Contrast spurs realization. A phrase my mother used to tell me is “you don’t know what you’ve got until it's gone.” The day my parents kicked me out had spurred realization. I’m not sure that before that day, I understood that fear and freedom often go hand in hand. The last time I walked out of the dark oak doors of my, or now my parents’, house, I had an initial rush as I realized I could be. The lack of parental expectations, and thereby disappointment, left me with an ability to focus on what I wanted. The slam of the door behind me created a secondary ripple of fear. I could be, yet the parental disappointment was replaced by reality. Was living my fullest identity worth not having a warm bed or a shower? Would the world validate my identity, or merely relegate it to the curb?

I think I became aware of my mom’s rejection of my sexuality when I  began planning the trip. I guess one needs to be a “real man” to have an achievement. While I told myself that I was planning my Alaskan trek to the base of Denali to gain a greater appreciation of nature, a certain extent of the expedition was to prove to my parents, and myself, that I was real. That is, completing a trek would somehow validate my identity. Challenges in the wilderness have an aspect of confirmation. Or denial. I guess I hoped that the trek would rid me of the self-doubt that my mother had instilled in me.

 Freedom is the fearful escape from conformity. As I rode on the park service bus, an old school bus repurposed by the park rangers, down the Denali park road, I was reminded of the comfort of conformity.  The wrinkled leather seats, the vibration of the vehicle, and the soft chatter all brought me back to the daily journey to and from school. Forced to remain seated until my destination, successful arrival was almost inevitable. My brief regression to conformity was soothing; the world had to accept the first leg of my journey. I re-entered the fear of freedom the moment I stepped off the bus, each hard step down the steep stairs reminding me of the risk and consequence of my journey.

The moment the last groan of the diesel engine on the old park bus faded left me with an awakening contrast. Silence. I never heard the noise until it had left me. Standing in the dust of the journey that once was on the old gravel road, I was alone. As the dust settled, the isolation was accentuated. There are two types of physical isolation. The first, claustrophobic. In a tight space, cave, room, the isolation is faced by being trapped with oneself. The other isolation is absolute, where one is entirely alone, with not a living soul to experience one’s life or death.

When the dust from the bus faded, I left claustrophobic isolation and entered the absolute.

I stood on a mountain road, carved into the golden-brown rock. Silver gray gravel coated the road’s surface, emitting a cloud of white dust from every tire turn and step. Over the edge of the road, descended a sharp shale slope, a steep hillside painted with layers of palm-sized stones. The hill descended into a river, with white-capped swiftwater sweeping sediment from the hillside into the unrelenting violence of the rapids below. The dull moan of the rapids rose over the shale field, reaching me on the road. The green-yellow grass of the tundra extended beyond the far side of the river, rolling for an imperceivable distance until ending with the jewel. Denali. Rising from the rolling grassy hills, the beast of ridges and ice ascended to a perceivably impossible height. Wisps trailed off the bowled peak into a clear sky.

The slight, sporadic wind reminded me of the time my dad and I took my kite into the city when I was 10. After a cold walk down the concrete streets, I had hoped the funnel air would be conducive towards a successful flight. The inconsistent breeze coupled with power lines rendered my kite useless in seconds.

Ironic, how I was reminded of the city while in the backcountry. I hoped the wind would be on my side for this journey.

After the kite disaster, I was left distraught. I had spent hours pestering my parents to take me to the city, and I had spent an even longer time meticulously constructing and molding the cloth around the frame. Within mere seconds, the entropy of the system of nature decided that I couldn't.

A failure in nature is the most devastating. Despite every single aspect of planning and execution, no matter how perfect, the elements can decide to slap your plans in the face just for the fun of it. A success in nature is the most uplifting. Not only did the days of planning, training, and execution work, the world decided to let you succeed. Whatever god, being or existential force has determined that you are worthy. And from the chaos, one walks away with a newfound self-efficacy.

