The Climb

"Mom, I was born a monkey, right?" Rebekah (sister).

There’s a popular song from my youth that goes, “it ain’t about how fast I get there/ it ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side/ it’s the climb” (The Climb).

Individually, with friends and as a family affair, I have always loved climbing. Mountains, trees, rocks, buildings. Kids want to be tall like their older siblings, like their parents. See things up high. As Nacho Libre says, “I want a taste of the glory. See what it tastes like.”

The evolutionist might say it’s the ape in us. The religionist might say it’s our desire to reach heaven. Either way, it’s about connection. Connection with self, and connection with something greater, something more. Outside of the self. 

If I say any more I’ll uncover too much. I have here, three poems on climbing. The first, I wrote over a year ago, and shared it on Facebook.

Making It

By Elias Orrego

When you climb a mountain

Can you ever fully

Come back down?

Is there always a piece

of you left up there?

Is there always a piece of it 

in the air?

That is left to you.

When you climb a mountain, 

It is in charge

But when you go down

You decide

How far

“Reading a book is enjoyment—” a random girl at the beach said (I don’t people-watch so much as I people-listen—side effect of growing up in a home with lots of thin walls, open doors, and loud mouths). “Reading a book is enjoyment, because you get lost in a different world.”

I have to agree with that about reading, and writing for that matter. Another way to get lost in a different world for me has been to climb trees. As high as I can go, usually. 

Many a summer day in Victoria in childhood and adulthood finds me using the lanky arms and wiry body God gave me, to reach “just a little higher” for that juicy plum, crisp apple or delicate cherry—all the while, being precariously angled with one or two toes on a cracking branch.

Sometimes it’s more for the view and others, the challenge. The experience.

This next poem touches on that and a little bit more. It is not my own experience but I’ve pieced together my experience of nature’s power, and my love for the thrill of challenging myself in the climb. Written in high school and recently published in The Pensive, here it is…

I Climb the Old Cedar Again

By Elias Orrego

I climb with great speed,

I reach hand-over-hand,

stepping foot-over-foot,

grass below becomes smaller, and smaller.

I fly through the branches.

Swift and dreamy as the days

and the years

of a child with his mother.

I'm climbing the one with soft, fingerlike boughs,

that stands higher

than any trunk seen around.

The one I learned not to climb,

after the branch broke

(when my mother was home).

The one time I made the mistake,

I heard screaming. In an anxious,

maternal pitch,

her words shook me (but I didn't listen)

from the roots just above earth,

to the uppermost cone

that I craved.

I heard worried cries

turned to sobs

as I rode the tree down,

jumping every second

to the branch just below.

I saw a face red and trembling,

not warm with anger,

but afraid, disappointed,

the way her brows sunk--

like the branches,

when I missed a day of climbing--

into her eyelashes holding up tears,

the way tree boughs hold rain, forgiving

the uncaring night.

That was the first night that I couldn't sleep.

The first time I heard Mother coughing,

and shaking,

the stress of the day was as much

as the tree,

the time a branch broke underfoot.

That short millisecond of air,

between thinking I would die

and knowing I was safe.

Came back to haunt me.

I could see Mother at the bottom of the tree,

trembling, seeing my hang on the branch

that I grabbed just in time

scared to lose her only son.

From that day on, I waited till Mom left the house,

and the car door closed.

I would check–the exhaust puffed behind her, in the driveway.

Then, for an hour or two,

however long she was gone, at the time,

(it depended on what she was doing,

be it biopsies, check-ups,

or picking up prescriptions)

I was free

to trace my hand over the furry knots,

tug on the vines of bark strips,

bounce and swing 

on the branches curving downward

on my cedar tree.

But last night when Mother was placed on the stretcher

and carried with the oxygen tank by her side,

shut up in the emergency truck

wailing down the street,

she left for the last time.

My Aunt, who came to care for me

in the confusion of blaring sirens,

flashing red lights and tears,

still sleeps as I climb,

my way lit by the dark blue of morning.

Just barely enough to carry

my weight to the top of the tree

where I sit, long past the sun, rising

behind overcast, mourning.

One hundred feet up in the air,

a child in her arms,

I am crying

and she knows how to comfort.

She rocks me, gently

(the wind blows, surrounding me)

Sways me

as I sit on the top of my cedar

her lullaby eases my pain:

The morning birds sing

to welcome the dawn.

She holds me close, my shaking stops.

I am warm.

Clouds divide,

sun floods into the sky,

drying tears, lighting up all

I now see.

Life is the adventure, but sometimes it helps to see that through the metaphor of a risky climb. While I was at BYU Hawaii at age 18, I visited the beautiful Maunawili Falls. It’s an excellent hike through the jungle, along a cool stream, until you get to a pool of water with a breathtaking view of falls. Part of the beauty of the hike for thrill-seeking students is to hike up the side and jump out of a tree into the narrow area of water where the falls land. We did this with pleasure. 

The next step is to climb up the falls a little, before you can find a trail again. There are multiple levels. Because you jump alone, you climb up the levels alone. I guess I went a bit of a different way, because I found myself all alone for quite a long time, in one of the private little pools, and made my own climb. 

This next poem was written on my mission and is about that time. I performed it reading it aloud at a talent show on my mission, while my companion played sounds effects and an accompanying rhythm on his cello. It will be published in The Pensive later this month.

A Log

By Elias Orrego

A log, carried by time 

and the river,

sat propped between two rock walls.

The top of the log touched the top

of the falls

I followed the slant of dark wood

with my eyes

comparing the distance of the ridges

and knots

with the strength of each finger

that clenched

at the thought of 

the climb.

Chest deep in the pool

being splashed by falling river

the log

and me

staring each other down

through the drip

    drop

        drip

None above, and none were behind me

who knew this was my chosen path

Taking hold of the challenge

I clasped hands with the trunk

and started my upward climb to the top.

Each knot I grabbed hold of

made a difference,

some were friendly

        others poked at my palms

    Some were slimed by trickles

When I reached those and slipped

The walls to the sides

became stepping stones to hold my feet

Breaking moss murked the water below,

but the loudest splash I heard was my own

disappointment!

The water felt deeper the second time in.

But a rippling thought in my mind

buoyed me out of the teasing

waters, back onto the tree

I remembered was dead.

The resolve, "I can do it"

Kept my limbs stretched 

and reaching

holding my own on my steady 

opponent

I tried double hard

to keep arms from flapping 

in fear!

I might fall! before winning

The rest

of the smooth-sailing plateau

only seen in my head.

every member of the body climbed

enlisted in the battle:

    man versus log

    man versus water

    man versus sinking into the deep

beneath my feet that seemed a whirlpool of despair

from toes to chin 

        every foot I ascended

mattered.

I was closer to my goal

but the crowd below called me

out. Chanting words of broken 

bones, drowning

or cuts that infect

or bleed me out.

What was sweat? What were tears?

They all became river.

Through the mist that patted me on

the back hairs that once

stood on end 

layed back down,

on my final tug to the zenith.

Prayers uttered in silence were answered.

Grit teeth started smiling.

Muscles strained and beyond could now slumber

a moment

in my own pool of Bethsaida.

I rushed through the silence

of the victory of that log

to join my companions upstream.

No one cared I took longer.

No one noticed I struggled

None were aware I was inches away from being carried out by

a helicopter

or dying from and itching,

bacterial, blood-clotting infection!

In an uncomfortable sleep two days later.

None but One 

who was with me

knew of the battle I fought.

One who knew 

every strain

    every struggle

because He had been with me

every mistake of a hold

and every good step 

of the way.