Staying In The Moment

“Are you Repunzel?” My friend Gloria’s 10-year-old daughter asked me as she stared at my long blonde hair. "You look a little like Repunzel."

“No. I’m not,” but I might could have let your momma use my hair as a rope today, I thought as I began to process the adventure Gloria and I had just undertaken.

For the last few years, Gloria and I have said, “We should hike Mount Cheaha!” Life, as it always does for everyone, came first because we never set a date, never committed, and left it as a dream to “one day.”

One day is not how I like living.

A few months back, one of us said it again. I paused and thought about it. “Gloria? Let’s actually go hiking,” I said. “What weekend could we make this happen?”

She thought about it and we set a date. As it grew closer, we watched the weather forecast.

“Hey, are you still wanting to come?” Gloria asked me. “It’s supposed to storm all weekend.”

“Uhm…” I should probably say no. Hiking in an Alabama thunderstorm is perhaps the stupidest idea I’ve ever had…There’s that word again….

Stupid.

Fear never comes at you and says, “I’m afraid.” It whispers, “This is stupid.”

“Yes! I’m coming. And I will pray I bring the blue skies with me!” I drove up to Birmingham, Alabama, doing just that.

The next morning, Gloria and I both bolted up in our respective beds to the sound of lightning breaking the sound barrier. Damn.

Both of us were disappointed as we laughed and made breakfast together: stirring eggs, browning sausage, plating fresh raspberries and strawberries, sipping our coffees, and staring at the blackened sky, doing its best to block out the sun.

“There’s suppose to be a small break in the storms this afternoon. It will still be raining, but the worst might be over,” Gloria said, looking apprehensive. “I think we should go. The views from the car are still pretty.”

We’ve never done this kind of thing together before, physical activity that exerts you, that has the potential to bring out the worst version of you. We were both testing where we stood on the issue. And we were both trying to respect what we each were willing to commit to doing.

As for me, though, it would have to be a hurricane to keep me in the car---and maybe not even that. But I wasn’t going to force that on my friend if she didn’t feel safe to go. She likewise knew my hand had nerve damage and that it's particularly sensative to the cold and was being cautious about what would be best for me.

“You know rain makes the colors of the forest pop in photographs," I dared her. We both love photography.

The biggest smile I've ever seen appeared on her face. “You make our water bottles. I’m going to grab the backpack!” Gloria disappeared, and we both scrambled to put our shoes on and get out the door.

We made the hour drive through back country roads, diverting when there was a bridge out, wondering if this was a great idea or a stupid one. I suspect most would say stupid. But I already know I'm not most people. And neither is Gloria. We can honor our word when we give it---come hell or high water.

When we finally made it to Mt. Cheaha State Park, the wind blasted us in the face, pushing my hoodie back and trying to take off my hat. The rain felt like ice in the low 50s temps. I shivered and chastised myself for not paying closer attention to Mount Cheaha’s forecasts instead of the greater area of Birmingham temps that were in the mid-60s.

I zipped up my fleece-lined, water “resistant,” light-weight jacket and set my mindset, just as I did for my 24 hr walk: “I didn’t come to Mount Cheaha to sit on my heated seats in my Tahoe. Nor did I come for the sunshine. I came to hike with my friend. To take in the sights that the mountain would give. As the beauty of creation restored our souls.” This was my word I'd given to Gloria and myself, and I would honor them.

We walked the boardwalk to Bald Rock, saluting Old Glory along the way. My thin leggings did nothing to stop the chill. Gloria shivered. And we acclimated quietly.

"I know you're my Gritty-Jen, but I thought you might like this..." She handed me a hand warmer. And I couldn't have loved her more.

Gloria shared sweet stories of the last time she’d been there with Jackson. It had been snowing, and the roads were still icy in spots. Their car had started to slide into a ravine. And he’d shouted out in his dramatic tone, “No! This isn’t how I’d thought I would die!” Gloria laughed, making me chuckle. Jackson had turned a scary moment lighter. He was funny like that.

We both sighed deeply as memories of Jackson's actual death flooded our thoughts.

We kept walking, taking the heaviness of grief with us. Jackson was a unique kid. Very direct. And he struggled to navigate the world with mean-spirited miserable people who take their shit out on others.

It got to be too much for him, and he ended his days at the tender age of 15. His birthday is this week. He would have turned 18. Gloria is one of my most beloved friends. Her love for people and her family was what drew me to her when we met nearly 10 years ago.

It broke my heart to attend Jackson’s funeral. To sit at his grave with her after most had left. To listen, as she tells her story of hell that no mother ever wants to endure.

She never dumps on me, though. I almost always have to ask and give her permission to be honest. She hates feeling like a burden. Hates how her grief can make her feel heavy to be around. She’s so good at caring for others, hence the hand warmer in my pocket. But for this weekend, I wanted to take care of her. To let her cry in the open. Not in a closet or behind some closed-off bathroom door, alone. Hiking is something we love doing. However, this particular Mountain would be an emotional rollercoaster of good and profoundly sad memories.