Each first step is an entrance to the doorway of failure or achievement; one can only begin to fathom their doorways interior after entering. I opened the door of the first step, and I walked to the edge of the road. Looking down the steep slope to the river, I hoped that my door would lead to triumph. Stepping over the lip on the edge of the road, I began to walk down the shale slope with a caution brought about by an abundance of fear. The shards of rock made a light grinding noise as my reluctant downhill footsteps caused them to slide. I facing outwards, I leaned back towards the slope; I didn’t want a fall to take me head-first down the incline. The hill slowly became steeper, so I began to plan my steps. One to the rock on my left. Another on the face to my right. As I approached the river, the rapids became louder and louder, amplifying my fear with each decibel. My heart began to race. I decided that I wanted to sit down until my panic subsided. I spotted a relatively flat looking rock just behind me, so with a sigh of relief, I sat down.  There was a scrape as the flat rock slide out, and gravity took my body into a slide. The shale stung as it dragged past my body and pack. I slid faster and faster towards the river below. All I could hear was the noise of the shifting rocks. I rolled onto my stomach to try to hug the slope, which was a mistake. The sharp juts of the stones shredded my shirt, then the skin on my chest. I couldn’t see them, but I was sure that my lacerations left a trail of blood as I slid down the face. I tried to grab onto surrounding debris, but each rock slid with me as I grasped it. I pulled my ice axe from my belt, and attempted to do an improvised self-arrest on the shale; I plunged the blade into the face, and the axe was instantly ripped from my hand. My attempt to hold onto the axe threw off my remaining balance, turning my slide into a tumble, and I fell head over heels down the face.

Plunging into water has an odd element of relief. Relief that the fall is over. I used to love claustrophobic isolation because no one could see me cry. My relief ended shortly when the swift current sent me downstream. I bounced along rocks on the riverbed, each one a painful surprise. Drowned out by the sound of flowing water, I couldn't hear, yet I could feel, my stampeding heartbeat. I raised my toes in front of me to try to float to the top, but the weight of my pack kept me on the bottom.

I continued to be alone in the dark, frigid, suffocating isolation. Attempting to reach one side of the river, I made frantic underwater strokes to my right. Dragged along the rocky riverbed by the water, my right foot caught on a rock, causing me to rotate. My face went numb as I was pushed further into the dark abyss. I was suddenly yanked to a halt.

The loops on the back of my pack had been caught on the bottom of the river. With my pack straps placing immense pressure on my chest and shoulders, I struggled to hold my breath as the current violently thrashed my trapped body. I felt an unsettling pop as something shifted in my left shoulder and upper back. I decided that I would rather lose my pack than drown. I ran my hand down my stomach and found the clip to my backpack strap. My fingers, numb from the frigid water, struggled to squeeze the flimsy plastic clip.

After a painful squeeze, the pressure on my shoulders was relieved, and I quickly resurfaced. The bright sunshine was blinding. I took a breath of relief as I floated downstream, yet the turbulent whitewater filled my airways with water. I coughed violently, my face surfaced and resurfaced as I struggled to breathe.

   I made the coughing worse by trying to hold it in. When I was nine, my aunt let me buy a large soda while going to see Cars in theatre. My nine-year-old self, trembling with anticipation, sucked the sweet syrup into my throat as fast as the straw could tolerate. The soda hit the back of my throat, prompting a similar cough. I coated my pants, my new light-up Skechers, my aunt, and the family in front of me with Coke. The theater gasped over the sound of cartoon supercars. Dragged out of the room, along the stained carpet, I pleaded with my aunt, begging her not to tell my mother. Grounded for two weeks, my mother lectured me on how I should have been mature enough to “not hack sugar water onto the nice family at the theatre.” The lecture at my dining room table was worse than being grounded. Thinking back upon a bitter memory I hadn’t thought about in years, I felt a pang of anger that my mother’s disapproval could reach Alaska from my suburban childhood.

