraging me, cheering me on, supporting and sustaining me, helping me. I was not going alone.

In return, I was taking them where they might never venture or would not otherwise be. The adventure took on new meaning. We were going up together, and in the process I was honoring them. A hard task became a little easier.

Together we were honoring the mountain. The endeavor wasn't just for me; it was for all of us. I made it to the top, a little behind Dave. Only then did I begin to understand my motivation fully: I had to go up higher. I had to be reminded that I am capable of more than I imagine. I can do for others what I cannot do for myself. There is no accomplishment without love of the enterprise. There is no accomplishment without acknowledging the role of others in your success.

Page: 1 | 2