I had made her a promise. No matter how hard her emotions came out, we were just going to walk where Jackson had once walked. Creating new memories to share the space with the old ones, even the traumatic ones. To remind ourselves that just because something is heavy and hard, doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.

The view of the valley was spectacular. We could still see the storm rolling across the area. The fog and mist it left in its wake were stunning. The forest did not disappoint. And as we walked the mountain, nearly everywhere Gloria looked, she had a memory of Jackson, laughing and exploring. We could almost hear him.

We walked the gravel path on the way back. Crunching it below our feet. The rain had washed it. Making the colors pop. Some pieces were grey and lifeless. Others were green and sparkled as the light waxed and waned. One caught my eye. It was white with streaks of red and pink.

It reminded me of the cross, of how our faith in salvation is also a faith of healing through overcoming. Many Christians will boast in salvation—the ones who will say, “I asked for forgiveness. I’m saved. I have my ticket to heaven. Done.”

I subscribe more to the faith without works is dead mentality and that the works of faith and salvation are more akin to torture. That is to say, the torture of your excuses. Jesus said the path of salvation is rough, rarely trodden, full of thorns and hardships. It’s the path of risk. Sacrifice. Obstacles. Fear. And it’s hard…

I picked up the stone with rivers of red that only revealed themselves after the water hits it, kind of like a person does when the storms of life hit, and I waited.

Gloria and I cried on that gravel path. The wind whipped away our tears as fast as they would drop. We stared down the crippling emotions. The fear. The pain. And we took another step. Together. Writing a new story.

She thanked me when the tears stopped flowing. She thanked me for coming out in the rain, which had turned into a mist that was easily getting through my one-layer leggings and lightweight jacket.

I shrugged with a smile as she brushed another stray tear away. “I’m sorry.” She said, pointing to her tears that didn't want to stop flowing. Apologizing for feeling all the feels of grief. “Is your hand cold? You look cold. Maybe we should head back…” She shifted her body weight from foot to foot. But this was one of the things we had come to the mountain to do.

I handed her the rock. “We didn’t come here to be comfortable,” I replied. And I meant it. I didn’t give a damn how cold it was. “We came to walk. We came to overcome. We came for the views. And we came to take photographs of the things that make us happy. The cold means nothing.” I turned, found something interesting to photograph, and left her to do the same.

We found beauty we never would have seen in the sunlight. Like the fog. Like resurrection ferns coming back to life before our eyes. And the greenest moss that practically vibrated off the forest floor. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Personally, I was obsessed with the different paths. Mossy paths. Root paths. Stone paths. I looked back to see Gloria hunched over a tree stump, shooting the prettiest mushrooms.

Eventually, we made our way back to the car for a break from the wind and decided to make our way to another trail. An errant thought skidded across my mind. Hmm...I wonder. I pulled out my phone and googled it.

“Gloria?” I showed her my map with a little dot in the middle of nowhere. “There’s a waterfall 20 miles away.”

Her face lit up. “Do you wanna go?”

“Yes!” I nodded vigorously.

We ran back to the car, left Cheeha, and wandered into Talledega National Forrest, otherwise known as the back country roads of Alabama. The only sign we saw was the tiniest wooden one, nailed to a tree, on the shoulder of a road that wasn’t truly big enough to be considered "two lanes." It read: “Falls Trail. No kids. No dogs.”

My eyes narrowed. “Must be a steep trail.” I looked over at my friend. She looked as determined as I felt. I locked the car. Tugged the ruck tight against my back. And we set off.

The “trail” looked more like an erosion path from the rain. It was indeed steep and most definitely not “well” traveled.

At times, Gloria and I stopped to look around. We didn’t know where the trail was leading. Nor could we see our way back. We could only see what was directly in front of us. So we kept walking. Very much aware that we only had about an hour and a half of daylight and under the tree canopy that trail was going to be a bitch of a thing to follow in the dark.

And then…

Another sign marked the way, "Danger: Hazardous Falls." The path went from dirt and roots to switchbacks, 3 feet wide, with stone walls on one side and sudden drops on the other. And absolutely no cell service.

I gulped.

I could hear the falls. The white water rapids were singing. However, one wrong move was all it would take, and we would be in Barney.

In my mind's eye, I could see a memory, I could hear Thom Shea's voice in my thoughts. “What are you focused on?” He’d asked us during the 24-hour walk in South Carolina.

“Rocks. Roots. My footing,” was the answer.

“Good. Stay in the moment. If your thoughts wander, stop and refocus. You get hurt when you’re not in the moment.”

Good mentors have a way of popping into my thoughts when I need their advice most. I refocused my thoughts and looked back at Gloria. I wasn't sure what she was thinking, but I could tell she wasn't in the moment, so I took the lead.

