Tag: community

As I lay in the hammock this morning at a remote campsite in the Columbia River Gorge, I watched a tiny lizard scurry up the bark of a tree. I felt the warmth of the sun sneaking between the oak leaves and pine needles above. I heard the birds chattering from tree to tree. I wondered: does nature have good days and bad days? Of course not.

The truth is: there are just days.

Not the one-day-after-another monotony that we think of as “just days.”

24-hour periods marked by midnight. A continuous cycle without significance unless it’s disrupted by a major milestone like a wildfire. Or a flood. 

Somewhere along the way, I grasped onto the belief that there are good days and bad days. And I’ve been holding on to that idea ever since. A series of good days or good weeks was a successful trend. One bad day reset the ticker. For a while, I tried reframing the belief as “on” days and “off” days. But ultimately, off days still didn’t feel good. Whether physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually—definitely energetically—they felt bad. 

“Our thoughts are often reactions to our experience of the moment. We can be very quick to judge things as good or bad according to whether we find them pleasurable or painful. For most of us this is a very strong habit,” wrote mindfulness practitioner Nancy Bardacke.

A very strong habit indeed.

In the intensity of the last couple of months, I noticed this old habit popping up. Good days and bad days. 

And yet, once in nature, perspective is restored. 

While I was exploring the basalt cliffs and grassy fields of Washington throughout the weekend, I kept thinking about nature time. Or rather the lack of “time.” Along the trails, I read interpretive signs about the Missoula Floods that submerged parts of the Pacific Northwest for 55-year periods multiple times over the course of 2,000 years, some 15,000 and 13,000 years ago. Nature didn’t count these years, nonetheless the months, weeks or days, even though it’s evident in the geologic record. 

Nor experience these periods as endless bad days.

It simply adapted.

Cliffs were carved away, waterways were created, animals found ways to relocate. 

It is fascinating how we as humans complicate the simple state of being: 

In the moments that add up to every one of our days—there is pleasure and pain, feelings and thoughts, luck and misfortune. And underneath all that is the steady, constant life force of being. The only thing to do: experience it all one day after another. Live the day.

The cancellation of my team’s first Mt. Hood climb date last Monday was a reminder: the weather can’t be scheduled. Just like discomfort can’t be avoided. Days with discomfort or disappointment or frustration aren’t bad days. They’re just days. 

Not to be survived, but to be lived. 

Resisting only makes it worse. 

As Eckhart Tolle wrote: “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it.”

This is what nature does without even trying. 

Our new climb date is this Wednesday, which means I may be standing on the highest point in Oregon as West Coast folks sip their first cup of coffee on Thursday morning. 

Yes, that would be an extra-ordinary day. 

And, if I wake up in my bed at that time on Thursday, it will be a day too. 

May you chose every single moment this week, whether you like it or not. 

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

It was the perfect day to do the hardest hike in the Columbia River Gorge. I woke up on Saturday at 6 a.m. per usual and texted my teammate: I’m awake. 

As I showered, I thought about how this hike had lagged at the bottom of my hiking bucket list for years, easily avoidable with the excuse: I won’t be able to do it until I’m ready to climb Mt. Hood. Having trained for the past 20 months, intensively for the past seven weeks, I was now convinced that this hike was going to be harder than the actual climb. 

Could I do it? Who knows?

I had never even tried. 

Mount Defiance is notorious.

Starting at a mere 130 feet above sea level along Interstate 84 and the Columbia River and going 6.5 miles up to its 4,959-foot summit, Mount Defiance is the highest point normally recognized as being part of the Columbia River Gorge, according to Oregonhikers.org. The Mount Defiance-Starvation Ridge Loop Hike is commonly referred to as the most difficult day hike in our region. 

It was time to try. 

The sun was already wide awake and the parking lot completely full by 8 a.m. My BCEP 2021 team huddled to do a pre-flight check of the ten essentials (or eleven in my case—ahem, bubbles!). My instructors laughed when I said that I had packed everything we needed for the actual climb—helmet, crampons, harness, ice ax, snow layers—and kindly waited while I quickly put it all back in the trunk of my car. Well, that just got way easier. 

It’s only as hard as you make it. 

