The Weakest Link

by Carole Puckett

As my head rushed toward the boulder, I threw my arms out to catch myself, but found no purchase, only water rushing by in the river. I squeezed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch my face smash into the rock. How had I gotten here?

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At seventeen, I was immersed in church activities including Young Life. When I heard about a camp called LaVida, which translates to “The Life,” that involved two weeks of backpacking in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. I needed to go. It summoned me. I saw this as a way to find myself and find God.

My parents advised me not to go because it sounded dangerous, but I didn’t let that stop me. They wouldn’t pay the deposit to hold my spot in camp, so I came up with a plan. Young Life held a contest where the person who wore the most shirts would win the down payment. I put on 30 shirts, first tank tops, then my tee shirts, and finally my father’s shirts. My arms were so immobile that I couldn’t lower them, looking like a bizarre robot, but I won that deposit.

At the Army Surplus Store I purchased hiking boots and woolen socks to keep my feet dry, a wool cap to prevent hypothermia, a canteen, bleach to kill the bacteria in the water (one drop per canteen full), a warm yet light weight sleeping bag, one plate, cup, spork, and Swiss army knife. All the while we shopped, my mother repeated, “You’re not going. It’s not safe.”

And yet I went. As a parent now myself, I’m not sure how my parents’ directive didn’t hold sway. Perhaps they saw my determination. Perhaps it was my laser focus and commitment, jogging every morning before school, breaking in the hiking boots with walks around the neighborhood, everything to prepare for the venture.

When I was dropped off at the Young Life leader’s home to begin the journey, my mother told Dana, “You must keep her safe. I’ll bake a dozen of your favorite cookies when you bring her home in one piece.”

My father, in his usual dad-joke style replied, “I’ll bake you two dozen cookies if you don’t bring her back!” Dana took these words to heart.

After a sixteen-hour drive, with a few wrong turns, we came together with the rest of our crew at Saranac Village. The Adirondack Mountains reflected in the glass lake before us. Rustic log cabins dotted the shoreline. Taking deep breaths of the pine scented air, we headed to the obstacle course to begin our team building exercises.

First, we climbed a sheer wall, the kind you see in military training movies. Dana, our Young Life leader and former Marine, planted his feet in the ground at the base of the wall and           told Ron to crawl over him. With his heavy hiking boots digging into Dana’s hands, Ron was lifted to the top and scrambled over. Then, one by one, we each climbed over Dana, reached for Ron’s hand, and pushed ourselves up as others pulled us over the top. I felt like deadweight as they lifted me over, unable to find purchase along the wall. The hardest part was bringing Dana up the wall as he had no one to climb over and also outweighed us scrawny teens. We finally sent Ron back down so Dana could crawl over him. Then, with a running leap, Ron hit the wall high enough for the group to grab hold of his clothing and pull him over the edge.

The ropes course in the treetops was next. One by one we climbed the rope ladder fifty feet above the forest floor so we could tightrope walk across the cable to the next tree. Eventually, we came to a six-foot gap. Each member of my team leapt across the void, hugging the trunk of the next tree upon landing. On my turn, I tried to jump, but when I looked down, the ground seemed a million miles away. The dirt and brush beneath offered nothing to break my fall. A sudden panic spread over me, so I swung across instead of jumping. Finally, I rode a zipline back to the ground, being caught in a poncho by two teammates. This went well until it was time to catch Dana. His speed and weight sent us, the poncho holders, flying into each other. More stunned than hurt, we learned the importance of planting our feet and bracing ourselves. We proved ourselves ready for the real journey – some more than others- for two weeks of backpacking with no communication with the outside world.

At each trial, I felt like the weakest link – needing the most help up the wall and swinging from one tree to another while the rest of my team took that leap of faith. I recognized I’d have to push myself to keep up with this crew.

Finally, we packed our backpacks with food, water, tents, sleeping bags, clothes, stoves, and rope. Each backpack weighed forty pounds – more than I had ever carried in my life. We set off for our journey, up the side of the mountain away from the tranquil camp. The thick overhead leaves dimmed the light of the sun and made our July days feel springlike. At first, we followed paths, occasionally meeting other hikers on the trail, but soon found ourselves alone on the mountain. Each day was a new learning experience – how to read a compass, how to follow a trail map, how to hang our food from a tree at night to keep bears away, how to pitch a tarp into a tent, how to make fire and cook over a camp stove. I never mastered this last task, as I charred macaroni and butterscotch pudding to a crisp.

About three days into our adventure, I lost my footing on the mountain, slid off the path and down the muddy incline. Hands scrambling, I grabbed the only thing within reach – a small sapling growing from the cliffside. Instead of fear, I felt comic relief – it was something from every childhood cartoon – holding onto a tiny branch so as not to plummet. In a moment, Dana grabbed my free hand and yanked me back onto the path.

My parents’ warnings replayed in my brain. “It’s not safe.” But something else echoed in Dana’s mind. “No cookies,” he said as he shook his head and walked off.

