Moral Excellence

Sometimes it's difficult to tell if something is right or wrong. Often, it is much easier to decide if something is better or worse than something else. And if it's not difficult to tell which is better or worse, then it shouldn't be too hard to determine which choice is the best. Making the best choice consistently--that's called moral excellence.

I hate moral arguments. Why do we try to figure out if something is "right" or "wrong"? Why would you want to mess with it? No need to worry about if something might be wrong. If it might be wrong, it's probably not the best choice. Just choose something better and get on with your life.

In A Quandary

I couldn’t find my headlamp anywhere. I had used it during the night, scrounging around my tent in ten degree temperatures for a face mask to warm my nose. I remember the power was starting to fade, and the low battery indicator was strobing red against the wall of my tent. And I remember turning it on in the morning to find the clothes I would be wearing for the summit bid on Quandary Peak. I remember putting my boots on and stepping out of my tent into the morning cold. “Ben, your headlamp,” Ehren reminded me as he gestured toward the light, still powered on but drowned out in the sunrise reflecting off the snow. But as I carefully arranged all of my equipment in my pack, double-checking my map, compass, extra clothing, eyewear, and first aid, the headlamp was nowhere to be found.

There were five of us preparing for the climb. My tent mate, Joe, was struggling with altitude sickness after a fitful night sleeping at 11,000 feet. Ehren and Travis shared the tent next door, where apparently altitude didn’t have any effect. They both rose rested and energetic for the climb. Our fifth member, an English Labrador retriever named Horton, was a friend we had met at the trailhead. A local celebrity, Horton climbs the mountain every day, sometimes several times a day, and is notoriously picky about his climbing companions. Since we were the only team setting out that day, Horton had to settle for our modest pace and heavy breathing. I had just as much trust in Horton’s mountaineering skills as any of my teammates’, knowing that he was responsible for saving several lives on the mountain during whiteout conditions. Besides, I enjoyed his friendly company.

After a few failed attempts, Travis fired up his stove and heated some water for oatmeal. I forced down a few bites, then spent at least ten minutes gnawing on a frozen energy bar. I had no appetite, but I knew I would be using at least 6,000 calories during the day and had to eat breakfast. I drank a half liter of water out of a Nalgene I had cuddled with all night to keep from freezing.

Joe sat motionless, breathing deeply, trying to fend off the hypoxic state he had fallen into during the night. When we had eaten and packed he announced that he was feeling much better and was ready for the climb. We hoisted our packs and strapped on our snowshoes, immediately beginning the slow trudge up the lower slopes of Quandary Peak. I felt the absence of my headlamp and prayed that I wouldn’t end up needing it.

The weather report was not good. It called for precipitation—two or three inches of accumulation—coupled with 35 mph wind gusts and temperatures in the low teens on the upper ridge. The cold I could handle, but the thought of low visibility and possible whiteouts made me uneasy. But as we started the climb, we were thankful for blue skies and bright sunlight.

The climb to the treeline went by too fast. As we stepped out of the protection of evergreens, I could feel the weight of the wind and the slap of the drifting snow on my face. I zipped up my shell jacket and donned a pair of goggles. Although the sky above us was still blue, we could see that the peak was shrouded in a swirling, gray cloud that stretched down over the summit ridge.

The higher we climbed, the stronger the wind blew. Soon is started snowing. Travis tapped my shoulder. “Is my nose turning white?” I saw a small white blotch on the left side, a definite indication of the beginnings of frostbite. I nodded and he pulled his bandana higher up his face. Visibility was four or five hundred feet, just far enough that we could see the edges of the ridge to guide us to the top.

Horton climbed contentedly, even when his yellow fur iced over and frost covered his nose. Travis, Horton, and I took a short break while we waited for Ehren and Joe, and I unwrapped a bar I had stashed in my pack. I tried to break off a piece for Horton, but it was frozen solid. I put the entire bar halfway in my mouth until it had thawed slightly, then I chewed a hunk off, took it out of my mouth, and tossed it to Horton. He devoured it happily, while I thoughtfully gnawed on the rest and tried to figure out how he could be so happy about something so unappetizing.

At 13,000 feet, my thermometer read nine degrees, which meant the windchill must have been around -25. We were exhausted and cold. Joe was struggling with the altitude, but he tenaciously refused to give up until he absolutely had to. The ridge had narrowed considerably, with abrupt, corniced slopes on each side. I saw the ridge raise up steeply in front of us, and I knew the remaining 1,000 feet would be miserable.

I was worried about the altitude. I knew from experience that without a few days to acclimatize, I can’t stay more than a few hours above 13,000 feet. At the speed we were climbing, I would likely be at high altitude for at least four hours. Already I could feel a pounding headache and the rumble of an upset stomach. Besides, it was already 1:00, which meant we only had four hours to summit and descend safely before dark. I couldn’t keep my mind off of the horrible things that could happen to us if we were caught above treeline after sunset, especially during the storm that was predicted to sweep the mountain for the next two days.

We took a short rest in the shelter of some boulders, and Ehren produced a pocket Bible from his pack. Fumbling to find the text he was looking for with heavy gloves on, he began reading from Psalms 42 and 43. Although he was nearly shouting to be heard above the wind, several lines hit me loud and clear. Why are you downcast, O my soul? Put your hope in God! I shared my summit prayer with Joe and we were both encouraged. We began up the summit ridge.

