When my older son was about to turn ten, I began a three-year process of initiating him into manhood.  (How I came to this decision is the subject of an upcoming post.)  The first part of this entailed a four-day backpacking trip along a segment of the Foothills Trail in the mountains of South Carolina.

Here I should explain that the Foothills Trail is 76 miles long and runs in its meandering course in South Carolina and North Carolina from Table Rock State Park at its eastern end to Oconee State Park at its western end.  Starting at Table Rock State Park, the first segment of the trail goes up to the bald atop Pinnacle Mountain — roughly 1,800 feet of vertical climb over the course of a mile or less.

It had been at least ten years since I’d had a backpack on my back, and my son had never had a pack on his back.  Even so, we prepared — buying the gear, brushing up on bushcraft, studying the topographical maps and trail guides, and walking the neighborhood with weighted backpacks.  As we made ourselves ready, I emphasized what an adventure we were going to have, not how difficult it was likely to be.  Despite my strict workout discipline, I underestimated the physical challenge.

The day of the trip we reviewed our checklists twice, weighed our fully-loaded packs and my son kissed his mom goodbye.

We arrived at the trailhead a couple of hours later, filed our plan at the rangers’ station and had hardly gone 400 yards before it began to rain.  In some ways this was a good thing, since the afternoon had already been oppressively  humid.  But the rain didn’t last, making the humidity even worse.  The rain also made the roots, rocks and ruts that comprised the trail’s surface slick, and the narrow switchbacks treacherous.

Despite our preparations, the slope of that first mountain was considerably steeper than the suburban hills of our subdivision and the trail more forbidding than the paved cul-de-sacs we had walked.  Outwardly, I encouraged my son; inwardly I began to wonder what I had gotten us into.  With my legs burning, my clothes drenched in sweat, and my pulse pounding in my ears, I prayed my son wouldn’t have the horror of watching his father croak in front of him.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a bit of whining, and a few times my son said he wanted to go home.  Despite my apprehension and the greater-than-expected difficulty of the climb, I refused to consider turning back — and I told him so.  I explained that the entire purpose of the adventure was to enable him to discover his strength by putting it to the test in an uncertain enterprise.  “The only way off this mountain is over it, ” I said.  And that became an axiom I spoke to him — and later to his brother — from then on.

I’m telling you this story because I suspect you’re on a mountain of your own right now.  Perhaps you’re tempted to quit and return to the comfort and safety of the familiar.  Before you do that, I want to  encourage you instead to view your current challenges as an opportunity to discover your strength through perseverance.  You may or may not succeed but you will learn, and by learning you will eventually succeed.

So how about you?  What is your mountain?  How are you persevering to get over it?  Add your comments below.