“Gloria? Put your camera away." She looked stunned as she looked at her hand that had a death grip around her phone, immediately storing it in her zippered pocket. Her eyes looked less thousand-yard stare and more honed in on me. "Keep your hands free and hold the wall. 3 points of contact always. We only focus on our steps. We have to stay in the moment.” Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she was with me. “Do you remember how to breakfall from JiuJitsu?” I asked, as she is a fellow female who has learned the art. But I knew she’d taken a break from it, and I wanted the method of how to fall in the safest way possible fresh in her mind.

She nodded. "It wasn't my favorite drill, but I know it."

“If we stumble, that is the only way I see how we survive. Breakfall.” Once again, I tightened my ruck, making sure it was snug against my body, keeping the center of gravity where it belonged.

We kept going, slowly, testing each step. Always keeping three points of contact, I stayed glued to her so that if either of us stumbled, we could hold each other up---another JiuJitsu lesson: get close.

We made it to the top of the falls. Neither of us slipped for even a moment. The violent tenacity of the waterfall overwhelmed our senses. The spray on our faces, the humidity in our lungs, the sturdy rock beneath our feet, the cacphony of white rapids blocking out all other sounds. We sat and drank it all in, letting it calm our souls and restore our hearts the way water always does. For nothing can truly stand against it for long.

We giggled and threw our fists in the air, feeling the success of our goal. We’d come to hike. And boy, had we.

We explored the riverside. I made my way, jumping across the water to the big rocks in the middle. The view was breathtaking. Even better than Mt. Cheaha. But I love the water more than any other element.

I pulled my phone out, staying perfectly still to photograph it before putting it away and making my way back. Gloria had been quite sure I would fall and get sucked over the side. And I had been quite sure that if I missed, I was going to be miserable hiking back in wet, cold shoes.

Neither happened.

I jumped back over the rocks and grinned, knowing I had a treasured photograph to take home that was the hardest one I'd ever worked for.

The climb up was brutal. We were soaked with sweat and filthy. And as soon as we were out of the switchbacks, we shed our layers as fast as we could, gasping for air and swearing we were going to double down on cardio again.

Promises, promises.

We sat on the tree that had twisted in the winds and fallen across our path to catch our breaths. My watch read 0.75 of a mile. But it felt like we’d hiked for 20. And I would know. I’ve hiked 40 miles for 24 hours with two Navy SEALs before. My mantra for the whole day had been, “If I could do that. I can do this.”

The 24-hour walk had once again been a pivotal foundation for me.

We got back to the car, no longer needing seat warmers. We blasted music as we traveled down the Alabama mountains back home.

We were high as kites laughing our butts off.

“That was so dangerous!”

“I bet people have died there.”

“Can’t believe we just did that.”

“This was the BEST day!”

We giggled again, feeling how our shoulders had lightened as we'd left the mountain. For somewhere along the path, we'd laid a heavy burden down. We'd pushed out the intrusive complications of life and stayed in the moment. With one thought only, "the next step." It was simple and far from easy. Hard things, risky things are gift-givers. Each time you do something hard, new life bursts forth. It heals your soul the way nothing else does. Conversely, seeking comfort prevents you from the extraordinary and is a slow death.

Our day was an adventure that was equally beautiful as it was uncomfortably hard. It was an adventure that rewarded us with splendor and overwhelming tranquility and a deepening of friendship that only doing this kind of thing can forge.

I finished the last steps of the path with a Citizen Solider song in my head. The song is titled Burden. There’s a lyric in it that sums up how I feel about my close friends, the ones I’m willing to stop everything and run to if they need me:

“I would rather die than watch you drown in tears you need to cry...I’d rather hear your hell than see your funeral…you are not a burden to me.”

It’s something I wish Jackson’s friends had understood and been willing to do for him. And it’s a prayer for my friends whose struggles are so painful that intrusive thoughts sneak in from time to time. It's how I feel about my friends who've lost their babies. A prayer for our veterans who feel isolated and alone. Sucide rates have skyrocketed in recent years. Every strong person I've ever known has two things to say: isolation kills, and hard things should never be done alone. We need each other.

Gloria’s hell is never a burden for me to listen to. Nor is taking her up a mountain in freezing rain and wind storms. Or hiking switchbacks carved by water against stone. I'd rather have Gloria than a thousand good-time friends.

And I pray that you, whoever you are that reads this, that you will be inspired to be the kind of person who loves your people so much that you ditch your comfort to walk in the rain when your friend needs you to. That you be the person who listens to their hell and says, "I will walk through it with you so that you are not alone." That you get to experience the bond of sisterhood or brotherhood that doing hard things together creates.

While this story was about our experience, Gloria and I hope it inspires you to deepen your relationships and find the friends who can honor their word and who will walk with you in your hardest moments.

With Love,

J & G