As we made our way basically straight up, one contour index line on the topographic map at a time, I noticed the wildflowers, the tweeting birds, the shades of green leaves, the scent of hot soil, the beams of sun breaking through the trees. And of course, my hamstring and glute muscles. 

But there was something missing. 

It took me a while to figure it out. There were no thoughts. 

My mind was as clear as the sky was blue. No complaints, no measuring time or distance, no bargaining, no distractions. Just paying attention to the trail, my needs and the world around me, and completely enjoying myself every challenging step of the way. All the way up and all the way down. Running the last half-mile to finish in exactly nine hours. Type 1 FUN all the way. It was such a perfect day. 

Could I do it? Who knew?

I had never even tried.

Until now. 

The farther along I get on this journey called life, the more I sense that whatever anybody else says or does in their life doesn’t matter for me. Only what is true for me.

Just like Mount Defiance, last week as a whole really challenged me to know this and act on it. It seemed like each day brought forth questions that challenged my faith or my intuition, or both. Sure others might provide help or support, but no one else has even been here, now, in this—as me. How could they have the answers?

Their truth is not my truth. 

Their experience is not my experience. 

In A Hidden Wholeness, Parker Palmer wrote:

“As time goes on, we are subject to powers of deformation, from within as well as without, that twist us into shapes alien to the shape of the soul. But the soul never loses its original form and never stops calling us back to our birthright integrity…we are invited to conform our lives to the shape of our souls.”

A soul unburdened by untested expectations, unnecessary weight, useless thoughts. 

Not easy or without challenges, but easeful: Simply, purely being. 

What is true for you?  

May you have a perfect day this week. 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

Even though it was only as tall as a house, it was intimidating to stand below the rock face knowing I was down here and I needed to get up there. But how? I scanned the face for holds and cracks, just like all the professional rock climbers I have been binge-watching from Reel Rock, and figured out a route up with a series of holds. Only my third-time rock climbing. My first outdoor belay. You got this, girl! 

My mini-me teammate came over to tie in and belay me from below. She saw me scanning the route and advised: “It looks a lot different when you’re up there.”

“Yeah well,” I said, “I like to think six steps ahead.”

That’s me! I started up the rock with a few swift moves just like I imagined, already a few feet or so off the ground—climbing with my legs, not with my arms. 

And then I was stuck. 

My left arm extended above me, feeling all around. All my hand felt was a mound of ripply rock. Nothing to grab. I tried with my right hand. Nope, I was just hugging a big ole round rock. My teammates encouraged me to keep going from below. 

“You guys. There is literally NOTHING to grab on!!” I shouted down. 

Clearly grabbing wasn’t going to work. I needed to try something else. Something different. The peanut gallery from below made a helpful suggestion on new footholds. Then my gut said: push. Huh? Defying logic, I pushed hard, shoving my left palm into the groovy face, leveraging my arm and core strength in unison as I pushed up with my legs, mounting the curved rock until I could grab a hold above it with my right hand. 

I made it to the top and looked down. My climbing partner was right: “It looks a lot different when you’re up there.”

This is a constant struggle. 

Complexity overshadowing simplicity. 

Making life harder than it needs to be. Than it is. 

For years, I have tried to learn simplicity. Constantly downsizing my life in half, year-over-year, and still my cup runneth over. Convinced simplicity lies in the essentials, necessitating cutting out everything else. Yet, I have tried unsuccessfully to master the art of saying No. My commitment to live life to the fullest continually finding me too busy and missing what matters most. 

Because life is complex.

But that doesn’t mean it’s hard. We make it hard.

When we try to control it, to dominate it, instead of just living it. 

It’s as simple as that. 

Being back at the indoor rock climbing walls of the Mazamas Mountaineering Center last weekend was way less intimidating the second time around—and after we’d been out on real rock at Horsethief Butte the previous weekend. 

Perhaps it was the fatigue of having hiked all day or having just broken through some fears in my previous rappel. I was too tired to think. I stepped up to a big wall ready to practice—just climbing. 

Not fast, not fancy, not advanced, but I found a flow. One hold after another. 

I wonder what happens when I try this?

Before I knew it, I was high-fiving the top anchor. 

Interestingly, it wasn’t about saying No to most of the holds. It was about saying Yes to just one of the holds.

One at a time.  

Letting curiosity lead. 