The next day, I slipped on wet rocks as we crossed a stream and plunged into the water. My foot got wedged between two rocks and rendered me immobile. Betsy, our Sherpa (guide) examined my leg, certain it was broken, no matter how many times I told her it was fine. Once again, I was slowing the group.

I felt like a liability. I kept stumbling and earned the nickname Carole the Klutz.  So, when I slipped on the river stones, and went crashing toward that boulder, I waited for the crash, the pain, the blood. And waited. Nothing happened. Slowly I opened one eye and then the other only to see the rock fill my vision. My hands were flailing in the river, unable to find ground. Why was I suspended above the rock? It made no sense.

Ron and Dana splashed through the river frantically. Each grabbed me under an arm and lifted me onto my feet. “Where’s the blood?” They were as confused as I was.

As we stood in the river, assessing my lack of wounds after the rock should have caved in my face, we finally figured out the problem.  My tent and sleeping bag were stowed on top of my backpack. The tent had caught the top of the rock and held me in place. That’s when we realized that my klutziness was due to the weight distribution of my forty-pound pack. The tent and sleeping bag topping the pack were throwing my weight forward, causing my stumbles.  I repacked, tying the top bundle onto the middle of the backpack, no longer making me top heavy.

On day nine, we hiked from Lake Colden to Duck Hole and set up camp in record time. Rain poured down in torrents, the wind ripping at the sides of our tents, forcing us all to huddle within, gripping the sides to keep them from blowing away.

There was no hope of sleep that night, so Dana suggested we pack up and hike on. The girls yelled over the wind for him to go ahead and we’d see him the next day. But, after fighting a losing battle against the elements, we all surrendered the idea of sleep, packed up, and moved on.

Dripping wet, it felt better to be hiking through the mud-soaked forest than hunkering down in puddles clinging to tarps. At first, we trudged in silence, inwardly cursing our luck, but then the torrent of rain slowed to a drizzle and hundreds of stars peaked through the blackness. The night sky lightened our moods. Instead of trudging through mud, we all began looking up and telling stories.

We stared in wonder at the night beauty. Soon we were singing and joking as we moved on with a lighter step. Dana joked that we should hike all the way to Ampersand Dam – the target of the next day’s trek. After a bit, our energy boosted, and it went from a jest to an idea to a plan. A chant of “Ampersand or Bust” shot up and we were re-energized.  Together we pushed each other on until we hiked eighteen miles. Instead of being exhausted, there was a sense of pride and accomplishment. We’d turned a weather disaster into a team win. As we set up camp, we realized that we left our rope at our last rest stop, so someone had to go back for it. I rushed to volunteer to make the two-mile hike back to retrieve it. I then added the rope to my pack, adding several pounds. I didn’t want to be the slacker – the klutz – the one holding the group back. I was determined to show my worth.

This suburban nerd hiked over eighty miles that week. I carried my share of the equipment, pitched a tent every night that never let in the rain, (unlike the boys’ tent that got soaked) started campfires without matches, waded through creeks in the pouring rain, spent three days alone in the woods fasting, meditating, and reading the New Testament. The adventure ended with a seven-mile run back to basecamp followed by a much-needed shower.

One of the most important lessons I learned was that you can’t find yourself or God at a camp. I pushed myself well past my limits and saw my potential and pitfalls. As to God, well, we all believed He was responsible for getting us so far. However, as I age, I really struggle with the notion of religion. We got through the tough parts together because we worked together. Giving credit to an all-knowing entity really removed the self-satisfaction of our own accomplishments.

I wish I could say that La Vida changed my life, that I’m an avid hiker and adventurer. Unfortunately, no.  I grew up to be an academic nerd, teacher, wife, and mother of three. I also left the church. Some say they read the Bible to become closer to God. I am an atheist because I read the Bible. However, other lessons of LaVida stick with me.

Upon retirement, I found a beautiful lakefront property that returned me to the beauty of nature. I took up kayaking. When I overturned my boat and fell into the frigid water on my first solo trip, I drug that kayak out of the lake, emptied the water from it, put on dry clothes, got back in and went out again. Because I won’t be the weakest link in my own life.

Not all obstacles are sliding off trails or crashing toward rocks. A failed first marriage, single parenting, remarrying, losing my husband to cancer, supporting my children through their trials- a near fatal car accident, overcoming alcoholism, divorce, and navigating the LGBTQ+ world. These are the real mountains I climbed.

Oh, and my mother? She was waiting up for me when the van brought me back home at four in the morning. She listened as I regaled my adventures and she never once complained about the lateness of the hour or the smell emanating from my backpack. The next day, fulfilling her promise, she brought Dana a mountain of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Maybe that’s where I learned my parenting style. Some say, “Give them wings and let them fly” but, to me, that implies an easy journey.  I believe we should buy them hiking boots so they can forge their own path and always repack their gear when things fall apart. That’s what I did. That’s what I’m still doing.

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Carole Puckett resides in a small lake community in the Shenandoah Valley of Virgina with her two cats, Fred and George. She is a retired Reading Specialist who enjoys kayaking and boating on her pontoon Serenity in the summer. During the winter, she spends her time playing bridge, organizing social events, storytelling, reading, and writing.