On the Mountain

Approaching the mountain my stomach is in knots.  My head spins.  The talk inside my head is crazy.  There are two people there - in my head - as I approach the mountain and/or trail head.  This is the conversation:

"I can't believe you're doing this.  Really!?  Seriously!?  C'mon just turn around, go back into town, get a room for the night and go back home in the morning.  Or wait better yet, you could just turn around and go back home now.  You could be having coffee and eating dunkin' donuts in the morning.

Okay, yeah, you're rig. . .   Wait a second, No! I am here!  I drove all this way.  People know I am coming up here to do this.  What will I tell them.

What will you tell them!?  You gotta fucking be kidding me.  Tell them you ran into bad weather.  Tell them it was too difficult.  Tell them you almost fell to your fucking death.  Tell them anything.

But I don't want to miss out.

Miss out!  Miss out!  What the fuck!  Miss out on what!?  Miss out on all the pain and exhaustion!?  Miss out on getting yourself (wait what am I saying?) us - getting "us" killed!.   What is your problem!?

I've got to do this.  It's going to be awesome.  It always is.  After the first few steps it'll be okay.  Really the suckiest part is the hike up to the climb.

No!  No!  No!  It's not going to be okay and it won't be awesome.  You're fucking crazy! This whole thing is fucking crazy!  Five people died there last year  or what about that kid who slipped and fell on Little Bear.  What happens if you climb up something you can't climb down.  What if you fall and are immobilized and starve to death or you get hypothermia.  You can't be doing this.  You're not going to do it.

Yeah, I know.  But I'm here now.  Let's just get out and we'll walk a ways and turn around.

As I open the door the voice is a bit more panicky:

"NO! NO! NO!"

I try to counter, "Just calm down.  Just take it easy."

I step out and put both feet on the ground and think, "This is really happening."

I walk around to the back and lift hatch back on the Forerunner.  A more panicky voice returns:

"You're not going to turn around are you.  You're putting on your pack you fuck!  You lied to me.  Just take off the pack.  Put it back in the car.  We can drive away you and I and pretend this think never happened.  Come on!"  It pleads in desperation.

After I have my pack on and the poles in my hand,  I take my first few steps across the road to climb over the barbed wire fence.  The voice is in full on panic mode but decrescendos into background.

"Awe C'mon now.  Turn around.  For the love of God turn the fuck around would ya please.  This is insanity.  You don't need to prove any. . . "

The much more quiet voice deep inside just says, "You've got to do this Andy.  You really don't have a choice.  You really never had.  Just put one foot in front of the other  We'll be okay."

The volume of the cadence of the hike emerges and takes over.  I no longer hear that voice.