Keep Climbing

“We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us: we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

Photo by Gina Pearson

Quick! What does this C.S. Lewis quote have to do with Polish mountaineers? In my opinion, one of the best outdoor articles ever written appeared in National Geographic a few years ago, and I’ve never been able to shake it (Himalaya Winter Climb, Mark Jenkins, 2008). During this season when temperatures start to plunge, it comes back to me. I remembered why when a friend forwarded this Lewis quote a few days ago. Outdoor enthusiasts regularly quote this article, however, I guess I saw it in a little different light than most others.

There was a group of Cold War-era Polish mountaineers who believed they were made to summit tall mountains. Stuck behind the Iron Curtain and cut off from all the highest peaks, the Poles began climbing in the dead of winter, when their mountains were at their coldest and stormiest. Winter mountaineering became identified with Polish climbers. As one of their early heroes would say, “Tell me what you have done…in winter, and I’ll tell you what you are worth.” Other climbers labeled them “Ice Warriors.”

When the Iron Curtain started to “crack” in the 1970s, it opened up new opportunities for these, by now, famous climbers. They convinced the Nepalese government to issue them the first ever winter permit to climb Everest.  Everyone thought they were crazy, suicidal, but “by character, by desire, and by experience, Polish mountaineers were inured to cold, wind, darkness and danger.”

In February of 1980, the Poles summitted Everest, the first winter ascent of an 8,000-meter peak. By the time I read about them, about half the 8,000 plus meter peaks in Asia had been summitted in winter by the Poles. But the original climbers were all in their fifties and sixties – grandparents – and so they sent out a challenge to the younger Polish climber jocks who had all taken up the easier summer climbing. Conquer the remaining six peaks in a winter climb and “you may count on us,” the older climbers said. “You may count on our help, our experience, our active participation. The choice is yours.”

Some of the younger climbers took up the challenge.  The older, more experienced winter climbers would go ahead of the younger ones.  They would scale the ice cliffs, secure the pitons, run the ropes, create the base camps – and the younger ones would follow.  Asked why they would put their aging bodies through that kind of torture, the most experienced member of the old guard said he wanted to “infect” a new generation of Polish climbers with “the joy of positive suffering – because if something is easy, you will not enjoy it, really.”

Back to Lewis's quote - here we have the Master Climber ahead of us. He’s given us the challenge of summitting, we have taken it up. He goes before us, scales the dangers, drives in the footholds, secures the guidelines, and asks us to follow. The avalanches, the rocks that fall, and the crushed bodies happen because there is sin in the world, yes. But He brought us to this particular mountain...in the middle of winter. He knew what we would face here. He knew we would be pushed to the brink of endurance, and He knew it would hurt. What we really want to know is this: Why make summitting so difficult? Why not the easy climb?

I don’t know the answer to that, but maybe this is part of it – He intends to infect our natures with the joy of positive suffering. If our goal is to summit, we need to live the truth that nothing truly good is easily accomplished - and what God intends to complete in us is nothing less than true goodness.

We are winter climbers who have never summitted. But the Master Climber tells us it’s worth it, we won’t regret it, we were made for this, and he promises we’ll make it. He’s been there, so we trust Him. We dig in, grab on, fix our gaze on his dim shape ahead in the snowy twilight – and keep climbing.

Zukunftsangst

We can get bogged down in the what-ifs, yet here in the Intermountain West, Fall has come anyway. The stifling haze from fires that ringed our valley all summer long has given way to the alpine lake blue of a cloudless autumn sky. Cold nights and warm days have left us canopied and covered in stained-glass colors. The long shadows mean rest for the land, and invite us to stop and savor the moment as well. I don’t pretend to know what the future holds for us, but I do know that days like these are gifts. If we drink them in and fill ourselves to overflowing with their beauty and wonder, they can sustain us.

I was reminded of this recently in an unlikely place. From the sublime to the ridiculous? Perhaps. I am not one to claim that everything I know I learned from my dog, but inspiration can come in small and surprising packages, especially those that embody unwavering devotion, easy forgiveness, and the joy of the moment.

He has found the perfect spot. The floor is freshly cleaned and has been gently heated these two hours since sunrise. He began here by staring, quivering and intent, through glass doors at the tall grass just beyond the strip of lawn. There are rabbits there. After an hour or so of no rodent encroachment, he relaxed into a sphinxlike pose. After another thirty minutes, all safe, he rolled onto his side. The white fur on his belly is radiant while his sleek flank shimmers blue, absorbing the light. Even his back, which would normally rest in cold shadow, is heated by the reflected warmth from the chair behind him. Last, but most important, his boy is near. He can hear him breathe. This is complete relaxation, all his good things coming together, and is rare for a hound like him.

He is not aware yet of the one thing that could disturb his rest. The upholstered chair he is snuggled against is not firm. It swivels.

The boy reading in the chair softly closes his book, but a finger holds his place. He looks to the clock on the wall and sighs. The chair moves to the left ever so slightly. The dog raises his head, blinking drowsily in the morning light. The muscles in his tiny body tense. Is this the end? The boy moves his head from side to side, yawns, stretches his legs and crosses them. Resettling, he opens the book, but the dog remains alert.

Does the chance that the chair might swivel outweigh the comfort of warmth? Does the realization that it will end destroy the joy of a perfect moment? His ears twitch, as if someone is whispering the answer. Slowly, his muscles relax and appear to melt in the pool of sunlight. His small head flops to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes close. Bliss.