"Swimming through the void … we lose ourselves but we find it all"

Tanya and I are sitting at the Woodstock Brewery at the foot of the White Mountains – exhausted, hungry, happy. We just completed a four-hour trek: up 1200 feet through a forest and a dried mountain riverbed, climbing over tree roots, crossing streams and cascades, jumping from boulderto boulder trying not to slip. And after a short break on shores of the Lonesome Lake, down across a similar but steeper terrain, trying not to kill ourselves tumbling down. It was only 6 miles, but these were some of the most technically difficult miles I have ever done. We were laughing afterwards that this hike snuck up on us unexpectedly. It was the last full day of our trip – both of us were flying out the next day – and up until then we mostly did urban explorations, driving, eating, swimming, and just walking around: the trip was shaping up to be mild and chill by our standards. In years past, our preferred mode of relaxation was mountain and desert hikes with occasional death drops and helicopter rides.

And so sitting at that pub, sipping some tasty beers, we were wondering what makes us want to push ourselves to the limit. And, by all standards, our limits are not that far – we are not even close to being hard-core. Hiking that day, we met people who were walking over 2K miles of the Appalachian Trail; my friend Paul walked all the way from San Diego to Berkeley; some of my and Tanya’s friends are alpinists who risk their lives almost every day trying to take in that next peak. We all have different limits, but somehow many of us like a challenge of testing these limits. It doesn’t always end well. Even the most experienced climbers fall or succumb to the elements. I lost my best friend to the mountains, and now I watch another friend of mine going through the same loss. Every time I come close to the edge and look down into the precipice, I think about how easy it is to end up on the bottom. One false move, one slip, one tumbling rock – the danger is real. And yet, we go for it.

Why?

I think that this, almost masochistic, asymptotic drive has a bit of an anxiolitic effect. Every challenge is a finite endeavor with definitive goals, structured ways of reaching that goal, and a huge reward once you get to the finish line. Physical exertion doesn’t allow for many extraneous thoughts – you can’t worry about your everyday problems when your body is hurting and you’re struggling not to go down. One step at a time, one thought at a time, “so close, no matter how far…” You’re focused on the here-and-now and “nothing else matters” . And you learn to trust yourself. In real life, you often doubt yourself, but, in fact, few tings are fully contingent on what you do or how you do it – most of the time, things seem to be, or are, out of our control. In an extreme situation, the only person you can truly trust is yourself (and, hopefully, your partner in crime). You learn your limits, your strengths and flaws, your breaking point. And if you’re lucky, you learn how to get past that breaking point. Things are simple, straightforward, and you feel in control.

If the journey itself is a meditation of sorts, reaching the goal is the actual high. Endorphins released during physical exertion added on top of dopamine release once you reach your goal – man, it’s not surprising that extreme sports are so addictive! You want to go back. You need to go back. This is where you feel happy. And fear? Fear is a funny thing, but this is a topic for another time. Now I’m going to go do me some hiking in Tilden!