Remember truly

The morning light pries in through the rain fly.  The mismatched, but not discordant, choruses of birds called out over the background of a babbling stream wake you.  Warm and snug in your sleeping bag, you exhale and watch your breath rise toward the dew-soaked tent wall.  This is rest; this is comfort.

Outside the tent, you stir the embers of last night’s fire and warm your hands.  There is ice cold stream water to drink and to wash your face.  A simple breakfast in the early morning forest feels a dining experience for kings.  This is refreshment; this is delight.

You could stay here forever, you think.  Temptation whispers, let’s make a day of it, resting by this stream, taking in the light, and refreshing tired limbs.  Just the sight of the pack makes your shoulders burn and feet ache.  This is reluctance; this is conflict.

By some mysterious, inner motivation, you tear down camp and load your pack.  Indeed, the weight of it all causes back and shoulders to shudder.  Taking the first steps, you squirm and dance, shifting the weight forward and back, tightening and loosening straps in a frantic attempt to make the pack ride in a manner that spares muscles sore from yesterday’s hike.  Then the ascent starts.  Tired legs protest as you prod them forward, up, and over.  This is pain; this stress.

Panting, you wish for rest, for the comfort of the sleeping bag.  Never mind that you tossed and turned on the pebbles and roots all night long.  Sweating, you wish for refreshment, for the delight of the cold stream.  Never mind that ice cold water is ineffective to remove the grime of camp fires.  This is selective memory; this is subjective comparison.

Reluctance and inner conflict wane; from resigned acceptance or this inner call, you are unsure. Focus comes mid-way through the climb, overcoming the pain and stress. The pack still makes shoulders burn, but you’ve stopped squirming; the ascent is still fatiguing, but your steps come more freely now.   

Then suddenly, the brush clears out, and the forest opens up, revealing a sweeping panorama.  Heart and eyes sing, rejoicing as the wind in your face gives the sensation of flight.  You remember.  Vistas are not found by the stream bed.  Summits are not attained curled up in tents.  This is calling; this is motivation.

Oh little traveler, remember truly.  You’ve rested, refreshed by cold water.  You’ve warmed yourself on the embers of rekindled friendships.  A wonderful pause you wish would endure, but remember truly.  Now the voice calls. To pain.  To climbs. Remember truly: Vistas are still ahead; summits loom before us.