Dreaming Of Adventure? Just Do It!

How I learned that some experiences, like, oh, climbing a mountain, just can’t be explained.

Now it becomes clear what Dr. Kesselman, a political science professor of mine in the ’60s, meant when he talked one day in class about his reaction — and that of many others — after visiting the Soviet Union. So exotic was the monolithic Communist empire that a visitor from the West with curiosity and intellect, upon returning home, felt the need to write a book about the excursion.

A recent adventure of mine fostered the same knee-jerk reaction. A couple of pals and I attempted to climb California’s Mt. Shasta last month. After spending a night at 10,000 feet camped on a snow-covered plateau in sub-freezing temperature and 60 mph winds, we were blown off the mountain by perilous weather that prevented a summit attempt. My profound sense of accomplishment was diminished not a bit.

The whole exercise — committing to the adventure, training arduously for it, equipping myself properly, following through with five days of climbing on the mountain’s slopes — has been a source of significant personal fulfillment. I feel more whole having done it.

So, when I returned from exploring the piney incline, the crisp air and sfumato vistas from on high, it was my intention to write about it in detail.

My gut reaction was that the trip was fraught with profundities, you know, mountain as metaphor for the mysterious. That there were universal truths to climbing a 35-degree ascent, setting up camp in a mini-gale on snow-packed terrain, accepting the irony that a fellow, previously unknown climber wore a Kentucky Wildcat ballcap, and adapting to the whims of Mother Nature and challenging topography. Certainly there were significant lessons learned and to be passed along. It would be a disservice not to share both the details and philosophical conclusions extrapolated from them.

I had a poetic vision for my essay, which used as outline lyrics from an old Donovan tune: First there is a mountain/Then there is no mountain/Then there is. The same song also provided other fodder for my exposition. Oh, the snow will be a blinding sight to see as it lies on yonder hillside.

Then I started the essay. Anybody who has tried to write seriously knows that sometimes words flow almost effortlessly. This never fired. Confounded by the difficulty of sharing the joy of such a meaningful lark, I trundled on anyway. Even submitted a prologue that was going to appear in this very space. And I wrote a first draft of the remainder of the opus that would reside at my Web site, www.culturemaven.com.

Truth is, not one word came easy. Eventually I realized I had fallen prey to the syndrome described by Dr. Kesselman years ago. I had experienced unfathomed moments of personal insight on Mt. Shasta and assumed the rest of the world needed to know. More than a bit pompous, and kind of delusional, when I think about it in retrospect.

So there I was trapped in what mountaineering poet laureate, Cambridge don Robert McFarlane, termed recently in a radio interview “the lair of cliché.” Given that McFarlane has climbed peaks around the globe, he’s well aware of the emotions such adventures engender. Being a writer of consequence, he also understands the trap of trying to exposit something new about it.

Thus I’ve learned another lesson from Mt. Shasta, purportedly a situs of harmonic convergence, a source of spiritual energy for Native Americans and mythologians. That lesson is: Some experiences are so personal they are incapable of meaningful articulation. Plus their healing power resonates more if harbored within.

Those are not easy morals to digest for a guy who feels the need to yap about every single thing going on in his life. So it appears that Mt. Shasta keeps on giving.

Allow me to conclude with a recommendation.

Always been fascinated by whales? Take a swim with the fishes. (Yes, I know they’re mammals.)

Have a hankering to observe rhinos up close and personal in their native habitat? Safari on the savannah.

Wonder what the Grand Canyon is like at the bottom? Hike on down there. Or take a donkey.

Want to raft through swirling white waters? Head to the Gauley when it’s gushing.

Want to test your stamina, breathe crystalline air, sleep fitfully on cold ground in a gale, survey the horizon from on high? Have a climb.

There’s good reason. It’s called recreation.

To that I do now attest.

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