And intuition follow. 

Because we know how to live. If we let ourselves. 

It’s that simple. 

May you simplify and go for it this week! 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

At the last minute on Saturday night, I got inspired to check the weather on the other side of Mt. Hood: Sun and clouds, low wind, high of 50. Just three weeks from my potential Mt. Hood climb attempt, I really wanted to revisit my epiphany point and to share it with one of my best friends. 

I thought I knew what to expect. My first time hiking up Tom, Dick & Harry Mountain in July, 2020, was a piece of cake. I woke up with first light and zoomed from the campsite up to the top in 45 minutes, just missing the sun cresting over Mt. Hood. On Christmas Eve, I set out from the parking lot trekking over a slightly snowy, though still obvious, trail quickly ascending in a couple of hours.

Both times I stayed at the top for a long time gazing at Mt. Hood—the first time remembering my dreams, the second time fully committing to them. I imagined myself there, though still had no idea how to actually get there.

Still dreams, not yet realities. 

Four months later, it was a totally different hike—hours of continuously stepping over downed trees, through deep snow, and across steep hillsides—following the footprints ahead of us winding randomly through the forest. 

Were we actually on the trail buried beneath the snow, close to it or worse winding aimlessly on someone’s random path through the forest?

I just read about “situational awareness” in my Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills, 9th Edition textbook while learning about navigation in my 2021 BCEP program last week. It is the key to staying found, not getting lost. 

There are four steps: Observe, orient, decide, act. 

“Start by observing the surroundings and updating your mental map of the landscape. Where have you come from? Where are you now? Where are you going? What are the dangers?”

There we stood with cold fingers and cold feet—cobalt blue sky above us, but trees all around. The wind was picking up. We had plenty of daylight but were running low on energy. 

I took out my phone to check our GPS location on Google Maps. It had 1% battery left. The blue dot blinked on a blank map. I thought about pulling out my compass that I finally learned how to use last week. Alas, I had the topographic map printout for the original trail we had planned to do, not the trail we were actually on. So much for getting our bearings. 

Finally, a map showed up on the screen. I zoomed in: we were exactly on the trail, but still had a bit more to go. Weighing my previous few days’ efforts—a six-mile, 3,000-foot trial run (up the first 2/3rds of the climb route) and an all-day rock climbing session—with our unsurprisingly low energy levels, I decided to compromise. Committed to the intent, but not a result, we would continue for 10 more minutes before turning around if we weren’t there yet. 

Luckily a few minutes later, the trees started to thin exposing more and more blue. Then, the grey of rock at the top. Excitedly, we found some spring in our steps and hurried up to the top—gasping exactly as I’d expected: “Oh my gosh! This is amazing.”

There were mountains popping out of the horizon in every direction.

And then there was Mt. Hood nonchalantly standing right in front of us. Giant clouds drifting past, casting shadows on the forest and on the glaciers like on any other day in its half-million-year-old life. 

As we sat on the rocks, ate our lunches and gazed at the mountain, I explained in detail—where I would come from, where I would be, where I would go, what the dangers were. 

This is what happens by staying found.

Dreams become reality. 

Four steps at a time.  

May you update your mental map this week to match your surroundings. 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

My 2021 BCEP group went back and forth all last week about whether to do our training hike or not. The forecast was 90% rain in the Oregon Coastal Range. At the trailhead, we decided to adjust the original plan up Kings Mountain, across a steep traverse, then down neighboring Elk Mountain, to just Kings Mountain. Instead of 10-miles, we’d do 5-miles, instead of two mountains, just one. 

And, instead of a sunny summit with views all the way to the Oregon coast like the last time I was there a few months ago, we were socked in with fog. It even started to snow as we summited in April. We staying at the top for less than five minutes, shivering as we took a couple of photos and signed the trail log. Then promptly descended. 

The view is usually why we want to go higher. Just like results are usually why we go after goals. 

And yet, just because we have something in mind, doesn’t mean we’ll get it.

• Will plans prove less accurate in reality?
• Will unpredictable things happen?
• Will there be challenges and setbacks along the way?

Yes. These are the only guarantees. 

That’s why it’s a journey. 

