This is the Only Way to Live a Full Life
I was standing at the table staring at my computer screen. The cursor was hovering over the publish button, and my index finger stood at attention on the mouse, ready to send my story out to the world.
With this article, my cursor stood static on the screen longer than normal. I felt something I hadn’t felt in several years. I was hesitating because I felt vulnerable.
I was standing on top of sub-dome, looking at the final approach to the Half Dome summit, one of the most iconic hikes in Yosemite National Park, and the entire United States.
The hike so far hadn’t been too bad. It was long, and the elevation gain was significant, but the terrain was much friendlier than the Adirondack hiking I was used to.
I was slightly fatigued, but amped on adrenaline nonetheless. That was, until I saw the final approach.
I reached it first, scampering over the crest ahead of the other two guys in my party. The dome came into view, ominous and overwhelming.
Just ahead, before the final ascent, I saw a man sitting with his back against a boulder, taking in the view.
My scamper slowed to more of crawl, and I stopped next to the man, waiting for my group to catch up.
I remember thinking I was done. There was no chance in hell I was making the final 400 foot climb.
I had covered seven and a half miles.
I climbed over 4,000 feet.
But I was ready to pull the rip cord with 400 feet to go.
Before the hike, I had watched YouTube videos of people making the final ascent (watch here from 2:50 to see what I mean), and I was confident I could do the same. But there it stood in front of me, and just as quick as I saw it, I decided I was done.
“You going up?” I asked the man leaning against the rock.
“Not today,” he replied. “I’ve been up before.”
He spoke in a calm, confident tone that conveyed experience and wisdom.
“Are you going up?” he asked.
“That was the plan, but I don’t think I can do it,” I said. “That approach looks a lot steeper than it did in the videos.”
“You got gloves?” he asked.
I nodded and pulled them out of my bag.
“You’ll be fine,” he said confidently, as if I didn’t have a choice. “One step at a time. Keep your eyes on the rock. It’s not as bad as it looks from here.”
At that moment, my hiking partner Pat showed up.
“Where’s your dad?” I asked him.
“He turned around. Couldn’t deal with the heights. You ready to go?”
I nodded, pulled on my gloves, and we headed toward the dome.
The final ascent to Half Dome is a treacherous 400 foot climb up a 45 degree granite surface worn slick from years of foot traffic. The path is marked with cables on either side, similar to handrails, if handrails were a quarter inch in diameter, slippery, and swayed from side to side.
The cables are about four feet apart and are strung from poles jammed into holes in the granite every ten feet.
The poles are removed in the winter, so they aren’t fastened. This means they can be lifted straight up and out of the holes, causing the cable to go slack and your heart to fall out your ass.
Within this four-foot pathway hikers are ascending and descending. It’s not necessarily crowded, but you feel squeezed when you pass someone going the other direction.
Hikers must have a permit to summit, but on that day, there was no ranger checking permits. The traffic felt uncomfortably high.
One missed foothold, one forearm cramp, one careless hiker sliding down from above; that’s all it takes to knock you outside the cables and send you falling over a thousand feet to your death.
This hike is no joke.
Pat took the lead, and I followed nervously behind him.
With each step I could feel the knots tighten in my stomach.
About halfway up, we hit a traffic jam and had to stop for a minute. I picked up my head and looked over my shoulder at the void behind me. I felt my stomach drop and was overcome with a wave of panic. My breathing quickened, and I became frantic.
I immediately turned around and locked my eyes back on the rock in front of me. I knew if I couldn’t curb the panic, I would be in a very bad spot.
The rest of the climb, I focused only on the next step - where I was putting my foot, where I was putting my hand. My eyes didn’t move further than two feet in front of me.
As we neared the top, the grade lessened. Pat turned around and snapped my picture, and I was able to look up and give him a fist pump.
When the cables ended, the scary part was over.
I felt an intense rush through my whole body and I let out a crazy scream from deep in my belly. I was yelling and high fiving other hikers – it was a feeling I had never experienced before and have yet to experience again. It was pure elation. It was the feeling of putting everything out on the line and succeeding.
Pat and I sat atop Half Dome eating our PBJ sandwiches and staring over the Yosemite Valley. The whole time I was overcome with emotion – sheer appreciation and awe of the opportunity to see that beauty with my own eyes - something most people will never experience.
I remember calling my Mom from the top. I don’t remember the conversation, but I remember her asking if I was okay. She could hear in my voice I was holding back tears. I could feel I was holding back tears. And although I had never felt that before, I knew they were tears that could only come from pushing through extreme vulnerability to the fulfillment and experience of life on the other side.
Standing in front of my computer two weeks ago, my index finger hovering above the mouse, I felt a similar feeling to that day at the base of Half Dome.
I was about to publish a post about being robbed at gun point – a story I rarely talk about. That story was one of the most vulnerable moments of my life, and I was about to share it with the world.
It would’ve been easier to click the trash can - to keep the story in a folder on my computer. Just like it would’ve been easier to turn around before the cables.
But life isn’t meant to be lived from the safety of the stands. Life gives the most to those who live it at the edges. It rewards those who turn themselves inside out and expose the parts that might hurt.
Sometimes life takes those parts and sends them skidding down the granite, leaving them scraped, raw, and bruised in a pile at the bottom. But other times (and I think this is more often the case) life gives you that just reached the summit feeling.
That deep belly howl, stranger high fiving feeling.
The feeling of holding back overwhelming joy filled tears.
Those are the moments that make us feel full. But vulnerability is the only means by which we can experience them.
As Theodore Roosevelt once said,
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Being vulnerable is not easy, but I’m going to keep daring greatly.
I hope to see you in the arena.
