It's the climb

by Caitlin Chevrier (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Canada

We’re still 2 hours from the top, it’s as hot as the pits of hell, and I’m still mulling over when the guide said: “the flattest part is at the beginning”. I’m 30 minutes into the Mt. Batilamu hike in Fiji, in the Koroyanitu National Heritage Park, and here’s the thing, I'm not a hiker. I’m in relatively good shape, I live an active lifestyle, I eat well, but I’m not a hiker. I can hike, and I enjoy it after the fact, but during it, I’m pretty much in hell. To put into context how much of a non-hiker I am, up until this point my tallest feat of achievement was about 100 meters of elevation, Mt. Batilamu is 1110 meters. Coupled with a hot Fijian sun, me being bold was an understatement. But I wanted to do it, I wanted the experience and oh man did I ever want the view! The view, the shining moment at the end of the hike where all the pain and suffering becomes worth it. That moment of stillness, silence, and appreciation of the world. I wanted THAT view, and I was determined to get it. I set forth on this adventure with a group of women I was volunteering with, in Fiji, 2015. All young, all beautiful, and all in what I considered, to be in better shape than me. We entered the National Park, after having booked a tour with the local travel agency and paying the park entrance fee. The guide walks us to the entrance of the hike, gives us some basic guidelines and says “the flattest part is at the beginning” while pointing to a literal vertical hill we had to climb. Having chalked this up to a language barrier, I assumed he meant "the steepest part is at the beginning", because oh baby was she ever steep. The beginning was hard but I found comfort in knowing (assuming) the steepest part was at the beginning, it was all going to be ok. Flashforward to 30 minutes in and the hike is getting progressively steeper and steeper with more and more precarious terrain coming up. I was panicking...when was the path going to flatten out? The women in front of me were all walking at a brisk pace, trudging along, getting it done and I was spiraling. All I could think to myself was, “you’re going to have to quit" and I felt that deep in my bones, I could not do this. I was STRUGGLING, but my legs kept carrying me, I kept moving, even with this monologue ripping through my mind. About an hour in we sit down for a snack and water break. This was my moment, I’ve got to tell the girls I’m staying here. I'll find a shady spot and I’ll just wait for them, it’s fine…it will all be fine. So I start to tell the women that I’m struggling, and before I can get it out that I’m going to stay here, I get met with eruptions of “SAME!”, “I’M DYING”, “WHAT ARE WE DOING!?” Every single one of us was debating turning back. We didn’t turn back though, we kept going, and above all, we kept voicing the hard things. We took breaks when we needed it, but we never stopped moving. There was comradely and a common goal moving through all of us, more powerful than my desire to quit. We wanted that view, we earned the top of this mountain! It took us about two and a half hours total to reach the top and as it turns out, the flattest part was at the beginning. We hiked through sweltering open sun and thick, humid rainforest. But we reached the top! We emerged from the forest ready to revel in our victory. We. Did. It. I did it. I was ready to collect my view, but instead, we had hiked into a thick, grey cloud. Nothing to show for our hard work. I didn't get my view, but 5 years later, I’m left with a great story, friends from all around the world, and the reminder that it’s not about the view, it’s about the climb.