This isn’t a lesson we’ve just been learning on repeat for just the last year—this is life.  
As my ankle started aching only a mile into our hike up Kings Mountain, I was thinking a lot about the journey so far and all of the choices leading up to the elusive goal of climbing Mt. Hood, just a few weeks away. Nearly 19 months into this #HoodorBust “project,” as the professional climbers call it, there are no guarantees.

Last fall, I was scheduled to do the 10-mike hike up Elk Mountain for the first time. Alas, my plan for the weekend was unrealistic —I had committed to helping friends move on Saturday, then doing the all-day hike on Sunday. Just a couple of weeks after moving myself and starting a new job. Unsurprisingly, I was pooped and canceled at the last minute. 

In January, we rescheduled. 

The night before I biked to my friend’s for a beer by the backyard firepit, then headed home by 10 p.m. to get a good night’s sleep. But, as I rode up to my apartment building and dismounted, a thick, little, white dog shot out of nowhere. Before I realized what was happening, he was detaching his jaw from my ankle and running away. 

What just happened? Was I okay?

I couldn’t tell: Was this an actual injury or just an inconvenience? 

As soon as I got upstairs to my apartment, I pulled out all the tricks for my bruised and slightly swollen ankle: rest, icing, compression, and elevation, plus Tylenol. Then, I realized I had to text my friends. Oh no. Not again. They were super understanding and offered to cancel, but I was determined: We should stay the course. 

Last summer I almost backed out of hiking the 45-mile Timberline Trail around Mt. Hood with these same friends. A whole year of training redirected toward this goal. But then my leg was hurting a lot the week before. We still went. I totally underestimated myself. We ended up covering 15 miles, 18.5 miles (a hiking personal record for me), and then 11 miles—finishing a full day ahead of schedule!   

We overcommit or underestimate. Those are the few things we control. There are so many variables in flux. And the data, including from our bodies and the weather, is difficult to interpret. We make what we can with what we’ve got. The only constant is the ability to make choices. 

The best choices we can, given what we know, at any given moment.

Choose your own adventure. 

Does the best choice mean the right choice? Not necessarily.

But it feels the most right at the time. 

That’s why it’s about the journey. Not the destination.

Will I summit Mt. Hood this year?

Maybe. Maybe not. 

We will see!

May you put faith in your choices this week. 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

During an impromptu training run with one of my 2021 BCEP teammates last Tuesday night, we talked about why we signed up for the program. While I hung down from the chin-up bar like wet laundry, she did five reps. Though she’s originally from Honduras, she learned to climb and summited mountains while living in Mexico. 

She said it wasn’t her body or her skills that was the real challenge. It was her mind accidentally falling into some dark, discouraging crevasses during a climb. This was what she wanted to master. Hmmm, sounded just like the one I woke up in that morning and had been slowly inching myself up and out of all day long. 

This was one of the reasons I wanted to Climb Mt. Hood—not so much for the physical, but the mental and spiritual challenge: Could I climb it easefully?

“What does ‘easefully’ mean?,” she asked. 

“Peaceful, restful, effortless, enjoyable.”

A few moments of quiet passed between us, panting as we ran through the warm night air. Was that aparadox? Could the inherent rigor, risk and challenge of mountaineering be easeful? Heck, could life be easeful?

I believe so. 

It all comes down to attitude. 

Everything had felt like a burden, not a blessing in the past few weeks. Something to manage, not manifest; to endure, not enjoy. Not at all easeful.

I had a super productive Monday and figured the restorative post-vaccine weekend off was the quick fix I needed. Alas, waking up in a funk last Tuesday, I knew deep down that my goals and commitments weren’t the problem. It was my outlook. 

Easeful doesn’t just happen. It’s a choice. 

Actually, a series of consistent choices: simple instead of complicated. Easy instead of extra. Actual instead of ideal. 

It doesn’t mean things aren’t hard or challenging, or even exhausting. They are.

But, the joy still shines through. 

That was the realization that slowly reappeared last Tuesday as I slowly chose differently. Turning a bad morning into a regular day into a beautiful night—seizing the opportunity to say yes to an impromptu run and the beginning of a new friendship.

Church bells rang out beautifully through the clear night. A call to the moment. Oh boy, it was 9 p.m. already! I needed to get to bed soon. I couldn’t wait to start a whole new day. 

