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Anyone who’s ever done something requiring endurance (physical or otherwise) knows that when you sail off the cliff of difficulty, it may not be the only one. Climbers call the hardest part of the route “the crux,” but not every climb has just one and not everyone’s crux is the same. I knew this, but didn’t really understand it, until a recent three-week high-altitude hiking trip where cruxes hid in all the corners.

The first came in the comfort of a hotel lobby on our second day in Kathmandu, Nepal. Our trekking group had gathered at the designated time in order to catch a ride to the airport where we would fly to the village of Lukla and begin the hike. We had spent the previous day touring the city which was lovely, but I was ready to be in the mountains.

The allotted time to leave passed and the expedition company owner said “the weather, it is not good now. Maybe later.” All the members of the group stayed close since we could be called to leave at any moment. After two hours, I reached the end of the internet and my patience - the wifi was free but my attitude took a serious hit. I was surprised to be undone by something as simple as a delayed flight but realized that it was because there was a possibility more real than I understood that we might have come all this way and not get to go. I was trying to keep hold of the panic of unmet expectations because I didn’t know this group very well and hadn’t yet figured out where I fit. Somehow, I was able to worry about how I was perceived even though I would have preferred to crawl directly out of my skin, so heightened was the worry. This feeling visited, then left, then returned throughout the next hour and was in the middle of a toddler-sized tantrum when we told all flights were cancelled for the day.

On the surface, this few hours lounging on cushy seats in a climate-controlled room of windows seemed so very minor compared to the challenges of the hike, of expeditions in general, and certainly to the feats of mountaineering accomplished by so many people in this country. But it was the first psychological challenge sent my way by this particular experience. So: crux #1 was complete.  

We flew out the next day (the helicopter ride is a story for another time), and on the second day of hiking, I sprained my ankle medium-badly. There was a pop and I saw stars but when asked if I was alright by a fellow trekker, I said that everything was fine. Because I didn’t want to acknowledge that such a trip-ending thing could have happened, and if I said it out loud it would be real. You’d think this event would be the physical crux but it really wasn’t. The hardest part was when they told me I wouldn’t be carrying my backpack or even my water for most of the rest of the trip. I had to accept the assistance (freely and generously offered) and the indignity of not even carrying my own things. I swallowed it like a fistful of rocks, while knowing that it would give me the best chance of finishing the trek. Thus, crux #2.   

Crux #3 occurred at 18,000 feet, which was the highest altitude I ascended. In the black and white of early dawn, the air was spitting snow and I was responding with huffed, misty breaths. I had already determined that the biggest challenge was balancing exertion: I needed to stay warm, but I needed to conserve energy for the full day of hiking after this peak was done. This early morning jaunt was designed for observing the sunrise over Everest, which we knew fairly quickly would be hidden by the clouds. But I’m a sucker for a stark landscape so truthfully, this greyscale version was better. After almost an hour of difficult hiking, I turned to the rest of the group and said, “I think I only have forty-five more minutes in me.” It was a lie; I didn’t want to go even fifteen more minutes. But I also knew that if I was constantly trying to decide whether to quit, it would sap me of precious energy. At that altitude, even an extraneous thought loop has the ability to unseat a summit attempt. At the prescribed forty-five minute mark, I looked up to see the peak in view but between us was a field of small, unstable, and very pointy rocks coated with the thinnest cover of snow. Still not trusting my ankle and getting colder every step, I declared that I was done, at which our guide silently pointed to the – again, visible – peak. I turned around and sighed. Then regretted it for the energy it took. Then put my feet on those rocks and balanced my way up. That was crux #3, which started physical and morphed quickly into the psychological.

The last day of trekking was the final crux. It was one of our longest mileage days and even though we were descending, it was only in fits and starts. Because the region is so hilly, the trail went up and then down and the down part was the one that hurt the most. Since we were close to the end, I allowed my mind to rest on the consequences of the injury beyond the next day - for ski season and trail running back home. At the initial injury, I considered these factors but dismissed them in favor of continuing this trip to a place I’d likely never be again. It was also our last trail day with the group and I was crabby and irritable, which served to make me even more so because I knew it was the last precious moments of something that was ending soon. It was a lot like withdrawal, in a way. It’s not unusual for me to pull away before the end arrives in order to avoid the hurt of a finality, but I expected this to be different. When we arrived in Lukla (the only village with a fixed-wing airport), we completed the circle we had begun a handful of days before. That last day, especially the last few hours of the trek, was crux #4.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one on the struggle bus. Everyone else in our group had at least one that was visible and certainly more that only they knew about. But here’s what happened at every one of these difficult junctions: there was someone else with which to share a “mountain lean.” There was an unspeakably tall mountain in the distance to look at. There was a yak with its deeply clanging bell walking by. There was a string of words in my head that I needed to survive in order to write down. There was another plate of dal bhat to eat (even if I didn’t want to) and a cup of ginger lemon honey tea to drink (which I always did). There were lungs and hearts doing their very best.

And there was always another crux on the horizon. I guess that’s what I learned, that aiming to hurry up and finish this one doesn’t actually help. The crux is just like the mountain because it’s not going to bend and you aren’t really either.

So a truce is in order. Making truce with the cruxes. Either the unknown ones coming soon, or those sitting nearby right now.

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