Nowhere To Go But Up
Remember that one time I drunk-climbed a mountain in Italy?
No?
Well, let’s fix that. It’s a hell of a story.
Picture it.
A morning boat ride down the Mediterranean Coast of Cinque Terre, Italy.
Our tour guide - Alessandro - was a tall, handsome, boat-commanding Italian who quickly calmed our nerves with his charming wit, his gentle demeanor, and his endless supply of Prosecco.
After an hour and a half tour down the coast, we docked the boat for lunch in Vernazza, where we were served several courses of pasta and insalata and seafood straight out of the sea that lay at our feet. There were bottles of wine and cappuccino and semifreddo that left us asking for the “whole freddo.” After hours of lunch, full of fresh seafood and fairly drunk, my wife and I decided to forego the boat ride back down the coast, and opted instead to walk the trail between Vernazza and Corniglia.
Now, in our defense, we were …. ummm… gently nudged toward the idea by our well-intentioned waiter, who - given the benefit of hindsight and sobriety - no longer looks as trustworthy as I recall.
But I definitely look as drunk as I remember.
However, I digress……..
Jose the Waiter assured us that our trek was a nice, light, easy adventure that promised the most incredible views we’d ever seen. When asked if we would be able to handle it in our current state, he replied with certainty, “Of course, Bella!” I mean, he called me beautiful, so obviously this guy was telling the truth.
We did have the presence of mind to check the guidebook before we set off. It claimed our trail
was rated as “average,” and so deciding that we were still at least average, we determined this mountainside was no match for us.
We invited the rest of our crew to come, but the majority wisely declined when they laid eyes on this staircase that marked the beginning of our journey.
Chickens.
We did, however, recruit a couple of other good souls (both gratefully sober) to accompany us on our trek. And so, bolstered by Tuscan vino and a false sense of confidence, we started climbing.
Here’s what happened next:
Confidence still intact at minute 5 of our hillside journey.
Confidence waning at minute 15.
Confidence replaced by despair at minute 27 when we discovered we had climbed approximately 1.7 million steps only to be confronted by more steps.
That’s right I said steps. We hadn’t even made it to the actual mountainside yet. We were still climbing steps.
We were winded. Panting. Dripping sweat. But still determined, so onward we climbed.
For 20 more steps.
Then we stopped to reconcile with the inevitability that this might actually be the end.
But our sober traveling companions resolved to press on, so we brought up the rear, our pores weeping Prosecco every step of the way.
And somewhere as the steps gave way to mountainside, we began to realize there was no way for us to turn around now. There was nowhere to go but up, winding alongside this mountain that had become as unforgiving as my booze-filled bladder.
Along the way, we passed small groups of people coming the opposite direction, headed back down toward the town where we’d enjoyed our lunch. We interrogated every single one of them, begging for some quantifiable estimate to help us understand how much further we had to go.
And not one of those people offered us a single ounce of consolation. They just kept saying the same thing over and over…
“You’re almost there. The halfway point is just around the corner.”
Fuck that noise. HalfWAY?!? HALFWAY?!? This much effort absolutely should have warranted a round trip or two… not less than halfway.
But still, with few choices in front of us, we put one foot in front of the other, until….. we SAW IT.
The Halfway Point
a beautiful cafe that served limón granita and acqua naturale and boasted one of the single most spectacular views I have encountered in Italy.
I was speechless (mostly because there was so little oxygen inflating my lungs) and overwhelmed with gratitude for having survived the adventure. I sat in that space, staring at a landscape so surreal it became quite easy to believe that I was a character in a book or a figure in a painting. No one person should get to take in all of that beauty, yet there I was… letting it soak into my skin.
I felt whole.
Held.
A part of something bigger than me, but also the biggest part of the whole thing.
I don’t know how long we stayed…. it felt both far too long, and over in a moment…. but eventually, we stood and prepared for our descent downhill toward the next town.
Walking out of that cafe, I realized I felt a bit weak-kneed…. yes, from the exertion of the climb, but also because I was beginning to realize what I had just accomplished.
I had climbed up the side of this mountain. All 250+ pounds of me. Sweating, panting, fearing death or at least permanent disability, but I climbed it. And it was exhilarating and exhausting and breathtaking and terrifying.
And in that moment outside of the cafe - wide awake from the certainty that something sacred had just happened all around me, I remembered something I’d always known without ever being told:
We can climb mountains
so long as we don’t know how high we have to climb.
If you had told me that I would climb over 80 flights through a 5 mile hike after one (maybe 1.5-ish) bottles of wine in the blazing hot Tuscan sun on a Thursday in April, I would not only think you were a liar, but a mean-spirited liar at that. I have three teenage kids, no time to go to Tuscany, and haven’t climbed higher than the second floor of our house in a decade.
But I did it
because I didn’t know what I was facing and there was nowhere to go but up.
As I sit in my home, safely tucked under a blanket with a cup of hot tea, reminiscing on that glorious trip to Italy, I’m reminded of the lesson on that mountainside so many years ago.
It feels important again, as we look forward at the days ahead, where the only certain thing is uncertainty. In some ways, we are all looking up a staircase with no clue where it leads, staring down the narrow hall of impending economic insecurity or just straight on at our own inevitable mortality.
But having already survived a mountain climb or two during my days, there are a few things I want you to know about the steps ahead of us:
I want you to know the journey might suck a ton, so much so that it will knock the wind from your chest.
And that there could be very few places to rest.
And sometimes the destination never comes at all.
But I also want you to remember there is always a hell of a view along the way.
There is always an extraordinary way to see an ordinary world. And after my trek up the mountainside in Italy, I swore I’d never miss a view again because I was afraid I couldn’t complete the climb.
So, friends, let’s keep climbing. There is nowhere to go but up and I’m certain I won’t survive it on my own.