   Remembering that I was not in a circa 2006, movie theatre, nor was I subject to my mother’s discontent, I allowed myself to cough. Each hack brought about a pang of relief, I had expelled the suffocating water and expectations. I brought my legs out from under me and pointed my toes out of the water. The current swept me to the river’s edge, and the stones felt like a punch in my stomach as I rolled onto them. I spilled onto the rocks face up, gazing into the bright blue sky. I lay in the sun for what could have been hours. The warm light washed over me, yet the wind, reminding me of the kite incident once more.  An aspect of the kite incident which brought about failure was my lack of persistence: I had surrendered after the first sign of a challenge. I resolved to not yield to nature’s obstacles. I rolled to my right, and planted my wet hand on the circular stone next to me, turning the light gray surface to a cardboard brown as the water from my hand dripped down. With an emphatic groan, I began to push myself up with my arm. My effort was met with a sharp pain in my shoulder.

I stumbled back onto my feet and hunched over in pain. Using a pain management technique my school nurse had once taught me, I counted to 10, breathing in for five seconds, and breathing out for five seconds. I turned and looked back up at the shale field and river. I could still see the edge of the gravel road where I had started my descent, as well as the indented path left in the rocky slope from where I had fallen. I could see the splash marks on the rocks by where I had plunged into the river. I was worried about the outcome of my trek; less than minutes in I had become injured and lost my pack.

   I could hear my mother’s voice from when I was planning the trip.

“What do you have to prove? So what if you get to some mountain? I just don’t think this is realistic for you.”

   I wondered if she was right as I stepped off of the rocky river edge and onto the tundra vegetation. The dry grass crunched under my soggy boots, my socks squelching with each step. Was the expedition realistic? Was I taking on an insurmountable set of challenges and risks? Within a journey, one uses a system of risk management analysis. One can plot the probability of a consequence versus the severity. Generally, the paradigm of risk is a higher consequence correlates with a lower risk. One is at extremely high risk of skinning a knee. The consequence is inconvenient, if not minimal. The consequences of an asteroid strike are earth-shattering, yet the probability approaches zero. The worst risks, however, are those with a high likelihood and consequence. An expedition facing large quantities of high consequence and probability risks is unrealistic.

   I agreed with my mother: this expedition was not realistic. Completion would mean, and already meant severe consequence. And yet, accomplishing the unrealistic is a profound experience. Honnold’s free solo ascent of El Capitan wasn’t groundbreaking because it was realistic; the feat was revolutionary because it wasn’t realistic.

The expedition was unrealistic. With high risk and consequence, my planned trek was ludacris from the self- preservation standpoint. From the self- affirmation standpoint, the trek seemed to be essential. I needed to prove to myself that I could. That the kite was a fluke. That I could push my limit.

I kept walking towards the ice-capped peak as I thought. I had lost my pack. This meant no food, first aid, water purification, or shelter. With the mountain only fifteen miles away, I could make a round trip in two days. I could go without food, and I was confident I would find another water source.

   As I walked, I saw an eagle soar overhead. This was the first living animal I had seen since I had gotten off of the bus. I looked at the eagle as I continued to step. Without beating its wings, the creature managed to soar above the terrain. I stopped walking to examine the bird.

   I cupped my hands over the tops of my eyes to negate the glare from the sun. The eagle screeched as it dove towards the ground, presumably towards unsuspecting prey. Overcome with joy from the break in my absolute isolation, I repeated the eagle’s cry. I heard my voice bounce over the hills and ridges, and eventually return from the landscape back to me.

   I took the stopped moment to observe my landscape had no idea how far I had hiked, yet I decided I had gone six miles as to commend my efforts. I turned back towards Denali and kept walking.

