The Second Half of Life

Sometimes we have to break the rules to survive … especially to survive what writer and baby boomer Linda Albert calls “the second half of life.” She broke her own rules by going on an expedition of Outward Bound. Read her adventure and ask yourself, could you do what she did?

I am nine-tenths up the side of a 25 foot rock in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in upper Minnesota, close to the Canadian boarder. It is late July. I am 53 years old. I have no idea if the weather is fair or foul since I am focused on one thing, and one thing only. I am stuck. Totally and completely stuck, stomach pressed against the unforgiving granite, left foot perched on a tiny outcropping of rock at an improbable angle to my body, at least two large stair levels in height above the right foot, which is currently flailing for a purchase. My hands are clamped for dear life on an overhang above.

How have I gotten into this predicament? What has caused a woman in the middle of life, the same woman whose mother took her out of ballet when she was seven years old because she was the “clumsiest girl in the class,” and who then made a self-fulfilling prophecy of being the first person at the party to spill the peanuts, and the last kid in the class to be picked for any team, to make the choice to come on this Outward Bound Wilderness challenge? Clearly, I am asking the question too late.

I am dressed in thrift shop clothing as directed by the official Outward Bound list, with specific instructions not to waste money on new clothes from fancy catalogue stores since they are likely to be wrecked in the wilderness. This has not filled me with optimism, given the very real possibility that I will kill myself here or, worse yet, maim myself for life and then have to live for the next 40 or 50 years with the consequences of my reckless choice to come on this adventure.

I have followed the list to the letter. Everything on my body is nylon or at least partially polyester since getting wet is one of the operative avoid-at-all-cost phrases during this course, and cotton, we’ve been informed, will not dry. My long pants are army green, my shirt is red; long-sleeved to keep from getting scratched to death by the climb, and red because the color matches my moisture-wicking wool socks. My ability to color-coordinate is not proving to be a useful asset in this situation. This is not a surprise.

I am wearing a yellow helmet, and have a harness strapped around my waist and between my legs from which ropes are attached so that, theoretically, I can be lowered to the ground if I start to fall or pulled to the top if necessity requires. The ropes, which are there for my protection, give me no comfort at all because it looks like I will be spending my life pasted on this rock with no way to help myself and no rescue in sight.

“Always use three points of contact,” our instructors told us when they were teaching us the preliminaries earlier this day down at the base of the rock. They called this basic teaching “bouldering.” “Either use two feet and one hand, or two hands and one foot. Never use your knees. Knees are for praying, but never for rock climbing.” The NEVER is emphasized strongly. I listen attentively and practice diligently, despite my considerable anxiety, because without the rules I have nothing to hang on to but air and oblivion. I have barely slept all week awaiting this.

My comrades at the bottom of the rock have offered advice innumerable times and, God knows, I have tried to follow their instructions. “Move your right foot a quarter of an inch to the left or try a foot higher,” one calls. There is not a toehold in either place. “Try bringing your left foot down to the right,” another suggests. But then I would lose those crucial three points of contact that are supposed to keep me from falling off this mountain. I may be crazy but I am not suicidal. Or, then again, maybe I am! “Try lowering your hands and finding a different place to climb.” Again, I find nothing. It feels like I’ve been at this for hours.

“Please,” I beg, “pull me up“. I have tried everything. I can see the summit enticingly just beyond my reach. One of the two teammates manning the ropes looks down at me sympathetically. Jackie would come to my aid if she could; she is also from Michigan and would later turn out to be a special friend, but our instructor, Sandy, is adamant. “Don’t do it.” she commands Jackie. “She can make it on her own.” More instructions from the bottom of the mountain. Some from the top. I try all over again, but nothing works.

I am 8 weeks post-hysterectomy, and I am becoming exhausted. Months after signing on for this program, an unexpected fast-growing ovarian cyst has rushed me into surgery and, thankfully, has turned out to be benign. The operation would have given me a respectable “out” if I’d wanted to take it, but something deep inside called me to this opportunity, and despite my lack of skills and confidence and my many fears, I have not wanted to say no to it. My surgeon has okayed my coming and Sandy the instructor has convinced the Outward Bound directors to allow me to stay in the program. The truth is, I have never had athletic prowess, or a good working relationship with the physical world. Yet here I am, trapped like a bug on this unforgiving rock, self-esteem in tatters, life and limb up for grabs, my shame and lack of competence out there for all to see. Perhaps that is why I had decided to go so far out on a limb in the first place — eight days in the wilderness, with no place to hide, pushing against the edges of my limitations, hoping to find more to myself, culminating here on this rock.

Suddenly, I can stand it no longer. A burst of energy comes from nowhere, fueling my weary bones and firing my spirit. I will not take up permanent residence on this relentless rock. I will not give another teammate who believes I faked having surgery, and who has been on my back all week like the proverbial hair shirt, any evidence to pick on me and gloat. I will not give my mother a reason to support her worries and say “I told you so.” I will not give any more quarter to our merciless instructors and my teammates who have failed to rescue me.

Somehow my body knows what to do, even though I don’t. With one fell swoop I am on the summit. Unbelievably, the solution has been to crawl onto the handhold using those shunned body parts — my off-limits knees — and then hoist myself over the top. After all this struggle and suffering, I have surmounted the block in my path, not only by breaking the rules but, in effect, by praying myself to the top. My sense of triumph is incredible, my relief both overwhelming and humbling.

Until this moment I had never considered, never even had the remotest idea, that the very rules I followed so slavishly, for my protection or to make me a good or better person, might just as well be contributing to my liabilities and limitations. The insight shocks me. I already know I have no desire to ever make it to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro; my aspirations lie elsewhere. But thanks to conquering this 25-foot intimidating rock in the Boundary Waters of Upper Minnesota, I feel certain that something fundamental and profound has changed in me. Who knows what else I might still be able to accomplish in the second half of life!

Filed Under: Baby Boomers • Linda Albert