I ran home looking up, marveling at the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt. 

Could I do this easefully?

Yes, I can do this. I am doing this. 

Fast forward to our first day of snow skills training on Mt. Hood last weekend, we stopped for lunch near the top of the Tilly Jane trail at about 7,000 feet of elevation. With blue skies as far as the eye could see, we had breathtaking views of snow-covered mountains to our north—Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams and Mt. Rainier. 

Even though we were already hauling so much gear, I finally understood why my Dad had put in the extra effort to lug his camera (and film!) up every mountain—to show deep respect and prolong the awe, not just to document his adventures—and how effortless it probably felt. 

There was so much perspective. 

The forest for the trees.

The ranges for the peaks.

May you opt for the actual instead of the ideal this week. 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

Oh no. This is exactly what I’m not supposed to do. And yet, my body did it anyway. 

What else could I do? I was halfway up the 20-foot rock climbing wall inside the Mazamas Mountaineering Center. The same climbing center where my parents learned the fundamentals of how to safely summit a mountain and then taught these fundamentals in the Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) during the mid-1970s. While the gear has evolved—and there’s a ton more of it—the fundamentals that I’m now learning from my 2021 BCEP team are the same. 

“Climb with your legs, not with your arms.”

I remembered this tenet from my few past rock climbing experiences. It makes perfect sense when on the ground listening to the instructor. Of course, strength and stamina are needed when hauling one’s body weight, plus a pack up a rock wall. Of course, there’s more strength and stamina in one’s legs. Especially mine from growing up playing soccer, skiing and hiking year-round.

For my first few holds up the wall, I crouched like a frog and moved from the bottom up, ascending quickly.  My primitive instincts, or my Id, propelled me. 

I needed to get higher, faster.

I also heard one of the instructors from below yelling about stretching as far as possible to cover more of the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tiny hold way up on the right. I stretched my right arm as high as I could, just grasping it with three fingers while my eyes found a hold for my left hand close to my helmet. I quickly grabbed for it. In the next moment of clinging, I simultaneously realized:

• that I was hovering three inches higher than before,
• that I could no longer reach the previous footholds,
• that my instincts and arms were lifting my body until my toes touched something,
• this is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. 

I took a deep sigh into my mask. As I clung to the wall, close enough to kiss it, I acknowledged: Yes. I was scared. I was tired. I was getting careless. 

My Ego kicked in. That part of the system concerned with devising a realistic strategy to obtain our instincts, according to Freud: Okay. I only had a quarter of the wall left. Totally doable. But the top was only the halfway point! I still needed to rappel myself back to the ground. Muscling through wasn’t smart. I needed to take a break.

Oh right! I could do that. 

I needed to manage my energy and my effort.

Yelling “Take” down to my belay partner, I quickly felt the rope go taut. I let go of my holds, sat back into my new harness and swung out a foot or two from the wall. I took a few deep breaths and reset. 

A few minutes later, I was on top of the wall and getting set up for my next challenge. 

The next day, I learned I was eligible for the COVID-19 vaccine! I quickly searched: There was an appointment for the one-dose Johnson & Johnson shot on Friday morning with a 90-minute drive each way to The Dalles. It was the only appointment available so I quickly signed up. I was scheduled to facilitate later that afternoon. I had a 10-mile conditioning hike the following day. My first thought: Tight, but possible. 

In that moment of clinging to my original schedule, I simultaneously realized: But, what if I got sick or tired halfway?

Instead, I asked my coworker to facilitate on Friday. I skipped the hike on Saturday, not only for the vaccine but also for my ankle that’s been hurting (injured from a minor, random dog bite in January). And while I was at it, I reached out to nearby Physical Therapy clinics for an appointment this week.  

I did feel like crap on Friday night with aches and a fever and I was tired on Saturday. Gratefully, I had a wide-open weekend for rest and recovery. I realized in the excitement and intensity of the last few weeks that I accidentally missed Sabbath last weekend. Geez, I really did need to slow down, take a break and reset. Eyes on the prize: Hood or bust.

Climb with my wisdom, not just my instincts. 

Climb on.

Climb high.

May you move from your center of gravity this week. 

Love, 
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights! 

Even though I was born and raised in Portland, I have not always longed to scale our iconic Mount Hood—or Wy’East as it was known long before being renamed after a British admiral.