Our steps were sometimes five inches at a time, but we were gaining elevation quickly. 13,100… 13,200… 13,300… By the time my altimeter read 14,000 feet, it was after 2:00. I was worried. Even though the summit was only 200 vertical feet away, we couldn’t see it, and everyone was feeling the effects of spending too much time too high. I couldn’t stop belching, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before those energy bars would be back to say hello. “I think we should turn around.” I don’t remember who said it, but Joe agreed. I nodded my head, “Yeah, I’ve seen enough of this mountain.” I thought that was the group consensus.

“I’d like to make a summit attempt.” Ehren looked strong to me, and he had the most experience.

Travis joined in, “I guess I’ll give it a try too.”

I looked at Joe. There was no way he was going anywhere but down.

I said, “Well if you guys are going, I’d like to go too.” I remember saying this, but it must have gotten lost in my mask or carried away in the wind. There was no further discussion. Ehren said they might be as much as an hour behind us, so we shouldn’t wait. I gave him a thumbs up, and Joe just nodded.

Joe and I started the careful return trip as conditions worsened. I led the descent, but was careful to stay close to Joe. At one point, I was maybe fifty feet in front of him. I looked back and saw the outline of his jacket, but as soon as I saw it, it was gone. A gust lowered the visibility to just a few feet in every direction. Joe reappeared in a few seconds and I made a mental note to stay closer.

When we were safely on the lower slopes, I sat on a rock pile to take a rest and wait for Joe. I had so many thoughts going through my altitude-confused mind. Why didn’t I summit? I could have made it. Why did Joe have to get sick? Couldn’t he have descended on his own while I summited with the group? I was bitter and depressed at the way things turned out—things beyond my control. Two hundred feet! That’s close enough to touch. When I opened my eyes I realized that the wind had drifted snow against my legs, half-burying me in the few short minutes I rested there. I stood up quickly and realized Joe was right behind me. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Thanks man. I really appreciate what you did up there. Remind me to buy you dinner tonight.”

Then he pointed up the mountain, and I saw Ehren and Travis gaining on us quickly. I nodded and we kept walking. They caught up to us just below 13,000 feet, where we had stopped to read from the Psalms on the way up. We were off the summit ridge and started the long, gradual descent down the east slopes. When we arrived at the first point above treeline, we stopped to look for the route. We had a general idea of where the route was, but we couldn’t spot where the trail entered the treeline. After doubling back a few times, Ehren spied a trail marker at the edge of the trees. Travis and I bounded down the slope, post-holing up to our waist in some drifts, and lay panting at the signpost.

We all rested there for a few minutes, finally sheltered from the wind and snow. I looked at the sky, which was beginning to get dark. Where is my headlamp? I need it! We decided that Travis and I would take the car keys and set out at our own pace. We could warm the car and strike my tent before Joe and Ehren arrived.

But the route was not as easy to follow as we expected. In the few hours we had spent above treeline, the wind had drifted the snow and completely obliterated our tracks. The trail itself was packed from so many climbers—you didn’t need snowshoes on the trail. But if you stepped off, you instantly found yourself up to your knees, or even waist, in snow. We used a technique of trial and error to find the route—if we sunk, we tried a new direction until the snow was hard enough to walk on. This worked for a while, until we also realized that certain wind-blown sections are also hard enough to walk on. After sinking and doubling back many times, we finally managed to navigate down to the thicker forest, where the trail was well-marked and easy to follow. Relieved, we almost jogged the remaining mile to the car.

It took me a while to warm up. My head still pounded from the altitude, and I was entirely spent. Just striking my tent took all the energy and willpower I could muster. By the time Ehren and Joe arrived, we were almost completely packed and ready to go. It was dark, and I couldn’t find all the pieces to my tent without my headlamp. We threw everything, without any attempt at organization, into the back of Joe’s Toyota Highlander and drove to the nearest town for dinner. After filling our stomachs, we started driving the hour and a half to Denver, where we were going to sleep at Ehren’s apartment.

I watched the snow fall from inside the car. I loved how silent it was in the valley. Travis and Joe were asleep in the backseat, and I was replaying certain parts of the day in my head. My first thought was, Worthless! I endured the worst weather I’ve ever seen, and there wasn’t even a payoff. I was angry and disappointed.

But even though I was disappointed, I couldn’t escape the fact that I loved it. I loved that climb. I loved yelling above the wind and pulling my mask higher on my face and worrying about finding the route and being weak with altitude and gasping for air. I was talking to God, asking for him to show me his purpose for me in climbing Quandary Peak. And as I remembered more about the day—how I felt—I began to understand.

If you climb mountains only to get to the summit, you are setting yourself up for disappointment. No matter how amazing those five minutes on top of the world feel, they aren’t worth the misery and pain of getting there. Mountaineering is only worth it if you love the climb. You have to love the experience—every part of it—in order to get the payoff.

God gave me an object lesson. Mountain climbing is like your relationship with God. If you’re only in it for the achievements—for feeling better, having hope, reaching a certain status with God—then it’s not worth it. You have to love every part of it, every part of God, in order get the payoff. God is not calling us reach the summits. He is calling us to experience him and to experience him fully. He wants us to love every minute of it, even when there are high winds and arctic cold. Paul writes, “This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It's adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike ‘What's next, Papa?’” (Rom. 8:15). God asks nothing from us except that we experience him.

The drive back to Lincoln, Nebraska was filled with sleep, quiet music, and lots of fast food. When we finally pulled in front of Prescott Hall, the guy’s dorm at Union College, I had mixed emotions. Mostly I just wanted to be back in Colorado, climbing another peak and searching out God’s will for my life. We unloaded gear and sorted through duffels, throwing away trash and stashing accessories. When the last bag was unloaded from the back of the SUV, I saw a familiar headlamp laying on the carpet. Minutes later, I fell asleep in my own bed with a smile on my face.