DEFEAT

Rarely do I talk about struggle and even more rarely do I publicly share struggles or thoughts via the internet or social media. I get sick of hearing people repeatedly talk about negativity in their life, using it it seems like a prop to elevate themselves and find some kind of instant gratification from peers. Weird take on that but that’s the way it seems to me.

I’m writing this sitting on top of a rock high in the San Luis mountains in Colorado. Well, honestly I’m not, I’m driving back down to Creede on a bumpy road going ever so slowly because of stopping to throw up every now and then. I’m sipping Spark like it’s my lifeline.

I used to want to climb Mt. Everest. I watched movies and documentaries, read the books about it, and dreamed about standing on top in my crampons and wielding my ice ax. I wanted to stare down from the highest point, to see what earth really looked like from God’s perspective, to have a sense that I was almost Him as He looks down on His people. Of course, I know He is God and I am not. Which is where this story starts. Defeat and struggle. Two words I hate to have coming out of my mouth or to hear anyone say about me.

I sat in Creede, Colorado eating a French dip sandwich from some little cafe yesterday, juice dripping down my chest like a mid-evil knight after a victory. I was making phone calls about new gigs and talking to my brother about what was happening at home. I’ve been gone for 2ish weeks on a road trip to Montana to photograph the fall colors changing and hang with close friends. There was a miscommunication between myself, my uncle, and my cousin about where to meet last night to camp before climbing San Luis peak the next morning. I was nervous already because I knew this would be one of those get up at 330 am and hike in the dark for hours with headlamps. Which my friend, I do not like in the slightest. I don’t mind doing it hunting, cause you just go take a nap under a tree, but the endless drag and the burning of my legs in the dark has just never seemed to sit well with me.

I made it to what I thought was the trailhead where I found my cousin McKinnon’s car. I pulled up beside him and he was nowhere to be found. I figured he’d be back shortly from setting up camp so I took to opportunity to pack my gear for tomorrow. I blared country music for all the marmots to hear and as night started to fall I knew something wasn’t right. I drove back down to Creede to get cell service only to find out I had miles to drive further down a road I had missed. I met my cousin halfway on the way back up passing old mines and structures that I assume cowboys and miners shared stories in long ago.

My Colorado cousin lead me back up the trail to the actual trailhead where they had camp set up commenting that they had a moose walk through camp at sunset, they shouldn’t have told me that, I was ticked I missed seeing that. We cooked brats in the dark, which I’m growing less fond of, they always seem to make me sick and give me restless leg syndrome, and gas, and bad dreams.

The few hours I slept my nightmares centered around thousands of marmots pouring into my tent like a zombie apocalypse and eating me alive. I felt great falling asleep but awoke knowing this was the end of my life. Covid was inside me, I could feel it like that girl Mahogonoy Weaver could in those aliens movies...or did she survive? I can’t really remember. Just kidding about the covid, I’m a vault baby locked down. (Forgot to bring my mask to hike in like the kooks in Glacier I’d seen a few days before.)

I sprung from the tent to a brisk 20 degree Colorado world beginning to lighten up and then the smell of my cousin cooking eggs hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d left my TP at the car like the amateur I prove myself to be over and over so I borrowed my uncles and headed off to find a nice tree to perch myself upon.

For those of you who haven’t pooped in the woods, it’s quite enjoyable when you are feeling well and healthy. The brisk air, the birds chirping, the elk waving at me and giving me a thumbs up like I just became a part of nature. But, when you’re sick you feel like Frodo at Mount Doom, bloody and covered in black soot with your eyes red and glassy looking half demon-possessed. Sort of like if a voice could come out of you you would sound like the lead singer of a screamo punk rock band.

Now I cannot get into too much detail but on the poop scale from how the queen of England might go (sorry)to changing my niece’s diaper after Mexican food, this was beyond anything I’d ever experienced. Everybody loves to secretly talk about a good poop story so don’t stop reading now.

I was gone forever and after a while, the rest of my crew became concerned as the sun was crawling up and we needed to leave. I used all the toilet paper. An entire roll and went to wash my hands in the creek with rocks and moss. I skipped the more graphic details and you’re welcome.

As I walked back to the camp my uncle asked me what the deal was. I said I am sick. I was grasping for hope but I knew the mountain or the runs had defeated me already. He laughed as I tossed him a roll with only 7 sheets of TP left. Brutal I said. We all laughed and I made some dumb joke about a river runs through it pun and then set off up the trail. But I knew. I knew I was defeated already. I was truly out of shape, probably the worst in my life, and given the 11,000-foot base camp altitude and being from south Texas I knew what was about to happen.

My uncle yelled back that you “flatlanders” are gonna struggle as he does almost every time we hike. This time is no exception. We started up the trail, my legs burned, my chest burned, my lungs choked for air. As the pack went on ahead of me I sat on a rock in the middle of the trail as I mentioned earlier, gasping for air as I watched mule deer walk slowly across a trail on the canyon across from me. I was sad, really sad about not making it to the top and because of just not being able to be as good or perform as well as my peers. I also wanted a success story. I wanted to stand on top with a cardboard cutout that said San Luis and the elevation and take a victory pic. None of which would happen.

I had a friend say recently that expectations are just pre-meditated failures. And I think she’s really right, maybe. Almost everything I’ve had big expectations for has left me feeling disappointed or like it was some kind of failure. In relationships, I might have a crush on a girl and build up what we’d be like as a couple in my mind, only for it to happen and it’s not what I imagined.

In sports growing up, there was a high expectation to be really good or the best, and even though I enjoyed sports I loved more just the relationships I made with dudes and cracking jokes on out of town games and such. More importantly as a Christian, it seems as if there’s this perfect person I’m supposed to be like my life is totally put together. Hopefully getting to a place where I stop sinning and life is just bliss. But that’s just not real either. I have thoughts that scare me, I still think about hell and what that might be like and I screw up and get beat down. I struggle to find peace sometimes, and I don’t always read my Bible and meditate but I always hold onto the hope that Jesus offers.

I had a thought in the back of my mind that knew I wasn’t going to summit that 14er today and there’s another constant thought in my head that gives me hope in all the dark places, both physically, mentally, and spiritually. Jesus and all He offers.

I’ve made it to Creede, down the bumpy hill and I’m about to grab a coffee, the one thing that you drink that feels like hope. I like coffee.

I feel defeated and bummed. I know the rest of my group is climbing high right now. Step after step, pounding through the air-breathing deep. As I sip coffee and check Instagram and watch the golden leaves slowly shimmer in the breeze outside I try not to tear myself down or get too depressed over it.

God is in the victory and God is in the defeat. So many times I’ve heard a preacher say that sort of recklessly from a stage. But, I think it’s true. Until you seriously struggle and fail at something you truly don’t understand.

I love the mountains and I love the beach. In the mountains, I feel small and I feel like there’s an adventure that awaits. There are hidden stories and fun to be had around every corner. At the beach, I feel at rest. I feel sunbaked and at peace, as I hear the waves crash over and over.

People have asked which do I prefer, and I never have the right answer but I find God in both. In the rest and slow life that I get walking down a beach, to the burning in my legs as I attempt to climb a mountain. The same legs carry me both places. There’s a time for struggle and there’s a time for walking easy. I learn from both and find God in both. Good or bad, hard or easy He is steadfast and there no matter what. I repeat, He is God and I am not.

Now I’m off to sip on coffee and watch the golden aspens blow in the wind.

-wes