“The hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
It’s a superlative of the highest degree, for most of us, an exaggeration. It can be tacked on to almost any difficult achievement and accepted, if somewhat diluted, in the “now” of the circumstance. Whether it’s a first marathon, a heretofore impossible ski line or a bicycle ride across the country, we are caught up in the moment. In reality, it’s probably the hardest thing we’ve ever done lately.
But if you consider it, we’ve all got a hardest thing, a time when we’ve struggled like no other. Challenges, of course, come in all varieties, whether they are physical, emotional or intellectual. My father might say attaining a doctorate was his greatest challenge. And we’ve all dealt with a breakup or lost a loved one when we thought the world would surely end. It is in terms of physical strife, however, that the truly hardest thing either resonates as an absolute or is utterly overblown.
We all enjoy challenges to some degree. For some, that can mean doing the Sunday crossword puzzle. For others, it’s paragliding across the Grand Canyon. And the degree of challenge for each is something of a moving target. We generally improve with experience, and the test becomes correspondingly easier. Then we are driven to dare anew.
For that reason I’d argue the first time we try something is typically perceived as the hardest, but the genuine article occurs sometime after, usually when we’re caught by surprise. A storm moves in and you’re left disoriented and confused on a backcountry ski tour. A rock falls unexpectedly in a slot canyon and, pinned beneath it, you are forced to cut off your arm. In an instant, you are pushed outside the physical comfort zone you’ve spent years creating.
In reality, not many of us are faced with such life-or-death scenarios, even when we seek them out. We consciously mitigate risk, through practice and preparation, relegating it to afterthought status in the name of a good time.
Researching this week’s feature on Colorado epics got me thinking about this question of “the hardest thing.” Gathered around a campsite, I took an informal poll of friends and acquaintances.
“I had to reset my own femur once,” one friend offered. “That was pretty hard.”
A tough one to top, no doubt, but I was amazed by what others had to say, ranging from multiday barefoot slogs through some of the harshest wilderness in the West to the mental struggles of forcing yourself to ride a bicycle-like contraption across a high gondola cable while training to evacuate passengers as a ski patroller. A kayaking partner claimed his hardest moment was watching a close friend swim through a potentially deadly rock sieve in a California river. Although he survived, the failed struggle to prevent the episode from occurring left a scar of its own.
One thing that stood out in the stories was there is no set formula for strife. Difficulty doesn’t necessarily come in epic proportion. For some, the hardest thing ever took only a few seconds; for others, it was hours. Always, it seemed like an eternity.
I fall into that short-term strife category myself, nearly drowning while attempting to kayak the Animas River at flood stage last spring. Swollen beyond the capacity of its bed, the river folded back over upon itself, mercilessly flushing me downstream as I strained in vain to overcome the pulsing current and reach the bank. Beyond the very real fear, I most vividly recall my surprise at the difficulty of the challenge, underscored two weeks later when two others died in the very same spot.
Before that moment, a number of episodes might have vied for the title of “the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Afterward, merely getting back in a kayak was a contender. But I did, and I’d like to think I learned something from the ordeal. Something about river characteristics and something about my own character.
Perhaps the greatest lesson is that we never know for sure when our most difficult challenges will arise. The best we can do is attempt to be prepared. Maybe that’s the reason so many of us continue to push our comfort zones to new heights. So when the hard times come, you’re on autopilot. Hopefully there are no ghosts in the machine.
Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
