Can't (ft. Donner Summit)

Part of the Pacific Crest Trail begins on the left side of the road there

We hiked the trail for about a mile to reach our climb

Apparently even July heat doesn't melt all the snow up here!

A wide place in the trail, looking back at the summit

Woww! The PCT has some incredible views

Looking down at the loopy switchbacks and even farther down to the lake nestled below

You can just see the entrance of a train tunnel that is now a walking path

It's hard to imagine the Donner party trying to get across here in the wintertime

I'm sure there are several routes on this rock, but it's not where we climbed

At the top with Karl! I didn't climb in Chacos, but I wanted to take a Chaco picture at the top. : )

My dad and his friend Karl Wilcox looking up at a route beside where they decided to climb. We had to cross the snowbank to access the route we did.

 These pictures are from July of 2017, when my dad, his friend Karl and I went on a climbing trip to Donner Summit, CA.

I grew up climbing. When I was a baby, my dad strapped me into his climbing pack and climbed with me on his back. As I grew into a young kid, I learned how to wear a harness, tie a double figure 8 knot, follow climbing protocol, and wrap a climbing rope. As a ten or twelve year old, I would go on climbing trips for teens that my dad hosted. I honestly wasn't all that strong, or all that good at rock climbing, but something about the sport was mesmerizing. It was scary, dangerous, but safe all at the same time.

Climbing was an emotional roller coaster for me too. I felt small and brave when I stood at the bottom or the top of a sheer rock face and studied it. I felt frustrated and challenged when I clung to the rock, partway up. I felt triumphant when I tapped the "biner" at the top of the route, panicky when I realized I had to come back down, excited as I bounced down the face, and relieved when my toes touched solid earth. This journey over physical and mental obstacles challenged me every time, no matter how many successful routes I completed. I always felt intimidated, weak, a failure before I started. But by the time I finished, my veins coursed with adrenaline, power and victory.

The transition from the feelings of failure to victory fascinates me. At what point does the switch occur? There is never a point during the climb where I notice that I'm all of a sudden "winning". The whole climb, I'm mentally struggling. I don't know where to put my feet, I don't know if I have enough finger strength, I don't trust the rope, I am sooo high off the ground, I'm GOING TO FALL.

This July day when I went climbing on Donner Summit, I did not realize that I was in for something new. I had mainly just come along to watch my dad and his friend climb. It was a beautiful clear day, fairly cool, and I was enjoying studying the huge valley below. I turned back to the rock to watch the men climb, clipping the rope into slings attached to the bolts on the rock. It looked fairly easy and fun. The rock wasn't pitted sandstone and limestone I was used to seeing in Kentucky and Tennessee. It was granite, smooth, hard and curved. In fact, I began to realize that this "easy" climb wasn't easy at all. It was what they call a "face" climb, where the route stays on the outside exposure of the rock. The climber does not get the help of a crevasse, or a chimney or something to wedge himself into. he doesn't even get ledges or nice big handholds. All there is are tiny cracks, depressions you can just fit your fingertips into, and the flat rock.

My dad's friend sent the route, his long limbs balancing his body and wiry fingers pulling him upwards. He climbed over the lip at the the top of the rock, and disappeared. Then his voiced boomed, "Raquel! You're up!" He was going to belay me from above, what I thought was an incredibly ridiculous idea. What if I pulled him down? But as I yanked my harness snug and clipped in to the rope, I soon realized I had bigger problems. How on earth was I supposed to climb a wall that had NO HANDHOLDS? It seemed as insurmountable as a sheet of glass. I was used to climbing barefoot, but after a few slippery attempts to get off the ground, I realized I was going to need shoes. Fortunately, I had borrowed a pair, and swallowing my barefoot pride, I laced them up.

The going was easier after that. I saw that I could use friction to stick my food to the rock where there was no foothold. It was the eeriest experience, though, learning to climb where there were no holds. I found a little crack and a finger crimp to get me a few feet off the ground, but couldn't find anything else. My dad and Karl encouraging me, I managed to scoot a little higher, but I don't know how. It seemed totally impossible what I was doing.

The worst part of it all was that Karl wouldn't let me rest on the rope, to look for hand or foot holds. "If I feel your weight on that rope, I'm going to lower you straight to the ground." he gravely threatened from above. I could have screamed in frustration. A brick wall would seem like handhold paradise compared to this. "How am I supposed to hold on and let go enough to clip into the bolts? I have NOTHING to hang on to!" In my anxiety and frustration, I started throwing a 24 year old tantrum. "I can't do this! I have nothing. This is too hard! How am I supposed to do this? I want to go down!"

"Naaa..." The voice from high above drawled calmly. "You can do it. Just use friction and balance."  

Friction and balance, eh? Friction and balance. That's easy for you to say when you're safe at the top. All I know is that I feel like a wingless fly on this rock, and my back is hyper aware of all the empty space behind it. I don't know how I'm even up this high. I inch higher, and then hit a mental wall. With marvelous self-possession and conviction I speak, "I'm serious now. There's literally nothing for me to grab now. I'm not tall enough. I'm not strong enough. My legs are shaking. I'm going to fall. Let me down." 

He's obviously staring peacefully out across the valley, "Naaaa... You'll make it." 

Silently wanting to curse him, I look down at my feet. They are trembling. My whole body is trembling. The top is close, but out of my reach. I can't do this. 

But somehow, though my mind is convinced I can't do it, my body starts to climb. It's the weirdest, out-of-body experience; I'm not aware of any persistence or tenacity on my part. I never told myself, Get a grip. Pull yourself together and climb this impossible wall. I never decided I was going to keep climbing.

All I know is that even though I obviously can't do it, I don't have a choice not to. I climb the wall and stand at the top, completely bewildered, beside a philosophically calm Karl.

Somewhere between failure and success, I found a latent power. It is the power of can't. It is what steps in and carries you on when you know the task is impossible. 

I didn't know I had that. I wonder if you know you have it too. 

There are your perceived limits, and then then there is your actual ability. I doubt most of us are even aware there's a difference between the two. Most haven't even reached their self-assigned limitations. We see them looming ahead and give up before we even get there. 

Oh, there's the end of what I can do. Check around, Is a bear chasing me? Nope? Ok, I guess I'll save that effort for later. Besides, he/she/they said this is my limit. It didn't feel good to hear that at the time, but they must be right. 

It all comes down to a choice. It may not be a decision heralded by a celebration. It may not even be noticed by another soul. You might not even be aware you choose to do, to be, but when that's the only option you have, you'll see. 

It's the power of can't, the power that propels you into success. It's what happens when you pass your limitations and soar into the untapped resource of your ability.

  And once you've tasted the impossible, you'll want it again. You'll long for propulsion to hit that wall and smash right through it, whether you're aware of the impact or not. It might feel like you broke all the bones in your body as you see your doubts shoot out like deadly shards, or the impact might feel as noticeable as your fingernails growing. But whether you came into the choice with heart-pounding courage or a distracted unawareness, you'll look back and shake your head when you see just how many light years of space are between what you thought you could do and what you actually did.

So you, there. You dear one who think you can't. Take a look. See what you've already done that you didn't know you could do. Keep on. 

You can. You will. You are. You have.