When There Was Only Dark
2014 Chemung, New York
It was late fall, which in northern Pennsylvania means winter. The bite in the air was sharp. The rolling hills were covered with trees that had long been stripped of their foliage, leaving a bare grey skeletal remnant in their stead. I was driving my 2003 Explorer, inhaling a parliament light, and conversing with my friend Kyle. A playlist encompassing the musical spectrum from Bon Iver to The Wu-Tang Clan permeated the background. Even though he shot on a 5Dmkii and I used a D800, we were creative allies and intrepid friends. We regularly embarked on far-flung adventures to get some stand-out shots. Kyle was constantly researching to find unique areas to explore and photograph and was usually the one to instigate most of our creative endeavors. Today was no exception. We headed 15 miles out of the valley for the Newtown Battlefield, a site named for the Battle Of Newtown, which took place upon a hilltop in 1779 during the revolutionary war. Today it's a peaceful park with quite a view of the surrounding area and a place that beckons local photographers. As we approached the road to enter the park, I finished off cigarette number two and flicked the butt from my nicotine-stained fingers into the brisk autumn wind.
As we approached the base of the hill, we encountered something I hadn't anticipated, a locked gate. "Oh no," I thought quietly to myself. I put the car in park, and my gut brushed against the steering wheel as I slid out of my car into the frigid world. The seat made a hollow crunch and moved slightly along its adjustment track as I exited. At some point, it had broken under the pressure of my body weight, which at the time was somewhere in the neighborhood of 450 pounds. I don't know for sure because I had given up finding a scale that could read anything other than "ERR" when I stepped on it for many years. Another car pulled up almost as soon as we did, and a man and his daughter exited.
I looked up the hill, the top of which was nowhere in sight, and the road eventually wound out of view. It all seemed immeasurably far away at an impossible-to-traverse grade of elevation. "Maybe we're not allowed up there?" I told Kyle, secretly hoping he would agree and that we could leave to find another place to photograph. "Yeah, I'm not sure. Do you know?" Kyle asked the father and daughter. They essentially shrugged off any concern and began up the hill. Kyle started up the "mountain" as well. For what seemed like an eternity, my mind toiled with how terrible this was going to feel, how many times I would need to stop or if I could even make it, but above all and at the forefront of my mind was the thought that I might actually have a heart attack in the process of trying to walk up this hill. I thought about how hard it was to simply traverse an average flight of stairs at this point in my life, let alone walk up this "mountain" before me. Before Kyle got too far away to hear me, I called for his attention.
I said sternly, confident yet melancholic, "I can't do this." There was silence. "What? Are you sure?" Kyle asked, seeming slightly confused. "I might have a heart attack if I try to make it up there," I said through fake laughter. Despite being genuinely concerned, I tried to create some joke out of myself and the situation. Self-deprecating humor was my go-to for coping with embarrassment during this time. I could feel the disappointment in the air from myself, and I'm sure from Kyle. "Ok, man," Kyle said in a tone that seemed more concerned than upset.
Nonetheless, I was apologetic and beyond embarrassed. We had come out here for nothing because I could not even dare to take a risk and physically exert myself. I let roughly 490 feet of elevation gain defeat me before I ever even thought about trying to ascend it. We walked back to the car, and I lit a cigarette and let out a long exhale of smoke from one side of my mouth, head against the seat. as we headed back to town. We didn't talk about what just happened. the thought of being a complete and utter failure, yet again, was at the forefront of my mind. I don't remember the conversation on the drive, but I clearly remember wanting to cry as I thought, "how could I let myself get to this point?" This entire situation was a defining moment for me and one of the first times in my adult life that I was forced to take a good hard look at how I lived it.
Me in 2014 during one of mine and Kyle’s many photo shoots, this time experimenting with holi powder and high speed flash.
This is the part in the movie where the main character has a life-altering realization that would cause them to take action and change for the better. I can see the workout montage now, set to some upbeat chorus that would make Sylvester Stallone jump out of his seat. I wish I could tell you that's what happened. No, this was far from the first in a long line of stark revelations that came and went with no action taken. Walking up a hill was far from the only thing I had given up on, and the driver's seat of my car wasn't the only thing broken. My life up to this point had been an unending series of failures and embarrassments. All of these added to the ever-tightening grip of depression that became more crippling as time progressed. I wandered through life without apparent purpose or inkling of what I would do with myself. My purpose in life at this time was caring for my grandmother as I promised my grandfather I would during his final days. Doing whatever needed to be done to make her remaining years comfortable was all I had going on. But I did absolutely nothing to care for myself. I was in the midst of what would be the lowest point of my life. Barely a purpose, barely a place, and losing a war against myself.
