I am spending this summer hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), a national scenic trail that runs 2,665 miles from Mexico to Canada. This is a huge task that takes a lot of time, energy and effort, but also gives a lot back. I am learning a lot on this journey that can be applied to life as a whole. This is the fourth installment in the series: Lessons from the Trail.

Enduring

There are a lot of times on the trail where things seem impossible. Where you just want to give up because no matter what you do, there is always something else standing in your way. Sometimes, I have learned, it's OK to give up. Sometimes you get more out of changing your plans and taking the other road available to you. This was my third lesson

from the trail. But there are other times when you shouldn't give up. Other times when all of the pain and suffering is worth it, where the beauty of the summit is enough of a prize. The trail has plenty of these moments. Climbing a really hard pass or pushing through a section where it's 105 degrees in the shade - with no shade available (Hello Mojave Desert) feels terrible while you're doing it, but so worth it at the end. I had one experience, however, that was particularly noteworthy. That happened on Mt. Whitney.

At 14,508 feet in elevation, the summit of Mt. Whitney is the highest elevation found in the continental United States. It's a rough climb up that includes hiking across treacherous patches of rock and ice, even in the middle of July. From where we were camped at Lower Crabtree Meadows, it is a 8.5 mile hike up with over 3,000 ft of elevation gain, most of which is in the last four miles. My parter and I were originally trying to make an early, early morning attempt so that he could record the sunrise at the summit. For our first attempt, we left around 1 a.m. after only about three hours of sleep. After about four miles, we realized that we could not possibly make the summit before sunrise and that we hadn't brought sufficient carrying capacity for water, so we turned back to try again. I had also slightly injured my foot. We decided to give my foot a little time to heal. After sitting at the campsite for several days, we set out on our second attempt and this time, we were prepared. We brought enough water and left at 9 p.m. to give us plenty of time to reach the summit. Less than a mile in, I started feeling extremely sick. My pulse was racing, I felt nauseous, lightheaded, disoriented... what was happening to me? It wasn't elevation because we had hardly gained any at that point. It wasn't dehydration or hunger, so what? We turned around and my partner walked me back to the tent. I slept while he completed his sunrise attempt.

I woke up upset and confused. Why wouldn't my body let me do this? First the injury and now this? We had been sitting at this site for almost a week now and were beginning to run out of food. I had already been rationing for days. Maybe I just wasn't meant to summit Whitney. My partner returned with pictures and videos of the beautiful summit. We rested for the day with the intent to leave Whitney the next morning.

But when I woke up the next morning, something felt different. I felt good, like I could do this. I asked my partner how he felt about one more attempt. We left and in less than a mile I felt sick again. I sat down, distraught, sure that I would have to turn back. My partner sat with me and spoke encouraging words. After a while, I felt well enough to hike again and we pressed on. The first four miles otherwise went without any problems. The last four less easily. My lungs burned as they tried to supply sufficient oxygen to my hard working muscles in the deoxygenated environment. I coughed uncontrollably at times and my muscles ached. There were a lot of times that I wanted to turn back. But I pressed on. And when I finally made it to the top, it was definitely worth it. The view was gorgeous and the feeling of accomplishment that filled my heart was overwhelming. I had done it. I had conquered the mountain. Third time's the charm, right?

The way back down was uneventful save the gorgeous sunset we saw over the peaks. But that sense of accomplishment stuck with me. I had endured. I had done it. I had successfully climbed the highest peak in the continental U.S. It had taken three attempts, but that was almost worth more. I had endured. Despite everything telling me I couldn't do it, I did. Despite everything telling me to turn back, this was important enough to me that I pressed on. This experience taught me that I can do more than I think. I can do more than my body thinks I can. I can do more than others think I can. That if I really want something, am willing to put in the time and effort, and have the resources, I can do anything. This experience taught me that I can endure.