   The awe of the landscape began to fade as I became desensitized to its beauty, replacing my wonder with fatigue. Each step became increasingly harder. Each footprint sent a burning ache through my quadriceps. Each breath clenched my stomach. I noticed the lost water of each drop of sweat. With one step, I became dizzy. My vision blurred, and my head throbbed with the next. The following step put me on the ground. Looking at the risk management system, I decided to take a rest. The summer midnight sun meant that I could travel at any time of day, and my fatigue put me at risk for more significant injury. The grass of the tundra scratched my cheek as I lay down. My eyes were closed before my head hit the ground.

   I woke up with a tingling on my face and the sour, sticky, mouth of dehydration. I shook my head to relieve the tingling, and the mosquitos took off. I ran my fingers over my cheek to find multiple swollen bumps. As I sat up, I opened my eyes. As the post-sleep blur cleared from my vision, I noticed the blue of the sky had turned into a light silver-gray, and the wind had stopped. The grass where I had laid had a me-shaped imprint, a slightly darker and indented hue of the chartreuse foliage.  The silver tones in the sky indicated that it was night time; the sun had set just below the ridge lines. Rays of light shot over the ridge tops; the surreal size and beauty of the rays, giving their name, god rays, clarification. I sat and looked at the god rays. If the rays did originate from a deity, what was their purpose? Were they a reward for my persistence?

In hindsight, a kind god would have used them to say “Turn back. You’ve seen what you’ve come to see.”

   I heard it before I saw it. Sets of loud, muffled thumps. As the thuds increased in volume, I began to hear loud breathing. At first, I thought that it was another fatigued hiker, but I quickly realized hikers don’t smell of moldy hay. I felt the earth shake, then the warm breath on the back of my neck. The smell almost made me lose my non- existent lunch. I turned around with a reluctant fear.

   Before I embarked on my backcountry journey, I had to watch a series of videos at the ranger’s station. In one such video, a gear clad middle-aged man, who looked to be part bear, explained what to do during a grizzly encounter in a deep monotone.

“Make yourself a known, non-threatening presence,” he droned.  He further retorted. “Do not run. This could trigger the bear’s predatory instincts.”

I’m not sure if the ranger had ever seen a bear, but I wasn’t going to not run when I was face to face with a grizzly.

“Do not run. Stay calm.”

F**k that.

I bolted. My fatigue was replaced with fear, and that fear was put into my legs. I drove my knees, pumped my arms, and the grass appeared to bend around me as I flew through the silver-lit tundra. I was too afraid to look back, I just kept running forwards. As I began to descend a hill, a welcome relief to my tired legs, the tip of my boot caught in a rock, and I fell forwards. I slammed into the ground with a thud, and my ankle felt like it had been run over by a train. I looked back to see where the bear was.

I couldn’t see the bear. Either the six hundred pound predator didn’t give two shits about me, or my time on the treadmill paid off.

As the fear faded, the dizziness returned. I dry heaved into the grass. I dry heaved again. My stomach clenched as I repeatedly threw up nothing. One dry heave put me on my knees. The next on the rough ground. The next into the grass. The next into darkness.

When my eyes opened again, I felt a sense of defeat. I had a feeling that the trip was over. I would need to drag myself to the road, and flag a bus. After all of the planning, training, and effort, the world had taken my validation and torn it in two. I was back in the city, “flying” the kite again. As I rolled onto my stomach to push myself up, I felt the crinkle of plastic. I reached under myself with my right arm, my hand grasping the textured plastic of a water bottle. A stained beige-yellow sticky note was attached.

The note, written in scribbled sharpie, said “To my fellow traveler. To my fellow wanderer. To my friend.”  I held it in front of me to see if I was hallucinating. I decided that I wasn’t. The water refracted in the sunlight, creating a small rainbow on my mud-caked shirt. I opened the water bottle, the white plastic cap crackling as the seal broke, and took a sip.

Nature had decided that I did not deserve validation. A fellow traveler disagreed. It makes sense that the one to support my journey would be on a trip of their own. Those who seek validation often grant it. I felt the crisp liquid wash away my exhaustion and fear. I looked towards the mountain and took a step forwards.