I lived inside a darkness that choked me more than the cigarettes I would chain smoke and weighed me down more than the bulging pockets of fat that hung from my body. That darkness weaved its way through and permeated my very being. The Darkness manifested itself in many ways. Bouts of anger, manic despair, and hate for myself disguised as disdain for the world at large. My philosophical outlook on my life could be described as "unadulterated nihilism." Any sense of hope or self-worth was washed away by an overwhelming feeling that it was too late to right my wrongs at this point in life. I was convinced and content that I was on my way to an inevitable early grave. A slow drip of smoking, drinking, and eating myself to death made sure of that. I often joked, "yeah, at this rate, I'll probably be dead by 40." Except I wasn't kidding. I had no intention of living much further beyond my grandmother. I knew once she passed on, I wouldn't have a reason to stick around and waste space in this world. I didn't know when that would be.
Those days in the dark were spent from cigarette to cigarette, doing whatever it took to get a serotonin hit. Usually by binge eating, playing video games, and catching a buzz. Between drags of a smoke or sips of whatever cheap six-pack of pounders I used to numb my mind, the brisk day at the foot of the Newtown battlefield stayed with me. I was obese my whole life, but at least when I was younger, I could muster up the gumption to go for a walk in the woods. Now walking up a hill was out of reach. I was too embarrassed by what I had become to even go for a walk around town. Despite pretending the contrary, I was constantly afraid of being harassed for simply existing as an obese person, which was a semi-regular occurrence. I knew damn well what others were muttering under their breaths to one another as I lumbered past. If I were lucky, it would be someone yelling from a passing car or whispers, and sneaky glances would turn to laughter at my expense. Sometimes people would try to instigate violent altercations or throw objects at me.
The longer I lived, the less human I felt. Between being unable to enjoy the simplest of experiences life had to offer and the notion that I would never be accepted, the flickering light of hope became nonexistent. The dark was all I had. A fire burned within me. Just enough to keep the embers of self-hate alive. Before I knew it, I would face a choice. Those embers would eventually combust and result in my demise, or they would set ablaze the torch with which I would escape the dark.
Myself, circa 2014
2022 Sequoia National Park California
I ripped the fire from within to illuminate the world around me. That fire was fuel. I used the blaze to forge a new version of myself. Squats, deadlifts, long heavy ruck marches, sacrifice, loss, discipline, these were the proverbial hammer strikes that shaped me from a molten mass to something almost more machine than man. My legs were like iron. Lungs once coated in tar and blood, and barely functional now worked hard to draw in the thin alpine air. My body and mind symbiotically piloted this fine-tuned machine onward to the ultimate goal. I no longer feared pain, discomfort, or suffering. I reveled in it. I had no interest in a day without any or a combination of those things. I have made it through 760 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. And although I had roughly 1,890 more to go, I pressed on with this specific day near the forefront of my mind. All the suffering along the way was my price of admission. And there was plenty more to pay up ahead.
The PCT has many side quests, and this one was special. This additional route would allow me to ascend the tallest mountain in the contiguous united states. When I first heard about an ascent of Mount Whitney being a possibility, I was obsessed with adding it to my thru-hike. In some ways, It was one of the things I looked forward to most throughout this journey. I arrive at crabtree meadows or "Whitney Base Camp" if you're a Pacific Crest Trail hiker. It was around noon, and the path ahead of me could easily be traversed in less than 3 hours by a hiker in my condition, but I wanted to take my time on the ascent. There was no rush. My goal was to see the sunset from atop Whitney. And with any luck, stick around to see some stars that evening. I had approximately 3,800 feet of ascent ahead of me. A pretty stout dosage of gain inside a mere 7 miles. While I could push on at altitude, I was certainly not at home or at the top of my game in the 9,000 to 11,000-foot above-sea-level range I'd been traversing the last few days, let alone the altitude of 14,505 feet I was bound for.
The bear box is nearly full as I deposit anything deemed unnecessary inside. Playing Tetris, I put my food can, tent, and several other odds and ends neatly along the side of the box, leaving enough room for the next person. "Well, I hope this is all here when I come back." I think as I slam the doors shut, ensuring they latch securely. I crossed Whitney creek, and soon after, I got my first glimpse of the mountain. It was surreal and like nothing I had ever seen before. Even at 6 miles away, the range seemed impossibly tall. Each step I take along this path is heavy, not for any physical weight, but because of what this means for me. I painstakingly recount every second from that day at the bottom of the Newtown Battlefield and how far I've come in the time since then. Literally and metaphorically.
