One morning last September, my day began bright and early at 4:30 a.m. Reluctant to leave the comfort and warmth of my makeshift bed, I groaned as I rolled over in my sleeping bag and silenced my beeping watch. Finally, I mustered the courage to get up and fumbled around in the darkness for my headlamp. As I laced up my hiking boots, I prepared myself for the long day ahead.
I walked over to our temporary kitchen area and retrieved the freezing cold oatmeal I had prepared the night before. My 12 classmates from my semester away at the High Mountain Institute and I all marveled at the idea that in a few hours, we would be standing 14,000 feet above sea level at the peak of the second tallest mountain in Colorado.
We began our trek on what could hardly be considered a path. I fought my way through swathes of bushes while eagerly awaiting the sunrise, so I could finally ditch my headlamp. Our hike seemed like an endless uphill climb, and, although I struggled, I could not wait to finally arrive at the summit.
Eventually, we found a real trail, and once free of the bushes, the climb became much more manageable. We continued to trek upward, each of us expressing our excitement about what awaited us and imagining the view from the top.
About halfway through, the sun began to rise. When we reached the ridge of the mountain, we all stopped to take it in. Before us stretched miles and miles of jagged peaks and beyond them, a blazing orange sun rose slowly into the sky. We stood silently, each of us mesmerized by the beauty of the scene.
After half an hour we resumed our hike, reinvigorated by the view and even more eager to reach the peak. The path grew steeper and steeper until, at last, the summit appeared in our view.
Keenly aware that we were just a mile away from the top, we paused for water, but our excitement faded quickly when our instructors spotted a storm cloud forming. Not willing to risk us getting caught in a storm above the tree line, they made the call: We would turn back.
We were heartbroken. After hours of hiking, we were so close. A storm didn’t seem imminent; we saw only one cloud. I was furious. I had woken up so early, hiked so far, and for what? We hadn’t even reached the top.
As we made our way down the mountain toward our camp, my friend John took out his camera to review the pictures he had taken early in the morning. Looking at his photos, I was reminded of how incredible that sunrise had been. I realized that, even though we had not made it to the summit, the day had still been remarkable.
The view at dawn was likely better than anything we would have seen from the top. By the time we returned to camp, my frustration had faded, and I felt a tinge of gratitude. I had witnessed one of the most stunning sights of my life with my closest friends.
This hike taught me the value of appreciating the journey. Rather than fixating on an outcome, I have learned to live in the moment and value every step along the way. I now know that you do not always need to reach a specific goal to find meaning in an experience. Recognizing that the journey itself holds as much, if not more, value than the destination has helped me find deeper fulfillment in my life.
