Perspective on an Olympic Climb, Halted.
I have precious few points of commonality with Simone Biles. In all the ways she is extraordinary, I am, at best, ordinary — and so when I see one small point where our experiences crossover, I like to call it out. Today I noted such an overlap, and it makes me even more proud of her — as a fellow human being — than I was before.
In the summer of 1998, I was in Greece. I was climbing Mount Olympus — literally. It’s a 10,000-foot rise that started the moment I stepped off the Athens to Thessoliniki train in Katerini and hiked into town. Then, after having a quick breakfast of filo-dough pastry and strong coffee, I started the ascent. The first half of the first day was a hard push through lower, tree-covered trails until breaking free onto the mountain itself. By evening, I’d made it a bit beyond the halfway point, and booked a bed at a hiker’s refuge along the trail. The following morning, after breakfast, I headed out alone. I’d dropped most of my gear at the refuge, expecting to make it back that night after a long, hard climb.
Earlier in the summer, I’d told all my friends that the capstone of my summer would be hiking to the top of Olympus. I made jokes about carrying big, styrofoam lighting bolts to the summit that I could hurl down upon the earth, and laugh at the foolish mortals below. I’d bragged about it, and was pretty proud of myself for living an adventurous enough life that my summer vacations involved cool stuff like hiking to the home of the gods, rather than lounging on a beach or doing some all-included special at a resort. All of which is to say that in my own mind, making it to the top of that mountain was very, very, very important.
The second day of the hike was hard. It was hot and there was no water above the refuge — just what you could carry. Still, I was fit and pushed through the sore knees and thirst. The reason you climb mountains is to feel that stuff, so there’s no point in complaining.
Around the third or fourth hour of the second day, the trail comes to a long and very exposed traverse. From what my memory tells me, it is about a kilometer across. While there is no appreciable rise in altitude, the trail in that segment of the climb is marked only by cairns on a rock field and is easy to lose. To the hiker’s left on the ascent is the top of the ridgeline. To the hiker’s right is a fall-away scree slope that pitches down at a severe angle for several thousand feet. Halfway across the traverse, I paused to rest and grab a drink of water. After taking a sip, I briefly lost my footing and grabbed at a rock outcropping for stability. As I did, I dropped my Nalgene bottle and it bounced away down the side of the mountain, causing a small avalanche as it went. It didn’t stop falling and careening off the rocks for a long, long time.
That was sobering.
A few minutes later, I stumbled again, right at the very tippy-top of the ridgeline, and had to fall to my left to keep my footing. As I did, my head popped over the top of the traverse and I saw that there was nothing — nothing but air — on the other side. It was a sheer cliff all the way down. Or at least it looked that way in the few seconds I stared into the abyss. But by that time, I’d nearly crossed the exposed area, so I sat down to gather my thoughts and contain my fear.
As I did, a German hiker — maybe ten years younger than me — came walking back across the traverse in the other direction. He’d already been to the summit and was on his way home. I was amazed at how comfortable he was — like a mountain goat. He was completely at ease and walking as if he were going from the kitchen to the den in his family home, whereas I was at the far edges of my comfort zone.
We chatted for a few minutes, and he encouraged me to press on. I was almost there. Just another half an hour to go. He said there was one small, semi-technical scramble about 40 meters below the summit, but I could do it. If I made it this far, I could do it for sure. I thanked him and told him I’d look for him later that night at the refuge for a beer.
He headed his way, and I headed mine. I made it across the traverse without any more difficulty and got to the part of the climb that he mentioned. From there, I could clearly see the summit flags. The technical scramble wasn’t anything that would give a real climber pause, but it was exposed with a steep pitch below that could be a real mess if I screwed up.
I got my hands on the wall, and lifted my right leg to start the three-meter scramble, and lost my footing. I came off the wall and began to stumble backward into the open air. Instinctively, I buckled my right leg and fell into the wall, ramming it with my shoulder, but doing so successfully changed my momentum toward the wall, rather than away from the wall, and I realized that I’d just almost killed myself by accident.
I got up and looked up at the summit flags and thought for a good long time. I could see where I’d made my mistake on the wall and was pretty sure I could correct it on a second attempt. I was about 90% sure that I could do this — but inside that final 10% of insecurity about my abilities, was the chance of real, honest-to-god catastrophe.
We don’t get many opportunities in life to weigh the odds and the rewards of our actions this clearly. For me, failing here meant what I perceived would be humiliation when I had to tell my friends — particularly my friends who hike and climb — that I’d made it to the final push and then chickened out. It meant failing at something that held an enormous amount of personal significance. It meant — in a way that was aggressively narrative — that I was nothing more than one of those foolish mortals at whom I thought I’d be hurling styrofoam lightning bolts.
Letting go of the dream and the goal, giving in to my fear, disappointing myself and my friends, was galling. It was humiliating, particularly as I knew this was no superhuman feat. There were probably 30 people, that day alone, who would make the same climb — but I’d reached my physical and my emotional limit.
Standing at the base of the scramble-wall, I considered options. I could risk my life and maybe make it. Or I could just lie to my family and friends and say I did it. Or I could just accept defeat.
None of those options was attractive, so I turned away from the stone, and sat down with my back against the wall. From there, I could gaze east, back toward the Aegean Sea.
You could see all the way to the water. It was beyond beautiful with the mountains falling away into the forest, and everything within my scope resting underneath a great, blue Hellenic sky. I could see all the way down to the train platform I’d stepped off the day before, down by the beach — and while sitting there, I had an epiphany. Like most epiphanies, it was simple and crystal clear. I realized that literally everything I loved in the world was in the 9,900 feet below, and nothing of true value lived in the wind that blew above that wall. Life and connections were below. There was nothing but ego up above.
I dusted myself off and headed home.
When I got back to the refuge that evening, I called my family. My dad answered the phone, and I told him that I loved him. I told him that I loved him, very, very much.
It was one of the hardest decisions I ever made, but it was also one of the best. I trust the same will prove true, in time, for the extraordinary Ms. Biles.