Nestled between the peaks are crystal-clear alpine lakes. They teem with a mix of brown and rainbow trout. The fish are in a frenzy as they jump from beneath the water to catch low-flying insects, and I feel like if I timed it right, I could catch one with my bare hands. A calm breeze sways the cat tails and ripples the surface of timberline lake. This is paradise or at least a damn close representation of it. If I were to drop my pack and call this home, I can't say I'd be disappointed. Sitting at the base of some trees is another hiker, "Wide Sky." After swapping stories and capturing his photo, I press on.
I came across several other hikers. "Road Soda," who I had only known from Instagram and was excited to meet in real life finally. With a thick beard, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and busy floral pattern shirt was the epitome of a thru-hiker. Seasoned and already a conqueror of the Appalachian Trail, there was no doubt he would wear the triple crown someday. Not long after, I met "Wheat," a man 61 years old who I had been leap-frogging on the trail since the desert. As we passed one another, he left me with some wise parting words "Get out and hike while you're still young." I arrived at guitar lake and relaxed for a bit. This was the last water source before the top of Whitney. I knew I would be staying up there overnight and would need to carry enough water until I made it back the next day. Four liters would be enough to get me through.
The work was about to start. The next four and a half miles consisted of a 3,021-foot ascent up switchbacks. Each new step found me at the highest elevation I had ever been. I thought back to that winter day in Chemung, New York. I remember the fear and the embarrassment of letting that fear get the better of me. Eight years ago, I lost the mental battle of walking up a hill before it even began. I was petrified of a 490-foot climb. Now I found myself fighting up a path nearly six times as steep, ultimately reaching an elevation almost ten times as high. I had taken my time all day and regularly stopped for photos. I was starting to become pressed for time, and my pace hastened.
I would periodically stop to catch my breath as the air got thinner and stare at the world around me. I was on another planet—one inhospitable and not fit for humans to survive. Spires of granite reach for the sky and break beams of sunlight from above. The sheer magnitude of everything around me makes me feel like a speck of dust. I walk along thin patches of rough trail with drops over three thousand feet down. One wrong move can change this story pretty quickly. The switchbacks end, and the path "levels out," in a sense. I walk along the ridge line, and from up here, I can see why guitar lake has its name. I reach the home stretch of the summit as the sun begins to enter the golden hour. I'm in a tunnel of thought that drowns out anything around me that is not paramount to the experience.
The top of the mountain is not what I expected. Giant boulders strewn across the surface make it hard to imagine what forces could have caused this. I hop from stone to stone. It is so unlike anything I knew could exist. There is an emergency shelter where several other hikers congregate. I make my way to the western edge of the summit to get a better view of the Sierra Nevada range. Rolling mountains of granite as far as the eye can see. Frozen in time after a tremendous tectonic cataclysm some millennia ago, the result of some internal battle our world faced. At this moment, I am reminded of the war I have waged against myself—my great cataclysm and how it led me to this moment.
The range continues east into ever-increasing darkness as the peaks block the day's dying light. But as that light dies, it burns with the most intensity. The dark will have its time again but make no mistake; the light will return. Creation and destruction, light and dark. It's all part of the war that created this earth we walk. That war exists within us. I remember everything as I watch a new chapter in this battle unfold. I remember being in a place where I could never have imagined this moment would be possible. To go from almost 500 pounds and to wish for an early grave to conquering the highest mountain in the lower 48, I feel invincible. And the best part is knowing this is only a footnote on the journey.
The juxtaposition of my internal struggle with the scene before me is uncanny. Yeah, my battle still wages on, but I'm fortunate to stand in the light now. This moment reaffirms that making this journey was worthwhile. Up to this point, I had considered myself "putting my life on hold" to hike the PCT. But the reality is, there is no "on hold." this is life. The same one I lived in those days of darkness, just now with a completely different frame of mind. Standing on top of Mount Whitney marked the beginning of a new chapter for me. I didn't realize it then, but in the months to come, my outlook on life would evolve further. The past will be forgiven but never forgotten. I will remember this moment at 14,505 feet for the rest of my life. The light, the thin air, my matted, days unwashed hair blowing in the alpine wind, and how powerful it felt to realize how far I had come and still had to go. But I will never forget when there was only dark.