Whereas when my Mom saw it—one of the first mountains she had ever seen and the highest mountain in Oregon at 11,240 feet—she declared: “I’m going to climb that.” That is according to the family lore, long before I was born, as I romantically recall.

And she did, along with my Dad, over and over and over again. They summited Mt. Hood 15 times, give or take a few attempts, along with the other 15 major peaks in the Pacific Northwest as part of the Mazamas, the oldest mountaineering club in the U.S.

So, when I was a little girl and family friends came over for dinner, we often ended up in the basement watching slideshows of my parents’ “peak bagging” heydays as 23- and 25-year-old newlyweds transplanted from the East to West Coast circa 1972. I liked the pictures with the view from the top the best. All the slides of endless hiking and climbing up were a bit boring, which is also how I felt about hiking in real life at that age. We frequently played hide-and-go-seek in the “equipment room,” huddled behind ice axes, ropes and backpacks. 

I couldn’t grasp any of it. How difficult it was, what discipline it took, how much of a commitment, why it was such an accomplishment. 

Not just standing on the top, but every step to get there. And safely home. 

Later on, I watched as my brother returned home from college on the East coast and spent his mid-20s rock climbing and mountaineering just like our parents had. His Eagle Scout skills, along with the slide shows and first-generation gear from Patagonia and REI, got dusted off as he racketed up his own set of attempts and summits. 

Most often drawn by the pull of the ocean’s tides, I spent my own mid-20s having my own adventures to Italy, France, Spain, Dominican Republic, Costa Rica, Mexico. Drawn far from home in search of myself. 

Near the end of my 20s when my Dad bought part of a cabin near Mt. Hood—finally fulfilling one of my parent’s dreams—I started spending a lot more time close to home and outdoors again. Every time I drove down that gravel road, over the canal and around the bend, Mt. Hood was waiting there—gigantic, stunning, mysterious.

Each time it caught me a little off guard. As if I had never seen a mountain before. 

Then in 2014, I tagged along on a lady’s backpacking trip up and down Lookout Mountain, about 8 miles east-southeast of Mount Hood and the second highest peak in Oregon’s Mount Hood National Forest at 6,536 feet (which is still only half of Hood). I got too many bug bites to count. We were awake all night from the howling winds and everything covered in dust by morning. Instead of two nights, we drove home the next day. Far from never again, I was hooked. 

Sure some of it sucked. But, nature, community, connection, fun, challenges. And the adventure. 

It was in my blood.

Had the mountain been waiting for me to come to it all this time? 

“Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved,” said William Jennings Bryan.

That one trip in 2014, a few in 2015, several in 2016, and many more in 2017 culminated in completing the 45-mile Timberline Trail around Mt. Hood in Aug. 2017. After four days on the mountain and making it up to 7,300 feet: What was next?

I knew: “I’m going to climb that.” 

That next summer of 2018 I was out of commission due to a bike accident, but the dream persisted. Then, I missed the entire backpacking season the next summer of 2019 while I was running the Nike Internship Program. I was not waiting another year. 

As soon as the summer was over I immediately started training so I could apply to the Mazamas Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP). The very same program that my parents taught in the 1970s. Back then there were only one thousand or so climbers in the entire U.S. In 2020, there were 300 applicants. Luckily, I was accepted!

The first and last class was March 9, 2020. 

The world was officially in a global pandemic.

I was waiting another year. 

Waiting to climb, but not to train, hence #HoodorBust. I found as much elevation as I could last spring while everything was closed, then found socially distant ways to adventure all summer including 12 or so trips culminating in another Timberline Trail completion (in 3 days this time, instead of 4!). Instead of taking the fall and winter off per usual, I kept hiking on trails with fewer people and more solitude.

I reapplied and I was accepted. Eyes on the prize.

Last week, I met my 2021 team at our first weekly skills session on Wednesday, followed by an all-day conditioning trek in the Columbia River Gorge on Saturday, then a three-hour indoor rock climbing training on Sunday morning.  

I’m starting to grasp it—the difficulty, the discipline, the commitment. 

Why it is such an accomplishment. 

Not just to summit, but to go to destiny. 

May you take a step toward destiny this week. 

Love,
Jules
 

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