I have an old red climbing backpack with the names of several mountains written on it in permanent marker. They’re the names of mountains I climbed. Conquests.
I remember writing them on there after each climb, feeling proud of my new ink trophy.
I don’t know who those trophies were for. Were they for me? I already knew which mountains I’d climbed without writing it down. Were they for my climbing partners? Did I want to seem cool and experienced and impressive? Were they for strangers?
I don’t write the mountains I’ve climbed anymore. I haven’t for a long time. I don’t really celebrate my “conquests” or talk about them.
The rewards I get from the mountains I climb can’t be seen or shared. The rewards are the memories I have, the scenery, the lessons I occasionally and stubbornly learn, the scars and the pride I walk away with. They show up as a little smile here or there, usually just for me, and nowhere else.
I did almost write something on that pack recently. A year ago, I tried to climb a mountain I’d wanted to climb for years. I didn’t make it to the top. I actually failed at it more than once.
I learned something each time I failed. Those failures got me thinking. I don’t always learn from my successes, but I always learn from failure. I decided that if I wrote anything on my pack, it would be the mountains that beat me, the times I quit, the lessons I failed to learn.
I think about that mountain every single day. Today, I went for a hard training run, so that if I decide to write the names of my failures, I can someday cross them off.
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