Waking Up by Eddie Friedman

I was in a slump, a rut, a state of inertia, spending far too little time outside. I walked from the house to the car and from the car to the classroom.

The many months since summiting Mt Hood had faded the exhilaration of that climb to no more than a pleasant memory. With only that vague recollection and a more recent experience descending a wilderness creek, I didn’t jump for joy when learning of the possibility to travel to Mexico and climb one of the highest peaks in North America. “Great,” I thought, “another exhausting schlep; but this time in a dry, desolate and polluted environment.” I couldn’t shed the image of crawling on my hands and knees over lacerative volcanic rock, choking in a soft whisper, “water.”

Although I attended monthly meetings of a local climbing club called the Explorer Post, I often either fell asleep at the meetings or spent the time stressing over the schoolwork waiting for me at home. The extent of my own exploring during those winter months took place in the Facebook photo albums of cool upperclassmen.

That all changed one rainy January evening. The speaker that night was an accomplished mountaineer who’d traveled the world and climbed the planet’s most renowned peaks. A rugged man, with outdoorsy yet stylish graying hair, he spoke with a remarkable nonchalance while recounting his treacherous climb of K2. His dialect combined that of surfer and sailor, sprinkling his narrative with “dude” and “chill” as well as the occasional expletive.

His tales of the Himalayas triggered something, and that night I went home more excited than I had felt in months. “I’m going to Mexico!” I nearly shouted at my parents who responded with a bewildered, “Okay.” Next morning I marched into the Outdoor office. “I want to go to Mexico,” I announced enthusiastically. Peter, the head of the outdoor program, a mentor and friend, responded with a tentative, “Okay.” “Sign me up,” I said, and received a slightly warmer, “All right.”

  

And so, one evening in February, some friends and I found ourselves riding through Mexico City in a white and yellow taxi. The city beneath the quickly darkening sky startled me with its life and vibrancy. Long chains of headlights and taillights flowed over the highways as the city’s twenty million inhabitants returned home from work. Some familiar Spanish words, spoken by our driver, pulled my attention back into the car. 

    “¿Porque eligieron ustedes el hotel?” Why did you choose this hotel?

    “Porque es barato y en un buen área,” we replied, explaining the low cost and good location of our lodging.

    “Barato, si,” our cab driver conceded, “pero muy peligroso.” Very dangerous.

I gulped. He went on about the prevalence of guns, robbery and prostitution, as well as the frequency of murder in the area. He suggested we switch hotels immediately and waved goodbye after unloading our duffels and backpacks. His final advice: keep your eyes open always. 

My vision of crawling over sharp rock with cracking lips now included that of a gun to my head demanding my passport and money. 

Yet I was in Mexico with an incredible group of friends, and faced it all with a sense of adventure. That night, my 16th birthday, we managed to sleep for a few hours before rousing at midnight. For the next 14 hours we hiked, rested, drank sweet melon juice, and hiked some more before reaching the summit of Iztaccíhuatl at 17,158 feet. The following days, spent in tiny Tepoztlán with its cobblestone streets and green cliffs, were the perfect conclusion for one of the most enjoyable adventures of my life.

At a Post meeting around a year later, I sat off to the side at the head of the room, taking a break from presidential duties to listen to that month’s speaker describe his attempt at Everest. 

I watched eyes lighting up amidst the body of fresh-faced explorers.